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Gennaro was cleaning the pair of pistols he kept hidden under his dining room table when the intercom to the front gate buzzed.

He heard Rosa make her way from her bedroom to the foyer, each step somehow conveying her annoyance.

After several seconds, she yelled, “It’s Baker and Toomey.”

“Let ’em in,” Gennaro said.

A few minutes later, she led Baker and Toomey into the dining room.

Gennaro motioned at the chairs across from him.

“Have a seat. Either of you want a beer?”

“I wouldn’t say no to one,” Toomey said.

He had a slight limp that Gennaro hadn’t noticed the last time he’d seen him.

“What happened to you?”

Baker snickered.

“He took a knee to his, um…” He waved a hand over his groin.

Gennaro winced in empathy.

“You need some ice or something? Rosa, when you get the beers, grab Toomey a bag of ice.” As she headed to the kitchen, he turned back to his guests.

“I hope the injury doesn’t mean you failed.”

“Mr. Gennaro, I’m hurt you would even think that,” Baker said.

“Barrington got a lucky shot in, that’s all,” Toomey said.

“You saw Barrington in person?” Gennaro had been hoping they could avoid that.

“We scoped out his office, but there was no easy way in,” Baker said.

“So, we opted to check his phone.”

Rosa returned with three cans of beer and a bag of frozen peas.

She plopped the cans onto the table, tossed the peas to Toomey, then left.

Baker snickered as Toomey placed the bag over his injury.

Toomey glared at him.

“It ain’t funny.”

“It’s kinda funny.”

Toomey started to stand.

“Why don’t you see how it feels and then tell me if it’s—”

“Are you two done?” Gennaro snapped.

“Sorry, Mr. Gennaro,” Baker said.

Toomey grumbled something similar and retook his seat.

Right after Carter had told Gennaro about seeing Fratelli, Gennaro had made several phone calls and spent three hundred dollars on a bribe to obtain the reservation information for Fratelli’s lunch at Café Chelsea.

It had been made by Stone Barrington, of all people.

The same jerk who’d interrupted Snapper and Jimmy.

Turned out, Barrington was a lawyer of some repute.

Gennaro had wondered if maybe he was Fratelli until a quick Google search turned up pictures that revealed that was not the case.

The good news was, Gennaro had never met a lawyer who didn’t keep a detailed calendar to track their billable hours, which was why he’d hired Baker and Toomey to get a look at Barrington’s.

Gennaro opened his beer.

“How about you tell me what happened.”

Baker gave Gennaro the Reader’s Digest version of their encounter with the lawyer.

“So, the lunch was in his calendar?” Gennaro asked.

“It was.”

“And who was he having lunch with?”

“Hold on.” Baker pulled out a phone, tapped the screen, and held the device out so that Gennaro could see it.

“Give that to me.” Gennaro snatched the phone from him and looked at the display.

On it was a calendar entry that read:

Lunch with Jack Coulter

Café Chelsea

Gennaro tapped the entry, thinking it would take him to Coulter’s contact info, but nothing happened.

“It’s a picture,” Baker said.

“A picture? What do you mean?”

“It’s a picture of the calendar entry on Barrington’s phone.”

Gennaro stared at him, incredulous.

“You saying this isn’t Barrington’s phone?”

Baker looked confused.

“No, that’s mine.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

“Why is this not his phone?”

“Because it’s mine,” Baker said slowly.

“Dear God. Where is his phone?”

“I left it behind.”

“You left it behind.”

Baker’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Yeah, that’s what I just said.”

“Why?” Gennaro asked, exasperated.

“Because if we took it, Barrington could have tracked its location. I assumed you wouldn’t want him to come here looking for it.” Baker shrugged as if it should have been obvious.

Gennaro took a moment to calm himself, then said, “You had his phone open. You could have turned off the tracking function.”

“Oh, I get the problem now,” Baker said, grinning.

“I forgot to tell you that his driver showed up with a gun, so we had to get out of there fast. The phone would have been locked again, so I just dropped it. Sorry, I should have mentioned that before.”

“You thought all that through before you dropped it?”

“It was insinkchual.”

“In what?”

“Insinkchual. You know when your body knows to do something without having to think about it.”

“You mean in stinct ual?”

“Yeah. Instinctual. Isn’t that what I said?”

Gennaro rubbed his forehead.

Maybe Baker was as intellectually challenged as Snapper and Jimmy.

“How did his driver know you were there?”

Baker shrugged.

“Hell, if I know.”

“If you ask me, he probably thought Barrington was taking too long?” Toomey said.

Gennaro nodded.

That was sound reasoning.

He should have called Toomey first and made him the one in charge.

Gennaro handed Baker back his phone.

“Send me that picture.”

“No problem,” Baker said.

He tapped his screen a few times, then Gennaro’s cell vibrated with the arrival of the photo.

Gennaro stood.

“I have stuff to do. When you finish your beer, let yourselves out.”

Toomey motioned to the bag of peas.

“Do you mind if I take this with me?”

“You think I’d want to keep them after where they’ve been?”

Toomey snickered.

“I guess not.”

Gennaro shook his head and went to his office, without another word.

At his desk, he took another look at Barrington’s calendar entry, then called a PI buddy.

“Hey, Benny, it’s Ricky Gennaro.”

“Ricky G. How ya doing?”

“Some days are better than others.”

“Same, my friend. Same. What can I do for you?”

“I need a background check.”

“You’ve come to the right guy. Who am I looking into?”

“You remember Johnny Fratelli?”

“Fratelli?…Oh yeah, man. Isn’t he in Sing Sing?”

“ Was in Sing Sing. He was released several years ago, then fell off the grid.”

“Are you asking me to find him?”

“I think I know where he is already. What I need you to figure out is if I’m right.” Gennaro told him about his suspicions about Coulter being Fratelli.

“You can count on me getting to the bottom of it,” Benny said.

“One thing, though. And it’s important.”

“Shoot.”

“No one—and I mean no one— can know what you’re doing. That girlfriend of yours, your mom, your boys down at the bar, none of them.”

“Not a word to anyone. I swear to you.”

“Thanks, Benny.”

“How soon do you need this done?”

“ASAP, if not sooner.”

“I could probably move a few things around and get on it right away. But it’ll cost extra.”

Gennaro knew he had the reputation of being a tightwad.

Given the restrictions Pinkie had on him, it had been a necessity.

But if Coulter really was Fratelli, all of that would change.

“No problem,” he said.

“Whatever it takes.”