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  “Slow night?”

  “No sir, it's off to a very good start.”

  I figured I was the beginning of a dinner rush in his mind. “How many do you get for dinner?”

  There was a spasm then an answer. “Very many, sir.”

  It was clear the owner was an optimistic, glass-is-half-full sort of guy. “How many people are working with you tonight?” Optimistic owner or not, on his budget he had to be a realist.

  He paused and looked away from me then down at the plate he was washing. His answer was sad, “Just me, sir.”

  I didn't feel bad for cracking his optimism; what he told me was good. “What's your name, pal?”

  “I am Yousif, sir.”

  “Yousif, I think I'm going to get someone else to come down and sample some of your wonderful gyros,” I said as I powered up Johnny's phone.

  Yousif's optimism seemed to return; he spasmed then smiled. “Very good, sir,” he said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Meet me on the mountain in twenty minutes.”

  “You said tomorrow.”

  “And you said your schedule was busy. You want to see me, get up to the Mandarin on Upper James. Wait outside the doors with your phone on. I'll call you when I get there.”

  Paolo started to reply, but it was no use. I closed the phone and powered it down. I looked out the grey windows at the Mandarin restaurant twenty-five metres across the parking lot. It was a Chinese buffet juggernaut that filled up nightly and probably managed to have a chokehold on Yousif's business. The old owner probably took his lumps from the buffet place and sold the failing business to a naïve person who thought there were many people out there who would choose straight Mediterranean cuisine over a buffet that covered each continent. Yousif was wrong, and he probably had many nights alone in his money pit to mull over his mistake. From where I sat in the empty dining room, I could watch Paolo arrive and decide whether or not I actually wanted to meet him. I ordered a lentil soup and another water, and watched the crowds of hungry families pass me by on their way to the Mandarin.

  It took longer than twenty minutes for Paolo to show up; it was more like thirty. He walked briskly up to the entrance and stood there scanning the parking lot and the inside of the restaurant through the glass. He wore black leather loafers — the kind that had tassels instead of laces. His pleated grey slacks hung at the appropriate length over the shoes, and his black golf shirt was tucked into his pants. From my vantage point I couldn't see a little Polo emblem, but I bet it was there. He wore no hat, allowing me to see that it was him from any part of the parking lot. His hair was a little bit thinner and a bit more grey. The only real difference was his posture; his shoulders were up as though tension had wound them tight. As he turned to scan the crowds of people entering and waiting inside, his whole body moved rather than just his head. Something was wrong with the old man. Something was pulling every muscle and tendon tight from the inside out.

  I powered up the phone as I finished my last mouthful of soup. I ordered a plate of gyros for Paolo, sending Yousif out of the dining room to the kitchen. The phone chirped its ring in my ear, and I watched Paolo grope at his pockets through the shaded window.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Walk down along the side of the Mandarin. Turn the corner and open the gate. Inside there's a dumpster. Walk in and close the door behind you.”

  “You want me to meet you in a dumpster?”

  “Not in, Paolo, beside. Leave the phone on while you walk.”

  “You're pushing it, figlio. I have my limits, and you are on the edge.”

  “Keep walking,” I said as I watched Paolo walk away from the restaurant. I listened to him grumble on the phone as his body disappeared. Soon I heard the creak of a wooden door behind Paolo's complaining. I waited.

  “You motherfucker. Where are you, you shit? You think this is funny? You —”

  “Shut up and stand there. I'm watching you right now. I want to know who else is too.”

  “I came alone. Don't you get it? I'm alone. I just want to talk to you.”

  “Johnny didn't just want to talk,” I said between sips from the glass of water on the table. That gave Paolo pause. “I told that kid exactly what I wanted him to do. I had no idea he would be so . . . overzealous.”

  “You send shit help and look where it gets you.”

  “I told you —”

  “Shut up and wait there. If someone like Johnny couldn't follow your instructions there are probably others who won't too.”

  “That is the last time you talk to me with that disrespect. I will walk out of here and make it so you beg to see me. I'll carve an invitation into the ass of that bartender's wife. You got that? Now where the fuck are you?”

  I had pushed it with Paolo, and it had shown me nothing. He didn't give up any more information. All I did was piss him off. “Give me a minute. Once I'm sure you're clean I'll pick you up.”

  “Once you know I'm clean?”

  “It's dumpster humour, Paolo.”

  “You motherfucker —”

  I put the phone down and watched the lot while Paolo swore. He had been out of sight for two minutes, and no one had followed after him. No one would give him that much rope if they were tailing him. They would want to know what Paolo Donati was doing beside a dumpster.

  I picked the phone up again. Paolo was no longer yelling. I could only hear his heavy seething breaths. “Walk back out front and go into the Mediterranean restaurant on your right.”

  “You said you were picking me up. I'm not jumping through any more hoops. If you're not there, I will find a place I know you'll run to.”

  I didn't answer him because through the window I saw him walk back into view still yelling into his phone. I closed Johnny's phone and watched Paolo's eyes open wider in disbelief. He stopped walking and stared at the phone then at the restaurant. I waved to him from behind the glass. He glowered at me — the type of glare that had gotten other people killed. Paolo marched through the doors and sat down in front of me with his back to the glass.

