Free PART 35 by John Nicholas Iannuzzi Page A

get old, but it’s even worse if you don’t.” He lifted his eyebrows and his head in a shrug of resignation. “That lousy bastard doctor. If it was up to him, I’d be in a wheelchair. Pills for this, pills for that. He don’t even want me smoking cigars. Who the hell wants to be so healthy anyway?” Sal waved his hand through the air. “One of these days I oughta have that doctor hit in the head,” he laughed. “But what brings you around anyway, Sandro? I ain’t seen you since six, seven years. You got trouble?” Sal studied Sandro carefully.
    â€œNo, no trouble, Sal,” Sandro assured him. “I’ve got a heavy case over on the East Side, over by Stanton Street, I’m defending a fellow accused of killing a cop.”
    â€œGood for him. That’s one less rat.” Sal shifted his cigar. “But what can I do for you? You know, anything, anything you want, you name it.”
    â€œI really just wanted to know if you know anybody who’s still over in Stanton Street, somebody who might have a finger in things there.”
    â€œNaw, that neighborhood’s all changed now, crummy. Used to be Jews, but now it’s all full of crazy spics. It stinks there now. Most of my friends aren’t over there any more.”
    â€œI thought maybe somebody taking bets or numbers. I want to get a friendly introduction to the neighborhood, see if I can find anyone who knows anything about this case.”
    â€œI’ll send somebody to look around. Maybe I can find somebody over there for you. I doubt it, but … Can I buy you a drink?”
    â€œI just finished one, thanks. Shall I call you in a couple of days?”
    â€œBetter you come around,” Sal said. “You never know some bastard is tapping on the phone. Especially with you— Buon Anima Jimmy would come down to hit me in the head if I let you get in trouble.” He slapped Sandro on the back.
    â€œOh, by the way,” said Sandro as he rose to leave, “it was somebody who used to live around here who assigned me to this case—Judge Porta.”
    â€œNo kidding? Tommy Porta! How is he?” Sal thought for a moment. His head began to nod slightly. “I ain’t seen him neither since maybe thirty years. Not since he became a big-shot politician. He hangs around with me, he’s in trouble,” Sal laughed.
    â€œOkay, Sal, and thanks,” Sandro said, laughing also. “I’ll drop back to see you next week or so.”
    Sandro walked toward the door. As he passed the front table, the men looked up, nodded, a hint of a smile coloring their lips.

CHAPTER VII
    It was now mid-August. The dog days, held down by humidity, hung around the city’s neck like a steamed towel. The huge doors were swung open to allow Sandro into the Tombs. He sat beneath the misery of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
    â€œAlvarado?” the guard asked, holding a slip of paper.
    â€œHere,” said Sandro, rising. He found Alvarado sitting at the far end of the bench with other prisoners. He smiled, rose, and shuffled toward Sandro in floppy slippers.
    â€œSay, Mr. Luca,” said Alvarado, sitting, “when you come here next time can you bring me a bar of soap?”
    â€œSoap?”
    â€œYeah. The stuff they got here makes me itch. They only got one soap here. If you could bring me some Dial, I be okay.”
    â€œAll right, if I remember it, I’ll bring it. It’s as hot as blazes in this place.” Sandro looked for a window to open. There were none. “You have air conditioning upstairs?”
    Alvarado snorted. “Air conditioning? You kidding? You see that little hole up at the top of this windows?” He turned and pointed toward the window, thick translucent glass barred from the sill to the top of the frame. At the top were two small louvered openings through which air passed. During the winter these openings were covered