"What’s the charge?” the skinny man asked.
     "I didn’t read it all the way through,” Lo Manto said. "But from what I did see, it fits your usual pattern. Attempted murder, drug possession, conspiracy and -- I’d have to look again and make sure -- kidnapping. With your records, a conviction on any one of those charges would have you making coffee by candlelight the rest of your lives.”
     "You’re not arresting anybody,” the skinny man said with a crooked smile that showed off a row of darkened lower teeth. "Not today and not with four guns pointed at you.”
     "I don’t want to arrest you,” Lo Manto said. "And with your help and a little bit of luck, I won’t have to.”
     "What do you want?”
     "A name,” Lo Manto said bluntly. "And a place where I can find that name.”
     "Whose?”
     "The man who killed Peppino Alvatar,” Lo Manto said. "I want him and you know who he is and where he is.”
     The skinny man shook his head, the smile fading from his face. "I let you arrest me, all I get is a prison sentence. I give you that information, I get a death sentence. And I’m not looking to die.”
     "Take a minute and try to think smart,” Lo Manto said. "Sooner or later, the Rossis are going to look to lose baggage like you. For all the good you do, you also cause a lot of grief. With each arrest, that’s only going to get worse. They know your kind breaks and talks and they won’t ever let that happen. Before that day comes, I can have your sentence for these fresh charges kept to a minimum. But I need a name and a place.”
     The skinny man held Lo Manto’s look for several seconds, his breathing coming heavier, fingers stroking the sides of his hand gun. "Maybe that’s all true,” he said. "But maybe all that goes away if I bring the Rossis something they’ve always wanted.”
     Lo Manto smiled and sat back in his chair. "Me?” he asked.
     "You,” the skinny man said. "Dead on their doorway. After all I heard this morning, that sounds like the best deal of all.”
     "Some deals are tougher than others to close,” Lo Manto said.
     "Not this one,” the skinny man said, raising his gun and cocking the trigger. Behind him, Lo Manto could hear the other three men step in closer.
     Lo Manto kept his eyes on the skinny man and then slid off his chair and lifted the Formica table by the two front legs and swung it around the room, using it as a shield. From outside the apartment, the two uniformed officers tossed in two hissing smoke grenades and followed them into the tight quarters, guns drawn and aimed at the three men firing at the table. Lo Manto pulled a .9 millimeter from the small of his back and fired off three quick rounds in the direction of the shooters, the apartment now completely engulfed in smoke. He heard two drop and left the third man to the uniforms who would be positioned against the walls closest to the foyer closets, giving them both leverage on the shooter and protection from any wayward shots. That left only the skinny man. He had run through the kitchen and was climbing over the terrace railing, his hands gripping the black iron bars. Lo Manto kicked aside the table and walked into the kitchen. He stopped at the base of the terrace and saw the skinny man hanging on the edges of the curled bars with two hands, gun buried inside his waistband.
     "We got two down and one in cuffs, Inspector,” the youngest of the two officers shouted out to Lo Manto.
     "Wounded or dead?” Lo Manto asked without turning his head, eyes on the skinny man.
     "One’s alive,” the officer said. "At least for the moment.”
     "Call for an ambulance and the morgue truck,” Lo Manto said. "Then take your prisoner in to be booked. I’m going to spend a few more minutes with my friend.”
     Lo Manto looked past the skinny man and down into the tight backyard three floors down. "It’s a broken leg at the very least,” he said. "But that’s it you fall right. You get yourself hung up on one of those lines or brush against those trees, who knows what can happen?”
     The skinny man turned to look down and then back at Lo Manto. "Help me up,” he said.
     Lo Manto put his gun back against his spine and rested his arms on top of the iron fence. "I was only kidding before,” he said to the skinny man. "I really did like that coffee you made. I’m going to get myself a second cup. While I’m gone, try to remember that name and place I was asking about.”
     "Help me up first,” the skinny man said, his fingers starting to tremble from the grip he held on the curved bars.
     In the kitchen, Lo Manto found a clean cup and poured himself some coffee, the smoke from the grenades washing past him like clouds. He looked toward the skinny man and smiled. "Are you sure you don’t have any sugar?” he asked.

