When he finished dialing the twenty-fifth time, the familiar buzzing assaulted his ears.
He slammed down the phone.
Scubisci fished out the coin from the return slot and shoved it back in the phone. He quickly stabbed out a different number. After hearing nothing but the relentless staccato buzz of a busy signal, it was jarring when the phone started ringing at the other end.
As he waited anxiously for someone to pick up, he drummed his fingers impatiently against the graffiti-covered wall. His nails were shabby. It had been some time since he'd had a decent manicure.
The phone was answered on the ninth ring. "Mott Street Community Home," a woman's nasal voice announced.
"Angela Scubisci," Anselmo barked. The frantic sharpness in his voice stung his throat, reminding him of the too-recent brush with cancer and the nodes that had been removed from his vocal cords.
There were no phones in the nursing-home rooms. Standing at the prison phone, he prayed they'd wheel his mother into the hallway fast. After fifteen minutes, the prison phone would automatically hang up.
After nearly eight agonizing minutes, the familiar angry old voice came onto the line.
"Who's this?" Angela Scubisci demanded. Though he hadn't seen her since he'd been sent to prison nearly two years ago, he could still picture the withered old crow. Her scowling, toothless face haunted him in his dreams.
"It's Anselmo, Mama."
"You still alive?" She sounded disappointed.
"Of course I'm alive, Mama," Anselmo said. For an instant, he felt sorry for her. Such tragedy had been visited on her in recent years she had to have thought her elder son dead, as well. "I'm in jail, remember?"
"I know where you are," his mother snarled. "This notta the crazy house you lock me in."
"Then why'd you think I was dead?"
"'Cause they killa you Jew lawyer. You should see, Anselmo. Ambulance and police all over the road. I see fromma the window. It look like the day you poor sainted father pass on, God rest hissa soul."
At the mention of her dead husband, she sobbed a few obligatory times. Anselmo Scubisci hardly heard her. His mind was reeling.
"How do you know Sol's dead?" he croaked.
"They tella me."
"Maybe they were wrong. Who told you?"
"The men who killa your kike. One was a nice young man. The other I don't know. Some Chinaman or something."
Panic. Sweet had told him about the men who had visited the Boston Raffair office.
"They were there? What did you tell them?"
"Just the truth. Thatta you a no-good son. Thatta you insult the memory offa you father by lying down with them Napoli fritto di pesce."
He couldn't wrap his brain around all this. Don Anselmo had to lean against the grimy prison wall for support.
"You didn't tell them that?" he gasped.
"About you new friends, Anselmo? Is that whatta you worried about?" She suddenly spoke in soothing, almost motherly tones.
She'd been joking. Anselmo felt a wash of relief flow over his thin frame.
The grating harpy's voice flashed angry. "Of course I tella them, you no-good Judas. I give them one of you letters from the Naples scum. They gonna come for you for whatta you done to your poor dead father's memory. They gonna come to that prison and they gonna cut that black heart outta you body. They gonna killa you, Anselmo. They gonna-"
Don Scubisci hung up the phone.
His mother's words echoed in his brain. He stood near the pay phone for a long time, his ears ringing madly.
They gonna come for you.
Who was going to come? Could they possibly get to him? In prison? Wasn't he safe in here, of all places?
He tried to focus his thoughts even as he attempted to dispel the image Sweet had painted of Louis DiGrotti's decapitation at the hands of the old one.
"You finished with that?" a voice rumbled. Anselmo looked numbly to his left.
A man nearby. Large. Pointing at the phone. "Yes. Yes, I am. Sorry."
Don Anselmo stepped woodenly aside.
No. Whoever they were, they wouldn't be able to get in here. Ogdenburg was a fortress. He'd be safe. Still, he had to make plans. Just in case.
Anselmo reached for the phone. He was startled to find someone already there. He had no idea how the huge man had gotten past him.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Don Anselmo snarled. "Get off that phone."
The man hesitated for a moment. He was a hulking thing with rippling muscles. He could have broken Anselmo Scubisci's neck with a snap of his huge fingers.
It seemed as if he were actually considering disobeying the Manhattan Don. But the moment quickly passed. Scowling, he replaced the phone and skulked away.
Scubisci scooped up the receiver.
Sol might be gone, but there were still people on the outside he could call. He didn't trust his mother. The old bat was crazy. He'd find out what was going on first.
Then he'd start worrying.
THE SHADES Of his Maryland apartment were tightly drawn. Mark Howard sat in the corner of his living room in front of his glowing PC screen.
He'd been on-line ever since he'd called in sick that morning.
The Boston Raffair office was closed. Two bodies had been discovered there. With the counterfeiter Petito, that made a total of three in Massachusetts. The New York headquarters had burned to the ground a few hours before.
Things were happening. Thanks to him.
Mark knew he was the reason for all this. Why was still unclear, but thanks to the data he'd sent along to the White House, the blood of the dead was on his hands.