"I don't suppose you ever read that book?"
"And what book might that be?" I asked.
The caller id read Margaret Moore. Moore is an Assistant District Attorney for the City of Philadelphia.
"Why, 'How to Win Friends and Influence People', of course.
"Can't say that I have Maggie."
Margaret Moore is a stunning five-foot seven inches. Mid-thirties, mousy brown hair cut shoulder length, striking green eyes hidden by black rimmed glasses; a wonderful package wrapped in designer clothes.
"Talked to a police Lieutenant in the 14th Precinct. Looks like you pissed off a couple of Philly's finest."
"I suppose that I did at that. Tell me, what else is new?"
"Well, big boy, I pulled your bacon out of the fire. Those lads wanted a warrant for your arrest. I quashed it for you. Have that stooge of a lawyer you use call the district captain."
"Much appreciated. How can I repay the favor?"
"Dinner."
Oh shit. "Sure. Get back to me with a time and place. Talk soon." I cut the connection. A date with Maggie Moore? Jeez. Kelly would kill me.
I was early for my meeting with Chucky.
Decided to make a quick stop. My meeting was for two o'clock. I still had an hour or so. Parked the car in front of an unremarkable building not far from 9th and Washington.
Standing guard at the front door was an overweight bovine wearing a powder blue sweat suit; white t-shirt accessorized with a heavy gold chain. He managed to squeak out a "Yeah".
"Mr. Picker to see Mr. Santucci."
Without muttering a syllable he turned and went inside; leaving Kato and I standing on the sidewalk. Two full minutes passed before he stepped back outside.
"Mr. Santucci says to com' in."
The Italian Social Club is an old brick structure dating to the turn of the previous century. It's basically a long narrow room with an ancient bar running down the left side of the room. On the right are scarred wooden booths and dark wood chairs and tables lining the center of the room. Completing this picturesque motif is a black and white tiled floor along with a pressed tin ceiling sporting old world rotating fans.
The moment we entered Kato sat near the door facing the men in the room. An oaf on a bar stool swiveled his head, saw my beast and said, "Not that damn dog again."
I made my way to the back. Uncle Carmine Santucci rose from the chair behind his desk and offered his hand. "Well, well, well. If it isn't the great antique's dealer himself. Take a seat Mr. Picker." To the bartender, "Due espresso Carlo." To me, "I enjoyed those cigars, Mr. Picker. I must thank you again. Now, to what do I owe this pleasure?"
Uncle Carmine is the acting head of the local mob. His territory, so to speak, covers Southeastern Pennsylvania and South Jersey. In the tradition of the legendary Angelo Bruno, many consider Carmine to be The Gentleman Godfather. He does not allow dealing in drugs; is well known for giving back to the community; and never or almost never kills outsiders.
Late sixties, tall and trim, Carmine gives the appearance of a self assured, elegant grandfatherly type businessman.
I pushed the red lacquered box across his desk. An extra box of Gran Habanos that are kept in the trunk. "It pleases me that you enjoyed the cigars. I hope that you enjoy these as well." Hint: Never visit the local mafia don without bringing some sort of tribute, no matter how small.
Carlo placed the espressos on the desk. Without asking, Carmine spooned some sugar into both cups. "Thank you, I'm sure that I will. Now, what is the purpose of this visit?"
"Two men attacked me a short while ago. Your name came up."
Uncle Carmine took a sip of his coffee. I did the same. Good stuff. "I trust that you were not hurt."
Not a word. I sat there and kept my yap shut.
"Dem guys." Despite the fine clothes; the regal bearing and other trappings of success, Uncle Carmine's speech left something to be desired. "Mr. Picker, I apologize for the inconvenience."
Huh? Inconvenience?
"The best that I can do is to tell ya what I know. And, also what I don't know. What I know is dat some guy calls the club here. He's looking for some muscle. Of course, he doesn't say what for. I don't ask. The job, I gives it to Sal and Tony. Two leg breakers. This voice on the phone, it gives a time and a place. I leave the details up to dem two mooks.”
Not a word. Just sitting there; listening.
"What I don't know is who, when, where or why."
"You left out how." I bite my tongue. This is a man that I do not wish to insult.
Uncle Carmine smiles and let's it pass. "My young friend, I truly apologize. If I had known it was you, hand to God, I would not have allowed it. How may I make it up to you?"
I polish off the espresso and pause for a moment; trying to give the appearance of thoughtfulness. "Nothing Mr. Santucci. This was, as you say, a minor inconvenience." Huh? "There must not be any hard feeling among friends." Don't blame me. I have an adult male affliction. Suffer from watching 'The Godfather' too many times.
Uncle Carmine, "Thank you. You are a respectful young man. I trust that you were not hurt?"
"Not a scratch. Although, it did cause a run in with the police. But, that's already been taken care of."
"And the two guys that attacked you?"
"That's a different matter altogether. The taller one, unfortunately, has a broken wrist. My guess is that he'll require corrective surgery. I apologize for the inconvenience." Pretty funny, huh?
For the most fleeting of moments Carmine gives me the bent eye. It passes so quickly one may imagine that it didn't occur at all. I know better. But even in his world, Carmine concedes that I hold the moral high ground. Did I say moral?
"I'll take care of any medical expenses. Mr. Picker, I want to thank you for dropping by. To be honest, I always enjoy our little chats. And, I like you. You are my friend. If you ever need my assistance, for anything, please feel free to call upon me."
I was being dismissed. Uncle Carmine handed me a business sized card. It contained a hand written phone number only. "My personal number Mr. Picker."
"Thank you Mr. Santucci."
"Please, call me Uncle Carmine."