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  “The feds would love to confiscate all their properties,” Debbie said, “their cars, whatever they own, based on what they’ve made illegally over the past ten years or more. Twenty million. Which doesn’t sound to me like there’s a lot of profit in racketeering.”

  “A couple mil a year,” Terry said. “That’s not bad.”

  Debbie said, “Tony makes out, he takes his cut off the top. But what do all the guys under him come out with? Even saying no more than ten or twelve are ‘made’ members of the mob. I just read there’ve never been more than twenty-three ‘made’ guys at any given time here, going back to when they started, in the thirties.”

  “What a lot of people can’t understand,” Terry said, “is why they’re coming down so hard on illegal gambling in a city where it’s always been accepted. I remember when I was a kid, one of the ushers at Queen of Peace was a numbers runner. We’ve always had racetracks, for years a state lottery, now we’ve got casinos. What’s the difference?”

  “But there are bad guys in the mob,” Debbie said. “You should know.”

  “That’s right, and there’re postal clerks and kids in school who shoot their friends. I’m not defending what the mob does, but they’re so low-key you hardly know they’re around.” Terry kept going. “You said something that interested me before, about Tony Amilia.” He paused and said, “I wonder if we could arrange an audience with him, an official visit.”

  “Why?”

  “I wonder if you might be able to work it through your lawyer friend. What’s his name? Bernacki? I’ll tell you what I have in mind. You like the idea, I think you’ll want to give him a call.”

  He watched her look out the window at the gray morning and turn back to him again.

  “You want to talk to a mob boss—”

  “Who’s known as a generous benefactor.”

  “Ah, you go in as Fr. Dunn.”

  “Of course.”

  “And tell him,” Debbie said, “about the little orphans of Rwanda.”

  Ed Bernacki’s office in the Renaissance Center looked down on the Detroit River and Canada across the way, the casino over there in Windsor the only bright spot on the riverfront. He said, “It’s Sunday. How’d you know I was here?”

  Debbie told him she’d called his home first.

  And Bernacki said, “I’ve got to be more careful who I give my numbers to.” He listened to her explanation of why they wanted an audience with Mr. Amilia, and said, “Okay, you want to know what I think? It’s not a bad idea. Still, I don’t think Tony’ll go for it. He won’t see it’s that important to him. What he’s trying to do is avoid any kind of publicity.”

  “Even when it makes him look good?”

  “The press can turn it around, editorialize, say it’s fairly obvious why he’s doing it. But, I’ll speak to him. Maybe Tony will agree, but I have to tell you, I doubt it. One thing for sure, he won’t see you at his home. No one steps inside the door but family and close associates.”

  Debbie said she didn’t care where they met.

  “I’ll get back to you,” Bernacki said, and phoned Tony Amilia at his home in Windmill Point that was swept once a week for bugs.

  Bernacki asked Tony how he was doing on this gloomy piss-poor Sunday morning, and the man’s voice, low and slow, said, “It’s funny you should say that. You know what I do all night? Piss. I get up four, five times. Have this tremendous urge, go in the bathroom and the piss dribbles out. It stops and then starts again. I’m in there so long Clara will call out to me, ‘Are you all right?’ Sometimes it comes out in two streams. I’m thinking, The hell’s going on? You ever have that happen, two streams? During the day, in the morning, it’s almost as bad. I quit having my coffee in the morning or I’d be pissing all over the courtroom. Which isn’t a bad idea. Show ’em what I think of their fuckin case. Ed, I get the urge, I think I’m gonna piss for twenty minutes, it dribbles out. I said to Clara, ‘I piss more’n the amount of liquids I take in.’ Explain that to me.”

  “It’s a symptom,” Bernacki said. “It means your prostate’s swollen and impedes the natural flow of urine.”

  “But why do I piss more’n I drink?”

  “That’s just the way it seems to you.”

  “Sometimes there’s blood in the piss. My urologist says don’t worry about it, you got cancer, what do you expect? Guy’s got the bedside manner of one of those Big Four cops, used to drive around in a Buick with their fuckin shotguns.”

