Then she said, “Or am I reading this wrong? I figure you’re working for the Greenlease family. They want the rest of their money back, but it’s probably gone and I can’t help with that. But if I came forward and told the FBI what I know, they would have Joe Costello by the short and curlies. Dutch Downey would be in dutch. That creep cop Shoulders, too. And maybe Buster, which I kinda hate, ’cause I like the guy. Anyway. This whole thing would come out.”

“Dangerous for you.”

Her eyes tightened. Her mouth dropped like a red-rimmed trap door. “Or…are you working for somebody who doesn’t want this to come out? I…I can do that, too. Ten grand would seal these lips forever. I’ll work with you, Heller. I will work with you.”

How desperately unhappy she was, behind her glib tough-girl facade, was clear. She was filled with needs that were overriding caution.

I said, “Look. You’re a smart kid, and—”

“I’m not a kid and I sure as hell am not smart.” She got a deck of Chesterfields from her purse and started lighting one up, nervously.

My whispered words were like terrible sweet nothings. “Honey, I’m afraid you know just enough to get yourself killed, but not enough to change anything in the Greenlease case. Do you have family you can turn to?”

She laughed and smoke and bitterness came out. “Well, I’m the product of a rape, Heller, what do you think?”

I put a hand on one of hers. “Maybe I can help you out. You’ve given me an important piece of the puzzle and that’s going to be worth something. I can’t promise it’s worth the ten grand you’re after, but you won’t have to go public. Listen. I will help.”

Her eyes were moist. She squeezed my hand.

“I wish I’d met you a long time ago,” she said.

“I wish I could say I’d have done right by you.”

A waitress came around with a dessert menu. I ordered us a dish of spumoni to share, so we could sit here and talk some more. Before it arrived, however, the host himself, bald, chubby, cheerful Biggie in a tux, leaned in with a smile. I figured he was going to ask if we’d enjoyed our supper, but I was wrong.

“Mr. Vitale requests a few moments of your time, Mr. Heller. He’s in the Red Bird Room.”

“Uh…certainly. Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”

Biggie patted me on the shoulder and was gone.

Sandy clutched my sleeve. “Heller…what’s going on?”

“No idea. I’ve done enough business in St. Louis over the years to know Vitale’s one of the town’s top Mafiosi. Second only to Tony Lopiparo.”

“Tony Lap is ailing,” she said, a frantic edge in her voice. “He’s fucking dying.”

“Yeah, well, Vitale is dining. I better pay my respects.”

She clutched harder at my sleeve. “Nate, he’s Joe Costello’s protector. Those two are tight. He’s probably who Joe turned that ransom money over to! And if he knows you and I are here together…”