  “You got some nerve making me stand next to —” He was interrupted by a plate of gyros being placed in front of him. “What the fuck is this?” he asked in a tone that seemed to force a tremor through Yousif's body.

  “G-g-gyros sir. Your dining companion ordered them for you, sir.”

  “It's cool, Yousif. He just gets grumpy when he's hungry. Don't ya, Dad?”

  Paolo grumbled a response and forced a smile at our waiter. Yousif winked at me, his optimism returned. “You won't be hungry for long, sir. Enjoy.”

  We both watched him walk to the kitchen. It was the brisk walk of a busy man. I turned back to Paolo, who was busy himself staring at his plate.

  “Try it, it's good.”

  Paolo sniffed the steamy food and pushed the plate away. He stared at me, and I stared back. Neither of our eyes moved, but under the table my right hand tightened around Johnny's gun in my waistband. Paolo spoke before I decided to shoot him.

  “You look like shit. You know that? You smell too.”

  I felt my face; my beard was long and my hair was scraggly. When I pulled my hand away I saw the dirt caked under the fingernails of my tanned hand. I didn't look like I belonged in the city, but just a day ago I had fit right in on the island. I didn't say a word — I just stared into Paolo's dark, mirthless eyes.

  “You know why you never went anywhere with me?”

  “I'm not a people person.”

  “You're not family, Wilson. Family is what's important. What we do is with family, for family. You, you were good, better than most, but you weren't family, so where could it lead?”

  “Did it ever occur to you that it led me where I wanted it too? It lead me to a paycheque.”

  “Bullshit, figlio. You like to fancy yourself the invisible man, and it's true you were hard to find, but you always turned up. You worked for me because you needed something, something concrete. You needed a family and we
. . . we wouldn't let you in. So what did you do? You sold us out for a bartender.”

  I hated sitting across from a man who was trying to read me as though I were an animal on display. “That was always your problem, Paolo. You thought you were so fucking high and mighty that everyone wanted in with you. But you're half right, I did work for you because you were exactly what I needed. You and your organization had plenty of money, work, and paranoia. I worked for you for so long because I could never get close. Your whole set-up was perfect because I was an outsider to everyone and everything. I survived longer than most of your men and I made a hell of a lot more money because I played it my way, not yours or your family's. I never sold you out for the bartender because there was nothing to sell. I was never with you.”

  Paolo laughed at me then looked away. “Maybe I'm wrong, figlio. Maybe I can't see people like I thought, but that doesn't change what's important.”

  “And that's family,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said, still looking away. “Family.”

  “What do you want, Paolo?”

  He sighed and then he told me.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “My nephews are missing.”

  “Which ones?” I asked.

  “Armando and Nicola.”

  “Army and Nicky?” I said. The tone made it sound like I wasn't surprised.

  “What?” Paolo asked. I said nothing, so he yelled louder. “What?”

  I sighed. “Those two are idiots, Paolo. You know that. Everyone tries to cover up what they do so it doesn't get back to you, but you know about them. They walk around town like big-time gangsters throwing your name and your weight around. I bet they're real scary at that private school they go to.”

  “You don't think I know what they do? You think I don't fucking know?” His last words ended with his fist pounding the table. “I know what they are like out there, but they are family, and now they're gone.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Week ago, their mother called me and said they didn't come home to the house. I said they probably were out with some girls, but they still didn't come back the next day. Their phones were off, their friends hadn't seen them. They were gone. The day after that, we found out Armando's car got towed. No one was in it.”

  “Where was it?”

  “Outside a club in Burlington,” he said.

  Burlington was a city outside Hamilton. The people were richer and the air was cleaner. “You call the cops?”

  “The cops got half the resources I got, and no one who knows the boys will talk to the law. The boys are gone.”

  “So why call me? I don't even know them.”

  Paolo looked me in the eye. “Someone took my nephews. Someone made them disappear. Someone . . .”

  As he trailed off, I understood. “You think one of your guys did it,” I said.

  He looked away and nodded.

  “Why would anyone who worked for you make a move on the boys? It doesn't hurt you or your power base.”

  Paolo looked back at me and then at the table. “Lately Armando and Nicola have been using the computer. They put themselves on the Internet on this YouTube. They said some things and some names, and it all got put on the Internet.”

  I whistled low and found Paolo's eyes. Naming names could get you killed, even if you were the boss's nephews.

  “Do you not like your food, sir?” Yousif was back.

  “Not now,” I said.

  “Sir, we have many other dishes I can —”

  I cut him off. “Not now, Yousif.”

  He looked at me, his optimism cracked again. He spasmed, straightened, and then made a slow walk back to the kitchen.

  Paolo was still looking at me. “It sounds like they dug their own graves,” I said. “If they put names next to events.”

  “I know,” he said quietly. “But they were family.” His words hung in the air between us. They could have ignited the cold plate of food in front of him with their anger.

  “You want me to find out who did it?”

  “I want to know.”

