Free A Confidential Source by Jan Brogan Page B

for
     the seniors.” And what Leonard hated most of all: “If Billy thinks this casino thing is so good for the city, then it’s a
     good thing for the city.”
    The mayor stood up, gestured to an elderly woman at a nearby table, pointed to his cheek. In a trained politician’s voice
     that carried in a crowd, he said, “What? Don’t
you
love me anymore?” The elderly woman blushed at the attention, the mayor walked over to her and kissed her square on the mouth,
     and the dining room roared.
    It wasn’t until the mayor sat back down that I noticed the others at his table: an older man with gray hair tied in a ponytail,
     wearing blue jeans and a dress shirt, and a woman in a business suit. I’d seen both their pictures in our paper.
    “That’s the chief of the Narragansett Indians and Jennifer Trowbridge from Evening Star Gaming International,” Leonard said
     with disgust.
    The mayor whispered something to Jennifer Trowbridge, who leaned in close so she could hear what he was saying over the restaurant
     din. Then they both looked up at the bar and peered in our direction. The mayor raised his snifter and the three of them clinked
     their glasses in a toast. Instead of taking a drink, Billy Lopresti threw his head back and laughed.
    I got the distinct impression he was laughing at Leonard. Leonard must have thought so, too, because when the hostess came
     toward us to tell us our table was ready, he shook his head. “I lost my appetite,” he said, and then to me: “Let’s get the
     hell out of here.”
    We left Ayers and his wife at the bar and took Leonard’s car, a Saab with one of those stand-up bike racks on the roof, over
     the highway to Federal Hill. This was Providence’s famed Italian neighborhood and a source of endless restaurant possibilities.
    Leonard, the man who talked nonstop on the radio every night, was silent, obviously injured, and I didn’t know what to say
     to him. On the one hand, I was with a man I’d talked to just about every night for the last three or four months. On the other
     hand, all that talk had been on the air.
    He said nothing until we were under the big, bronze-pinecone archway that was a gateway to Atwell’s Avenue. He pointed to
     a building on his left. “You see that?”
    I looked out the car window: a city block, restaurants, real estate office, private home, tattoo parlor. “What?”
    He pointed to a small building right in the middle of the first block, with a low roof and a small sign that looked like it
     might advertise a lawyer.
    “The one with the blue door?”
    “My uncle was shot to death in that doorway,” Leonard said. “It happened when I was a kid, but I never forgot it. They never
     arrested the guy, but everyone knew who it was. He worked for one of Patriarca’s bookies.”
    “Your uncle had gambling problems?” I thought I was starting to understand Leonard’s antigambling obsession.
    He shook his head. “No. His father had gambling problems. They killed my uncle to impress upon the entire family that they
     were serious about getting repaid.”
    There was no appropriate response to the enormity of that revelation. I mumbled a vague condolence and wondered why he’d told
     me this. What did Leonard want from me? What did he think I could do for him?
    We traveled another block in silence. I stared out at the crowds on the sidewalks. Couples, young professionals, and tourists
     hurried into restaurants. Valets stood in the street, eager to park each new BMW and Cadillac that pulled up. It was hard
     to imagine anyone getting shot in any of these affluent doorways.
    Leonard must have read my thoughts. “People like to think the mob is a thing of the past,” he said. “The FBI beat them down
     with RICO, the old
omertà
loyalty gone by the wayside. Junior Patriarca not the man his father was. That’s what everyone likes to think. But you know,
     Junior’s grown up. He’s not so inept anymore. And this is Rhode Island. We don’t