I stared at him for three long seconds. Twelve years of history passed between us in that brief silence—twelve years of shared meals, shared blood, shared graves. I remembered the night Marco had carried me two miles through an industrial park in Queens after an engine block exploded and took out my left knee. I remembered holding his eldest son at his baptism in Saint Mathias Church.
And yet, Bruno’s lip was curled so far back his gums were bleeding against his own teeth.
"Tony," I said quietly.
"Boss?"
"Call Marco's house. Put his wife, Gina, on speaker."
Marco’s face paled, the warm color draining out of his olive skin until he looked almost as grey as the linen lining inside Elena’s casket. "Carmine, what the hell is this? You're going to disrespect me in front of the boys over a dead kid and a confused hound? After twelve years?"
"If you have nothing to hide, Marco, your wife will tell Tony you were sitting at the kitchen table eating pork chops at six-thirty," I said. "It takes thirty seconds to verify a brother's word."
Tony pulled his silver flip-phone from his pocket. His thumb hovered over the key pad. He looked at me, his face torn between long-standing respect for the underboss and absolute obedience to my word.
"Do it, Tony," I commanded.
Tony dialed. He pressed the speaker button, holding the small phone out in the palm of his hand.
The dial tone rang once. Twice. Three times.
The sound echoed through the silent funeral parlor like a hammer striking an anvil.
"Hello?" Gina’s voice came through the small speaker, tinny and distant, punctuated by the background noise of a television set.
"Gina," Tony said, his voice flat, professional. "It's Tony Moretti. I'm here with the Boss."
A pause on the line. "Is everything okay, Tony? Marco said he was meeting you guys at the viewing."
"Everything's fine, Gina," Tony said, glancing up at Marco's rigid posture. "Quick question for you. Three nights ago—Tuesday night—what time did Marco get home for dinner?"
Silence settled over the line for two agonizing seconds.
"Tuesday?" Gina’s voice sounded confused. "He wasn't home for dinner Tuesday, Tony. He called me around seven and said he had emergency business down near the docks in Flushing with some guys from out of town. He didn't come through the front door until after midnight. He was drenched in sweat and smelled like gasoline. Why? Did something happen?"
Tony didn't answer. He snapped the phone shut and slid it back into his breast pocket.
The silence returned, heavier now, suffocating, thick with the stench of an impending execution.
Tomas Vasquez slowly rose from his seat in the front row. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, fixed entirely on Marco. "You..." the father whispered, his voice cracking into a dry, hoarse sob. "You were near the school... You were in the truck..."
"No! Shut your mouth, Tomas!" Marco roared, his right hand finally lunging inside his coat collar.
CRACK.