  “You know what Army and Nicky did. They crossed a line. You can't start accusing your own people over two rats even if they have your DNA. If you knew who it was, no one would question your revenge, but to blindly go after everyone? No one will support that. And if I go around looking into it, everyone is going to know who put me up to it. This is going to dangle me in front of the city and hang you out to dry.”

  “I want to know.” His voice was loud. Yousif dropped a plate in back, probably terrified of the outburst.

  I stared into Paolo's fiery eyes. What he wanted would get me killed, and once people figured out Paolo was using me to look into his own people, he would be finished too. Paolo said family was the most important thing, but if he did this, he would betray his second family. Nothing could save him after that. Every ambitious gangster would pull a piece away from him until there was nothing left.

  We shared the silence until Paolo could take no more. “I want you to find out who did this, and then I want you to give them to me.”

  “No,” I said. “It's not a smart play.”

  Before I could say any more Paolo was talking. “I'm not asking, I'm telling you. You're going to do it, or I'm going to finish things with the bartender. You and him killed Tommy and his family for what? His slut wife? If you're not in with me, figlio, then I'll do it alone, but before I go down, I'll make things right with the bartender by first making things right with his missus. Once I use her up, I'll put that Irish dog down in the street. Then I'll find the fuck responsible for my nephews myself.”

  My hand pulsated on the gun under the table. I thought about killing Paolo in the restaurant, killing him and leaving, but he would have insurance.

  As if reading my thoughts, he spoke. “I got people watching them now. I can do it from beyond the grave if I have to.”

  Paolo had me and he knew it. My only connection to the city could still hurt me no matter how far I ran. I rubbed my jaw, forcing the muscles to relax and my teeth to stop grinding. “Who did Army and Nicky name?” I asked.

  “Bombedieri, Perino, and Rosa.”

  “What did they say?”

  “You can see for yourself,” he said, and reached into his pants.

  I tensed and he said, “Easy, figlio.”

  He produced a piece of paper folded over twice. He left it beside the cold plate and stood up. “Call me when you have a name. And I don't want none of this to lead back to me. I go down, I'm taking mister and missus Irish with me, and those two have a lot farther to fall than I do.”

  He waved goodbye to Yousif, who moved out from the kitchen to hold the door for him. “Nice place you got here,” Paolo said.

  “Thank you, sir,” Yousif said timidly.

  “You should think about serving some pasta, not this foreign shit. Even the Chinese place over there has pasta; it's covered in their shit sauces, but it's pasta. That's probably why they're so busy all the time.”

  “Thank you, sir. Have a good night.” It was as rude as Yousif could let himself be.

  Paolo left with a smile. I watched him go, noticing his shoulders were a bit less tense.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I unfolded the paper Paolo had left me. Handwritten in thick black script were three lists under three headings: Bombedieri, Perino, and Rosa. Each list had addresses, names, and descriptions like “#2” written beside the names. I assumed the addresses Paolo gave me were work and not home. I checked the paper over twice, front and back, finding only one address for each name. Paolo certainly had access to that kind of information, but having someone dig it up would surely lead to questions later. At the bottom of the paper was a website URL for a specific page on YouTube. This must have been where all of the trouble started.

  The Internet was not something I had used often, but as the world changed around me and threatened to leave me behind, I versed myself in its basic functions. I knew there were people w
ho could swim through the electrical currents of the World Wide Web like a shark, seizing any information that was appropriately juicy. The rapidly advancing technological age created more and more people like that every day, and that would make it harder for me to remain anonymous forever; it would be impossible if, like Army and Nicky, I posted my face and opinions online. The Internet was like a gun. Any random thoughts or comments shot out from a computer keyboard in the form of a binary bullet could not be retrieved. It existed in some form in the ether, and there was no chance of erasing its existence or denying it had happened. I wondered about the bullet Army and Nicky fired on YouTube, and what kind of damage it had caused.

  I folded the paper up and put it into my pocket. I paid the tab and waited patiently for Yousif to come out and hold the door for me. As he approached, I saw that his jaw was set. My guest had been rude to him a few minutes ago, and he was finding it hard to remain a good host.

  “Goodbye, sir,” he said in a polite, curt way.

  “Good luck with the dinner rush tonight, Yousif.”

  All at once, his pleasant demeanour broke through. “It will be very busy, sir. Very busy indeed.”

  The door swung awkwardly closed behind me as Yousif had another tremor. His arm tightened on the door, and it stopped moving before it formed a seal. I heard him sigh with relief as the spell ended. As I entered the parking lot, I could hear him continue talking to himself. “Very busy soon. No rest tonight.”

  He was right, I wouldn't rest tonight — not ever, I feared.

  It had been almost two years since I had been in the city. It was possible that the last few Internet cafés I had used were still in business, but it was more likely that they were gone. Most small businesses in the downtown core quickly went the way of the dodo. None of them survived long in the infertile concrete. The city reached out and drained the businesses dry with stagnation, or it started to work on the employees, killing their bodies with pollution or their minds with constant vandalism and robbery. The old places didn't matter. I didn't want to set foot in the downtown core before I had to. Every street corner had eyes, eyes looking to pass on information for a score.