Page 29

O’Halloran lets out a low whistle. “Good luck with that,” he says. “Wright’s come a long way since those days. Guy thatclose to power, you know he’s got people protecting him, covering for him.”
Garrett nods. “I know.”
O’Halloran leans back in the booth. “So you like being on your own, without those assholes at theGlobehassling you day and night?”
“I like choosing my own projects,” says Garrett. “But I’m not on my own. I’ve got a partner. She’s a lawyer.”
“That’s good,” says O’Halloran, smiling. “Considering the people you’re dealing with, you might need one.” He slides out of the booth. “Besides, you know what happens to lone wolves, right?”
“What?”
“They get hunted down. And skinned.”
CHAPTER
24
Providence, Rhode Island
It’s midafternoon when Garrett Wilson rolls into Providence. It takes him twenty minutes to track down the nondescript bar where Daryna told him he would find Tony Romero.
The bar is identified only by a sign near the metal door:RAYMOND’S TAVERN. Maybe the name is in honor of former Providence godfather Raymond L. S. Patriarca? A Mob bar named after a Mob boss. Bold choice. Poetic, even.
There are no neon beer signs in the windows because there are no windows. Only a peephole near a small plaque that readsPRIVATE CLUB. Garrett walks down a short flight of concrete stairs and pulls on the door handle. Locked.
He looks around and sees a rusted doorbell partly obscured by a trail of stringy vines. His fight-or-flight response kicks in, meaning he’s on his toes. He presses the button.
After a few seconds, he hears the click of a heavy bolt and a gravelly voice saying, “What?” The door opens about six inches, emitting a waft of stale cigarette smoke.
“I need to see Tony Romero,” Garrett tells a looming male figure.
“Who does?”
Garrett assumed that a guy like Romero would be protected by layers of muscle, so he launches into his prepared story. “I owe him money.”
“Who doesn’t?” says the voice. “Members only.”
The door slams shut.
Garrett rings the bell again.
A few seconds later, the door reopens, this time a little wider. “How much money?” Now Garrett can see the doorman more clearly. He’s a hulk, muscles bulging underneath a polo shirt.
“That’s between me and Tony. C’mon, man. I can’t handle another week’s vig. I just need two minutes with him.”
“Tony’s busy. Come back later.”
The door starts to close again. Garrett jams his foot in the gap and presses his face into the open space. He decides to roll the dice. “I lied just now. I don’t owe Tony any money. Just tell him it’s about Suzanne Bonanno.”
The hulk hesitates. “Move your foot or I’ll break it,” he mutters.
Garrett slides his shoe out. The door closes. Longer wait this time. But when the door opens again, it opens all the way.
Garrett steps into a dark vestibule with a pedestal stand holding a reservation book.
“Follow me,” says the hulk.
He pushes aside a curtain and leads the way to a polished bar in front of a mirror and rows of up-lit bottles. Club members circulate to the jazz coming from the speaker system. At one table, two men are talking with a young woman in satin shorts and a halter top; in the corner, a man plays a vintage arcade game. Cue sticks lie neatly crossed on two green-felted pool tables.