Cross

nerve of the cheeky bastard, huh?”
    Maggione was quietly stunned that the madman was actually calling him again. “I think we better talk,” he said to the hit man.
    “We
are
talking. Know how come? You sent killers after me. First in Italy. Then they came near my house in Maryland. They shot at my kids. Then they showed up in Washington looking for me. Because
I’m
supposed to be a loose cannon?
You’re
the loose cannon, Junior! You’re the one who needs to be put down!”
    “Listen, Sullivan —”
    “No, you listen, you asshole punk bastard. You listen to me, Junior! There’s a package arriving at your fortress right about now. Check it out, chief.
I’m coming after you!
You can’t stop me. Nothing can stop me; nobody can. I’m crazy, right? You try and remember that. I’m the craziest bastard you ever met, or even heard of. And we
will
meet again.”
    Then the Butcher hung up on him.
    Junior Maggione put on a robe; then he walked out to the front of the house. He couldn’t believe it—
FedEx was making a delivery!
    That meant that the crazy bastard Sullivan might be watching the house right now. Was that possible? Could it be happening, just like he said it would?
    “Vincent! Mario! Get your asses out here!” he called to his bodyguards, who came running from the kitchen holding sandwiches.
    He had one of his men open the delivery box—out in the pool house.
    After a couple of nervous moments, the guy called out, “It’s
pictures,
Mr. Maggione. Not exactly Kodak moments.”

Chapter 93
    “WE MIGHT HAVE FOUND HIM, SUGAR.”
    A woman named Emily Corro had just finished her morning therapy session with me, and she’d gone off to her teaching job, hopefully with a slightly better self-image. Now Sampson was on my cell phone. Big John didn’t usually get excited, so this had to be something good.
    Turned out, it was.
    Late that afternoon, the Big Man and I arrived in the Flatlands section of Brooklyn. We proceeded to locate a neighborhood tavern called Tommy McGoey’s.
    The neat-and-clean gin mill was nearly empty when we walked inside. Just a tough-looking Irish bartender and a smallish, well-built guy, probably midforties, sitting at the far end of a well-polished mahogany bar. His name was Anthony Mullino, and he was a graphic artist in Manhattan who’d once been best pals with Michael Sullivan.
    We sat down on either side of Mullino, pinning him in.
    “Cozy,” he said, and smiled. “Hey, I’m not going to run out on you guys. I came here of my own free recollection. Try not to forget it. Hell, two of my uncles are cops here in Crooklyn. Check it out if you want.”
    “We already did,” Sampson said. “One’s retired, living in Myrtle Beach; one’s on suspension.”
    “Hey, so I’m batting five hundred. That’s not so awful. Keep you in the Big Leagues.”
    Sampson and I introduced ourselves, and at first Mullino was sure he knew John from somewhere, but couldn’t place where it might be. He said he’d followed the case of the Russian Mafia head called the Wolf, an investigation I’d worked on while I was at the Bureau, and which had played out right here in New York.
    “I read about you in some magazine too,” he said. “What magazine was that?”
    “I didn’t read the story,” I said. “In
Esquire.
”
    Mullino got the joke and laughed in a way that was like sped-up coughing. “So how did you find out about me and Sully? That’s kind of a stretch nowadays. Ancient history.”
    Sampson told him a little bit of what we knew—that the FBI had done audio surveillance on a social club frequented by John Maggione. We knew that Maggione had ordered a hit on Sullivan, probably because of the Butcher’s unorthodox methods, and that the Butcher had retaliated. “The Bureau asked around on Bay Parkway. Your name came up.”
    Mullino didn’t even wait for Sampson to finish. I noticed that when he talked his hands were in constant motion. “Right, the social club over in Bensonhurst. You been there? Old Italian neighborhood. Mostly two-story buildings, storefronts, y’know. Seen better days, but still pretty nice. Sully and I grew up not far from there.
    “So how do I fit in again? I’m a little confused about that part. I haven’t seen Mike in years.”
    “FBI files,” I said. “You’re his friend, right?”
    Mullino shook his head. “When we were kids, we were kind of close. That was a long time ago, guys.”
    “You were friends into your twenties. And he