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was being born of that sweet woman. Being born of the woman had made him the son of Carlo Franco ( requiescat in pace ), a big man in Chicago “business.” And the brother of Charlie Franco and Rosie Franco ( requiescat in pace ) and Sam Franco ( requiescat in pace ), who didn’t like him but provided for him. Especially after Poppa died and Charlie and Sam took the reins of the “business.”
    Charlie and Sam looked out for their younger brother very well, in spite of their lack of brotherly love for him. Back in ’58 they had put him on the board of directors of the business—made him one of “The Boys.” But when George fumbled away over a half million dollars in his treasurer capacity, in a virtuoso display of incompetence, he was replaced by Lou Goldstein.
    George cursed Goldstein as regularly as he ate. That goddamn Jew! What would Poppa ( requiescat in pace ) think about a Jew being one of the Family, for Christ’s sake!
    But even George knew that Goldstein could keep good books. And Goldstein was a veteran of the “business” with a talent for seeing to it that other people kept good books. George, on the other hand, had trouble carrying a number over to the tens column.
    George rose from the bed and headed for the bar a few steps away; he needed a fresh bottle of Scotch. Another disadvantage of wealth, George decided, was it made you waddle when you walked. Especially when you tipped the scales, as George did, at an even two hundred and eighty. When he walked on the plush red carpet, he left tracks that took their time raising into place again.
    As he stood at the bar pouring a shot of Scotch, he heard a knock at the door. He glanced at his watch and said, “It’s open, Elliot,” and downed the Scotch. Time for Elliot.
    A man entered the room, a man as thin as George was heavy. He wore a powder blue suit, tailored, with a blue- striped tie. His face was bony and pockmarked, and his large black horn-rimmed glasses made his head seem small. Behind the lenses of the glasses were watery blue eyes. His teeth were very white.
    “How are things going for us, Elliot?”
    Elliot was George’s financial secretary—the strong prime minister to George’s weak queen. Elliot said, “Things are fine, Mr. Franco.”
    George poured another shot, said, “You want anything?”
    “Ginger ale would be fine.”
    George poured a glass, dropped a few ice cubes into it and left it on the bar for Elliot to retrieve. He headed for the bed, where he sat among the unmade sheets, wondering why Elliot never drank hard stuff, wondering why he never smoked, or never seemed to have any interest in women. Maybe he was queer, who could tell about the guy?
    Elliot went after the ginger ale, then found a chair.
    George, sitting on the bed, said, “How’s the college kid trade? They still buyin’ what we’re sellin’?”
    “Business is good, Mr. Franco.”
    “How about the feds? You said last time there was a rumor about feds.”
    There had been a rumble that federal men were going to look into the Chelsey situation because of some unfavorable publicity concerning local college kids and LSD. There had been a girl who had jumped from a building while on a trip. There had been four trippers, it had been reported, who were in the hospital after having eaten magic sugar cubes and then deciding to stare at the sun. A day of sun-gazing, supposedly, resulted in all four going blind.
    “It’s still just a rumor about the feds,” Elliot said. “Nobody paid much attention to the girl who went off the building, and the story about the sun-gazers going blind turned out to be a fake. Just one of those stories that got started.”
    “That’s good to hear,” George said. “No trouble about the girl who fell off the building?”
    “No, it’s blown over. Phil got the thing played down.”
    Phil Saunders was Elliot’s cousin; he was also the police chief in Chelsey.
    “What was that girl’s name?”
    “Tisor,” Elliot said. “I