Excerpted from PARADISE CITY by Lorenzo Carcaterra.
Copyright (c) 2004 by Lorenzo Carcaterra. Excerpted by permission of Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Return to top

EXCERPT 2    

     "Right there," Jennifer shouted from down the hall. She was walking toward them, her arms stretched out, the .9 millimeter and her eyes aimed straight at Hector. "Don't even twitch. And if you want to end the day without losing blood, slide your trigger finger off the gun."
     Luther looked at Jennifer and then back to Hector, the chubby man relaxed, willing to wait for the good-looking lady with the tough eyes to make her way to him. "She right?" he asked, taking a hard look at the paper bag. "You were going to take me out? Drop me right in front of your door? What the hell you play me for, Hector?"
     "Stay calm, Luther," Jennifer said, close enough now to take out one, unsure whether she would be fast enough to drop both if they moved at the same time. "This ends the right way and you'll both go to jail.
     You'll have plenty of time to square things with Hector once you get settled upstate."
     "I tell you what," Hector said, throwing Jennifer a casual smile.
     "Pretty little bird like you can't take us both, even if one of us is as dumb as a tree stump. You got Luther on more charges than you can type up.
     Possession alone should be good for a seven-year ride. All you got on me is that maybe I got a gun in this bag. With the lawyers I can dial, that's a long way to go for a short walk."
     "So you give me Luther and the dope and I let you walk?" Jennifer said, holding her place, sneakers spread apart, gun steady, pointed just below Hector's neckline. "That's what you'd like to see happen?"
     "Makes the most sense," Hector said. "You get an easy collar and maybe a boost in pay. I lose a guy who could only lead me down troubled ways and it can all be wrapped and set before lunch."
     "You'd flip me that fast, you fat bastard?" Luther said, the sweat now pouring off him like a stream, shading the color on his torn brown T-shirt.
     "Like a flapjack, loser," Hector said, the heat of his anger rising to match the weight of his words. "Guy like you don't play in the same town I do, never mind the same league. You been processed so many times, prison cops got your ID number burned to memory. I'm a Gatto Grande, that's big time. We piss on nickel and dime dealers. Especially ones come in wearing leather coats in August looking to move shit packed in garbage bags. I made bigger scores than that before I had hair on my balls."
     "Put the bag down, Hector," Jennifer said. Her voice was calm, soothing and steady, not looking to add to the heat meter. "Then we can all start walking out of here."
     "I got a better one for you, cop," Hector said. "Why don't you go away for five minutes. Grab a cold root beer at the bodega around the corner. Then come back. When you do, you'll find everything you need spread out on the floor. Drugs on one side and Luther on the other. The only thing missing will be me. We can save our bounce for some other time."
     "I'm not going to tell you again, Hector," Jennifer said, her voice still at the same level. "Put the bag and the gun down."
     "That's a favor I gotta take a pass on," Hector said. "I'm taking Luther out, for bringing cops and drugs to my door and just because I don't like the fucker. If that means I have to put you down next to him, won't make me happy, but I'll make it happen."
     "You're too smart to take a chance like that," Jennifer said. She could feel the sweat damp and cold on her neck, droplets running down the length of her back. "Not unless the Gattos Grandes let any moron with a tattoo into their gang."
     "What risk, baby?" Hector asked, brushing aside the insult.
     "Luther's packing, no doubt. But odds are heavy he shoots himself before he even gets one off near me. That leaves it down to the two of us. And as good as you think you are, that's how good I am."
Jennifer took a deep breath and shrugged her shoulders. "That's probably true," she said.
     "Now you thinking right, baby," Hector said, tossing a quick glance over at Luther.
Jennifer waited until Hector's eyes were back on her, the two holding the look, the hefty gang banger biting down on his lower lip, standing fearless despite the one gun aimed his way and the other wedged against the back of Luther's spine. "If I knew you a little bit better, I'd watch and let you do Luther here. Toss a favor to the blue team."
     "I'll remember that when I type up your report," Jennifer said.
     "Might shave off a day or two on your sentence."
     "It's your move, baby," Hector said, tilting his head toward Jennifer. "The pawns are out of the game. It's down to the King and Queen. So what's it going to be?"
     "Checkmate," Jennifer said.

