“No, sir, but we are doing everything we can to support his reelection.”
“How long have you been at this location?” I asked.
“We had our grand opening on Saturday. Would you two like some bumper stickers? How about a couple of lawn signs?”
We smiled gratefully and carried them to the car with us, even though we didn’t have a lawn.
I pulled out of the parking spot and cruised past the SUV. It waited until two other cars fell in behind us and then followed at a discreet distance. I kept tabs on it in the rearview mirror as I led our little convoy south toward Bristol.
There, we found another new campaign office in a Hope Street storefront, this one promoting the reelection of veteran Republican state senator Ralph Cummings. According to the fliers the staff was handing out, Cummings was courageously bucking the Republican leadership’s stand for legalized, privately run sports gambling. He was morally opposed to any form of legalization. The small type at the bottom of the fliers read “Stop Sports Gambling Now”-the super PAC funded by the NCAA and the professional sports leagues.
It was still morning when we crossed the Mount Hope Bridge and drove south through Portsmouth, but it wasn’t too early for Joseph to start whining about lunch. I’d been daydreaming about the Reuben Cuban sandwich at Newport’s White Horse Tavern; but when Joseph spotted the McDonald’s on East Main Road in Middletown, he drooled the way Homer Simpson does whenever somebody says “doughnuts.”
Inside, we took our orders to a booth that looked out on the parking lot. The grilled chicken club sandwich and a medium Coke for me. Three Quarter Pounders, two large fries, and a strawberry shake for Joseph.
“Keep this up,” I said, “and you’re gonna regain all those pounds you lost.”
“I weigh myself every fuckin’ day,” he said. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m keepin’ an eye on it.”
We’d just started eating when the black SUV rumbled into the lot and braked to a stop two parking spaces from Secretariat. The driver sat behind the wheel for about five minutes. Then he climbed out and came inside. He waited at the counter for his Big Mac, fries, and Coke, carried them to a booth in back, and studiously avoided looking at us.
I put him at forty-five years old with thick gray hair, a lantern jaw, and a slight paunch. Six feet tall and wide in the shoulders, he had the look of a former athlete who still worked out but had developed an unhealthy fondness for fatty food and beer.
“Recognize him?” Joseph whispered.
“No. You?”
“Uh-uh.”
We finished our meal, bused the table, and headed outside.
“What now?” Joseph asked.
“We sit in the car and wait for him to come out.”
“And then?”
“We roust him and find out who he is.”
“’Bout fuckin’ time.”
Fifteen minutes later, we were still sitting there while our quarry nursed a second cup of soda and made a show of not watching us through the window.
“How ’bout I go back inside and drag his ass out?” Joseph said.
I shook my head and cranked the ignition. I backed out of the parking space, rolled slowly past the front of the restaurant, made a quick right turn, and braked beside the windowless south side of the building.
“Get out of the car, stay out of sight, and grab him when he comes out,” I said. “I’ll circle the building and meet you out front.”
I got there just in time to see Joseph rush our stalker from behind and bull him against the hood of his SUV. As I climbed out of Secretariat, Joseph kicked the guy’s legs apart and started to frisk him.
“What the hell!” the guy said.
Joseph smacked him hard on the back of the head and jerked a semi-auto from the small of his back.
“Who are you,” I said, “and why are you following us?
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Empty your pockets.”
“No.”
Joseph gave him another smack.
“My buddy here’s going to get annoyed if I have to ask you again,” I said.
“You can’t make me do shit. You two assholes aren’t cops.”
“No, we ain’t,” Joseph said. “Cops probably wouldn’t do this.”
He shoved a paw between the guy’s legs, grabbed his scrotum, and squeezed. The guy yelped like a dog getting neutered without anesthesia. Then he dug into his pockets and tossed the contents onto the hood. A set of car keys, a cell phone, a handful of change, and a brown leather wallet.
The cell looked like a prepaid that couldn’t be traced, but even burners were vulnerable to my expert sleuthing. I turned it on, checked the list of recent calls, and jotted the numbers in my notepad.
Then I opened the wallet and slid out his driver’s license.
“Jesus!” I said. “How many Alfanos are there in New Jersey, and how many of you have to get killed before you learn to stay out of Rhode Island?”
He didn’t say anything. From the set of his jaw, I figured he wasn’t going to unless we roughed him up some more, and I lacked the stomach for that.
Instead, I returned his phone and wallet, and he put them in his pockets.
“What about the Glock?” he asked.
“You’re joking, right?” Joseph said.
The guy turned to pluck his car keys from the hood, but I snatched them first and shoved them in my pocket.
“Whaddaya ’spose he was after?” Joseph asked as we cruised south toward the Newport waterfront.
“The people he works for must have been mad about my bribery story,” I said. “They probably asked him to find out what I’m going to do next.”
“What are you gonna do next?”
“We’re doing it,” I said.
In Newport, we stumbled on another new legislative campaign office, this one paid for by the super PAC working for privatization of sports gambling. After we talked up the staff and walked out with more fliers and lawn signs, I told Joseph to take the wheel and head west.
As he drove across the majestic Claiborne Pell Bridge, I asked him to hand me the Glock. I slid my window down and tossed both the gun and Alfano number three’s car keys over the railing into Narragansett Bay’s East Passage. Then I pulled the cell out of my pocket and called Judy at The Atlantic City Press.
“Hey, Mulligan. What’s up?”
“There’s another Alfano in town.”
“Which one?”
“How many are there?”
“Two more brothers and maybe a dozen uncles and cousins.”
“All of them connected?”
“That’s what I hear.”
“Is Marco Alfano one of them?”
“Another brother.”
“According to his driver’s license, he’s from Somers Point, New Jersey. Where’s that?”
“Just south of Atlantic City. How the heck did you get a look at his driver’s license?”
“By asking politely. So what does Marco Alfano do for a living?”
“Other than help out with the illegal family business?”
“Yeah. Other than that.”
“He owns a chain of escort services.”
“So he’s a pimp.”
“He is, but in Atlantic City you don’t get arrested for that. You get a plaque from the chamber of commerce.”
“I’ve heard.”
“So what was he doing in Rhode Island?” she asked.
“Tailing me. Probably will be again once he figures out how to start his SUV without his car keys.”
She chuckled at that. “Why? Because of the story you wrote?”
“That’s how I figure it. Probably wants to find out what I’m up to now.”
“Think he’s also spreading money around?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“He might also have a personal reason for being in Rhode Island,” she said.
“Because Mario Zerilli probably killed his brother?”
“Yeah. The Alfanos aren’t the kind to leave something like that to the authorities.”
“If he wants Mario,” I said, “he’ll have to get in line.”