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Lucchese looked blankly at Biaggio.

What the hell? Everything?

Biaggio stared straight back, said nothing, just let that information take root. He then, with some element of theater, pulled a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes from his shirt pocket, slid one from the pack and put it to his lips. He produced a scratched and dinged stainless-steel Zippo lighter from his pants pocket and, with a flourish, lit the cigarette, clicked the top closed with a flick of the wrist, and put the Zippo on the desk.

He held the pack out to Lucchese.

“No, thanks,” Lucchese said and cleared his throat, hoping that no one noticed the nervous slight stammer.

He felt himself starting to sweat, despite the cold office, and hoped that that was not evident, either. A cigarette could calm him.

“Wait. Yeah, Little Joe, I’ll have a smoke.”

After he’d lit Lucchese’s cigarette and put the Zippo in his pants pocket, Biaggio continued: “Look, we know who you’ve been talking to, who you’re waiting to talk to”—he glanced at the phone—“and, most important, we know why. So don’t try bullshitting us.”

Lucchese felt his stomach twist into a knot. He took a pull on the cigarette and looked out the window.

Biaggio said, “You want to tell us why?”

Why what? You don’t know shit, Lucchese thought.

He said, “Tell you why what?”

“Why you’re doing this thing?” Biaggio said, his tone suggesting that he was beyond annoyed.

Lucchese inhaled deeply, then let it out.

“What thing?”

Mahoney slammed his fist on the desk. “Don’t bullshit us!”

Lucchese slid his chair back and away, toward the door.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“You!” Mahoney said, clearly upset. “You—”

“Easy, Mike,” Biaggio said.

Biaggio glanced out the window. No one was paying any particular attention to the gang bosses’ office. Men and machines worked at a steady pace. A jeep on a cable swung past the window.

Biaggio locked eyes with Lucchese.

“Harry Bridges,” Biaggio said slowly.

Oh shit! Lucchese thought.

He automatically glanced at the phone, then hated himself for it when he saw that Biaggio’s eyes had followed his eyes to it.

Lucchese did not trust himself to speak at first. He took a puff, exhaled. Then: “Yeah? Okay, so what about Bridges? It’s no secret a bunch of us from the ILA listened to him speak.”

“But after that,” Biaggio said, “’most everybody took the hint and forgot about him.”

“And what if I didn’t?” Lucchese said.

Biaggio sighed. He stubbed out his cigarette in the half-full ashtray on his desk, lit another. He picked up the whole phone and slammed it on Lucchese’s desk.