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guy, from his pal, Nick,” or “Thanks for a swell time, your buddy, Vito.”
    Small was now leaning towards me, his elbows on his knees, a look of apparently genuine concern on his face. “What do Callese and Palmisano want?” he said.
    â€œYou know them?” I said.
    â€œI know them. What do they want with you?”
    â€œThey want me to see a man in Washington.”
    â€œWhat man?”
    â€œThe godfather of Angelo Sacchetti. They say that Angelo isn’t dead and that his godfather wants me to find him.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œChrist, I don’t know where.”
    â€œWhy you?”
    â€œI don’t know that either.”
    Small rose and walked over to the bookshelves and picked up one of the china kittens. “Marcie collects these things, you know,” he said.
    â€œI know. I gave her a couple.”
    â€œSalvatore Callese,” Small said to the kitten. “Or The Yellow Spats Kid as they used to call him a long time ago in Newark.”
    â€œHe still wears them,” I said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œSpats. Only they’re pearl grey now.”
    â€œHe’ll always wear them. You want to know why?”
    â€œOkay. Why?”
    â€œBecause his feet are cold. You want to know why his feet are cold, even on a warm day in Los Angeles?” Small turned from the collection of cats and kittens, leaned over the back of the green overstuffed chair, and stared at me with eyes that seemed almost haunted.
    â€œOkay,” I said again. “Why are his feet cold even on a warm day in Los Angeles?”
    â€œBecause about thirty-seven years ago when he was just a punk the 116th Street boys caught him screwing one of the guy’s sisters. So you know what they did? They had a party. They got a washtub full of ice and dumped some rock salt in it to make it good and cold and then they put the beer in and they also took off Callese’s shoes and socks and put his feet in the tub so that they’d cool off. They kept them in there for about three hours until all the beer was drunk up and then they took him back to Newark and dumped him. He damned near lost both feet and they’ve been cold ever since and that’s why he wears spats and that’s why they used to call him The Yellow Spats Kid.”
    â€œWhat happened then?”
    Small walked around the chair and sat on one of its arms. “He waited. He waited until he could walk again and then he started. One by one he picked them off. Some got run over, some got cut up, and some got shot. He was thorough. That’s one thing you can say for Callese, he’s thorough. He did such a good job that they finally moved him over to Manhattan, downtown, and then when Siegel got it, they sent him out here to help look after things. He’s been doing it ever since.”
    â€œWhat about Palmisano?”
    â€œHim.” Small sniffed as if he smelled something bad. “Giuseppe Palmisano, alias Joe Dominoes. He’s fresh out of Atlanta where he did a straight six for conspiracy to violate the narcotics laws. No parole, no time off for good behavior. An ordinary soldier and not too bright. You want to know why he’s sometimes called Joe Dominoes?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œYou notice how his left arm sticks out funny—like he can’t straighten it out?”
    â€œI noticed,” I said.
    â€œWell, they caught him one night, four of them, and they busted his arm in four places. Each one got to bust it once. Then they cut his throat and left him to bleed to death, only he didn’t, but they nicked his vocal cords or something and that’s why he talks so high and that’s why he wears turtleneck sweaters—he was wearing one, wasn’t he?”
    â€œI thought he was just trying to be stylish.”
    Small shook his head. “No, he’s always worn them, ever since they cut his throat.”
    I took another swallow of my drink and waited.