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  Capone turned to Dutch as if curious. For the first time since the evening started, he looked interested.

  Dutch might have been constipated the way he squirmed in his seat and clutched his belly. His suit was more rumpled than usual and his face was strained, as if he'd been under a lot of pressure for a long time.

  "Well?" Capone said. "What about Francis?" He had met Francis before, on an earlier visit to New York with his family. They'd gone out to dinner together, Capone and his wife and Dutch and Francis.

  "I got it on good authority," Dutch said, "the son of a bitch—on the night he got rounded up with the rest of his gang—he was on his way to kill my wife." Dutch paused and his face went so dark he looked like he might slump over in his chair with a heart attack. "Francis!" he exploded. "My wife! He was gonna beat her so bad I couldn't recognize her, and he was gonna call me while he was doing it so I could hear her scream!"

  "You see what I'm saying?" Madden was talking to Capone. "He's a lunatic. He'll make us all look like rabid dogs. We need to do something about him, and we need to do it before he costs us more money and more trouble."

  Capone nodded to Dutch and then turned to Madden. "All right," he said. "We'll send you twenty men, and they'll stay till the job is done. I'll make sure they're nobody Coll'll recognize."

  After Capone, one by one the big shots around the table promised men and money. Madden's plan was to put together a small army of men that Coll didn't know and wouldn't recognize. He'd break the city up into zones, with men on the streets at all times, all of them with orders to fill Coll full of lead as soon as they laid eyes on him. In addition to the men on the street, he wanted men roving the city, four to a car, in case they came across Coll and his boys. He wanted them all armed with choppers.

  "Good," Madden said, and he sat back in his chair, signaling the meeting was about to be over. "With your men and the boys I'm bringing in from Kansas, Coll won't last another week."

  Capone lit a cigar and pointed it at Madden. "You put my men up," he said. "Whatever they need."

  "That's taken care of," Frenchy answered for Madden. To the whole table, he said, "We'll treat your boys good."

  Madden stood and straightened out his jacket. "Gentlemen," he said, "Frenchy's got something special planned for you all over at the Cotton Club."

  Luciano declined, as did Lansky, but Siegel and all the others were more than happy to take up Madden on his hospitality. They fled out of the room, talking and laughing, leaving only Madden, Luciano, and Lansky behind with Dutch and Bo. "Jesus," Madden said when they were alone, "who shoved something up Capone's ass tonight?"

  Luciano said, "He's got that tax beef hanging over him. I hear he's going away for a long time, and soon."

  "Ah," Madden said. "I should have figured. Gentlemen," he added and gestured toward the door, meaning it was time for them all to get on with their own business.

  "Nah, wait," Luciano said. He motioned to Lansky, who slipped out of the room.

  "What the hell's this about?" Dutch said.

  Madden took his seat, folded his arms over his chest, and waited.

  Dutch and Bo followed Madden's lead and took seats at the table. Luciano lit a cigarette, offered the pack to the others, and then went about pouring himself a drink from one of a dozen liquor bottles scattered over the table.

  "Good idea," Dutch said, and he poured drinks for himself and Bo.

  After five minutes had passed with Dutch and Bo talking between themselves about business, Madden pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket. To Luciano he said, "This better be good."

  Luciano winked at Madden, and a minute later the door to the conference room opened and Lansky walked in with Jimmy Brennan.

  "Who the hell's this?" Dutch said.

  Bo said, "I know you. You're the one's family passed away in a fre. Am I right?"

  "That's right," Luciano answered for Brennan. "Now he's working for Coll."

  Brennan took a seat opposite Madden and poured himself a drink. He knocked it back, poured himself another, and then ran his fingers through the unruly mess of hair tumbling down onto his forehead. "I want a hundred thousand dollars," he said. "The fifty you already offered and fifty more for the risks I'm taking with this crazy son of a bitch."

  Madden said, "A hundred thousand?"

  Dutch said, "Fuck you. Seventy-five."

  Jimmy downed his drink and placed the glass gently on the table. "Done," he said and looked to Madden.

  "You'll kill him yourself?" Madden asked.

  "Or tell you where you can find him and get the job done."

  "Fifty for that," Dutch said. "Seventy-five if you kill him yourself."

  Jimmy shrugged. "Sure," he said. "That's fair."

  Madden asked Luciano, "Where'd you find this guy?" When Luciano didn't answer, Madden turned back to Jimmy. "How do you know Coll?" he asked. "What's a guy like you doing with the likes of the Evangelistas and Domini and them?"

  "I was in the orphanage with Vince," Jimmy said. "I gave him a bunch of shellackin's. I guess he remembered me."

  Madden was quiet a while, watching Brennan. Finally he said, "A mick to kill the Mick," and he got up from his seat. "You report to me," he said, "not Mr. Luciano." He took a pen from his coat pocket along with a slip of paper. "Here," he said. He wrote his name and phone number on the paper, carried it to Brennan, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. "That's my office number at the Cotton Club. That's where I can usually be reached. Call when it's done or when you've got information for me. Are we clear?" He pointed to his own chest. "You call me."

