But I figured Carlo "Junior" Evello would stick to his pattern. The Evellos of the world have a keener sense than most of the random, chaotic nature of things, and they seek solace in habit, in a self-designed structure that gives them a false sense of security. The joke, of course, is such behavior makes them prey to police and federal surveillance, not to mention prone to getting dropped in their spaghetti sauce by business rivals.
I came in and got out of my trench coat and left it on a hook just inside the door. I hung on to my hat, after shaking the rain off it, and moved into the dark, chilly restaurant. Over at the left, in a black vest, white shirt, and black bow tie, a bartender—whose bullnecked build tagged him as doing double duty as the bouncer—was doing zero business. I bought a glass of Pabst on tap from him, just to make him feel wanted.
The place was so empty it might have been closed for cleaning. The carpet was red, the tables black, the booths red. The yellow stucco walls had the typical gilt-framed Sicilian landscapes—oils not prints. The lighting was subdued and made more so by the lack of sunlight through the street windows onto the day's gloom. The deeper into the narrow restaurant you walked, the darker it got.
And the only customers were three businessmen in a booth. Two were big and greasy-haired and could have been twins but for the slightly smaller one's pockmarks. They were not eating—they didn't even have drinks. Between the big guys, seated in the booth with his back to the wall, was the only one of the trio eating.
And all he had was a bowl of what looked to be chicken soup. Water and no wine, not even coffee.
Carlo Evello was about as threatening-looking as a seventh-grade English teacher, his importance suggested only by the gray Brooks Brothers suit and the darker gray silk tie. He had small, dark, sad eyes in pouches of fat that didn't go with the rest of his fairly slender frame. His eyebrows were slashes of black and his hair was gray and his well-lined face had a funeral-parlor pallor.
When I walked up to the booth, the bookend bodyguards got halfway out of their seats, their tiny eyes flaring even as their tinier minds crawled into action.
"Why don't you tell your goons you'd already be dead," I said to Evello, "if that's what I was here for."
He made a calming motion with one hand and the two settled back down, the pockmarked one frowning. The idiot didn't like being called a goon.
"Join me, Mr. Hammer," Evello said with a smooth voice that didn't go with the diamond-hard beady eyes. "The kitchen is closed till four, but I'm sure for a guest of your ... renown ... an exception can be made."
"That's okay. I already ate at Fortunio's. They serve a mean manicotti."
He shrugged and pushed his dish away. He frowned at the half-eaten soup. "Chicken broth and tortellini, Mr. Hammer. I suffer the curse of today's busy executive—an ulcer."
"Having a hole in your stomach can be painful." I nodded one at a time at the two greasy-haired watchdogs. "Can you dismiss Heckle and Jeckle? They don't have to leave the room. I just want us old friends to share some privacy."
He studied me for a moment, nodded once per bodyguard, and they frowned and shifted but stayed put.
The smooth-cheeked, slightly bigger one said, "At least he should let us take his gun, Mr. Evello."
I gave the guy more attention than he deserved. "Why, are you girls going to give me yours?"
Evello frowned and waved that off, and finally the two thugs slid out of the booth and took a table halfway across the otherwise empty restaurant, where they sat and pouted.
Their boss smiled and laughed to himself, though no sound came out. "Bearding the lion in his den, Mr. Hammer?"
I put my hat on the table, set my beer and myself down, got comfy. "You and I both know, Carlo, that the feds staking you out saw me come in, and they'll expect to see me come out."
He shrugged. He was getting something out of his suit-coat pocket—a silver cigarette case. He removed a small brown smoke and I gave him a light with my Zippo, then fired up a Lucky. I had an ankle on a knee and was casual as hell. We were old friends, though we'd never spoken before.
"I know, generally," Evello said, and painted an abstract picture in the air with a hand that bore a couple gold-and-diamond rings, "why you're here. But let me start."
"Like the man said—shoot."
That made him smile again, and he shook his head, as if saying, That Mike Hammer—what a card.
Then his face went somber, suddenly as hard as the eyes. "I was not responsible for what those two former employees of mine did outside that Chinese restaurant, some weeks ago. They had been drinking, I understand. They knew the stories about you having ... having a hand in my uncle's death. They thought they could please me by taking you on, and out. They were fools. I didn't desire it, and they weren't capable of it."
"It's all right. They're as dead as your uncle now."
He waved that off, exhaling blue smoke. "As well they deserve to be. My understanding is that you were badly wounded, and that it required a trip out of town to recover, and ... well, I apologize for the inconvenience."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Wherever this discussion goes, that's behind us. Ancient history."
I gave him a guarded grin. "What about your uncle?"
Half a smile twitched the gray face. "No one knows precisely what happened to my uncle. There were marks on his neck, as if someone had tried to strangle him ... but he was killed by a knife belonging to one of his own men."
"I didn't kill him," I said.
And I hadn't. He had tied me to a bed and let his men work me over, but I hadn't killed him. I'd gotten loose and I'd squeezed his throat so hard, his eyes almost popped out of their sockets, but I hadn't killed him. I'd watched his head roll back and his tongue loll out, but I hadn't killed him. He was still breathing when I tied him to the bed in my position in the darkened room and called for his guy to come in and finish the job. I hadn't killed him—his own knife-wielding thug had.
Of course, him I killed.
"The truth, Mr. Hammer, is that I never much liked my uncle. He was a cold man, selfish and innately cruel. But he was a successful man, with a considerable reputation, and my physical resemblance to him aided me in my ... climb. I rather resent the nickname this earned me—Junior—and I notice you pay me the respect of calling me Carlo, and I do appreciate that."
"I find grown men don't take to being called Junior."
This time you could hear the chuckle. "Absolutely right, Mr. Hammer. You are a keen observer of human foibles."
"But the word on the street has always been that you blamed me for your uncle's death."
Blue smoke exited his nostrils, dragon-style. "Simply a face-saving gesture. It is expected of me to speak ill of the man responsible for my 'beloved' uncle's death. At any rate, I'm not suggesting that you and I are destined for a great friendship, Mr. Hammer—just that we are not, today at least, adversaries. Now—what brings you to Little Italy ... besides Fortunio's."
I sipped beer. My tone would have fit right in with discussing sports scores. "Did you read about the two St. Louie guys who got in a shootout in the lobby of my apartment building? One was playing dress-up, pretending to be a doorman."
He stiffened. "Mr. Hammer, that also was not my doing...."
"Louis 'Frenchy' Tallman?" I said. "Gerald Kopf? Out-of-town talent with ties to the Evellos. Graduates of the Jackers, the street gang who even today make up the Evello Family junior auxiliary...."
He was holding up both hands as if in surrender. "Mr. Hammer, that attempt on your life had nothing to do with me or any of my ... immediate associates."