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McCleery’s back drifting up the aisle, shuffling out with the crowd. Gibbons bared his teeth.

— 2 —
    It was dark by the time Augustine’s driver dropped him off in front of his town house on East Sixty-sixth Street. Fifth and Madison were still jammed with rush-hour traffic. People staying in town after work to do their Christmas shopping. As his car pulled away from the curb, he set down his briefcase on the sidewalk and pulled up his collar. He paused to look up at the Georgian facade of his house, the two columns flanking the entrance, a very rare architectural style for Manhattan. His grandfather had purchased the house in 1907, and even with the current depressed state of real-estate prices, it was still worth a pretty penny. The thought of selling it, however, was deeply depressing and nearly unthinkable. Augustine let out a long sigh into the cold air and wondered what in heaven’s name he was going to do now.
    Giordano, that spineless little tool, had panicked. He was ready to deal, ready to testify against the others. No patience, no guts. Augustine had promised them a mistrial. What did Giordano think? That he could make it happenovernight? This was a very unusual trial. It would take time. And what was Giordano really thinking? Was he genuinely prepared to testify against Salamandra to save his own hide? Was he really that naive to think the government could protect him from his Sicilian friends? Damn him. Getting a mistrial was going to be difficult, but now, thanks to Giordano, it was going to be near impossible. Damn him.
    Augustine picked up his briefcase and started for the front steps. He had to think. He had to come up with a good strategy or else he could forget about his fourteen million for the campaign. He needed a drink and he needed to be left alone in his study so he could think this through. He needed to—
    â€œYo! Mr. Augustine.”
    Augustine’s gut clenched as he spun around to see who was calling him.
    â€œOver here, man.”
    An overweight black man sitting behind the wheel of a brown UPS truck double-parked at the curb a few doors down was waving him over. The truck’s flashers clicked loudly, but Augustine had just noticed it there. These delivery vehicles are so ubiquitous at Christmastime. The man was sucking on a straw attached to the biggest paper cup Augustine had ever seen, bigger than a milk-shake cup, easily over a quart. Augustine was immediately leery of him. How did this man know his name? Yes, he was mentioned in the papers frequently, but he wasn’t a celebrity. Did this delivery man know him from his address? Possibly.
    â€œWhat can I do for you?” he called out, his foot planted on the bottom step.
    â€œGot somethin’ for you.” The man put the straw back in his mouth and motioned with his head that whatever he had was inside the truck.
    Augustine didn’t move.
    The black man scowled at him. “Got somethin’ you gonna want, man. Go ’round back.”
    Augustine disliked the scolding tone, but he felt it unwise to ignore him. Perhaps it was just a delivery, and the fat man was too lazy to bring it in himself. He walked toward the truck and the fellow repeated the head gesture, indicating that he should go to the rear of the truck.
    Augustine’s throat was dry as he stepped between the parked cars, thinking that the man may have a message from the Sicilians. He assured himself mentally that they wouldn’t try to harm him. After all, he was the key to Salamandra’s freedom, wasn’t he?
    The truck’s rolltop door was open a foot or so at the bottom. As he stepped closer, the door suddenly rose, the clattering noise startling him.
    â€œHey, Augustine, long time no see.”
    Augustine let out a slow breath. It was Nemo, the contemptible dwarf, holding up the door with one hand, a smirk on his face.
    â€œStep into my office.”
    Augustine hesitated, looking over his