He was implying something that had been nibbling at the back of my mind; but I let it sit.

I asked, “And you did not provide any help in how that ransom came to be in Costello’s hands?”

Another firm head shake. “No. If it came into his hands. I didn’t say it did! But the one thing I want you to take away from this little talk of ours: I had not a damn thing to do with any of this, and the fact that you and me, Mr. Heller, never did business before is the only reason why I don’t take offense.”

“Offense at what, Mr. Vitale?”

“Offense that you would think I’d ever have anything to do with that kind of blood money! What happened to that kid makes me sick. I have a son myself. And daughters, and making a profit off the death of some little boy…pulled out of the hands of a goddamn nun…that’s what you burn in hell for.”

Said the drug-dealing, gun-running gangster.

Still, I felt he was sincere.

“I appreciate hearing this,” I said.

“Good. Good. You know, my people…Frank Nitto’s people, Alphonse Capone’s people…went in the kinds of businesses that was available to us, as immigrants and sons of immigrants. Now time passes and we make money and inroads into more respectable things. Like backing the working man in unions—my friend here helps in that area. I think you’ll find, if you talk to our mutual Outfit friends in Chicago, that even the hardest-ass men don’t want nothing to do with foul evil shit like the Greenlease snatch.”

So quick it startled me, Shenker stood and said, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Heller.”

Vitale stood as well, but sat right back down. The thugs just kept eating. I’d been dismissed, so I gave the mobster and the lawyer a nod to share and got the hell out of there. This was one red room too many, as far as I was concerned. But I had learned things that helped bring a fuzzy picture into focus.

Back in the main dining room, I joined Sandy. The dish of spumoni had been taken away—melted and uneaten, judging by the grim look the woman wore.

She clutched my right hand. “What did Vitale want?”

I saw no reason not to tell her. “To let me know he had nothing to do with the Greenlease money.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I do. I wouldn’t bet the ranch on it, but, yeah.”

Her words came quick: “He’s not as important as he used to be, you know. He backed down when Buster muscled in on the pinball racket. And the Syrian mob has taken over the South Side. Well, they’re Lebanese but everybody calls them Syrian.”

Her nerves were getting to her.

I said, “Let’s get you out of here.”

I took her by the arm through the lobby, past a big oil painting of Musial at bat and a display case of memorabilia, trophies, and autographed baseballs. As I was paying the check, Sandy stepped through the glass doors into the warm night under the roof of the carport. A gentle sirocco-like breeze riffled her short dark hair and creamy white blouse.