  Madden turned to Luciano and pointed a finger at him. "I see I'm gonna have to watch out for you," he said. "You're a man knows how to get a job done."

  "Ah," Bo said to everyone, "too bad. Looks like Mad Dog Coll's days are numbered."

  "Yeah," Dutch said, standing up. "My heart's breaking." He rose and left without offering anyone a word or a handshake.

  Madden said, "Business," meaning Dutch was the kind of guy you had to work with in this business. He shook hands with Luciano, Lansky, and Bo. "You can go," he said to Jimmy. "You know how to reach me." He crossed his arms and waited for Jimmy to leave. When he was alone with the others, he said, "I hate a Judas," and then he added, again, "Business."

  "That's how it is," Luciano said, and the four of them left the conference room together, Madden between Luciano and Bo, his arms around their shoulders. Lansky took a last look around the room, at the conference table with a half-dozen bottles of liquor spread across its dark wood surface. He found an unopened bottle of Russian vodka, slipped it into his jacket pocket, and followed the others out the door.

  Wednesday - January 20, 1932

  7:17 p.m.

  Maria Tramonti sat across the kitchen table from Gina. She was drinking coffee with Gina and talking nonstop about Patsy and Loretto and the position she and Gina were both in now that the boys were back working for Vince Coll.

  "Let's sit in the living room," Gina said, and she carried their cups to the coffee table, where she put them down next to a copy of the Saturday Evening Post before she went to the window to pull the shade. It was dark out. On the street, a couple of boys were in the midst of a snowball fight, running along the sidewalks parallel to each other, scooping up snow and hurling shots across the street.

  Maria sat on the edge of the couch, picked up the magazine, and looked it over. When Gina sat next to her, Maria slumped down as if defeated. "I don't know what to do about Patsy," she said. "I hardly ever see him anymore, and when I do we have to sneak around."

  "I haven't seen Loretto since the day he moved out of Mama's."

  "If I didn't love him so much . . ." Maria sipped her coffee. She didn't know how to finish her thought. If she didn't love him so much, she'd leave him? No. She couldn't imagine that, though the thought must have been in the back of her mind, or why would she have said what she did?

  "I don't know what will happen with me and Loretto," Gina said. "I
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  guess I'm hoping he'll come to his senses before he gets himself killed. Augie's furious at him."

  "Why's Augie mad? 'Cause he's not treating you right?"

  "I guess so. He don't like it that Mama's all worried about Loretto. What's he doing? Where's he living? Why he no stay here with us? I swear, I think she likes him better than me."

  Maria laughed at that. "She's a darling, your mother."

  "She's got enough to worry about with Mike. She don't need Loretto on top of it."

  "Look," Maria said, "there's something else I wanted to tell you." She picked up her cup from the table and held it close to her chest.

  Gina sat up straight, newly attentive.

  "I'm leaving Bill." Maria put the cup down again without taking a sip.

  "About time," Gina said. She squeezed Maria's knee. "You should have left him years ago."

  "Sure," Maria said, "but until Patsy came along . . ."

  "Are you moving out? Where will you stay? Have you told Bill yet?"

  "My lawyer thinks I'll wind up with plenty of cush once the divorce is settled."

  "I'd be careful about that," Gina said. "Didn't work out like that for me."

  "But your guy wasn't spending half his time in whorehouses and the other half on the road."

  "Still," Gina said, "I'm just saying be careful."

  "My lawyer's pretty sure about it. And what I'm thinking is this: maybe, if I wind up with as much moolah as my lawyer says, maybe Patsy can start a business of his own. Who knows, maybe Patsy and Loretto can do something together. You see what I'm thinking?"

  "You're dreamin' more than thinkin', honey."

  "Really?" Maria's eyes were suddenly full of tears.

  Gina slid close to her and gave her a hug. "I don't know. Maybe it's possible. What kind of business were you imagining?"

  Maria found a tissue in her purse and blotted her eyes. "I don't know what kind of business. Whatever Patsy wants. Listen," she said, "I'm serious about this, Gina. Bill comes from money. I could wind up in the dough. Maybe if Patsy and Loretto can find something to do together, I can bankroll them. You see what I'm saying?"

  "Is that why you're leaving Bill?"

  "Yes," Maria said, suddenly firm, almost angry. "That's a big part of it. I'm scared to death for Patsy. I got to get him away from Vince and them. Maybe this could be the way."

  "Have you talked to Patsy about it?"

  "About leaving Bill? We talk about it all the time."

  "No, about setting him up in business."

  "You know guys," Maria said. "I'll have to make it look like he came up with the idea."

  Then it was Gina's turn to laugh. "Well, when's the big day? When are you telling him?"

  "Bill? Tomorrow. That's why I wanted to see you tonight. I wanted to tell you first."

  "Where will you stay?"

  "The Clarion Arms. It's in midtown."

  "A hotel? Why don't you stay with me? It wouldn't cost you anything, and I could use the company."

  "No kidding?" Maria jumped at Gina and gave her a hug. "I'd pay half the rent," she said. "I insist. And it'd only be till after the divorce is settled."

