It's in the Book Read Free Page A

I paid in, anyway.”
    â€œBring me the book, Mr. Hammer.” His smile was reassuring but the eyes were hard again. “Bring us the book.”
    â€œSee what I can do.”
    Hoods always come in twos. The bent-nose boys accompany their boss to business meetings, often in restaurants. Sometimes they sit with their boss, other times at an adjacent table. Or one sits nearby while the other stays outside in the car, at the wheel, an eye on the entrance. Or maybe parked in the alley behind a restaurant, which is a smarter move. Mob watchdogs are always teamed up in twos. So are assassins.
    This time the guy waiting in the hall outside my office in the Hackard Building was in his twenties, wearing a yellow shirt with a pointy collar and no tie under a light-blue suit that gave no hint of gun bulge. But a piece was under there, all right. He would have been handsome if his nose hadn’t been broken into a misshapen thing, stuck on like clay a sculptor hadn’t gotten around to shaping. His dark hair was puffy with hair spray and his sideburns were right off the cough-drop box.
    Hoods these days.
    â€œLet’s go in and join your boss and your buddy,” I said.
    â€œWhat?” His voice was comically high-pitched and his eyes were small and stupid, all but disappearing when he frowned.
    I made an educated guess. “You’re with Sonny Giraldi’s crew. And Sonny and your opposite number are waiting inside. I’m Hammer.” I jerked a thumb toward the door. “Like on the glass?”
    He was still working that out when I went in and held the door open for him.
    John “Sonny” Giraldi, nephew of Don Nicholas Giraldi and assumed heir to the throne, was seated along the side wall like a patient waiting to get in to see the doctor. He was small, slender, olive-complected, with a narrow face, a hook nose, and big dark eyes that had a deceptively sleepy cast. The other bodyguard, bigger than the guy in the hall, was another pointy-collared disco dude with heavy sideburns; he had a protruding forehead and a weak chin, sitting with a chair between himself and his boss.
    Sonny’s wardrobe, by the way, was likely courtesy of an Italian designer, Armani maybe, a sleekly cut gray number with a black shirt and gray silk tie. No way a gun was under there anywhere. Sonny let his employees handle the artillery.
    â€œI’d prefer, Mr. Hammer,” Sonny said, his voice a radio-announcer baritone too big for his small frame, “if you’d let Flavio keep his position in the corridor. This is a … uh … transitional time. I might attract unwanted company.”
    â€œFine. Let Flavio stand watch. Hell, I know all about unwanted company.”
    That got a tiny twitch of a smile from Velda, over at her desk, but prior to that she had been sitting as blankly unconcerned as a meter maid making out a ticket. The Giraldi mob’s heir apparent would not have suspected that the unseen right hand of this statuesque beauty undoubtedly held a revolver right now.
    I shut the door on Flavio and turned to walk toward my inner office door, saying, “Just you, Mr. Giraldi. I take it you’re here for a consultation.”
    He rose on his Italian loafers and gave me a nod, tossing a flat-hand gesture to the seated bodyguard to stay that way. Velda’s head swivelled slightly and I flashed her a look that said be ready for anything. She returned that with a barely perceptible nod.
    I shut the door and gestured Sonny Giraldi toward the client’s chair. I got behind the desk as Sonny removed a silver cigarette case from inside his suit coat. No chance he was going for a gun the way those threads fit. He reached his slender, well-manicured hand out to offer me a smoke from the case and I shook my head.
    â€œI gave those up years ago,” I said. “How do you think I managed to live so long?”
    He smiled, a smile so delicious he seemed to taste it. “Well, a lot