Invasion of Privacy

the coordinator basically—the fuck would you call it, ‘outranks’ me like—so I gotta say, ‘Hey-ey-ey, Pd be glad to, only I don’t know where he is.’ And this friend of ours says, ‘Well, you better fucking hope you can find him again.’ And I don’t like the sound of that, so I don’t say nothing else, and lo and fucking behold, the coordinator’s on the phone, wants to call Milwaukee — ”
    “I thought you said Chicago ?”
    Zuppone shot me a look. “You wanna let me fucking finish?”
    “All right.”
    “You let me finish, then you’ll fucking know.”
    “Sorry, Primo.”
    He shook his head, spoke more deliberately. “This friend of ours gets on the horn, and he asks me what the fucking area code is for Milwaukee , like I’m Nynex or something, then all of a sudden it hits me.”
    I said, “What hits you?”
    “Why your guy’s picture rang that bell with me, why I thought I knew the fuck.”
    “And?”
    We stopped for the traffic light at Leverett Circle . “It’s from when I’m in the Midwest there with this coordinator, visiting the Outfit.”
    “In Chicago .”
    “Right, right. Only he wants to take a little side trip, over to Milwaukee , see this other friend—a gentleman named Mr. Ianella.”
    I didn’t like that Primo was telling me the name of a mobster from another organization.
    “This Mr. Ianella,” said Zuppone, “he did us a favor one time, and we wanted to pay our respects, understand?”
    “I think so.”
    “Okay. We drive to Milwaukee , and we meet Mr. Ianella at his house—big fucking place on this cliff overlooking the lake, only it looks like a fucking ocean to me, seagulls and everything. We’re just sitting down to lunch with this gentleman when his bookkeeper comes in the room, carrying some papers that gotta be signed that day, otherwise the IRS is gonna have a coronary.”
    The Lincoln started to climb the ramp for the Central Artery. “So?”
    “So the bookkeeper’s your guy from the photo there.” Swell. “You’re sure, Primo?”
    “Yeah, I’m sure. Oh, he looked a little different back then. More gray in the hair, and I think his nose’s been fixed or something, that’s why I got thrown off when you showed me the picture. I mean, three years ago, and I’m not paying a lot of fucking attention to the bean counter in Milwaukee , you get me?”
    I just nodded.
    Zuppone glanced over. “Be helpful you kind of said something, I’m supposed to be keeping my eyes on the road and all.”
    “Sorry, Primo.”
    Another head shake. “So, anyways, our friend the coordinator is on the phone to Milwaukee today, and he tells the Ianella family that we found DiRienzi for them.”
    “DiRienzi is the bookkeeper?”
    “Yeah, Alfonso DiRienzi.”
    Andrew Dees, keeping the same initials. When Zuppone didn’t continue, I said, “What do you mean, we ‘found’ him?”
    A shorter glance. “That’s the problem part.”
    “Go on.”
    “Seems this DiRienzi got a whiff of something coming down the pike from the IRS out in Milwaukee there. Something they could indict on and send him away for a long time to the wrong kind of cellblock, spend his nights choking on foot-long dicks, black in color.”
    I had to hear the rest of it. “And so DiRienzi flips.”
    “Like a fucking pancake. You remember what I was telling you last time, about Sammy the Bull down in New York there? Well, your guy the bookkeeper, he goes to the feds, cuts a deal like Gravano did, and rats out Mr. Ianella.”
    “Testifies, you mean?”
    “Secret grand jury, evidence out the wazoo, trial’s over so fast it’d make your fucking head spin. The gentleman we owe the favor to finds himself in federal stir a thousand miles from Milwaukee . And nobody in the family’s very fucking happy about any of it.”
    I tried to think things through. Olga Evorova’s boyfriend picking a town in “No Man’s Land,” between the Boston and Providence mobs, an area where grads of Central Vermont who might have known the real “Andrew Dees” tend not to settle. Camera-shy, living in a nondescript suburban condo complex, running a low-profile and very local business. Never talking about his background with neighbors or even his almost-fiancee. Being willing to eat at most kinds of restaurants but not Italian, being willing to attend most kinds of musical events with Olga except her favorite, Italian opera—like Verdi’s Rigoletto. Because of who he might run into?
    I said, “This