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from behind the counter. “Come on. Have a cuppa coffee and give me a good horse for today.”
    Charley waved to her and stood next to Phil. “I’ll be in the car,” he said. “Take your time. We gotta wait till the Plumber gets here.”
    He started to go back to the Chevy van.
    “Hey, Cholly!” Mrs. Latucci yelled. “First, give me a horse.”
    “Lady Carrot in the third at Pimlico,” Charley said as he went out. The two dealers and Mrs. Latucci wrote the information down.
    Charley got into the van and read a newspaper. There was still stuff about the Netturbino killing. Charley read the story as a piece of trade news. Netturbino had the lifetime habit of having a new hooker sent over to his hotel suite every afternoon at three o’clock, except Sundays, which he spent with three uncles who played bocce for a living in New Jersey. The police said whoever hit Netturbino had been welcomed by him, because he was alone and wearing only a bathrobe and a pajama top. Charley grinned. That was how to set up a tag, he thought.
    Phil and Al got into the car. Charley drove.
    “Manischewitz! What a beautiful day,” Al Melvini said. “When the breeze is right and the sun is shining there ain’t anyplace like Brooklyn. Where we going?”
    “Marty Gilroy’s,” Charley said.
    ***
    Marty Gilroy was a very large black man with a bushy moustache that joined his sideburns. He hadthe best disposition in Greater New York. “He is a regular Ronnie Reagan,” Pop liked to say, because he admired a sweet nature. Marty was a Prizzi banker so there was no trouble getting into his inner office in the garage where he operated, but Charley knew that even the three of them would have a hard time with him so, smiling a greeting, he kept moving in and slammed Gilroy across his sideburns with a fistful of quarters while Gilroy was half-rising to greet him. When Marty hit the floor it was like a comet hitting a planet. Everything shook and seemed to keep shaking. Phil and Al lifted him back on his swivel chair and tied him to it, doubling up on the knots.
    “Keep anybody out,” Charley said. Phil left. Charley and Al waited for Gilroy to come around. It didn’t take long.
    “Where’s your checkbook, Marty?” Charley asked.
    “Top drawer,” the black man groaned. “Charley, listen—”
    Charley pushed the swivel chair back so he could open the drawer. He slid out a wide, three-tiered checkbook and a .38 caliber pistol. “Registered to you?” he asked. Marty shook his head. Charley put the gun in his side pocket and with the other hand took a leather notebook out of the opposite pocket. He read from its first page. “You got $208,439.21 in the A account, Marty. Make me out a check to cash for that.”
    “Listen, Charley—this a mistake. You trying to say I fucked the Prizzis around? Man, no way. Man, I am set with the Prizzis, what I need to do that for?”
    “You shorted on payoffs again. You know it and we know it, and you know we know it. So make out the check. Untie the arm, Plumber. You right-handed, Marty?”
    “Lefty,” Gilroy moaned.
    Charley moved behind Gilroy and pushed the barrel of the pistol into the base of his skull. Melvini untiedthe left arm. “Don’t get wise,” he said to Gilroy, “or I’ll flush you right down the toilet.”
    Marty made out the check while Al held the checkbook steady.
    “You got $86,392.17 in the B account,” Charley read out from the small leather book. “Make it out Marty.”
    “Charley, that my kids’ money. That the safety money.”
    “What the fuck is this, Marty? Make it out already!”
    While Al retied Gilroy to a chair, Charley tore the signed checks out of the book. “Hey, Phil,” he yelled. Vittimizzare put his head into the room. “Take these to Angelo Partanna,” he said. “Okay, let’s get Marty the fuck out of here.”
    ***
    It took three of them to manhandle Gilroy and the swivel chair into the back of the Chevy van. Four of Gilroy’s runners watched them