Return to top

     Lo Manto sat with his back against the glass window, a cup of espresso in his right hand, gazing out at DelGardo's crammed store. "I don't think this place has been painted since I was a kid," he said. "Yellow walls then. Yellow walls now."
     "It'll get painted when it needs to get painted, no sooner than that," Carmine DelGardo said. "When Michaelangelo finished the Sistine Chapel, he didn't rush out, pick up a few gallons of Benjamin Moore and slap on a second coat of paint, am I right? No, he left it alone. Same with me and this place."
     "I didn't realize I was standing on holy ground," Lo Manto said, sipping his coffee. "I would have dressed better."
     DelGardo dropped a Supremes LP on a dusty old stereo turntable and carefully placed the needle on the first track. "You been in town couple of days," he said, as the sweet voice of Diana Ross filled the small store.
     "And already somebody tried to take you out. Or did I hear that wrong?"
     "What else did you hear?" Lo Manto asked, resting his empty cup on a counter top, next to a stack of sugar free gum.
     "That you might as well have been on America's Most Wanted for a full hour," DelGardo said. "That's how many guns and shooters are gonna be coming your way. Be safer for me in downtown Baghdad, than to be seen with you."
     "And what about my niece?" he asked. "What's the word on her?"
     "They're playing a strange hand of poker with that one," DelGardo said. "The Camorra took her and they're letting everybody on the street know it. They're calling you out to come get her. They're using her, like that fake rabbit at the dog track. Anything it takes to nail your ass, that's their end of the day goal."
     "And what do you think I should do about that?" Lo Manto asked, helping himself to a pack of gum.
DelGardo walked down the center aisle of his small candy store. he was a tall man, thick head of white hair combed back, his full white beard trimmed and neat. He wore a cream-colored, loose-fitting, short-sleeve shirt and gray slacks, the creases sharp enough to draw blood. He had clear blue eyes and pale white skin and a large tattoo of a serpent's head running down the side of his right arm. He was a confident man who had survived decades working outside the law, trusting only those he knew would take the bullet when the word wouldn't do.
     "It don't matter what I think," DelGardo said. "You already made up your mind on that end, otherwise you wouldn't even be standing here. I know they got gum in Italy and I know you didn't miss seeing my skinny ass.
Which makes it down to where and when and who's on your side and who isn't."
     "They been to see you?" Lo Manto asked.
     "I do most of my business with the Camorra," DelGardo said. "And we're both doing fine by it. They like me, they don't like me, none of that matters. All that counts is the cash that moves from one hand to the other."
     "When I start making moves, they might start looking your way," Lo Manto said. "Find out what you know. I'll try to steer it clear from you, but the older crew runners will know our history."
     "That's my worry," DelGardo said. "I do business with them; I'm not part of them. We butted heads before and I'm still here. They can come and ask all they want. And maybe they like what they hear and maybe they get pissed. Either way, it won't spoil my sleep."
     "I'll need some equipment," Lo Manto said. "And enough supplies to get it done the right way. Whatever happens, to me or to the plan, I'll make sure you get paid."
     "I got no money worries," DelGardo said. "And it won't be the first time I carried your freight. But I want to give you some advice in return for my free ride on the gear."
     "I can always use a good lecture," Lo Manto said.
     "I'll keep it sweet," DelGardo said. "You're in New York now, ready to start a game where you don't know all the rules. You ain't back in old Napoli, where you know all the players, those with badges and those without, those that can be trusted and those that should be tossed. You've been away a lot of years and those task force jobs you come back to work on here and there don't count for shit. You should know that even better than me. Right now, at least from where I sit, you're walking into this as blind as Stevie Wonder."
     "You have a really shitty bedside manner," Lo Manto said to him.
     "You need to work it a bit. Maybe open with a joke before you tell your patient he's about to die."
     "This ain't the time to go at it subtle," DelGardo said. "You've caused these people a lot of grief and they're looking for a taste of the get-even. Been my experience, they usually hit what they aim at, especially if they want it bad enough. You're good, I'll grant you that.
     If you weren't, I'd have been at your funeral years ago. But you always go into these situations alone and one of these times just that is gonna be enough to rise up and bite you on the ass."
     "I'm working this with a partner," Lo Manto told him, preferring to leave it just at that and not have to go into any further detail.
     "It better be that friggin' bullet-eating robot from The Terminator," DelGardo said. "Any less ain't gonna be of much help."
     Lo Manto pulled a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to DelGardo. "That should pretty much cover all I need," he said. "If you think I missed a spot here and there, add it to the list."
     DelGardo flipped open the paper and glanced over the neatly written list. "The first three I can have by tonight," he said. "The middle three by tomorrow, late in the afternoon. The last two I gotta check on and get back to you. With some luck, they'll be in your hands day after tomorrow.
     If you're still alive."
     Lo Manto opened the rickety wooden door leading out of the store.
     "It might be worth getting killed, then," he said, glancing over his shoulder at DelGardo. "Just to stick you with a tab."

Return to top