The Last Tram on Dorchester Street

I was led forward with each one of the goons on either side of me, their hands squeezing my arms. Our heels echoed off the floor and bounced off the walls and ceiling, making where we were sound like a hallway in the Bordeaux Prison. I felt as if I were being taken to my execution to a steady six-shoe cement jazz beat of Gene Krupa. The back of my head where I was hit was pounding away to a different beat. I smelled oil and grease and rubber tires. A door opened, and we continued to walk without talking. There was no echo this time. We stopped after a short while, and one of the goons knocked on another door and opened it without waiting for an answer. I was nudged through by a hand in the small of my black.

The room was warm, and the floor was carpeted. I sensed it was small. I no longer smelled oil or grease or rubber tires. My nose was now playing with garlic, basil, and oregano. The goons put me in a chair that felt like the one in my office that I had sat in earlier. Goons must come in pairs. The rag tied around my head covering my eyes was pulled down to my neck. I squinted. The sudden light had the effect of a giant spotlight. My eyes watered, and my sight was blurred, but I couldn’t do anything about it because my hands were tied. A new voice broke the silence somewhere in front of me. It was cheery and pleasant, like that of a long-lost friend who hadn’t seen you in years.

“Buona sera, Bonifacio. Come stai?” it said.

I was forced me to sit on only half the chair because of my hands behind me. My shoulder blades strained and ached along with my head. I made a mental note to try this technique out with my next client during an interview. I blinked, trying to clear my vision. A bald head in front of me came into focus. There were only two people who ever called me Bonifacio, and he wasn’t one of them.

“I apologize for the rough treatment, amico, but I thought you wouldn’t be too giddy about going along with my two associates on your own accord, and I didn’t want to see you harmed.” When he said amico, it came out ahhhhhhmeeeco.

The bald head had a pointed nose attached to it. The eyes were two small, dark pools that had been poisoned far too many years ago, and the skin around them drooped with rolls of scarred tissue like a fighter’s. His mouth was long and turned up at the sides in a fixed smile, which made his lips disappear. He might have been anywhere from forty to eighty. He looked familiar.

“Last I heard, kidnapping’s a federal offense. People hang for it.” I smiled back at him. I use a variation of that line whenever I’m in a bind.

“That’s a real humdinger, a real lollapalooza! You got a sense of humor. Goddamnit if you don’t sound like a Crown attorney I once knew. I think I’m going to like you.” His stomach leaned into the desk he was sitting behind, which jerked forward when he laughed. The laugh had a razor-sharp edge to it.

A white bib, which had the dimensions of a queen-size sheet, was tucked into his shirt at the collar and fanned out covering his chest and stomach. His bare arms on either side of him were tree trunks. He had a fork in one paw and a spoon in the other, both of which he held vertically on either side of a plate of spaghetti, with smaller plates of bread, sausage, and meatballs around it. He set the spoon down and reached over and poured himself some Chianti from a fancy bottle and then looked up at me.

“Can I interest you in some wine?” he said with the smile still frozen in place.

I stared at him with contempt but said nothing. A smoky cloud was beginning to lift. I recognized him from the many times his mug had been plastered in the papers. It was Vittorio Coppoletta, the Egg.

“Sorry I have to eat in front of you. I know it’s impolite, but there was something I had to take care of earlier, and I just finished a little while ago, so I hope you don’t mind my bad manners.”

“If you’re worried about your bad manners, you can untie my hands and let me go.”

“Isn’t he a card, a real humdinger?” he repeated, looking behind me at his goons for affirmation and pounding the desk with his fist.

I turned my head and saw Mutt and Jeff leaning against the only door to the outside world. They snickered as if they were pleased with themselves. I thought they might have been tossing around an inside joke at my expense. The Egg regained his composure and slurped some wine from his glass.

“All in due time, Bonifacio. All in due time.”

“How do you know my name?”

“A mutual friend of ours came to see me recently with a concern,” he said, shoveling half a meatball in his mouth. He chewed out the rest of the words with his yap open. “He didn’t come right out and say it, but he kinda hinted around if I had anything to do with Saul Blumenthal being knocked off.”

“Did you?” I hadn’t noticed it before, but behind his head on the wall was a small painting of Jesus Christ with his fingers around his Sacred Heart. He was looking directly down at me.

“I’ll get to that.” He used the fork to twirl some spaghetti onto his spoon and shoved it in his mouth behind the meatball. “Of course,” he said chewing, “I was surprised by what our mutual friend was saying, so I asked him a few questions. He wasn’t very happy about coughing up the answers, but we go back a long way, you see.” He paused long enough for the food to go down. “And we have this trust between us.” He took a piece of bread and soaked up some of the sauce with it and then looked up at me again. “He finally tells me that you’re investigating Mr. Blumenthal’s demise.”

“So did you put the chill on him?” Jesus’s eyes seemed to be telling me to keep my trap shut.

He pushed aside his plate and finished the wine with one gulp. Then he took the bib off, threw it on the side of his desk, and leaned back in his chair, making a steeple with his fingers. They were thick and stubby, and his nails were bitten to the quick. The steeple wasn’t a good one, but he admired it anyway. Then he looked up at me.