Someone asks over the din of conversations, “Can we get you some coffee? Can’t smoke, unfortunately—this is a federal facility.”
I see: We can risk the lives of protected witnesses, but heaven forbid someone picks up a lungful of sidestream smoke. Good thing I gave it up or we’d be having an argument.
“Coffee, yes,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “Lots of caffeine.”
As I speak these first words, people look my way and stare. It takes me a minute to realize they’re looking at Sean’s handiwork, the bruises likely reaching full autumn colors. I’ve taken worse beatings, nothing worth noting.
One of the younger guys in the room pours a cup from an insulated canister with a Pfefferkorn’s logo on it and carefully places it before me. As I take a sip I recognize the flavor as genuine; Pfefferkorn’s supplied the coffee for the Italian restaurant where I lost Melody the first time, when Sean scooped her up to see what information she had to offer, when they were going to pull the plug on their misshapen operation. What they didn’t plan on was her allegiance swinging my way, could’ve never imagined it—and ultimately losing her for real. It makes this coffee all the richer.
As I slowly drink and wake up, people take their places. Sean sits in the far corner away from the table, looking more distraught and burned out than he did at midnight, his beard having thickened in the time we’ve been in this room.
The size of this group confuses me. I’ve heard countless stories of folks in our clan being pinched, and in the most extravagant instances never more than two or three guys were working them over at a time. I might think Sean somehow orchestrated this scene, brought together as many people at once, to record every word I have to offer, to carve it in stone and make it irrefutable—except I catch him occasionally staring at the group and failing to hide a sneer, an eye roll.
As the seven take their seats—who knows how many are behind the glass—the guy who got me the coffee stands and points to the person next to him and begins introductions. “To your left is Alison Margrove, assistant to the—”
“Please,” I say, “no offense, but I could care less. Who’s in charge?”
The man and woman—the two—look at each other. The man says, regarding the lady next to him, “This is Ellen Mayes. She’s representing the Office of the Attorney General.” He pauses like I’m going to say nice to meet you. I shrug. “I’m William Ciacco, Department of Justice.”
“Pig,” I say.
Everyone turns and looks at me, a few gasps slip out.
“How’s that?” he says.
“Ciacco”—I pronounce it authentically, correct their leader’s Americanizing of the word: chock-oh—“means pig.” But with a name like William, it’s unlikely he was brought up on the streets of New York or Philly. “Non è stata colpa mia, Guglielmo.”
William rolls his pen between his fingers a few times, bites his lip a little, mumbles, “I don’t, uh…”
Of course he doesn’t. “Aye, Yankee.”
“Should I have a translator join us?”
I sit back in my chair and rub my chin, catch a glimpse of Sean sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, looks like he is equally annoyed with both me and Ciacco, disturbed by this entire setup.
“No,” I answer. “Let’s just get this over with, Pig.”
He puts his pen down and shifts in his seat. “Just to set our boundaries here, the people in this room control your fate, your future. I think an environment of mutual respect is in order. And I’d prefer that you call me Mr. Ciacco, even William or—”
“Not likely, Pig. The people who control my fate, the real people running this show, are behind that mirror. Here’s the real deal: I control your future. Already have. What time you get out of bed today? Have a nice ride up the BW Parkway at three in the morning?” Ciacco clicks his teeth, looks like he might want to hear what I have to say before bullying. “I’ll bet those forthcoming headlines and commendations are making it hard to keep the drool from dribbling out of your mouth.” I roll my empty water bottle down the center of the table in his direction, it stops a foot short of his notepad. “Now, how ’bout you turn that into a San Pellegrino for me?”
By eight o’clock I’ve spilled the entire story of how the elder McCartneys met