Free The Vulture's Game by Lorenzo Carcaterra Page B

tight fist. He was taller than I had imagined him to be, more physically imposing, a few pounds overweight but you had to look close to notice. His fingernails were shined bright enough to almost glow, and he had the whitest teeth I had ever seen on any man. “I want you to get up now,” he said, “and not say another word. Just stand, turn, and get the hell out of my office.”
    “There anything you want me to pass on to my uncle?” I asked, my hands tucked inside the pockets of my slacks, doing my best to keep my manner casual.
    In those days, I copied my uncle in both dress and style, adding a few touches of my own along the way. I was a few fingers shy of six feet tall, with dark hair I kepttrimmed short and had a runner’s body, clocking in my five miles each day, rain or shine. I had always been able to keep my emotions in check and doubted anything Frank Scanlon did or said to me on that day would change that. I think it’s just an outgrowth of being an only child and suffering heavy losses at such an early age. Or maybe I was more like my uncle than I thought I was.
    He nodded. “Now that you mention it,” he said, “indeed there is. You tell that old fool he wants to hardball me he needs to come in with someone who gets my attention. Now, get your ass out the door. I’m late for a meeting.”
    “The one with Garcetti?” I asked. “That the one?”
    Scanlon couldn’t hide his look of surprise. He turned his back and gazed out the large window at the vast Manhattan skyline, his hands jammed into his pants pockets. “How do you know about that?” he asked. His voice was smoother now, devoid of anger, stripped of a layer of arrogance.
    “Two of your construction projects are not only over budget, they’re behind schedule,” I said. “It would be a big help to you if the unions gave you a break on the overtime hours it’s going to take to get up to speed. The go-to guy that can make that happen is Garcetti.”
    “And I’m going to go on a limb here by guessing you think you can help me with that?” he said.
    “I probably could,” I said. “But I won’t. Neither will my uncle.”
    “Why not?”
    “You just finished telling me you had no interest in doing business with me,” I said. “So I can only figure you wouldn’t want any kind of help from someone you want nothing to do with. Unless I misunderstood.”
    He stayed silent for a long moment. “Get out of here,” he said. “Now.”

    That was how it went the first time I met Frank Scanlon.
    I was twenty-two years old and had been living with my Uncle Carlo and his family for a little over six years. Carlo had taken me in days after my father’s funeral, mymom having passed away only weeks earlier during that most horrible summer of my life. I moved out of our small home in the East Bronx and into a large house on the eastern end of Long Island the day after I watched four strangers bury my father in a cemetery across from a railroad station. But even during those early days shrouded in mourning and confusion, I knew my life was heading in an utterly new direction.
    My father, Mario, was a long haul truck driver, a proud union man who worked long hours for steady pay. His brother, Carlo, was a crime boss, one of the most powerful Dons in the country, his criminal empire bringing in more than $100 million a year in profits both legal and illegal. The two men had not spoken since they were teenagers. Make no mistake, my father loved his older brother. He simply couldn’t comprehend why Carlo chose to live a life that brought ruin to so many hardworking men and women. Carlo, for his part, could never come to grips with the fact that my father chose to work countless hours making pennies while those above him pocketed dollars for doing very little. And there was no convincing one or the other that his chosen way was the wrong way.
    Uncle Carlo was a widower when I went to live with him, raising two children of his own—a daughter, Carla,