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old age home. He looked out the window at the traffic inching down Mulberry Street, then focused on the backwards letters on the plate-glass window, the cracked gold-leaf lettering that spelled out CAMPANIA SPORTS SOCIETY. MEMBERS ONLY . He hated coming here, bowing and scraping to the old man, making a big production number out of giving him his cut when the goddamn guy didn’t do shit for it really. Christ, the last time Antonelli was even in Jersey Nixon was president. Why the hell should he have to drive in here and give Antonelli fifty fucking percent, leaving him with a lousy ten percent after expenses? Good question. D’Urso held his tongue and sipped his espresso which was like poison in his throat. He hated espresso and only drank it when he was here, out of respect.
    â€œSo,” Antonelli said, brushing cookie crumbs from the ridiculouslywide lapels of his dark suit, “how are we making out with our Japanese friends?” He looked up for the first time, and D’Urso was startled by the clear blue of his eyes. The old man’s hard, suspicious eyes always caught him by surprise. They just didn’t go with the rest of him.
    â€œVery good, Mr. Antonelli. Very good.” He heard himself sucking up to Antonelli, and he hated the way he sounded. A bad taste lingered at the back of his throat as he reached for the attaché case on the floor by his leg and presented it to the old man. Four hundred and sixty-eight thousand dollars, freshly laundered from Atlantic City at his own expense. For what?
    Antonelli took the leather attaché case and passed it to Vincent who opened it on the bar and started counting the packets of bills.
    â€œI saw Hamabuchi last week,” Antonelli said. “He’s much happier now that the profits have started to come in. He never liked the idea of having to wait till we showed a profit before he got paid for his merchandise.”
    Merchandise, my ass. They’re slaves, for chrissake. Why not just call them slaves?
    â€œHamabuchi has his doubts. He says he still can’t see people in America using enforced labor.” Antonelli stared him in the eye without blinking.
    â€œWell . . . our customers don’t know that these people are slaves.” The old man knew all this. He just likes to make you lay out the whole operation for him to make sure you know what the fuck you’re doing. Just to bust balls. “We lease the slaves to different employers, mostly factories but some domestic help too—maids, cooks, nannies—”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNannies, live-in baby-sitters. You know. They’re very popular these days. My wife handles them . . .”
    Antonelli closed his eyes and nodded for D’Urso to go on, which made D’Urso’s stomach tighten up. He treated him like a goddamn kid.
    â€œAnyway, we’ve got two dummy employment agencies set up, besides my wife’s nanny thing. As I said, our customers don’t know they’ve got slaves working for them. They don’t even question it because they’re getting help at cut-rate prices. I imagine some of them suspect that everything’s not totally kosher, but theydon’t want to know any of the details because they’re getting such a great deal. All they ever say is that we’ve got some hell of an outfit. Our buses deliver the slaves first thing in the morning, pick ’em up at closing time, and the bosses don’t want to know a thing beyond that.”
    The old man smiled benevolently and nodded. “That’s just what I told Hamabuchi, John.”
    D’Urso grit his teeth. He could’ve punched him in his fucking face, the patronizing old bastard. Then he caught Vincent glaring over his tinted glasses at him. Vincent who carried two guns at all times.
    Antonelli took the other half of the pignoli cookie, stuck it in his mouth, and sucked on it for a minute. “You know, John, I asked Hamabuchi why these