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The chatter died down, and suddenly, all eyes were on me. Four men sat at a card table, cigarettes hanging from their lips. Big stacks of money were piled in front of them, hands comically suspended in the air holding grimy dollar bills. Toward the back of the cavernous room were rows of tables stacked with bundles of plastic-wrapped cocaine. A few young guys bustled around, moving boxes and loading a truck.
A second-floor door opened, and Tommy rushed down the shaky metal stairs toward us. When he saw me, he came to an abrupt stop. “Mrs. Moretti?” His dark eyes darted to Frankie, then back to me.
“Keep an eye on her while I go talk to your uncle.”
“Yes, sir.”
Frankie gave me one last stern look, then jogged up the steps, the structure barely moving under his sure steps.
“Would you like a coffee or water?” Tommy guided me toward a long fold-out table set with an ancient coffee machine and an assortment of paper and plastic eat ware.
Eyeing the sludge at the bottom of the pot, I opted for a bottle of water from the dinged-up white fridge.
The short guy pushed off the wall and sauntered over. “Sorry about the boss.”
“Thanks.”
He nodded as he poured burnt coffee into a Styrofoam cup. “Can’t remember the last time a boss got locked up.”
Tommy cleared his throat, and the older man held up his free hand as he took a sip of coffee, wincing at the temperature—or maybe the taste. He joined the money guys, and they went back to shooting the shit, unconcerned with my presence, which was a relief.
“I lost a good chunk of change on that fight.” A middle-aged man with dark, slicked-back hair took a rubber band off a stack of hundreds. He was one of Lorenzo’s escorts out of town.
“You shouldn’t have bet against the kid, Johnny.” a man I recognized from the night Lorenzo was run out of town gestured at Tommy with a stack of hundreds. “He’s a sure thing.”
Johnny glared at Tommy. “Motherfucker shouldn’t have been able to take out Sammy, but here we are.”
The other two guys at the table laughed, and I realized one of them was also in the penthouse on the Fourth.
I glanced at Tommy, and he gave me a pained smile. “Sammy’s my older brother."
“And he’s a fucking beast,” Johnny chimed in from the table.
“You fight? Where?”
Tommy opened his mouth to answer, but the short man beat him to it. “The kid here does more than fight.” He slapped Tommy on the back and then pointed at the table. “Lenny, Jackie, and I cleaned up last Saturday. I was able to take my wife out to dinner and a show at the Fox.”
"What show?”
“Les Misérables.”
“A classic.” I pointed at Johnny. “So it’s Johnny, Lenny, Jackie, and . . .”
The guy with a low ponytail waved a handful of bills. “Dan.”
“Dan.”
“And I’m Big Al.” The shortest guy’s name was Big Al. Of course it was. “Tommy, get the missus a chair.”
Tommy’s cheeks flamed, and he ran to the back of the warehouse and back carrying a metal folding chair. He set it up at the empty table next to the money sorting, brushing dust off the seat.
“Thank you.” I smiled at him and sat. “Why don’t you join me?”
He looked at the guys, then toward the office upstairs.
“Unless you have something else you need to do, I’m fine here with the guys.”
“No. I can take a break.” And he was off, jogging to grab another chair and back. The chair was placed between the other mobsters and me, Tommy sitting perfectly straight and at the ready.
