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got mentioned in reviews sometimes.”
    â€œYour mother doesn’t know that you know any of this.”
    â€œWhy worry her?”
    â€œNick, I’m here because your father kept a ledger, a book said to contain all of his secrets. Word was he planned to give it to the person he trusted most in the world. Are you that person?”
    He sighed, smiled, allowed himself a private laugh.
    Then he asked, “Would you like a beer? You look like a guy who could use a beer.”
    â€œHas been a long day.”
    So he got us cold cans of beer and he leaned back and I did too. And he told me his story.
    Two weeks ago, he’d received a phone call from Don Nicholas Giraldi—a breathy voice that had a deathbed ring to it, making a request that young Nick come to a certain hospital room at St. Luke’s. No mention of old Nicholas being young Nick’s father, not on the phone.
    â€œBut when I stood at his bedside,” Nick said, “he told me. He said, ‘I’m your father.’ Very melodramatic. Ever see Stars Wars? ‘Luke, I am your father’? Like that.”
    â€œAnd what did you say?”
    He shrugged. “Just, ‘I know. I’ve known for years.’ That seemed to throw the old boy, but he didn’t have the wind or the energy to discuss it or ask for details or anything. He just said, ‘You’re going to come into money when you graduate from the university.’”
    â€œYou didn’t know there was a trust fund?”
    â€œNo. And I still don’t know how much is in it. I’ll be happy to accept whatever it is, because I think I kind of deserve it, growing up without a father. I’m hoping it’ll be enough for me to start a business. Don’t let the arty neighborhood fool you, Mr. Hammer. I’m a business major.”
    â€œIs that what Old Nic had in mind, you starting up something of your own?”
    The young man frowned, shook his head. “I’m not sure. He may have wanted me to step into his role in his … organization. Or he may have been fine with me going my own way. Who knows? In any event, he said, ‘I have something for you. Whatever you do in life, it will be valuable to you.’”
    â€œThe book?”
    He nodded. “The book, Mr. Hammer. He gave it to me right there in that hospital room. The book of his secrets.”
    I sat forward. “Containing everything your father knew, a record of every crooked thing he’d done, and all of those he’d conspired with to break God knows how many laws.”
    â€œSomething like that.”
    I shook my head. “Even if you go down a straight path, son, that book would be valuable.”
    He nodded. “It’s valuable, all right. But I don’t want it, Mr. Hammer. I’m not interested in it or what it represents.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do with the thing?”
    â€œGive it to you.” He shrugged. “Do what you will with it. I want only one thing in return.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œEnsure that my mother is safe. That she is not in any danger. And do the same for me, if you can. But Mom … she did so much for me, sacrificed everything, gave her life to me … I want her safe.”
    â€œI think I can handle that.”
    He extended his hand for me to shake, and I did.
    He got up and went over to a plank-and-block bookcase under the window onto the neon-winking street. I followed him. He was selecting an ancient-looking sheepskin-covered volume from a stack of books carelessly piled on top when the door splintered open, kicked in viciously, and two men burst in with guns in hand.
    First was Flavio, still wearing the light-blue suit and yellow pointy-collar shirt, but I never did get the name of his pal, the big guy with the weak chin and Neanderthal forehead. They come in twos, you know, hoods who work for guys like Sonny Giraldi.
    They had big pieces in their fists, matching .357 mags. In