  Bernacki said, “I can understand you sound more concerned with pissing than your trial.”

  “Fuck the trial. The feds’re playing with themselves.”

  “Tony, I want to talk to you about something that could get you favorable press, which you could use right about now. There’s a priest named Fr. Terry Dunn, from Africa, who’d like to talk to you.”

  “Jig?”

  “He’s white, a missionary.”

  “They all come with their hand out. How much’s he want?”

  “It’s a pitch,” Bernacki said, “but has an interesting twist to it, an idea you might go for.”

  “All right, what is it?”

  “I’d rather you hear it in person.”

  “The phone’s okay.”

  “They hang wires, Tony, outside the house. You know that. Listen, why don’t I set it up? Instead of hearing it twice, you hear it directly from Fr. Dunn. Today, so we don’t mess around trying to pick a date that’s agreeable.”

  “A mick priest, he’s got his fuckin hand out. That, I’m sure of.”

  “As I say, there’s an angle you might like.”

  “You’re absolutely sure of this guy?”

  “A man of God, Tony, vouched for by someone I trust all the way.”

  “All right, I’ll set it up and let you know. Hey, and tell him to bring some holy oil. He can give me the last rites ahead of time, get it out of the way.”

  19

  * * *

  THEY WAITED IN A PART of the restaurant that could be closed off for private parties: Tony Amilia and his lawyer, Ed Bernacki, at a round table that would seat ten, covered with a white tablecloth. On it were dishes of olives, several bottles of Pellegrino, a pot of coffee, glasses and cups, ashtrays, one in front of Tony sipping coffee and smoking a cigarette. Bernacki was next to him and they’d talk, but never loud enough for Vincent Moraco, standing by the table, to hear what they said. Vincent, buttoned up in his dark suit and shirt, moved to the open doors of the section. From here he could look through the empty restaurant to the entrance where Vito Genoa was waiting for the priest.

  Vincent had asked Tony, “Who we meeting?” Tony said, “A priest.” He asked him, “What priest?” thinking of the one from last night, and Tony said, “A priest, okay?” Tony with one foot still in the Church from going to his grandchildren’s baptisms and First Communions.

  Twenty years ago Vincent would never’ve asked the boss—a different boss then—who they were meeting. He never spoke unless he was spoken to first. Now it didn’t matter. You couldn’t say old Tony was one of the boys, like you could bullshit with him; still, you could call him Tony and you could piss and moan about the trial fucking up business. All Tony’d say was wait, they’d be back running things again. Just before the trial, Tony said to him, “How come you weren’t indicted, Vincent?” sounding suspicious, but never coming out and asking had he made a deal with the government. Vincent told him, the main reason, he never talked to those street assholes. Even in a car he never said a fuckin word about business—and thanked Almighty God he hadn’t the one and only time he went to the courtroom, sat with the visitors, and they played the tapes they got off the bugs in the cars.

  The two yahoos talking tough. JoJo and that fuckin greaseball Tito, both of ’em now federal witnesses. He asked Tony, after, if he wanted ’em taken out and Tony said, “What do those two fuckups have to tell? The only thing they have is hearsay, or my word against theirs. Ed’ll ask ’em on the stand what kind of deal they mad
e and that will be that.”

  The tapes were identified as the rainy day they were across the street from the bookie joint on Michigan Avenue and wouldn’t get out of the car. They’re talking—you could tell their voices—JoJo the Dogface Boy, they called him, saying “What do you think would happen if old Tony got whacked?” Tito, who doesn’t know shit, says he doesn’t know, but then asks, “Who’d take over?” JoJo says, “That’s what I’m talking about. It’s how you move up in the crew. The way Gotti did it in New York when he took out Castellano. New York, they know how to do it. Here, you sit on your dead ass.” Tito’s voice: “You want to whack out Tony?” JoJo: “All I’m asking is what would happen.”

