He shook it off and moved to one side, out of view so that she wouldn’t see him. Myron debated getting a newspaper to hide his face, but nothing would stick out in a mall more than someone actually reading.

Fifteen minutes later, as Myron watched the merry-go-round from behind a mannequin at Foot Locker, Kitty arrived.

Chapter 15

15

Win’s private jet landed on the only runway at Fox Hollow Airport. A black limousine waited on the tarmac. Win chastely kissed his stewardess Mee and headed down the plane steps.

The limo dropped him off at the United States Penitentiary in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, home of the “worst of the worst” among federal prisoners. A guard greeted Win and led him through the maximum-security prison to G Block or, as it is more commonly known, “Mafia Row.” John Gotti had served time here. So had Al Capone.

Win moved into the facility’s visiting room.

“Please have a seat,” the guard said.

Win obliged.

“Here are the rules,” the guard said. “No shaking hands. No touching. No physical contact of any kind.”

“How about French-kissing?” Win asked.

The guard frowned, but that was about it. Win had managed to get this appointment fast. That meant, the guard had obviously concluded, that this was a man with serious juice. What Lewisburg calls Phase 1 and 2 prisoners were allowed only video visitations. Phase 3 prisoners were permitted noncontact visitors. Only Phase 4—and it was unclear how you became Phase 4—were permitted what were called “contact visits” with family. Frank Ache, the former mafioso leader from Manhattan, was granted Phase 3 for the purpose of Win’s visit. That was fine with Win. He had no interest in making physical contact with the man.

The heavy door swung open. When Frank Ache shackle-shuffled into the visiting area wearing the prison-issue, neon orange jumpsuit, even Win was surprised. In his prime—one that probably lasted better than two decades—Frank had been a gritty, deadly Old-World mafia boss. He cut an impressive figure. He’d been a big man, barrel-chested, sporting polyester-cum-velour sweat suits too tacky for a monster truck rally. There were rumors that Scorsese wanted to do a film about his life and that Tony Soprano was in some ways based on Frank, except Frank didn’t have the loving family or any of the semi-humanity of Soprano. Frank Ache’s name struck fear. He’d been a dangerous killer, a man who had murdered many and made no apologies for it.

But prison has a way of shrinking a man. Ache must have lost fifty, sixty pounds inside these walls. He looked sapped, dry as an old twig, frail. Frank Ache squinted at his visitor and tried to smile.

“Windsor Horne Lockwood the third,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“How are you, Frank?”

“Like you care.”

“No, no, I’ve always been very concerned with your well-being.”