“He won’t tell anybody, but he’s got to be seventy. You’d think a lifetime of crime would show up in his face, but there’s no justice. By the way, assume that anything you say is going to be overheard by representatives of one or more branches of the federal government.”

“He’s wired?”

“Probably not, but he never really knows. That little anxiety is probably the only punishment he’s ever going to receive in this lifetime.”

“Surely the feds are going to get him one of these days; they get them all, eventually.”

“Don’t count on it, pal. An FBI man told me a few weeks ago that they’re still not even sure that he’s Mob. I mean, he’s got a miniconglomerate of legitimate businesses that never break a law or fail to pay taxes, so he can explain his lifestyle. He does business with the city and the state, and he never tries to bribe anybody. Every conceivable law-enforcement agency has been through every company with a fine-toothed comb, and they’ve never found a thing. Last time the IRS audited one of his businesses, he got a half-million-dollar refund.”

Stone laughed aloud. “He sounds like a real piece of work.”

“Listen, he’s made enough legit bucks to live like a goddamned Florentine prince. He’s got a palazzo in Venice, which ain’t exactly Mafia country; he’s got an oceanfront house in Vero Beach, Florida, where no mobster has ever shown his face. I don’t think he’s ever even been to Sicily, where his people come from.”

“If he’s done so well legitimately, then why does he stay mobbed up?”

“I’ve got my theories about that: to begin with, his first money came from his father, who was one of the originals, right out of Prohibition. Eduardo, though, went to Columbia and got both a law and an accounting degree. What he was learning, I figure, was how to hide the sources of the money, and this was during the Hoover years, when there wasn’t even supposed to be a Mafia, according to that jerk, J. Edgar. Eduardo, when he got out of college, never went near anything that could be identified with the Mob, except his father, who died at sixty, when Eduardo was in his late twenties. By the time the FBI started paying attention, he was so far removed from anything crooked and the past was buried so deep that they were never able to get anything on him.”

“Then how does he run the family?”

“When he wants something done, he whispers into somebody’s ear, and that guy whispers into another ear, and so on, until the source of the order is obscured.”

“Why hasn’t anybody ever given him up?”