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pointed at a bulldog-faced gent in a white dinner jacket, a group of women arrayed behind him, like they were about to lift the chunky bastard onto their shoulders, the women all aglitter in sequins and lame.

" - were to die on his drive home because he was too drunk on Suarez Reserve to see straight, is that our fault?"

Joe looked past the bulldog man to all those lovely women, most of them Cuban with hair and eyes the color of Graciela's.

"Is that our fault?" Esteban said.

Except one woman. A smaller woman, looking away from the camera, at something out of the frame, as if someone had come into the room and called her name as the camera flashed. A woman with hair the color of sand and eyes as pale as winter.

"What?" Joe said.

"Is it our fault?" Esteban said. "If some mamon decides to - "

"When was this taken?" Joe said.

"When?"

"Yes, yes. When?"

"That's the opening night of Zoot."

"And when did it open?"

"Last month."

Joe looked across the desk at him. "You're sure?"

Esteban laughed. "It's my restaurant. Of course I'm sure."

Joe gulped his drink down. "There's no way this photo could have been taken at another time and gotten mixed up with the one taken last month?"

"What? No. What other time?"

"Say six years ago."

Esteban shook his head, still chuckling, but his eyes darkening with concern. "No, no, no, Joseph. No. This was taken a month ago. Why?"

"Because this woman right here?" Joe put his finger on Emma Gould. "She's been dead since 1927."
Chapter Twenty-three
PART III

All the Violent Children

1933 - 1935

Chapter Twenty-three

The Haircut

You're sure it's her?" Dion said the next morning in Joe's office.

From his inside pocket, Joe removed the photograph Esteban had pulled back out of the frame last night. He placed it on the desk in front of Dion. "You tell me."

Dion's eyes drifted and then locked and finally widened. "Oh, yeah, that's her all right." He looked sideways at Joe. "You tell Graciela?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"You tell your women everything?"

"I don't tell 'em shit, but you're more of a nance than me. And she's carrying your child."

"That's true." He looked up at the copper ceiling. "I didn't tell her yet because I don't know how."

"It's easy," Dion said. "You just say 'Honey, sweetie, dearest, you remember that filly I was sweet on before you? One I told you went tits-up? Well, she's alive and living in your hometown and still quite the dish. Speaking of dishes, what's for dinner?' "

Sal, standing by the door, looked down to hide a chuckle.

"You enjoying yourself?" Joe asked Dion.

"Time of my life," Dion said, his girth shaking the chair.

"D," Joe said, "we're talking about six years of rage here, six years of . . ." Joe threw his hands up at it, unable to put it into words. "I survived Charlestown because of that rage, I hung Maso off a fucking roof because of it, chased Albert White out of Tampa, hell, I - "

"Built an empire because of it."

"Yeah."

"So when you see her?" Dion said. "Tell her thanks from me."

Joe's mouth was open, but he couldn't think of anything to say.

"Look," Dion said, "I never liked the cooze. You know that. But she sure found a way to inspire you, boss. Reason I ask if you told Graciela is because I do like her. I like her a lot."

"I like her a lot too," Sal said, and they both looked over at him. He held up his right hand, the Thompson in his left. "Sorry."

"We talk a certain way," Dion said to him, "because we used to beat each other up when we were kids. To you, he's always the boss."

"Won't happen again."

Dion turned back to Joe.

"We didn't beat each other up when we were kids," Joe said.

"Sure we did."

"No," Joe said. "You beat the shit out of me."

"You hit me with a brick."

"So you'd stop beating the shit out of me."

"Oh." Dion was quiet for a moment. "I had a point."

"When?"

"When I came through the door. Oh, we gotta talk about Maso's visit. And you hear about Irv Figgis?"

"I heard about Loretta, yeah."

Dion shook his head. "We all heard about Loretta. But last night? Irv walked into Arturo's place? Apparently that's where Loretta scored her last vial of junk the night before last?"

"Okay . . ."

"Yeah, well, Irv beat Arturo near to death."

"No."

Dion nodded. "Kept saying 'Repent, repent,' and just driving his fists down like fucking pistons. Arturo could lose an eye."

"Shit. And Irv?"

Dion whirled his index finger beside his temple. "They got