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good work.” Antonelli was dismissing him now.
    D’Urso stood up. The old man wasn’t looking at him. Vincent was.
    â€œTake it easy, John,” Vincent said. In other words, get going.
    D’Urso buttoned his double-breasted jacket and headed for the door, measuring his pace so it wouldn’t seem like he was rushing out. If he had a piece on him, he swore to God he’d do it right now. Luccarelli had done it, he kept thinking. He did it and he got away with it. That was twenty years ago, but still, he did it.
    The sky was gray and a cold rain was falling. He stepped briskly, sizing up his odds as he walked toward the car. How many capi were really that loyal to Antonelli? Besides Vincent, how many would really put up a fight? A lot, that’s how many. But still, Luccarelli did it to Joe Coconuts, and there weren’t that many guys who loved Luccarelli back then. They respected him after he did it. Kill the boss and you earn the position. That’s how you do it.
    He got into the black Mercedes 420 SEL and looked at his brother-in-law, Bobby Francione, sitting behind the wheel, feedingbullets into the clip of that little automatic he just gave him. “Whatta you, stupid? You playing with your dick or what? Put that fucking thing away before a cop comes by.”
    Bobby snapped his head up to get that strand of carefully crimped and moussed hair out of his eyes, the same stupid-looking strand he painstakingly worked on every morning to hang there like that. “Bad meeting, huh?”
    He couldn’t hold it in any longer. He threw a punch into the seatback so hard it made the whole car rock. Rain beaded on the windshield, throwing the world out of focus. “I run two car dealerships, a construction company, three nightclubs down the shore, and seven after-hours joints, and he treats me like a fucking nobody. I swear to Christ, Bobby, he’s forcing my hand. I’m gonna have to do it. It’s not right the way he treats me. He’s holding me back, Bobby. There’s no other way. He’s got to go.”
    Bobby stuck the gun in his pocket, checked his hair in the rearview mirror, and grinned that shitty little grin he picked up in prison. “I keep telling you you should do it, John.” He turned the key in the ignition and pulled the big car out into traffic.
    He stared at Bobby’s profile, his hands shaking, his heart pounding.
    Yeah . . . I should do it.

FOUR
    TOZZI STARED OUT the back window of the empty apartment at the pile of construction rubble in the backyard. A mangy-looking dog with a long, matted coat was pissing on a broken piece of wall board. Scraps of aluminum ductwork sparkled in the bright October sun. Yellow leaves from the junk tree that was uprooting the rickety back fence were beginning to fall on the pile. Several backyards on both sides had similar junk piles, the remains of recent renovations. Refocusing, he saw his own reflection in the glass—dark, deep-set eyes in a square, sad-looking face. He wondered if they’d ever get around to cleaning up the junk.
    â€œWhat did you say the rent here was?” he asked, still staring out the window.
    â€œEight-fifty. That doesn’t include heat or hot water,” Mrs. Carlson, the real estate agent, said. She had a big ass, Coke-bottle glasses, wore ruby-red lipstick, and had a bad habit of standing over his shoulder and wringing her hands. She looked like Charley Chan in drag.
    â€œPretty steep,” he said. “Adams Street isn’t exactly the chicest part of Hoboken.”
    She smiled pleasantly around her buck teeth, ignoring his assessment. “Did I mention that Frank Sinatra once lived in this building? Actually it might’ve been this apartment. I’ll have to check.”
    Tozzi had seen seven apartments in Hoboken this week, and he’dbeen told that Sinatra lived in five of them. Old Blue Eyes really got around.
    â€œHoboken is a very desirable