The door bangs as it shuts. A big banquet room full of the Organization’s lieutenants turn and stare at him as Mookie comes through. Jimmy Luscas in his sharkskin suit. Maria O’Malley in a heavy wool turtleneck. Not far away, Saul Bloom gives him an irritated look over his dark-rimmed glasses like, The fuck is wrong with you? But fear flashes in Bloom’s eyes, too – fear of who Mookie is and what he does.

These aren’t Mookie’s people. Not really. They know him. Or know of him. They operate business in the city: gambling, protection, prostitution, imports, exports, all of it. They don’t handle what goes on beneath the streets. That’s what Werth does. And beneath Werth is Mookie. On paper, Werth’s a lieutenant and Mookie’s a soldier, but that ain’t quite right, either. They’re a two-man operation, a broken branch of the Organization’s family tree. Werth’s got Mookie, and Mookie has his own people. Mole Men. Blue-sifters. Informants. Addicts.

Werth appears, catches Mookie’s elbow. Werth, the old goat. Wiry chin hairs. One half-lidded eye. One gray tooth. And now, thanks to Mookie’s own daughter, a cane. Werth isn’t a classy guy – given half a chance he’ll hang around in a dirty polo shirt drinking bad beer – but he’s got a top-shelf cane. Black like volcanic glass. Topped with a silver goat head. He gives Mookie the same look Bloom gave him, and whispers: “You’re late, you big asshole.”

“I know.” He doesn’t say why.

“You look like hot hell. I told you to dress nice.”

“Didn’t have time.”

“Didn’t have–? You had all night. You know what, never mind. I swear to fuck, Mook, sometimes…” He shakes his head. “Haversham talked for a little while. The company man ran the numbers, I ’bout fell asleep standing up. No Boss yet.”

“Yeah.” The lieutenants start to mill and mumble. Impatient types. Mookie says, “Sorry I’m late.”

Werth sizes him up. Keeps his voice low. “You didn’t call me back last night.”

“Like I said, I was–”

“Tired, I heard you. Was it her?”

“Her who?” But Mookie knows what he’s asking and who he’s asking about.

“Don’t fuck with me, Mook. You get a chance to take her out, you need to take her out.” He lowers his voice to a scratchy, rheumy whisper: “The Boss doesn’t know. Who she is to you. But the longer she’s out there the bigger the chance he’s going to figure it out. And that’s bad news. You hear?”

He’s about to tell him, yeah, yeah, I hear, but then the crowd hushes.

Up on the dais – a dais still ringed with crêpe ribbon and cut-out paper wedding bells from some event nights before – steps the Boss.

The dread realization strikes him: Nora was right.

The Boss has always been a small man: sharp and etched like a peach-pit, mean and jagged like a little kidney stone. But here he looks smaller. And weaker. Skin like paper. Hair like wisps of white silk.