Ganolese the wealthy and happy man he is today.
A man with so many varied interests obviously can’t watch all of them at once. So Ed has people working for him, people whose job it is to stand on the edge of each pie plate and make sure nobody runs off with the filling.
But humans are, after all, only people, and Ed occasionally finds things amiss among his many pies. When that happens, he needs somebody to slap the kiddies who were naughty and to put all the filling back where it belongs. That’s where I come in. Once, during one of those racket investigations that louse up the working day so badly, a reporter with a flair for the trite called me a “right-hand man and troubleshooter for crime czar Ed Ganolese.” I’m neither. I’m a governess. My job is to keep the kiddies from annoying Papa and messing up the nursery.
Now, the cab finally made it to Fifth Avenue and to Clancy’s building. I tossed a bill at the driver, climbed out, and hurried into the building. I was five minutes late.
I got into the elevator with a crowd of people on their way to work, and we started and stopped all the way up to the twenty-third floor, where Clancy Marshall, Attorney-at-Law, paid rent on three large rooms of office space. And practically all of this for only one client, Ed Ganolese. Clancy had a few minor clients outside the organization, of course, but only as a respectable cover. He made his living, and a good living at that, from the organization and Ed Ganolese.
I went down the hall to 2312, Clancy’s office, and walked in. His secretary, a big, well-busted, well-hipped blonde with an I-know-what-you-want-and-it-will-cost-you expression perpetually on her face, was just getting settled behind her desk. She looked at me, recognized me, and said, “Mr. Marshall’s expecting you. Go right in.”
So I went right in. Clancy’s office is all plush-carpet, gray-metal and bookcase-bound, and at the moment, there were four people present. Sitting behind Clancy’s desk was Ed Ganolese, my boss. Ed looks as though he might have been a Latin lover in the movies maybe twenty years ago, but he’s put on weight since then. His face is large and just slightly puffy, but somehow distinguished-looking in spite of that. His hair is still glossy black, though he’s the other side of fifty-five. He goes to the right tailor and the right barber and the right manicurist, and he looks like a very successful and very shrewd businessman, the kind who automatically cheats on his taxes and marks prices up whenever there’s nobody looking.
Sitting behind Ed, in the chair by the window overlooking Fifth Avenue, was Tony Chin, Ed’s bodyguard. Tony Chin was undoubtedly born with a different last name, but I don’t know it, and neither does anybody else, with the possible exception of Tony himself. And Tony Chin is a name that suits him. He’s all chin and a yard wide. He’s also two yards and four inches high. He isn’t very bright, but he’s pretty damn strong, and he’s surprisingly fast. He’s one of the best bodyguards in the business.
Clancy Marshall was the third member present, sitting on the sofa off to the right. Clancy is a tall, dapper, graying-at-the-temples, dignified shyster. He was dressed, as usual, in a severe dark-gray suit, and the narrowest tie ever seen off Madison Avenue. He was smiling as I walked in, giving out with that old barbecue charm, and I got that feeling about him again. That feeling is a conviction of mine that, if his parents hadn’t sent him to law school, he’d have been a pickpocket instead.
Number four was a stranger to me, which meant he must be the Joe Pistol Ed had mentioned. He was sitting on the sofa, beside Clancy, and he was encased in a tight pin-stripe blue suit, the kind George Raft used to wear while scaring the kiddies at the Saturday matinée. This suit was double-breasted, wide-lapeled and shoulder-padded. It was also padded under the left armpit, which meant he was walking
A man with so many varied interests obviously can’t watch all of them at once. So Ed has people working for him, people whose job it is to stand on the edge of each pie plate and make sure nobody runs off with the filling.
But humans are, after all, only people, and Ed occasionally finds things amiss among his many pies. When that happens, he needs somebody to slap the kiddies who were naughty and to put all the filling back where it belongs. That’s where I come in. Once, during one of those racket investigations that louse up the working day so badly, a reporter with a flair for the trite called me a “right-hand man and troubleshooter for crime czar Ed Ganolese.” I’m neither. I’m a governess. My job is to keep the kiddies from annoying Papa and messing up the nursery.
Now, the cab finally made it to Fifth Avenue and to Clancy’s building. I tossed a bill at the driver, climbed out, and hurried into the building. I was five minutes late.
I got into the elevator with a crowd of people on their way to work, and we started and stopped all the way up to the twenty-third floor, where Clancy Marshall, Attorney-at-Law, paid rent on three large rooms of office space. And practically all of this for only one client, Ed Ganolese. Clancy had a few minor clients outside the organization, of course, but only as a respectable cover. He made his living, and a good living at that, from the organization and Ed Ganolese.
I went down the hall to 2312, Clancy’s office, and walked in. His secretary, a big, well-busted, well-hipped blonde with an I-know-what-you-want-and-it-will-cost-you expression perpetually on her face, was just getting settled behind her desk. She looked at me, recognized me, and said, “Mr. Marshall’s expecting you. Go right in.”
So I went right in. Clancy’s office is all plush-carpet, gray-metal and bookcase-bound, and at the moment, there were four people present. Sitting behind Clancy’s desk was Ed Ganolese, my boss. Ed looks as though he might have been a Latin lover in the movies maybe twenty years ago, but he’s put on weight since then. His face is large and just slightly puffy, but somehow distinguished-looking in spite of that. His hair is still glossy black, though he’s the other side of fifty-five. He goes to the right tailor and the right barber and the right manicurist, and he looks like a very successful and very shrewd businessman, the kind who automatically cheats on his taxes and marks prices up whenever there’s nobody looking.
Sitting behind Ed, in the chair by the window overlooking Fifth Avenue, was Tony Chin, Ed’s bodyguard. Tony Chin was undoubtedly born with a different last name, but I don’t know it, and neither does anybody else, with the possible exception of Tony himself. And Tony Chin is a name that suits him. He’s all chin and a yard wide. He’s also two yards and four inches high. He isn’t very bright, but he’s pretty damn strong, and he’s surprisingly fast. He’s one of the best bodyguards in the business.
Clancy Marshall was the third member present, sitting on the sofa off to the right. Clancy is a tall, dapper, graying-at-the-temples, dignified shyster. He was dressed, as usual, in a severe dark-gray suit, and the narrowest tie ever seen off Madison Avenue. He was smiling as I walked in, giving out with that old barbecue charm, and I got that feeling about him again. That feeling is a conviction of mine that, if his parents hadn’t sent him to law school, he’d have been a pickpocket instead.
Number four was a stranger to me, which meant he must be the Joe Pistol Ed had mentioned. He was sitting on the sofa, beside Clancy, and he was encased in a tight pin-stripe blue suit, the kind George Raft used to wear while scaring the kiddies at the Saturday matinée. This suit was double-breasted, wide-lapeled and shoulder-padded. It was also padded under the left armpit, which meant he was walking
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