Danny Marino was beginning to understand that getting rid of something was not the same as knowing where it went.
He was at home when he thought of this.
Home, in Danny’s case, was the second floor of an old warehouse in the meatpacking district, not far from Washington Street.
The place had once been used for storing cheese.
It had not stored cheese for a very long time.
It still smelled like cheese. Continue reading
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Danny Marino had never thought of an umbrella as threatening. He was beginning to reconsider.
The man was half a block behind him. Danny crossed Seventh Avenue. The man crossed Seventh Avenue. Continue reading
Danny Marino had looked at the gray man.
Then he had looked at the box. It was a cardboard box about the size of a cigar box, tied with string. It didn’t look important. Danny was beginning to understand that this didn’t mean anything. Continue reading
Danny Marino was beginning to think that half the criminal activity in New York involved the garment industry.
He sat quietly in the shadows at the social club. Things were quiet.
Tony Spada folded the racing form and put it on the desk. Continue reading
Danny Marino was beginning to suspect that he had become a messenger service for people who didn’t like messages.
Tony Spada was still looking at him.
“The blue suit won’t be ready Thursday.”
“That’s what he said.” Continue reading
Danny Marino was beginning to understand that the shortest messages took the longest to deliver.
He came back from Fourteenth Street a little after four. Tony Spada was sitting behind the desk in the back room of the Downtown Athletic & Bridge Club, reading the racing form. Continue reading
Danny Marino had learned something about important men.
The more important they were, the more errands they had for somebody else.
“Go down to Fourteenth Street,” Tony Spada told him. “There’s a tailor shop two doors west of Third. Ask for Mr. Caruso.”
“What am I picking up?” Continue reading
Danny Marino had discovered the only thing worse than being followed. Being expected. Continue reading
The Pontiac sedan had seen better days.
So had Danny Marino.
The Pontiac was parked half on the curb outside a warehouse near the waterfront, somewhere south of Brooklyn Heights. Danny wasn’t entirely sure where. The streets had changed names twice since Tony Spada had given him directions, and the directions hadn’t been very good to begin with. Continue reading
The man from Miami arrived wearing a white suit in the rain.
Danny decided that was either confidence or stupidity. Continue reading