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opposite Goldblum spoke. “
Clauser?
As in,
Bryan
Clauser?”
    Pookie recognized the other two men just as Bryan answered — the arrogant face of Frank Lanza, the broad shoulders and shaved head of Tony Gillum.
    Bryan nodded. “That’s right, Mister Lanza. I’m surprised you know my name.”
    Lanza shrugged. “Someone told me about you. From what I hear, you’re in the wrong line of work. You should be one of those” — he squinted and looked to the ceiling, pretending to try and remember something — “Tony, what’s the name of those guys they have in those silly gangster movies? The guys who kill people?”
    “Hit men,” Tony said. He spoke with a voice so deep he might very well have the four balls of his nickname. “He should be a hit man, Mister Lanza.”
    “Right,” Lanza said. “A hit man, that’s it.” He looked at Bryan. “I heard you killed what, four people?”
    Bryan nodded. “So far.”
    The one-liner made the men pause. Damn, Pookie had to write that one down for later — that kind of stuff could make a script sing.
    “Mister Goldblum,” Pookie said, “we’d like to ask you some questions about Teddy Ablamowicz.”
    “Never met him,” Goldblum said. “He the guy in the paper?”
    Lanza laughed. “He’s in
three
papers, if you know what I mean. Parts of him, anyway. At least that’s what I heard.” Lanza picked up a piece of bread and smeared it in the sauce on his plate. He shook his head dismissively, as if Pookie and Bryan were a trivial annoyance that had to be temporarily tolerated.
    Were these guys for real? The suits, all of them together, in public like this, and in an Italian restaurant? Maybe they had been quiet for sixmonths, but stealth seemed to be over — they wanted people to see them, to know that the LCN was back in town.
    “This isn’t Jersey,” Pookie said. “I don’t know how you run things back east, but maybe you don’t understand who Ablamowicz was working for, or what happens now.”
    Bryan stared at Lanza, then picked up a piece of bread and took a bite. “He means you should lie low, Mister Lanza. Not be out like this, where anyone can roll up on you.”
    Lanza shrugged. “We’re just out for a meal. We didn’t do nothing wrong. You think we did something wrong?”
    Bryan smiled. The smile was even spookier than his stare. “Doesn’t matter what I think,” he said. “What matters is what Fernando Rodriguez thinks.”
    “Who the fuck is Fernando Rodriguez?”
    It took Pookie a second to realize that Lanza wasn’t making a joke. Maybe God loved Frank Lanza, because it had to be a miracle that an idiot like this had lived so long.
    “He’s the boss of the Norteños,” Pookie said. “Locally, anyway. You should know these things. Fernando is a man who gets things done, Mister Lanza. If he thinks you were involved with the Ablamowicz murder, odds are you guys are going to have visitors. Real soon.”
    Goldblum picked his napkin out of his lap and dropped it on his half-eaten dinner. “Fuck that,” he said quietly. “I’m a taxpaying citizen. Think I’m concerned about some chickenshit wetback outfit?”
    Oh, man, these guys hadn’t done their homework. Underestimating the Norteños could win you an express ticket to the morgue. Pookie felt compelled to bring Pete in — for his own safety more than for the crime.
    “Mister Goldblum,” Pookie said, “I think you should come with us.”
    Goldblum’s eyebrows raised, but his eyes stayed half lidded. “You arresting me, gook?”
    Pookie shook his head. “I’m from Chicago, not Vietnam. And, no, we’re not arresting you, but why make things difficult? You know we’re going to have that conversation downtown sooner or later, so let’s just play nice and get it over with.”
    Lanza laughed. “Yeah, right. Like you guys are so different from East Coast cops. You
never
get it over with.”
    Pookie heard the tingle of the front door’s bell. Bryan’s eyes snapped up, then