New York - The Novel

too.”
    “Not any more.”
    “Sorry.”
    “Don’t be.” He held out his hand. “Charlie Master.”
    “Paul Caruso.” The man was smooth, but watchful. Charlie knew enough to tread carefully. His uptown, cheerful manner usually disarmed people.
    “Interesting name. Any relation to the great Caruso?”
    “We’ve met,” said the Italian cautiously. “My family’s eaten with him.”
    “Great man. Big heart,” said Charlie. Something in the Italian’s manner suggested that he wasn’t anxious to have a conversation about his family. Charlie decided to say no more. So he was surprised when Edmund Keller suddenly joined the conversation.
    “I once met a girl of that name, years ago. Anna Caruso. She worked at the Triangle Factory.” He turned to Charlie. “Your mother brought her to old Mrs. Master’s house, I told you once. I’m afraid she was killed in that terrible fire, though.”
    Charlie watched the Italian. Paolo Caruso’s face was perfectly still, but he glanced down at the table before replying: “It’s a common Italian name.”
    “It’s been good talking to you, Mr. Caruso,” said Charlie. “I’m afraid we have to go now.” He smiled. “Until the next speakeasy.” He held out his hand.
    Paolo Caruso took his hand briefly and nodded. He didn’t smile. “That was awkward,” Charlie remarked to Keller when they got outside.
    “Why?”
    “I think the girl was his family.”
    “He said she wasn’t.”
    “That’s not quite what he said. I think he didn’t want to talk about it.” Charlie shrugged. “Maybe I’m just being a novelist.” Novelists liked to imagine the interconnectedness of things—as though all the people in the big city were part of some great organism, their lives intertwined. He thought of the poet’s saying that the preachers liked to quote: “No man is an island.” Or the other: “Do not ask for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.” Foolish, sentimental tricks of the mind, probably. Reality was fragmented. “Forget it,” he said. “What the hell do I know?”

    Paolo Caruso remained where he sat. He did not think about Anna at first. There were other things he had to consider.
    Briefly, he thought about the two men. When Charlie had first addressed him he’d wondered for a moment if these men could be spies, sent to track him down. But they were certainly uptown, no part of his world. Besides, he did remember the incident with Charlie’s mother in the speakeasy. He put the idea aside as foolish.
    He’d come to the club with a couple of business associates. Men he trusted. But he’d also been hoping to see Owney Madden. He’d done a small service for Madden a couple of years back, and he trusted the man’s judgment. Maybe the owner of the Cotton Club could help him out. But Madden wasn’t around, and no one could tell him whether he’d be in that evening or not.
    He decided to wait a while. At least he was safe. No one was going to start trouble inside a swank place like the Cotton Club. Maybe Madden would show up.
    If only he had left that business last week alone. It hadn’t been part of his regular employment. His bosses didn’t know about it yet, and they wouldn’t be too pleased when they did. He’d have to be careful how he explained the thing to Madden, too. Madden had risen through the Gopher gang when he was young. He had his own bootlegging operation now, in Hell’s Kitchen on the West Side waterfront, and he mightn’t be too sympathetic to a man who’d gone off on his own without permission. But he had interests in so many businesses. Maybe he could find something for him out of the city and protect him. It was a long shot but worth a try.
    It wasn’t the first contract Paolo had taken on. There were always gangland killings, but when you were asked in from outside to do something special, the money was tempting. He’d taken one before this—done the job just the day after he’d had lunch with Salvatore in the Fronton speakeasy. That had gone off well. No doubt that’s why he’d been offered this other job.
    But last week had gone terribly awry. There was nothing wrong with the plan, but even the best plan can be thrown off course by an unexpected event. It was dark. The wind was strong and gusting, perfect for dispersing the sound of the shots. The street had been deserted. He’d stepped out from the doorway just in front of his man, with his hat pulled down to shield his face, and taken aim. Do it at