He laughed a little, more than the remark deserved. “No, no way…though I do need to get into some dicey territory.”

“How so?”

“Like I said, I stay on top of things.” He gave me a mock scolding look. “So what’s this about you goin’ around talking to people about a very old, very sad crime? The Greenlease kidnapping?”

I leaned back in my chair casually. I could sense the eyeballs of the spaghetti eaters nearby landing on me occasionally, like flies cruising for a meal.

I said, “Not the kidnapping so much as the ransom. Or anyway, the missing half. Why, did you have some information for me?”

“I do. And this’ll save you a trip, lookin’ me up. What I got for you is this: I never in any way, shape or form had nothing to do with that missing money. Not a goddamn fucking thing.”

“That’s good to know.” I put a confused frown on. “But why would I think you did, Mr. Vitale?”

He glanced at the attorney, who gave him another barely visible nod. Then Vitale said, “There is a rumor that Joe Costello, who is a good friend of mine going way back, was on the receiving end of that dirty money.”

“You don’t say.”

“And,” he went on, after receiving another tiny nod from the attorney, “that I paid him ten cents on the dollar for it, then sent that hot cash to Havana for the casinos to put back in circulation.”

Shenker spoke for the first time, a rich courtroom baritone, and it damn near gave me a start.

“Mr. Heller,” he said, “may I remind you that your client confidentiality pertains here.”

“My, uh, client…what?”

“You and I,” he said smoothly, damn near smiling, “both represent an individual whose name we don’t need to be bandying about in public.”

This was in public? A mob guy, his mouthpiece and two bent-nose meatball munchers? A waiter who stuck his nose in now and then to check if anybody seemed to want something? What the hell?

Then I wised up—since the client Shenker was referring to obliquely was hardly Bobby Kennedy, or Robert Greenlease either, a certain Teamster came to mind.

“Understood,” I said.

“May I continue?” Vitale asked.

That query was not issued to me.

Shenker again barely nodded.

The mobster went on, “For there to be any truth in such a foul goddamn rumor, you would have to figure Joe Costello felt on the hook to me for any big score he made. That if he had fell into any kind of heavy-duty dough, I would expect him to come to me with it.”

I squinted at him. “Not the case?”

He shook his head, firm. “Not the case, no. Joe is what you call an ally. Really, a friend. And a sometime business associate. But he is not…one of us. More a, uh…”

“Friend of the family?”

Vitale’s smile this time was sly. “Friend of the family, that’s good.” The smile slipped away. “Anyway, he could be a made man and I still would not feel I had any right to any part of that money unless I helped bring about how that money happened.”