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disappeared.
    Gone.
    Again.

Chapter 12
    IT TOOK ANOTHER two hours before I finally got out of Lombardo’s. While I was being interviewed by one of the detectives, I kept waiting to be asked about Dwayne’s disappearance. The question never came. That probably explained how he was able to escape Lombardo’s undetected—there were just too many people for the police to control, too much commotion. It was truly a mob scene.
    A prophetic choice of words, as I’d soon discover.
    Anyway, the last thing I felt like doing later that night was go to a party, but Courtney wouldn’t take no for an answer, not even under the circumstances.
    “You’re coming, and that’s that. You promised me,” she told me over the phone. “Besides, you need to get your mind off what happened today. Compartmentalize, Nick. Just stuff it into a box for a little while.”
    I had to chuckle. Compartmentalize? Stuff it into a box? That was Courtney at her best. And worst, I guess.
    Since I first met her ten years ago at the National Magazine Awards banquet, I’ve yet to meet anyone who could—for lack of a better word—
compartmentalize
better than she could. Like any normal person she was shocked and horrified to hear what had happened at Lombardo’s that afternoon. But she was also a born and bred New Yorker and knew the importance of being able to get on with your life, no matter what had happened to you.
    It wasn’t just talk with Courtney, either. Her younger brother had worked in the South Tower of the World Trade Center. Ninety-seventh floor. And she had really loved him, too.
    So at eight o’clock I walked into the white marble splendor that was Astor Hall in the New York Public Library. The party was a benefit for New York Smarts, a citywide tutoring program for grade-school students. Courtney was one of its board members and had purchased a table for ten on behalf of
Citizen
magazine. Good for her. Even better for the kids. A thousand dollars a plate can buy a lot of tutoring.
    “There you are!” I heard over my shoulder. Courtney had found me where you can always find me at these types of events: the bar. “And I see you’ve discovered the house Scotch,” she said.
    Indeed I had. It was a Laphroaig 15 Year Old, which happened to be my personal favorite. Courtney obviously had some pull with the event’s liquor committee.
    “Thank you,” I said, tipping my glass. “I definitely needed this.”
    “You’re welcome. Just try to leave a little for the other guests, if you can,” she said, deadpanning.
    “Okay, but just a little.”
    Courtney helped herself to one of the flutes of champagne that were being passed around. “Well, so much for being able to take your mind off today,” she said.
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Because Lombardo’s is the talk of the party, Nick. Hell, it’s the talk of the city.”
    I was hardly surprised.
    The front page of the
New York Post
’s late edition had screamed, “ DEATH DU JOUR !” Meanwhile, the local and cable news networks were having a field day. By the time they hit the airwaves with live feeds outside of Lombardo’s, they were able to report the identity of the first victim—the guy sitting next to Dwayne and me.
    I could’ve sworn I knew him, and I was right.
    His name was Vincent Marcozza, and he was the longtime lawyer—excuse me,
consigliere
—for reputed Brooklyn mob boss Eddie “The Prince” Pinero.
    “Everyone’s convinced today was payback,” said Courtney.
    I nodded. “I guess.”
    Eddie “The Prince” Pinero had been convicted the week before on criminal usury charges, otherwise known as loan-sharking at an interest rate that would make even your credit card company blush.
    The case was the first time Vincent Marcozza—a legal heavyweight, in every sense of the word—had failed to spring his biggest client. But hey, even Bruce Cutler didn’t win every time on behalf of John Gotti.
    But Marcozza’s performance in the trial had been heavily