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As Mr. Ricco Baltazari walked down the corridor to the door of Mrs. Antoinette Marie Wolinski Schermer's apartment, at quarter to one in the morning, he was aware that several things were bothering him.
There was the obvious, of course, that he was between the rock (Mr. Savarese) and the hard place (Mssrs. Gian-Carlo Rosselli and Paulo Cassandro) about this goddamned cop. If the cop either didn't look like he could handle what was required of him or, worse, that he was maybe setting them up, he would have to tell Mr. S. that he thought so, or risk winding up pushing up grass in the Tinnicum Swamps out by the airport, if something went wrong.
But if he did that, it was the same thing as saying that GianCarlo and Paulo were a couple of assholes who were going to get Mr. S. in trouble. They would be insulted, and they both had long memories.
And that wasn't all. There was the business between the goddamned cop and Tony. He was having trouble remembering that all she was, was a dumb Polack who he liked to screw and nothing more. That had been possible as long as he hadn't actually seen what was going on.
But now he was going to be in her apartment, actuallytheir apartment, where they'd had some really great times in the sack, and where she was now fucking the goddamned cop.
Well, shit, there's nothing I can do about it.
He pushed her doorbell and in a moment Tony answered it, wearing a fancy nightgown he'd bought her, and which he now clearly remembered taking off her.
"Whaddaya say, Tony?"
"Hello, Ricco."
"Your boyfriend here? I'd like a word with him."
"Come on in, Ricco," Tony said, and then raised her voice. "Vito, honey, it's Mr. Baltazari. He wants to talk to you."
"It's who?"
"I'm a friend of Mr. Rosselli, Vito," Ricco said.
The goddamned cop came into the living room in his underwear.
My living room, I'm paying the freight. And my girl, I'm paying the freight there too. And here's this sonofabitch in his underwear.
"Vito," Ricco said, putting out his hand, "Mr. Rosselli got tied up. He had to go to the Poconos, as a matter of fact, and he asked me to drop by and pass a little information to you."
"What did you say your name was?"
"Baltazari, Ricco Baltazari. I run the Ristorante Alfredo."
"Oh," the goddamned cop said. He did not offer to shake hands. " You know Tony?"
"We seen each other around, right, Tony?"
"You could put it that way, I guess," Tony said.
"So what's the message?"
"Tony, could you give us a minute alone? Get yourself a beer or something?"
"Whatever you say, Mr. Baltazari," Tony said and went into the bedroom. She turned as she closed the door and gave him a look.
"That shipment you and Mr. Rosselli was talking about?" Ricco began.
"What about it?"
"It's coming in tomorrow night. I mean tonight, it's already today, ain't it? On Eastern Flight 4302 from San Juan. At nine fortyfive."
Vito Lanza nodded.
"It's going to be in a blue American Tourister suitcase, one of the plastic ones, and there will be two red reflective strips on each side of the suitcase," Ricco went on.
Vito nodded again.
