shrugging their shoulders in acceptance.
It rained throughout the mass, and while the caskets were being carried by horse-drawn hearses to the Maglio family’s tomb, their vigil lights burned for the capture of their killers.
C HAPTER VIII
Marty Silvio had slept late. He had a bad case of jet lag and needed to clear his head. He had left his wife, Celeste, in Tel Aviv where they had gone after getting the news of Joe Maglio’s death. He and Celeste had planned to go to Israel after Cairo. She didn’t want to cut their trip short. She wanted to see the Holy Land.
Just as well , he thought. He relished the time away from her. All she did was push, nag, shop, talk on the phone, and go to church. She didn’t have an intellectual cell in her whole body. He conveniently overlooked his own boorishness when judging the shortcomings of others, especially Celeste. He didn’t know why he had married her. She wasn’t even a good lay anymore.
He put Celeste out of his mind as he turned over and reached for Margo Griffin, the twenty-nine-year-old associate with whom he had been sleeping for three years. Margo was a Villanova Law School graduate, a slender brunette with knockout legs that she wasn’t loath to show. And her little black suits did just that. She lay on her stomach, close to him, her tight buttocks peeking out from under white silk sheets.
The phone rang, and her hand left his groin and went automatically to the phone.
“Oh shit!” Marty grabbed the receiver before her hand reached it. “Don’t. It might be her.” He put the phone to his ear and listened before he said anything.
“Hello?” a distantly recognizable voice echoed through the plastic. It was Harry Levin. Silvio grimaced and handed the phone to Margo, mouthing the caller’s identity.
She took the phone while pulling the top sheet up to cover her nudity, as if Levin could see through the phone line.
“Mr. Levin…” She was always formal with him and Joe Maglio— a formality she didn’t extend to men with whom she slept.
“Marty—I mean Mr. Silvio is still asleep, sir. I came over this morning to see if he had gotten home and was all right.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll bet,” Levin said. “Let me talk to that bum.”
“Shall I wake him, Mr. Levin?”
“Of course. What do you think this is—a hospitality call?” He held his hand over the mouthpiece and mumbled, “Stupid bitch.”
Margo got out of bed and moved the phone over to Silvio.
“Marty,” she whispered, “I’m sorry, he wants to talk to you .”
“Yeah.” Marty wiped his eyes with the silk sheet, a habit that his wife hated but that the women he slept with tolerated.
“Yeah?” Levin yelled. “Where the fuck are you? It’s eleven a.m., and you’re still in bed?”
Marty was awake now. “Listen— I just came halfway around the world to get back here—and you’re screaming at me?” He put an unlit cigar in his mouth.
“OK, OK. Listen, we gotta do something about Lopez. So far she’s held up pretty good, but they know she knows a lot and I’m afraid she’s gonna crack.”
“So what do you wanna do? Gag her—tie her up—send her back to Puerto Rico?’
Levin was silent for a few seconds.
“What then?”
“Tell Rudi to watch her.”
“Watch her? Rudi doesn’t watch—he moves, he acts. You know that, you stupid fuck.” Silvio chomped on the end of his cigar.
Levin was silent. Then he sighed. “OK…not watch her.”
“Then what?” Silvio liked this little game. He liked the idea of Levin coming up with solutions he had been thinking about for a long time. He motioned for Margo to come to him.
She flopped next to him, pulling her knees up to her chest and resting her head on them. She cooed to Marty and gently stroked his balls. He smiled and pushed her head between his legs.
“Then do her.”
Celia Lopez pulled her car into an empty lot behind her row house on Butler Street. The lot was an abandoned parcel on which houses had
It rained throughout the mass, and while the caskets were being carried by horse-drawn hearses to the Maglio family’s tomb, their vigil lights burned for the capture of their killers.
C HAPTER VIII
Marty Silvio had slept late. He had a bad case of jet lag and needed to clear his head. He had left his wife, Celeste, in Tel Aviv where they had gone after getting the news of Joe Maglio’s death. He and Celeste had planned to go to Israel after Cairo. She didn’t want to cut their trip short. She wanted to see the Holy Land.
Just as well , he thought. He relished the time away from her. All she did was push, nag, shop, talk on the phone, and go to church. She didn’t have an intellectual cell in her whole body. He conveniently overlooked his own boorishness when judging the shortcomings of others, especially Celeste. He didn’t know why he had married her. She wasn’t even a good lay anymore.
He put Celeste out of his mind as he turned over and reached for Margo Griffin, the twenty-nine-year-old associate with whom he had been sleeping for three years. Margo was a Villanova Law School graduate, a slender brunette with knockout legs that she wasn’t loath to show. And her little black suits did just that. She lay on her stomach, close to him, her tight buttocks peeking out from under white silk sheets.
The phone rang, and her hand left his groin and went automatically to the phone.
“Oh shit!” Marty grabbed the receiver before her hand reached it. “Don’t. It might be her.” He put the phone to his ear and listened before he said anything.
“Hello?” a distantly recognizable voice echoed through the plastic. It was Harry Levin. Silvio grimaced and handed the phone to Margo, mouthing the caller’s identity.
She took the phone while pulling the top sheet up to cover her nudity, as if Levin could see through the phone line.
“Mr. Levin…” She was always formal with him and Joe Maglio— a formality she didn’t extend to men with whom she slept.
“Marty—I mean Mr. Silvio is still asleep, sir. I came over this morning to see if he had gotten home and was all right.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll bet,” Levin said. “Let me talk to that bum.”
“Shall I wake him, Mr. Levin?”
“Of course. What do you think this is—a hospitality call?” He held his hand over the mouthpiece and mumbled, “Stupid bitch.”
Margo got out of bed and moved the phone over to Silvio.
“Marty,” she whispered, “I’m sorry, he wants to talk to you .”
“Yeah.” Marty wiped his eyes with the silk sheet, a habit that his wife hated but that the women he slept with tolerated.
“Yeah?” Levin yelled. “Where the fuck are you? It’s eleven a.m., and you’re still in bed?”
Marty was awake now. “Listen— I just came halfway around the world to get back here—and you’re screaming at me?” He put an unlit cigar in his mouth.
“OK, OK. Listen, we gotta do something about Lopez. So far she’s held up pretty good, but they know she knows a lot and I’m afraid she’s gonna crack.”
“So what do you wanna do? Gag her—tie her up—send her back to Puerto Rico?’
Levin was silent for a few seconds.
“What then?”
“Tell Rudi to watch her.”
“Watch her? Rudi doesn’t watch—he moves, he acts. You know that, you stupid fuck.” Silvio chomped on the end of his cigar.
Levin was silent. Then he sighed. “OK…not watch her.”
“Then what?” Silvio liked this little game. He liked the idea of Levin coming up with solutions he had been thinking about for a long time. He motioned for Margo to come to him.
She flopped next to him, pulling her knees up to her chest and resting her head on them. She cooed to Marty and gently stroked his balls. He smiled and pushed her head between his legs.
“Then do her.”
Celia Lopez pulled her car into an empty lot behind her row house on Butler Street. The lot was an abandoned parcel on which houses had
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