It is a who’s who of the North American underworld—mob royalty as far as the eye can see. I find myfather stationed at the back of the room, overseeing the proceedings. There is much to be learned fromwho talks to whom and which little cliques cluster together.
He sees me and lifts a brow. I nod. On a normal night, that would be the end of our discussion aboutthe incident at the dock. But today, he motions to the door. Since he doesn’t generally care about theplay-by-play, I can only assume he has another issue. Goddammit. That means I’m not going to catcheven the last ten seconds of the hockey game.
I go out the way I entered and take the service entrance around to the garden gate since I’m wearing afresh coat of blood spatter and I smell like sweat. When he comes around t
