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Sonny didn’t know this. But it was what was said. And he had not considered it polite to ask specific questions.
Sonny glanced at his watch. Marco D’Angelo was not due for another forty-five minutes.
“He’s here? Now? What time is it?”
Mr. D’Angelo appeared in the kitchen.
“Whaddaya say, Sonny?” he said. “Sorry to barge in here like this.”
“Anytime, Marco,” Sonny replied. “Can I get you something?”
“Thank you, no,” Mr. D’Angelo said. “Sonny, Mr. Cassandro would like a word with you. Would that be all right?”
“I’m doing the day’s business,” Sonny said, gesturing at the table.
“This won’t take long,” Mr. D’Angelo said. “Just leave that. So we’ll be a little late, so what, it’s not the end of the world. Finish up when you come back.”
“Whatever you say, Marco,” Sonny said. “Let me get my coat.”
Mr. Boyle was not uncomfortable. He had seen Mr. Pietro Cassandro on several occasions but did not know him. He searched his memory desperately for something, anything, that he had done that might possibly have been misunderstood. He could think of nothing. If there was something, it had been a mistake, an honest mistake.
The problem, obviously, was to convince Pietro Cassandro of that, to assure him that he had consciously done nothing that would in any way endanger the reputation he had built over the years for reliability and honesty.
Sonny did not recognize the man standing by Marco D’Angelo’s black Buick four-door. He was a large man, with a massive neck showing in an open-collared sports shirt spread over his sports-jacket collar. He did not smile at Sonny.
“You wanna get in the back, Sonny?” Mr. D’Angelo ordered. “Big as I am, there ain’t room for all of me back there.”
“No problem at all,” Sonny said.
He got in the backseat. Mr. D’Angelo slammed the door on him and got in the passenger seat.
They drove to La Portabella’s Restaurant, at 1200 South Front Street, which Sonny had heard was one of Mr. Paulo Cassandro’s business interests. The parking lot looked full, but a man in a business suit, looking like a brother to the man driving Marco D’Angelo’s Buick, appeared and waved them to a parking space near the kitchen.
They entered the building through the kitchen. Marco D’Angelo led Sonny past the stoves and food-preparation tables, and the man with the thick neck followed them.
Marco D’Angelo knocked at a closed door.
“Marco, Mr. Cassandro.”
“Yeah,” a voice replied.
D’Angelo pushed the door open and waved Sonny in ahead of him.
It was an office. But a place had been set on the desk, at which sat another large Italian gentleman, a napkin tucked in his collar. He stood up as Sonny entered the room.
The large Italian gentleman was, Sonny realized with a sinking heart, Mr. Paulo Cassandro, Pietro’s brother. He had just had his picture in the newspaper when he had been arrested for something. The Inquirer had referred to him as a “reputed mobster.”
“Sonny Boyle, right?” Mr. Cassandro asked, smiling and offering his hand.
“That’s me,” Sonny said.
“Pleased to meet you. Marco’s been telling me good things about you.”
“He has?”
“I appreciate your coming here like this.”
“My pleasure.”
