Angelidis nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll tell you this, because maybe it helps. There was a Friday-night poker game Gus always held at his house. The Friday Carl got hit, the guys show up, nobody answers the door. They ring, knock. Nobody comes. This never happens. They think maybe Gus is taking a crap. They wait. Ring, knock—no Gus. They try the door. Door’s unlocked. Go in. Find Gus.” He paused, looked like he was tasting something unpleasant. “I don’t like talking about this. It’s sick shit, you know? I believe that all business should be reasonable. Not like this crazy shit.” He shook his head and adjusted the position of some of the dishes on the table. “Gus is sitting in his underwear in front of his TV. Got a nice bottle of retsina on the coffee table, half-full wineglass, a little bread, taramasalata in a bowl. Nice lunch. But …”

“But he was dead?” Gurney prompted.

“Dead? He was real dead. Dead with a fucking four-inch nail hammered into each eye, into each ear, right into his fucking brain, and a fifth one through his fucking throat. Five fucking nails.” He paused, studying Gurney’s face. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m wondering why none of this made it into the news.”

“Organized Crime Task Force.” Angelidis looked like the words were making him want to spit. “OCTF dropped down on it like a pile of shit. No obituary, no funeral notice, no nothing. Kept all the details to themselves. Can you believe that? You know why they keep this stuff secret?”

Gurney wasn’t really being asked a question, so he didn’t answer.

Angelidis sucked loudly at his teeth before continuing. “They keep it secret because it makes them feel like they know something. Like they know secret shit nobody else knows. Makes them feel like they got power. Got classified information. You know what they got? They got shit for brains and toothpicks for dicks.” He glanced at his big gold Rolex and smiled. “Okay? It’s getting late. I hope this helps you.”

“It’s all very interesting. I have one last question.”

“Sure.” Angelidis looked again at his watch.

“How well did you get along with Carl?”

“Beautiful. Like a son to me.”

“No problems?”

“No problems.”

“You weren’t bothered by all those ‘scum of the earth’ speeches he made?”

“Bothered? What do you mean?”

“In press interviews he called people in your line of business the scum of the earth. And a lot of other unpleasant things. How’d you feel about that?”

“Felt it was pretty smart. Good way to get elected.” He pointed at the bowl of olives. “They’re very good. My cousin in Mykonos sends them to me special. Take some home to your wife.”

Chapter 26

Not a Fucking Chess Match