“They’re carried on Bowsprit’s books as soft drink salesmen: you don’t need a license for that. They’re the kind of salesmen who walk into a joint and tell the manager he’s taking twenty cases of diet soda this week, whether he needs it or not. If he doesn’t buy, they break a bar mirror, and he signs the order, knowing it’ll be an arm next time and his neck the time after that.”

“What’s the relation between the two Parisis?”

“Father and son—the boy is Alfredo, called Al.”

“And the son continues the tradition?”

“I don’t think Al is being groomed for greatness. Gino must have married stupid—genes will tell every time.”

They ordered dinner.

“So, should I go armed?”

“It couldn’t hurt.”

“For how long?”

“Until somebody zips Gino Parisi into a body bag.”

“Swell.”

Chapter 9

As Dino’s car dropped Stone at home his cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Caroline. Where are you?”

“Just arrived home from dinner with a buddy. You want to know what I’m wearing?”

“I don’t care what you’re wearing, I just want to tear it off.”

“Will right now do?”

“Right now is good. I’m on my way.” She hung up.

—

She was there in ten minutes, and it took them another three to make it upstairs and into bed. “I knew you’d be ready,” she said, biting him on a nipple. “I’m beginning to think you’re a sex addict, too.”

“I think I’m well on the road,” he replied, between deep breaths.

“I’ll do everything I can to help.”

“You’re helping right now,” he said, turning her over onto her belly.

—

When they had exhausted each other Stone remembered to thank her for the roses.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t grateful.”

“You’re the most grateful woman I’ve ever known,” Stone said. “By the way, we have to take some precautions.”

“Nope, I had an IUD installed years ago.”

“That’s not what I mean. I have a client who is in a business that some mob guys don’t want him to be in. They pushed him, and on his behalf, I pushed back, a little harder than I intended.”

“Do I want to know the details of all this?”

“You do not—you may not. The upshot is, it’s their turn to push again, and I’ll be going armed for a while.”

“Armed with what?”

“A very nice little .45.”

“What do you mean by ‘little’?”

“Nineteen ounces.”

“You mean you had a thirty-nine-ounce piece whittled down?”

“No, it was custom-made.”

“Let me see it.”

“What do you know about guns?”

“Everything I need to know. I had a daddy who loved them.”