The Road to Omaha by Robert Ludlum

kind of world do these high-type judges live in? One with no germs, maybe?”
    “You didn’t answer my question,” interrupted Vincent softly, arching his brows and quickly shifting his penetrating gaze to his second visitor. “What do you say, Meat? You boys aren’t getting sloppy, are you?”
    “Hey,
Vin
,” protested the large, barrel-chested guest, his heavy hands spread out in front of him, partially obscuring the red tie above his pink shirt. “A first-class—
world
-class—job we did, what can I tell ya? The high-types called for it, right? We even brought inHymie Goldfarb’s boys in Atlanta, and who better to get the goods on a saint, am I right or not?”
    “Yeah, Hymie’s boys know the tunnels, no question,” agreed the CIA director, pouring himself another glass of Chianti and removing a Monte Cristo cigar from his shirt pocket. “A lot better than all the feds in Hooverville. They dug us up garbage on a hundred and thirty-seven congressmen and twenty-six senators that guaranteed my confirmation, along with a little largesse spread around, of course.”
    “Largest what, Vinnie?” asked Fingers.
    “
Largesse
—forget it.… I just can’t figure it. Every
one
of these six squirrelly judges got
nuthin’
we can tap into? That’s extraterrestrial!” Mangecavallo got up from the table and lit his cigar. He paced back and forth in front of a darkened wall upon which hung alternating prints of saints, popes, and vegetables until he suddenly stopped, a cloud of smoke ringing his skull like a halo from way down under. “Let’s go back to the basics,” he said, standing motionless. “Let’s really
look
.”
    “At what, Vinnie?”
    “These four or five maybe liberal clowns who can’t think straight. What’s with them that Goldfarb’s people couldn’t find?… What about the big black cat? Maybe he ran numbers as a kid, did anyone think of that? Maybe no one went back far enough. That could be the mistake!”
    “He was an acolyte and a choirboy, Vin. Right down the pike, a real angel, plus a big, big brain.”
    “How about the lady judge? She’s a big cannoli, right? That means her husband has to shut up and pretend he
likes
her being the big cannoli—which he can’t nohow because he’s a
man
. Maybe she doesn’t feed him and he’s mad like hell but can’t say anything. People keep stuff like that quiet.”
    “It’s also a wash, Vin,” said Meat, shaking his head sadly. “He sends her flowers every day at the office and tells everybody how proud he is of her. It could be legit on accounta he’s a big
avvocato
himself and he ain’t gonna make no enemy on that court, even his own wife.”
    “
Shit
!… Hey, that Irish drink of water, maybe he has a couple too many like a lot of Micks do after their big parade.How about
that
? We could build a little file—top secret, national security, that sort of thing. We buy a couple a dozen witnesses who state they’ve seen him fried and gurgling in his suds after he leaves the office. It could
work
. Also, with his name we could add a few girlies. It’s a
natural
!”
    “It’s snake eyes, Vin,” countered Meat, sighing and again shaking his head. “The Irish guy’s so Clorox he makes the sheets squeak. He’s never been known to have more than a glass of white wine, and girlies aren’t even in his ballpark.”
    “Something
there
, maybe?”
    “You’re reaching, Vin. He’s Boy Scout time.”
    “Double shit.… All right, all
right
. We don’t touch the two WASPs because our people are making nice inroads with the banking boys in the better part of town. There should be no offense to the country club set, that’s the word. I don’t like it, but I accept it.… So we come to our own
paisan
.”
    “A bad person, Vinnie!” interrupted Fingers angrily. “He’s been very rough on a lot of our boys—like he didn’t even
know
us, you know what I mean?”
    “Well, maybe we’ll let him know
we
know who
he
is, how about