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lot of power in the Buffalo-Niagara underworld. The least of this power was not in the local unions. Hel , Local 210 in Erie County was about as corrupt as a union could get.
    The power that Old Joe Falzone held due to this Local was quite significant and was a base of power that, in the hands of an ‘aspiring’ underboss, could very wel undermine Don Ciancetta. The fact that Falzone was al owed to operate that particular union, unchal enged, showed one of two things. It either showed Ciancetta’s faith in Falzone’s loyalty, or it showed a covert power struggle of sorts with Ciancetta not being able to harness enough power to wrest control of the union from Falzone.
    Interesting possibilities in either case.
    This was the very crew that Alex attempted to infiltrate. When he was pul ed off assignment, a few undercover cops in other operations dropped the hint that he left town, to sources known to report to Old Joe.
    The word on the street was that ‘Victor Garducci’ owed an unhealthy sum of money to an old associate out in New Mexico and would be gone for several months. The higher-ups in Alex’s precinct figured this would give the Buffalo crews enough time to either forget Victor ever existed or enough time for whatever trail remained, leading to Alex, to vanish.
    Wel , just maybe, it was time for ‘Victor’ to come home. First he had to meet Charlotte.

    *

    Rontego walked towards Shea’s Theater.
    The building stood just a bit off of the boardwalk and off-white stone with carved dramatic faces rimmed large arching windows. Perpendicular to the street, a sign read “Shea’s” at the top and the word, “Buffalo” ran the length of the thin sign from top to bottom. The green sign was lined with bright white lights that cut through the crisp evening. Rontego shoved his hands into his pockets as he approached a group of huddled patrons in their long jackets and thick coats shuffling inside. Rontego pushed past them. He wasn’t here to catch a show. Tonight was al business.
    Without a glance to either side, he walked into the building, where an usher greeted him, but upon recognizing him, let him pass. Rontego kept his hat tilted forward and he hunched his shoulders, looking at the ground as he walked. He hated large crowds. Not the crowds so much, just the people.
    Ignoring the beautiful interior and the plush carpets that lined the marble floors, he bound up a flight of stairs covered with a red trailer. He knew where Muro Lucano sat. The brute never missed a show.
    Always, he sat in the same seat. Rafael Rontego shuffled through a door that led to the main balcony overlooking the stage, and sure enough, he saw the large man’s back. He reclined in a seat facing the stage, and only a few other people dotted the balcony. Rafael took a seat behind the set of broad shoulders. He saw the pinstripes that rol ed downward and the jacket draped over Muro’s lap.
    He opened his mouth to speak, but Muro beat him to it.
    “Rafael. How are you, old friend?” Rontego saw something shuffle under the jacket on Muro’s lap, and Rontego’s hand drifted inside his coat out of habit.
    “Wel enough. I’ve been conducting business.”

    “Wel enough. I’ve been conducting business.” Rafael felt himself smile. He knew the grizzled veteran would understand what he meant.
    “So I hear.” Muro threw the words. It seemed as if it was just another thing to say, but Rafael felt the weight.
    “You hear much. I left something at the scene.
    Do you know if the boys in blue found it?” Rontego thought to his cigarette. It bothered him a bit, but not much. If he could get it out of evidence, though, he would.
    “I hear more than you know. More than I want to know.” Stil , Muro didn’t turn to face Rafael. Rafael studied the stubble on the man’s jaw line. The mandibles flexed as Muro continued. “Relax about evidence. Word is, they found nothing. Some cop mucked up the scene real bad anyway. Some friend of your guy.”