Rollie spread his hands. “Organized crime isn’t just the dagos and the kikes anymore. The brothers up in Harlem used to be under the mafia’s thumb, but now you got civil rights. The black man figures he can do his own crime and not have to pay the dago. You got your Crips and Bloods and they ain’t just street punks anymore. You got your Jamaicans and your East Indians, and those cats come up here believing in voodoo and shit. They don’t give a damn about no Sicily. You got your Cubanos and your Chinese Triads and all these little bastards from Southeast Asia. Shit.” Rollie frowned and thought about it. “The families knew that if they didn’t hang together, they’d be run out of business, but it ain’t an easy peace. There’s still plenty of bad blood. No one likes showing polite, and no one likes showing respect, and a lot of bodies were buried before the families decided how they were going to divide up the crime and the territory. Your DeLucas and your Gambozas hate each other all the way back to Sicily, but they hate the niggers and the chinks worse. You see?”

“Anybody do business with the other guys?”

“Shit.”

“I want Charlie DeLuca to turn loose somebody he owns.”

Rollie ate another piece of prosciutto. “Charlie the Tuna isn’t a guy you can talk with.”

“They never are.”

Rollie smiled. “You got anything to give him?”

I shook my head.

Rollie made a little shrug. “I’ll ask around. Maybe I can help you out.”

“I figured I’d go talk to him, see how he feels about it. You know where I can find him?”

“Try the meat plant.”

“I did. He’s sorta tough to see.”

“Probably ain’t there most of the time, anyway. The wiseguys own these businesses, but they don’t like to work. Try a place called the Figaro Social Club up on Mott Street, about eight, nine blocks from here.”

“Okay.”

Rollie frowned at the last piece of prosciutto, picked it up, then swirled it in the oil. “This guy, he gets hot, he ain’t so good at controlling himself. That’s why he’s always in trouble. That’s why his daddy has to clean up after him.”

“I know.”

“He’s a nut case, Elvis. Certifiable.” He spoke slowly. “This ain’t L.A.”

I said, “Rollie, in L.A. we got Richard Ramirez and the Hillside Strangler,”

Roland stared at me for a minute, then nodded again and ate the prosciutto. “Yeah. I guess you do.”

Maxie suddenly charged sideways, snapping and barking at something that only he could see. Roland George got the sad look again and gendy reeled him in and mumbled soft things that the dog could not hear and petted him until he was calm. I thought I heard him say Liana.