  "We should have a party," Gina said. "Girls only. To celebrate."

  "Are you sure about this?"

  "About the party or you movin' in with me?"

  "Me movin' in!" Maria followed Gina into the kitchen and watched as she stood on her toes to take a calendar down from the wall. "Are you really sure?" she asked again.

  "I'm excited about it! It's been lonely, especially with Loretto never here anymore." She put the calendar down on the kitchen table and pointed to January 31. "Let's have it Sunday after next. We'll invite all our girlfriends."

  Maria gave Gina another hug. Then all of a sudden she was blubbering.

  Gina patted her hair. "It'll be okay," she said. "It'll all work out."

  "I know," Maria said. "I'm serious about Patsy and Loretto," she added, sobbing.

  "I know you are." Gina patted Maria's back and let her cry. "Go ahead," she said. "Cry. You need it."

  Maria nodded and did as she was instructed. She leaned into her girlfriend's shoulder and cried.

  Monday - January 25, 1932

  2:15 p.m.

  Madden had just tossed one of the Chicago boys out of his office, taking him by the collar and the seat of his pants and heaving him out the door. For more than a week he'd been paying these mugs and putting them up, buying their meals and their women and their booze—and Coll was still on the street. He fell back into the leather cushions of his rolling chair, put his feet up on his desk, kicked a ledger book across the room, and glared at the heavy black telephone next to his feet. It occurred to him, staring at the phone, how the years had changed him. His urge now was to pick up the phone and order someone to get off his arse and finally take care of this little bastard. When he was a young man, he would have used the handset to bash Coll's head in. He saw himself then as a boy standing in the middle of 201st Street with a pistol in his hand and a lead pipe tucked into his belt, standing over the dead body of Joey Macario, blood pouring out of Joey and onto the cobblestones. He'd just shot him through the heart and he'd have shot him again if it would have done any good. Instead, he turned to the empty street and the closed tenement windows and yelled, "Owen Madden! Tenth Avenue!" He'd killed more men in those days, when he was running the Gophers and warring with the Hudson Dusters—he'd killed more men than he cared to remember, with his bare hands, with a lead pipe, with knife and gun. Now he picked up a telephone.

  "Duke." Frenchy opened the office door and peeked in. "Your brotherin-law's here."

  "Connor?"

  "You got another brother-in-law?"

  "Don't get wise with me," Madden said, but with a grin. "What's Connor want?"

  "It's your sister," Frenchy said. He was wearing a yellow ascot and he tucked a loose corner into his shirt. "He's says she's sick, but it's not serious."

  Madden leaned back in his chair. "I saw her yesterday."

  "You want me to send him away?"

  "No. Tell him I'll be right there." Madden brushed himself off and straightened out his suit. At the bottom of the stairs, he found his brotherin-law waiting for him. He was a tall, thin man with an elaborate handlebar mustache.

  "Owen," Connor said, "I'm worried about Mary."

  "What's wrong with her?"

  "Ah, I think it might be the flu," he said, "but you know Mary. I can't get her to see a doctor."

  "She was fine yesterday." Madden brushed off the step and took a seat.

  "Came on all of a sudden," Connor said. "That's why I think it's the flu."

  "You want me to tell her to see a doctor?"

  Connor said, "You know she'll do whatever you tell her. Come and pay her a quick visit and send her on her way to see a physician."

  Under Connor's smile and his casual attitude, he seemed nervous, as if the smile and attitude were an act. Madden wondered how sick his sister might really be.

  "Come back to the house with me," Connor said. "It'll only take a few minutes, and if you tell her to see a doctor, you know she'll do what you say. My car's parked right outside."

  "Give me a second." Madden trotted up the stairs and retrieved his coat and gloves from the office hall tree. In his desk drawer, he found a snubnose .44 and slid it into his coat pocket before he rejoined Connor. The hallway was dimly lit. A splash of light from the street came in through a narrow window that ran the length of the exit door. Two of Frenchy's boys were stationed at the door, and Madden had them check the street before he stepped out into the cold.

  "Snowing again," Connor said. "You'd think we lived in Siberia, wouldn't you now, with how it's snowed this winter?" He led the way to the car, waited for Owen to get in beside him, and drove off over streets already covered with a layer of new snow. "Owen," he said, "you know I love you like my own brother," and he turned onto a side street and pulled over in front of an empty storefront with a blacked out glass d
oorway bracketed by two boarded-up display windows. As soon as the car stopped at the curb, Mike Baronti pulled the curb-side door open and put a pistol in Madden's ribs. He patted him quickly, found the .44, and dropped it into his coat pocket. "How are you, Mr. Madden?" he asked politely. "Vince Coll would like to have a word with you." He gestured toward the storefront with the boarded-up windows.

  On the other side of the car, Patsy DiNapoli opened Connor's door and put a pistol to his chest. Connor ignored the gun and grasped Madden by the coat sleeve. His face was red and panicked. "They swore they wouldn't hurt you, Owen," he pleaded, "but they said they'd kill me and Mary unless I did this. I swear to you, Owen, I had no choice." By the time he finished speaking, there were tears in his eyes.