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dialing. Still, Sammy was Jack’s only family. He answered.
    â€œHello, Sammy. Is this important or can I call you back?”
    â€œIt’s important,” Sammy said. “Jack, we’ve got a situation. A general, coming for me and my neighbor.”
    â€œIs this on the level?”
    â€œI haven’t been drinking, if that’s what you’re asking,” Sammy replied.
    â€œA general coming after you—why?”
    Jack glanced apologetically at Sol Minsky whose expression conveyed only curiosity, not irritation.
    Sammy explained and Jack listened. A word jumped out at him, a word that wasn’t good. A word that sounded like code for something someone should not have heard.
    When Sammy was finished, Jack said, “Both of you stay put. I’ll be right there.”
    â€œJeez, thanks, Jack. Thanks a lot.”
    â€œNo sweat.” Jack hung up, glanced after the retreating industrialist, then told Sol he had to leave.

 
    3
    Jack had walked to the Hyatt. He intended to get a cab.
    â€œYou’re coming with me,” Sol told Jack.
    The men started toward the street. “I don’t know what this is about,” Jack said. “I’m not sure I need heavy artillery. Not your kind.”
    â€œYou’re not sure you don’t,” Sol said. “Don’t worry—this is on the house. The ride, anyway.”
    There was no time to argue. Sol’s car was parked right out front with a goon. The mobster whispered something to the bodyguard then dismissed him with a jerk of his thumb and got behind the wheel. Jack climbed into the passenger’s side of the mobster’s factory armored S-600.
    â€œWant me to punch directors into the GPS?” Jack asked.
    â€œGPS?” he scoffed. “This is my town, too, Jack. Just tell me where we’re going.”
    Jack did and Sol peeled from the front of the hotel. He shot into traffic like a shark going after a seal.
    â€œWhat’re you getting into?” Sol asked as they zipped through the late afternoon traffic. Jack filled him in on what he knew. “Sounds interesting,” Sol said neutrally.
    â€œYeah,” Jack agreed as he used his cell phone to look up the general Sammy had named. “Or it could all be nothing. My brother isn’t the best judge of character. This girl could be on drugs or just crazy or lying.” Though that would be a hell of a strange lie to make up, Jack thought.
    â€œI’ve heard people spill their guts when they’re on drugs,” Sol said. “Their narratives lack cohesion.”
    â€œEveryone lacks cohesion these days, including CEOs,” Jack shot back.
    â€œYou know why?” Sol asked, nodding toward the windshield. “See there? You got a trolley driver, a postal carrier, a police officer. You know what they all have in common?”
    â€œUniforms?”
    â€œUnions.”
    â€œMeaning?”
    â€œThere’s a buffer between them and personal responsibility,” Sol said. “You know why I do what I do?”
    â€œPower.”
    â€œNot me. It’s the risk I like. Every day’s a gamble. When I succeed, I make money. Those around me make money. But if I screw up, I’m a dead man. Those guys in the unions screw up? They got strength in numbers. Even when someone makes a mistake and people die because of that mistake—like an air traffic controller who takes a personal call when he should be watching planes—he’s got an organization that insulates him, pads the fall. I got none of that. I am rewarded for what I do or I have to answer for it. You, too. You’ve got personal responsibility.” He wove around a car that was going too slowly. “What we’re doing now is about personal responsibility, about duty to family, about doing what’s right. That used to be the American way. It was done during World War II when the government worked with the Italian gangsters to find who