he said. “Eleanor. Her breasts were marvelous, but she turned out to

be as vicious as a polecat. My second wife was even worse. But we’re

not here to discuss my catastrophic family life. Sit, sit.” He gestured

Kyle toward the easy chair and then moved behind an ornate mahogany desk, picked a box off the desktop and flipped open its lid.

“Cigarette?”

“No thank you,” said Kyle, sitting.

“A man of good habits, then, unlike your father,” said Tiny Tony

as he pulled a cigarette from the box, tapped it on the desktop, lit it

with a crystal lighter the size of a grapefruit. “All my habits are bad,

which is why I’m still alive. No one cared enough to kill me, seeing as

I was doing such a good job killing myself.”

Just then the phone on the desk rang. It was a big black phone,

with a heavy handset that lay in a cradle. Tiny Tony put the huge

handset to his ear, listened. “Six and a half, five and a half,” he said.

“How many? Done.” He scratched something on a small pad, hung

up the phone. For a moment, as a waft of smoke rose from the halfhidden face, he stared at Kyle with eyes burning bright and angry. “I

didn’t know Liam had any children,” he said finally.

“He wasn’t married to my mother.”

“And that makes you . . .”

“Yes, it does.”

“Ahh, I see. But still you were close.”

“Not really.”

“Yet here you are, like a responsible young son. And you have for

me a file.”

“I was going through some of my father’s old things in his office,”

said Kyle, raising the file in his hand, “and I found this.” “And the lawyers there, they let you rifle through the files?” “Well, they didn’t quite let me.”

“Ahh, a scoundrel. You are indeed Liam Byrne’s son.” The phone rang again. Tiny Tony stared at Kyle for a moment

as if Kyle were responsible for the ring itself, and then picked up the

phone, listened. “Three to one against. Even money the sap doesn’t

last six. Done.”

Tiny scribbled a few more lines on his pad, scratched his nose

with a thumb, snuffed out the cigarette, took another from the box,

flicked the crystal grapefruit to life, inhaled, exhaled. “Okay,” he said,

“enough with the suspense.”

A greedy little hand reached up from the desk, and its fingers

snapped.

“Before I hand the file over,” said Kyle, “I have a question.” “A question, hey?” The old man reached into a pocket, pulled out

the gun. He slapped it on the desktop, gave it a spin until the barrel

pointed at Kyle. “Okay, shoot.”

“Double Eye investments.”

“You get right to the meat of it, don’t you?”

“Who are the two eyes?”

“Double Eye, the Italian and the Irishman. Your dad and I were

partners of a sort.”

“What sort?”

“Quiet partners. Your dad did all the investing, kept all the papers,

made all the filings.”

“What did you do?”

“I paid.”

“So Double Eye was a way to launder your gambling earnings.” “Clever, aren’t you? You know, in this part of town clever usually

gets you dead. Let’s cut to it, shall we? What is it you’re after?” “I’m looking for a file cabinet of my father’s. It is big and heavy

and brown, with fake wood grain painted on the metal. I wondered if

you might have it along with the partnership records.”

“You’re looking for a file cabinet of your father’s.”

“Yes.”

“And so you’ve come to me.”

“Yes.”

“And that is why you beat the hell out of my men.”

“Yes.”

“If the cigarettes hadn’t taken all my wind, I would be laughing

now.”

“I’m glad I can be such a source of humor.”

“Oh, you are, young Byrne, you are. Your father and I were partners, yes. But things don’t always work out the way we would want

them to. Have you noticed that most stories end either with a marriage or with death? This story didn’t end with a marriage.” “I’m not sure I understand.”

“You will, in time. Now, let me have the damn file.” Tiny Tony

snapped his fingers and then snapped them again.

Kyle looked at the old man’s hand, once more outstretched, and

the barrel of the gun, still pointing in his direction. He stood, put the

file in the old man’s hand, sat down again. He watched as Tiny Tony

pushed a pair of glasses onto his nose, lifted his chin, and paged

through the file quickly.

“What the hell is this?” said Tiny Tony.

“Your last will and testament.”

“I can see that. But why the hell would I want this?”

“I thought you might need it in case—”

“In case?” He threw the file atop his desk. “Since your father made

this for me, I’ve had three more. Each new will revokes the last. This

is useless to me.”

“What about the betting slips?”

“As valuable as yesterday’s lottery tickets. If this is all you’re bringing to the table, what the hell good is this to me?”

The phone rang. Tony answered, listened. “He’s going off at seven

to two. You won’t make me send Vern this time, right? Okay. Done.”