“’The man?’” I said.

He held out his hands. “They all watch Scorsese movies and cop shows, think it’s the way they’re supposed to talk. I humor them.” He reached across his whale’s-hump chest and poured another shot into Angie’s glass. “You officially divorced yet, Gennaro?”

She smiled and downed the shot. “Not officially.”

“When?” He raised his eyebrows.

She propped her feet up on an open crate of AK-47s and leaned back in her chair. “The wheels of justice turn slowly, Bubba, and divorce is complicated.”

Bubba grimaced. “Smuggling surface-to-air missiles from Libya is complicated. But divorce?”

Angie ran both hands through the hair along her temples, looked up at the peeling heating pipes stretched across Bubba’s ceiling. “A relationship in your hands, Bubba, lasts about as long as a six-pack. So what do you know about divorce? Really?”

He sighed. “I know people seem to go out of their way to fuck up things usually should be snapped off clean.” He swiveled his legs off the couch, dropped the soles of his combat boots to the floor. “How about you, home-boy?”

“Moi?” I said.

“Si,” he said. “How was your divorce experience?”

“Piece of cake,” I said. “Like ordering Chinese—one phone call, and everything’s taken care of.”

He looked at Angie. “See?”

She waved a dismissive hand in my general direction. “You’d take his word for it? Mr. Introspection?”

“I doth protest,” I said.

“You doth full of shit,” Angie said.

Bubba rolled his eyes. “Would you guys just bang each other and get it over with?”

There was one of those awkward pauses that comes up every time someone suggests there’s a lot more than friendship between me and my partner. Bubba smiled, getting a charge out of it, and then, thankfully, his phone rang.

“Yeah.” He nodded at us. “Mr. Constantine, how you doing?” He rolled his eyes as Mr. Constantine elaborated on just how he was. “Glad to hear it,” Bubba said. “Listen, Mr. C., I got a couple friends need to speak with you. Take a couple minutes.”

I mouthed, “Mr. C.?” and he shot me the bird.

“Yes, sir, they’re good folks. Civilians, but they may have stumbled onto something could maybe interest you. Has to do with Jack and Kevin.” Fat Freddy began talking again and Bubba made the universal masturbatory gesture with his fist. “Yes, sir,” he said eventually. “Patrick Kenzie and Angela Gennaro.” He listened, then blinked and looked at Angie. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and said, “You related to the Patriso Family?”

She lit a cigarette. “’Fraid so.”

“Yes, sir,” Bubba said into the phone. “The very same Angela Gennaro.” He raised his left eyebrow at her. “Ten tonight. Thanks, Mr. Constantine.” He paused, looked at the wooden crate Angie was using as a footstool. “What? Oh, yeah, Lou knows where. Six cases. Tomorrow night. You bet. As a whistle, Mr. Constantine. Yes, sir. Take care.” He hung up and sighed loudly, shoved the antenna back into the phone with the heel of his hand. “Fucking wops,” he said. “Everything’s ‘Yes, sir. No, sir. How’s the wife?’ Least the Harp mobs, they’re too mean to give a fuck how the wife is.”