Act of Revenge by Robert K. Tanenbaum Page B

to see Catalano alive.”
    â€œThe second to last if he wasn’t the shooter,” said Karp. “Are you charging him?”
    Roland waggled a hand and twisted his face into a doubtful expression. “It’s thin. He was in the car, but they all admit that. The search found a box of .22 longs in his place, but no gun. The vic was killed with .22 longs. There was also a bag with a little short of fifty K in it. Payoff money? Ordinarily, I’d give it a pass, but . . .” Here he looked over at Anselmo, who put in, “Right, but this is not an ordinary case. I’m pushing Roland to charge him and then squeeze him to give us Pigetti. This could be the thing that cracks the whole Bollano family.”
    Karp looked at the faces: Anselmo avid, smiling like a kid at the circus; Hrcany pretending forbearance, willing to go along as long as no one made him responsible for a weak case, and perfectly willing to see Anselmo carry this freight; and Guma? Was the jerk actually asleep or just pretending the most elaborate boredom? Under the shelter of the conference table Karp’s cap toe reached out and gave Guma one in the ankle. The monkey eyes opened, the floppy mouth yawned, showing more bridgework than anyone wanted to see.
    Hrcany said, “Now that you mention it, Frank, Guma has some thoughts on that. Ray?”
    â€œYeah, Frank,” said Guma pleasantly, “my thoughts are that you try to squeeze Moletti, you might get some of that scungilli he scarfed down at the party there, but nothing else.”
    â€œWhy?” snapped Anselmo. “Because of the sacred code of omerta ? They don’t do that shit anymore, Guma. They sing just like anyone else when you push them.”
    Guma looked up at the ceiling as if he thought the answer to this question might be inscribed there, and when he responded it was in the sort of voice a kindergarten teacher might use to explain that D came after C. “Actually, Frank, I wasn’t thinking of any high-tone Mafia stuff like that. I was thinking about Marco. You know what they call Marco Moletti on the street? No, don’t look in the file, Frank, I’ll tell you. If they sort of like him, they call him Slo Mo. If they’re annoyed at him, like if the pizza they sent him out for is cold, they call him Marky Moron. He’s a gofer, Frank. He’s also real honest, because he’s too dumb to steal and he knows it, which is why the guys sometimes leave stuff with him, cash, like your bag of money, or hot property. He’s got his niche, you could say, and he’s happy in it. But to put it mildly, Frank, he ain’t a player. So anyone who thinks that Marky knows fuck-all about what goes on in the Bollanos is stupid. You want to squeeze something, squeeze the hubcap on Eddie Catalano’s Lincoln, you’ll get more out of it. And anybody who thinks that Marky Moron would get tagged to whack a capo regime is . . . words fail me. Felony stupid? Besides all that, in my opinion, you’re doing great.”
    Anselmo shot to his feet and flung his papers to the floor. “Ah, come on, Butch, what the hell !”
    â€œSit down, Frank,” said Karp. “Guma?”
    â€œI apologize, Frank,” said Guma instantly, in monotone.
    â€œAll right, now that we’ve all had our fun,” said Karp, “let me remind you why we’re here. Eddie Catalano was killed the day before he was scheduled to appear pursuant to a subpoena before a federal grand jury investigating Mob involvement in local businesses. This has greatly vexed our colleague on the other side of the square. The U.S. attorney believes that Mr. Catalano was slain to prevent his testimony—”
    â€œHorseshit,” said Guma.
    â€œWe’re aware of your opinion on that subject, Guma,” Karp snapped, “but would you put a goddamn cork in it just for now? Thank you. And since the U.S. attorney has been kept from his goal of, as