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seemed very proud of his record.
    â€œDidn’t you play some pro ball, too?”
    â€œYeah, a little. I was drafted by the Bullets, but I only played a couple of games with them.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œI wanted to stick it out, man, but I had bad knees.”
    â€œBad knees, huh?” He studied Elam’s size, noticing how his waist was almost even with the roof of the Bug. Willis Reed had bad knees. Didn’t stop him.
    Gibbons stared at the passenger seat of the VW. There were no blood stains; the river had washed the vinyl upholstery clean. He shut the door and pressed his hand against his sore gut, wondering if the killer was a short little shit.

THREE
    JOHN D’URSO watched his boss, Carmine Antonelli, slowly pouring out two cups of espresso and wondered just how he should bring it up, hoping that maybe today he could convince him. It was a great idea, a potential fucking gold mine. He knew from the first night last summer when Nagai took him to the yak whorehouse on Sixty-sixth Street, the one Hamabuchi set up to cater exclusively to Jap businessmen. Ever since that night, he couldn’t stop thinking about the possibilities, the opportunities, those incredible girls.
    The girl he had that night was unbelievable. To tell the God’s honest truth, he wasn’t even up for it that night, but she changed that quick enough. It was like she had a little hand up there. He never imagined one of these shy, quiet little things could be so sexy, so accommodating, so incredibly good. And as far as he could tell, they were all like that, walking fantasies, all of them. There was no question about it, he had to have Jap girls working a house for him. All he had to do was get Mr. Antonelli’s okay. That’s all he wanted. Antonelli was a stubborn old bastard, but he wasn’t unreasonable all the time. If the old goat had enough left in him to make it with one of these Jap pros, he’d go for it like that. True, Antonelli already said no, but he could change the old man’s mind if he played his cards right. Play it right and he just may go for it this time. Sure, why not?
    â€œNice suit, John,” Antonelli said without looking up. “Shiny.” He pushed a cup and saucer in front of D’Urso.
    D’Urso knew what the old man really meant. He didn’t like flash, never had. Gotta keep a “low-profile,” he always says, a “low-profile.” Always the goddamn “low-profile.” A three grand, tailor-made, polished Italian silk suit and he calls it “shiny.” Christ.
    Antonelli carefully rubbed the slender piece of lemon rind around the rim of his espresso cup. His bony, wrinkled hands reminded D’Urso of the wicked queen’s hands in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs after she turns herself into a witch. They had the video at home, and his daughter watched it all the time. The old man’s hands looked just like the wicked witch’s when she held out the poison apple for Snow White.
    D’Urso waited for the old capo di capi to speak next. It was considered very disrespectful to rush the boss, even if the senile old bastard did take a week to stir a little spoonful of sugar into his goddamn espresso. D’Urso glanced over at Vincent sitting at the bar, quietly sipping his own espresso. Vincent stared back at him dead-eyed, like a gorilla with an attitude. Vincent, of course, wouldn’t agree that the old man was getting too old to run the family. Why should he? The old man wants to make him underboss. Vincent the bodyguard, the old man’s goddamn driver, for chrissake! Vincent who ran the shittiest crew in Brooklyn. Now the old man wants to make him underboss. Unbelievable.
    Antonelli reached for a pignoli cookie from the plate in front of him and broke it in half. He took a bite and chewed slowly and deliberately, then sipped from the small gold-rimmed cup. D’Urso felt like he was trapped in a fucking