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“The day before?”
“Don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember an important meeting with the heads of the Bernardi and Esposito Families? You don’t remember Chuckles Moran at Redwood Manor? Vito DiPietro told me you were flirting with Aldo Bernardi, Rizzo. Are you saying he’s a liar?”
“I wasn’t flirting with that stupid fuck,” Rizzo spits out. “And Vito should know better than to let those false teeth of his chatter.”
“So heislying?”
Rizzo gives a strained laugh. “He ain’t lying, but he’s laying out a trail of bullshit all the same. Yeah, I talked to Bernardi that day of the meeting, and the Capo he had there with him, Brunello. I talked to all of them—that’s what the Boss wanted us to do. Get friendly. Bernardi wanted to see the hedge maze, so I took him out there. But that meeting had nothing to do with what happened the next day.” Rizzo takes something out of his pocket, and I half-rise before I realize it’s not a weapon. I shift back down to my seat as he pops something into his mouth, the plastic clicking of the container echoing through the café as he opens and closes it several more times.
Nervous habit.
Julian sits back in the booth, and starts methodically ripping open sugar packets, one by one, emptying the contents out on the tabletop. I can’t see his eyes, but I bet I know what they’re doing. Boring into Rizzo. “Who do you think killed my mother?” Julian asks at last.
“She drowned herself,” Rizzo says, practiced and rote. He stands. “She drownedherself. You’re wasting your time, Castellani. And mine.” With that parting shot, he leaves the café.
As soon as Rizzo is out of sight, I join Julian at his table. “He’s lying aboutsomething,” he seethes, mutilating another sugar packet. “I just know it.”
“Maybe,” I say carefully. “But we need more than just a hunch. And cut that out—you’re making a mess.” I reach over to put my hand on his, and he looks down at the little pile of sugar next to him as though surprised to see it. “You made him nervous,” I point out. “He was fiddling with that container of mints. Did you notice?”
“Antacids,” Julian scoffs. “He stinks of peppermint all the time. As if Rizzo ever does anything stressful enough to give himself indigestion.” He gives a small smile as I chuckle.
“Rizzo’s always been a first class asshole,” I agree. “But he used to be real efficient. Worked the port a lot. For a while there, when things weren’t so frosty between our Families, you could rely on him to play ball. He understood the business.”
“He’s ambitious,” Julian says. “He thinks he’s next in line for Underboss.”
“Rizzo?” I can’t stop my laugh. “Guy’s a good head-kicker, and he knows how to juggle several crews, but he never struck me as the clever type.”
“Not clever, no. But he is cunning.” And then Julian smirks. “And whenI’mDon Castellani, I’ll keep your advice in mind,” he says, watching me closely. “Won’t it be fun, Leo? Ruling over the Family. Moving them around like Vito DiPietro likes to move his little chess pieces around a board. Oh, I can’t wait.”
Under the table, his foot rubs up and down my calf. I stare at him for a few seconds, trying to figure him out. “Yeah,” I say at last. “Fun.” And then I clear my throat. “So, we done here? Montanari’s tonight, right?”
Julian is still smiling, eyes half-closed and self-satisfied, his foot rubbing up and down on my leg. “Yes,” he says. “Tonight.” All at once, he slides out of the booth. “See you then.”
* * *
It’s a popular place, the Jailhouse Jive Bar, even though they serve drinks in mason jars and play classic tunes at an ear-splitting volume. The crowd means I have more cover, but it also makes it difficult for me to hear the conversation going on between Julian and Al Montanari, the Castellani Enforcer.
After I only catch every third or fourth word, I take a chance, move a little closer. Julian and Montanari are at a table in the middle of the crowded floor, so I shuffle down the bar, nursing a bourbon that costs more than a whole bottle at The Cellar, and try to pinpoint their voices.
“Where were you on the day of my mother’s murder?” Julian demands, his voice carrying just enough over the din for me to catch the question.
Montanari’s a tough nut to crack, though. His expression, which I watch in the mirror behind the bar, remains stoic as he answers. I can’t hear what he says and I can’t clock any reaction on his face, either. Julian leans in close, saying something I don’t catch. Montanari hesitates, but starts talking, the words lost in the clamor of the bar.
This is fucking pointless. I can’t hear a damn thing. But as their conversation continues, I find myself observing Julian more than Montanari. His frustration is growing, has been growing all day, but his determination never falters. That’s part of what draws me to him, makes me want toprotecthim in this dark, twisted world we inhabit. There’s something noble about a son looking for justice for his mother.
Even when that son is an unfeeling assassin with no moral conscience.
“Enough!” Montanari bellows, slamming his fist on the tabletop. He’s loud enough that a brief hush ripples through the bar as he stalks out.
Julian joins me at the crowded bar, surprisingly calm.
“How’d that one go for you?” I ask, taking a sip of my drink.
“Montanari claims he was showing Chuckles Moran the redwood grove the day of the meeting, and that he wasn’t at the Manor at all the next day. But—“ Before he can say any more, the door to the bar swings open again, and Montanari strides back in. I quickly turn away, trying to blend into the crowd at the bar as best I can.
“Castellani,” Montanari barks, storming up to Julian. “You want to know what I think? I’ll fucking tell you. But it won’t change anything.”
