Page 150 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

“The violinist is busy,” I say. “He’s on the phone with your banker.”

Laughter travels the table like a string pulled tight and released.

Some men hide their grins.

Some don’t bother.

The mood has a temperature and it just dropped.

Marco shrugs.

“Everyone borrows names. Everyone pushes cash to friends. You did, once upon a time. What you don’t have is a fact that matters.”

I slide the second page to the Don.

“Here’s your fact.”

It’s the ledger line that shows cash moving from a shell Marco controls into a union slush.

The ink is dirty.

It looks like human nature.

“The shell paid two men you use to stage your noise. One of them bought a car last week. In cash. He parked it outside a meeting he shouldn’t have attended. That car is now on three cameras that belong to people who enjoy subpoenas. The Bureau loves that kind of algebra.”

A captain halfway down can’t help himself.

“He really bought a car?”

“Bad one,” I say. “Green. Off the lot, no plates, loud belt. You could hear it whisper from Court Street.”

More laughter, sharper now.

Marco’s smile gets thin.

“You make little jokes. You bring photocopies. I bring facts. The lady you sleep beside is now in a paper that asks questions we don’t want asked. She bought a scone and the city turned. I wonder who turned the city.”

Don Vincent doesn’t look at me.

He doesn’t need to.

“Leave the woman out of your mouth,” he tells Marco conversationally. “She’s a civilian. You know the word.”

Marco smirks.

“Civilians turn into saints around here, Don. You, of all people?—”

The Don holds up a finger.

The room falls off a cliff. “Marco,” he says, kind as a knife. “Don’t teach me my words. Tell me why your name is on a page that makes my food taste like chalk.”

Marco licks his teeth, looks for help that isn’t coming, finds none. “If my name is on any page, it’s because I handle what the boy is scared to touch. He talks to priests and nurses. I talk to men who make cities move. Someone has to do it.”

“So you used the Bureau to keep the lights on,” I say. “And you used a dead man to run your routes. You called it efficiency. It’s hunger with a tie.”

“It’s commerce,” he snaps. “It’s not personal.”

“It is now,” I say, and I keep my voice low. “You made it personal when you pulled her into your show. You parked your car where the cameras like to eat. You fed a slip with her notes to a paper that wraps fish. You wanted a scandal. You now have one. It has your name on top.”