  Bullshit. He was thinking about it or he wouldn’t mention it to Tito. Some of the other guys could be thinking about it, too.

  That time when he spoke to Tony about taking the yahoos out and Tony said no, he spoke up to him. He said, “Tony, people hear what’s on those tapes—those assholes can’t even drive home without getting lost—people will lose respect for us, think we’re a bunch of morons.” Tony said don’t worry about it and went to take a piss. The old man a boss in name only now. He’s convicted and goes away, the door’d be open and Vincent believed he could walk right in. Tony doesn’t go to prison, then you have to wait for him to piss himself to death, or, as the two morons were saying, somebody whacks him out. If that ever happened and who knows?—then he’d walk in and take over. The first thing he’d do, keep Randy’s eight K a week for himself and become Randy’s full-time partner, hang out at the restaurant, let people see him, know who he was. He believed rich broads especially liked to meet gangsters, flirt with a guy known to be dangerous. Wear a tux. Fuckin Tony lived like a mole, stayed in his hole till he had to go to court. He wouldn’t say what this meeting was about. Only that it was a priest coming. It had to be the same one from last night who called Vito a guinea faggot. The guy had nerve for a priest.

  They came over 10 Mile to Kelly Road, Debbie driving, turned right and there it was. “La Spezia.” Terry said, “Closed on Sunday.”

  Debbie said, “Not if this is where Tony wants to meet. What time is it?”

  “Four-twenty.”

  “Perfect. Ed said don’t come before a quarter after.” Turning into the lot she said, “There’s a guy at the door who looks like your friend.”

  They parked in front of the place, its low-sloping roof and A-frame facade making her think of a ski lodge. She waited for Terry to get his bag of photos from the backseat and together they approached Vito Genoa holding the door open.

  “How you doing, Father?”

  It reminded Terry to hunch over a little more, show a stiffness in his neck as he turned his head. He said, “I think I’ll live.”

  Following them inside, Vito said, “You shouldn’ta said that to me.”

  Terry kept his neck stiff and turned his body to say, “Now you tell me.”

  They came through the empty restaurant, white tablecloths and place settings in the gloom, and the neat little guy Debbie recognized from last night, Vincent Moraco, motioned to them to approach the round table. She saw Tony Amilia in a blue warm-up jacket watching them as Ed spoke to him, Tony nodding. She didn’t know if they were supposed to sit down at the table. It didn’t look like it, because now Ed was looking at them—his expression solemn, he could be at a wake—and said, “You understand this is not a social occasion. I’ve told Mr. Amilia who you are, so go ahead, tell us what you have in mind.”

  Terry stepped up to the table with his athletic bag, zipping it open, and Ed said, “Father, you’re gonna make the presentation?”

  He didn’t get a chance to answer. Vincent Moraco appeared next to him, took the bag from him and felt inside. He placed it on the table and said to Terry, “I’m gonna have to pat you down, Father, since we don’t know you.” Vincent’s tone pleasant enough. “You could be some guy dressed like a priest.”

  Terry turned to him holding his suitcoat open. He said, “I understand. Go ahead.”

  Debbie kept her eyes on Tony, his face and balding crown tan from a winter in Florida. He wore tinted, wire-frame glasses and could be taken for a retired business executive, a former CEO now taking it easy.

  Vincent Moraco stepped aside and now Terry began bringing out his photos, reaching out to lay them in rows across the middle of the table.

  Debbie watched Tony lighting a cigarette, talking to Ed now, showing no interest in what Terry was doing. She wanted Terry to notice and hurry up, get on with it. He looked up, finally—

  And said, “I’m sure you’ve seen pictures of homeless kids before, orphans with no one to take care of them. These kids represent thousands just like them, left on their own to search through garbage dumps for food, because their parents were murdered, most of them cut down with machetes. In my church in Rwanda are forty-seven bodies that’ve been lying there since the day I was saying Mass and saw them killed, slaughtered, many of them having their feet hacked off, something that was done by the Hutus all over Rwanda during the genocide.”

