Too Old a Cat (Trace 6) Read Online Free Page A

her,” Razoni said. He stuck the business card in his jacket pocket and tossed the billfold onto Alcetta, who was still on the floor. I think you two ought to leave now.” Alcetta got to his feet quickly, brushed off his suit, and walked toward the door. The other man, nose dripping blood on his suit, followed.
    “Don’t figure on coming back,” Razoni said.
    Just before the two men started down the restaurant’s stairs, Razoni called out, “Alcetta?”
    “What?” the man said, turning warily.
    “Where’d you get that suit?”
    Alcetta brushed dust from his lapels. “I had it made in London.”
    “Nice suit,” Razoni said. The two men started down the steps and Razoni called out, after them, “But get rid of that shirt and tie. You look like an idiot.”
    After the two men left, Jackson said, “What’s-his-name, Alcetta, you know him?”
    “He’s a jerk,” Razoni said.
    “You sounded like you knew him,” Jackson said.
    “That’s what I mean. He’s a jerk,” Razoni said. “The Alcettas are a big mob family in Brooklyn. Now what kind of family member would be doing this cheap muscle-man shit unless he was a loser? Mafia fathers don’t let their kids do restaurant shakedowns. They send them to law school or something so they can learn to steal legally. He’s got to be a real prince, this one.”
    “All of you Italians are,” Jackson said. “Real princes.”
    “Oh, shut up. What does the captain want?”
    “He didn’t say.”
    “One thing you can count on,” Razoni said. “If it’s work, it’s a shit job. That’s all we get are shit jobs.”
    They locked the restaurant door and walked down the short flight of wooden steps leading to the street. The stairs creaked under their weight, even though both men moved lightly, like athletes.
    Halfway down, Razoni said, “I hope if he has work for us, it’s real police work, not like this crap.” Three-quarters of the way down, he said, “I didn’t like this assignment from the start. I don’t like tape recorders and all that shit.” At the bottom of the steps, Razoni said, “And besides, your idea for handling it was stupid. Would anybody take me for a restaurant owner?”
    “No,” said Jackson. “Everybody looks at your clothes and they take you for a pimp.”
    “Who asked you anyway?” Razoni demanded.
     
     
    In the brown Lincoln limousine driving away from the East Side restaurant, Sonny Alcetta rubbed his sore wrist and looked at the thick neck of Charlie Ribs, his driver.
    “Assholes,” he said.
    “That’s right, Sonny. They’re assholes, all them cops.”
    “Big high and mighty. How much can they make anyway? Twenty, twenty-five a year?”
    “That’s about it,” Charlie Ribs said.
    “Turning down some dough like they’re big crusaders. You can buy ’em all for a dime.”
    “That’s what I think too, Sonny,” said Charlie Ribs.
    “They think they’re hot just ’cause they got some piece of tin in their pockets. Well, fuck ’em. They don’t get a single dime from us.”
    “That’s right, Sonny. Not a fucking dime.”
    “Aaah, fuck it. Let’s go out to Aqueduct and make some real money. One of the guys told me there’s this horse going in the fifth and the fix is in and he’s supposed to go off at sixty to…”

3
     
    Trace’s Log : Tape recording damnedest the last from Kansas City in the matter of the late and unlamented Robert Napier, Devlin Tracy reporting, early Friday morning.
    Pardon me while I burst into song:
     
     
    Nothing’s going down in Kansas City
And I’m about as low as I can go.
La, la, la, la, la.
     
     
    I forget how it goes. Anyway, the last crime in this town was the Cardinals choking in the World Series. What do you expect from a team who had a player named Walking Underwear?
    Anyway, no crime here. That’s right, folks. Old Robert Napier did indeed die in a boating accident and good old Garrison Fidelity Insurance Company is going to have to pay off on the policy.
    Talk