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between his teeth. “Hey, you promised, and to my people a promise is a big thing. Don’t give me this shit, it’s not your business. You make it your business. Do it any way you have to. Just do it and do it fast.”
    Sweat was trickling down Augustine’s back. “But you said there were other options. Maybe there’s something better we can do.”
    Nemo nodded as he took another drag. “Yeah, we got a few options. There’s the Sicilian option.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œThat’s the one where we kidnap your kids and send ’em back to you piece by piece until you do what you’re supposed to do.”
    Augustine was shaking his head, refusing to believe that this was happening to him.
    â€œLet’s see now,” Nemo said. “Tommy the fourth is up in Providence at Brown, and Missy is down near Philly at—how do you say it?—Brine Mower?”
    â€œBryn Mawr.”
    â€œWhatever.” Nemo looked up at him and grinned. “You don’t look too good, Augustine. Why don’t you sit down? Go ’head, sit on the rug. I don’t care. See what it’s like to sit on eighty million balloons.”
    Augustine declined the offer. He didn’t even want to look at the rug. “There must be something else we can do. I’m sure we can come up with a reasonable solution.”
    Nemo coughed up a laugh. “Fuck reasonable. We ain’t negotiating here. I’m telling you—you gotta do what you promised, and that’s all there is to it.”
    â€œPlease. If you have any other acceptable alternatives, just tell me.”
    â€œWell, we can leave your kids alone and just whack you. How’s that?”
    Augustine felt a twinge behind his left eye. God, no. Not now. Not the cluster headaches. “You’re not serious.”
    â€œWhat’s not to be serious? We whack you, and the mistrial is practically a sure bet. The chief prosecutor eats a few bullets, and the jury finds out about it, and that old bastard judge will have to call it a day. Intimidating the prosecution, making the jury crazy, whatever the fuck you lawyers call it. It’ll work. Am I right?”
    Unfortunately, the dwarf was right.
    Nemo took the last drag and dropped the butt on the floor, grinding it out with his shoe. “Now, to tell you the truth, Augie, we’d rather not have to do it that way. Makes bad press for us, you know what I mean? It’d be better for everybody if you just get on the stick and do what you’re supposed to do.”
    Augustine closed his eyes and nodded. It was starting. Like a long nail slowly piercing the bone under the eye socket.
    Nemo got up off the milk crate and lifted the door. “You better get to work, Augustine. You don’t have much time.” He nodded at the rug. “Remember, we got product to move. Now go ’head, get goin’.”
    Augustine’s legs were numb as he stooped down and stepped out of the truck. The door slammed shut as soon as he was out, and Augustine heard Nemo yelling to the fat black man behind the wheel. “Go ‘head, get goin’.”
    The truck’s engine roared and it pulled out into the street. It made the green light at Madison and disappeared around the corner, heading uptown.
    Augustine wandered back onto the sidewalk and drifted toward his front steps. He stared up at the facade of the town house again, thinking that’s just what it was, a facade.
    He mounted the steps slowly, oblivious to the dark and the cold, squinting against the sweeping headlights of cars turning into the block from Fifth, his shirt drenched under his coat. The nail was being driven deeper, cracking his skull. He had to get inside and lie down. He had to think. Lord God, he had to think . . .

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    â€œYour Honor, I must reiterate my colleagues’ appeals for a mistrial in light of Mr. Giordano’s dubiously motivated