Dirt (Stone Barrington 2)

“I have no idea.”

“Come on, Louise, think. He must have said something about why he was there.”

“He said he was a lawyer, but he wasn’t there as a lawyer. He was looking for you for personal reasons.”

“Did he say what he meant about that?”

“He said you stole his watch. Also, that you’d stolen things from other people. Is that true, Tommy?”

Tommy’s turn to be silent.

“Speak to me.”

“I had reasons to do what I did,” he said finally. “We’re right on the verge of something really big.”

“What is it? What are you up to?”

“Let’s just say that Charlie and I possess some very valuable information, and it’s going to make us a lot of money.”

“You’re going to end up in jail, Tommy, just like Charlie. You two are more alike than I ever knew.”

“Listen, if he turns up there again, I want you to call me.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m going to give you a telephone number, and I don’t want you to write it down; memorize it. It’s a cellular phone.”

“All right.”

He gave her the number. “Have you got that?”

She repeated it to him. “Listen, I want you to understand something.”

“What’s that?”

“I live on alimony and child support; I have no other funds.”

“So?”

“So I don’t want you to expect me to raise bail or money for lawyers for either of you. I did that once, when I was married, and it was thrown up to me for years by my husband, who had to come up with the money. I’m not going to do it again. So if you two get yourselves arrested, I’ll read about it in the papers, but I don’t want to hear from you. Got that?”

“I got it, Louise. You’re a great sister.”

“Better than you deserve,” she said, then she hung up.

“I’m hungry,” Charlie said. “We didn’t get any lunch.”

“There’s an Italian place down the block,” Tommy replied. “I saw it from the cab. Come on.”

Gaetano Calabrese checked his tie in the mirror, then turned to his boss. “Take a picture of me, okay?” He fished the Instamatic out of his locker and handed it to his headwaiter, who laughed and took his picture.

Gaetano had been in the country for seven months, and he had worked every day of it as a busboy. This was his first day as a waiter, and he was enjoying the tips. He worked days, and in the evenings, he ran numbers for a guy in his neighborhood. Gaetano fished a photograph out of his wallet and looked at it again; his boss had given it to him the night before. Five hundred bucks, that was what it was worth; he memorized the face and put it back in his wallet.

“Let’s go, Gaetano,” his boss said. “Break’s over; customers in the restaurant.”

Gaetano strode into the dining room, a smile on his face.

Tommy and Charlie Bruce walked into Figaro and asked for a table. It was late for lunch, and there were plenty. A waiter brought them a menu.