  Terry placed his hands on the table to take his weight, resting for a few moments before straightening again, slowly, to show his pain.

  “I came here to visit parishes and raise money for the kids. But now I can’t because of an injury I sustained last night when I slipped and took a fall in a restaurant called Randy’s.”

  Debbie kept her eyes on Tony and Ed. No reactions. Terry was putting them to sleep.

  She stepped forward saying, “Father, sit down, please, before you fall down,” pulled a chair out and got him seated, Tony watching now, more interested.

  “If you’ll allow me to make the pitch,” Debbie said to him, “I’ll cut right to it.” Tony seemed to give her a nod and she kept going. “I’m involved in this, too. If you want to know why, it’s because that cocksucker who owns the restaurant conned me out of sixty-seven thousand dollars and refuses to pay me back.”

  She had Tony’s attention.

  “The next time I saw the son of a bitch I hit him with my car, in front of witnesses, and drew three years at Sawgrass Correctional in Florida. I get my release and find out Randy’s loaded, won millions in a divorce settlement and owns a successful restaurant downtown. I decided to go after him. I brought Fr. Dunn along—Father’s a friend of the family—with the hope that he could possibly get Randy to look at himself, recognize what a fucking snake he is and do what’s right.”

  Tony was holding his cigarette in front of him, the ash so long it was about to fall off.

  “My plan, Mr. Amilia, was to ask Randy for two hundred and fifty thousand, half for Father Dunn’s children, the other half representing double what the snake owes me, to make up for money I was unable to earn while I was down those three years.” Debbie cleared her throat and said, “You mind if I have a glass of water?”

  Tony didn’t answer. He looked at Vincent Moraco. Vincent came over, picked up a bottle of Pellegrino and poured her a glass. Debbie took a long drink, paused and took another one. She said, “Thank you,” and got back into it.

  “Something happened last night at the restaurant that changed our plan. We were evicted from our table by two of your men. It upset Fr. Dunn and he said something he’s sorry for now. He called your Mr. Genoa a faggot. Mr. Genoa naturally resented the remark and decked Fr. Dunn, injuring his back. Let me say, in Fr. Dunn’s behalf, he spoke up because he resented our being removed from the table by a party an hour late for their reservation.” As Tony Amilia’s gaze wandered over to Vincent, Debbie said, “Fr. Dunn’s a man of God, but he’s also a stand-up guy. You have to be to run a mission in central Africa, up against street thugs killing people at will.”

  Debbie picked up the glass and took a sip of water.

  “So the meeting with Mr. Agley, which followed, took a turn. Now we included a personal injury settlement, which we believed Mr. Agley would understand and prefer to going to court. I suggested to him how he could make things right and he told me to g
et lost. Actually, what he said to me was ‘Don’t fuck with me, kid. You’re not in my league.’ Well . . . I’m going to anyway. May I sit down?”

  It would give her the table to hold on to.

  Tony nodded, unaware of the cigarette ash on the front of his warm-up jacket.

  She took the chair next to Terry’s, put her hand for a moment on his shoulder and got ready.

  “What I’d like to propose, Mr. Amilia—if you were to get the two-fifty from the snake, and make out a check for that amount payable to the Little Orphans of Rwanda Fund, you could write the entire amount off on your income tax. And, the press will see you as the savior of Father’s orphans, the publicity coming at a time when you need it the most.”

  There was a silence in the room.

  Tony continued to stare at Debbie, but said nothing. It was Ed Bernacki who broke the silence.

  “If the check goes to the orphans, Deb, how do you get yours?”

  “Ed, I hope you don’t think Father would cheat me out of my share.”

  “All right, and how does this timely publicity get in the paper?”

  “I’ll make sure it happens. If Mr. Amilia is willing, with a photo of him handing Father the check.”

  “You don’t think the intention would be obvious, coming at this time?”

  “Why? Mr. Amilia is well known for his charitable interests. His being on trial right now, facing some rather absurd allegations, is beside the fact. His generosity speaks for itself.”