“Just as well,” Loquasto said. He had to lean forward as well. We’d look like conspirators, except every other booth in the room featured the same thing. “As I recall, it isn’t very good bourbon.”

“I guess most cops don’t have your refined taste in booze.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “I hope you had in mind something more interesting to talk about than your tiresome class envy.”

“Yeah, I did, actually,” I said. “How’s the war with the Delatassos going?”

“We’ve taken some losses recently, but it’s not over yet. I have no doubt that Mister Calabrese will ultimately prevail.”

He was both a Mafia consigliere and a lawyer, so I couldn’t tell that he was lying – even though I knew he was. Word on the street was that the Calabrese Family – what was left of it – was hunkered down in defensive positions, driven off their turf by the Delatassos’ car bombs and superior firepower.

“What would you say,” I asked him, “if I told you there was a way for your boss to get the Delatassos out of Scranton and out of his face – for good – in just a few days?”

He looked at me for a second or two, then picked up the glass of mediocre bourbon and drained it in two swallows.

“I would say, ‘Tell me more,’ naturally.”

“It involves more work for your pet shark, John Wesley Harding,” I said.

“I have no idea to whom you’re referring ,” he said. Loquasto was not only an expert liar but a grammar maven, too. “But do continue, if you wish.”

“You know that Ronnie Delatasso is trying to take over in Scranton because he’s probably never gonna head the main branch of the family down in Philly – his old man being undead and all.”

“I believe I was the one who conveyed that information to you, Sergeant.”

“I’m just trying to set the stage,” I said. “OK, Delatasso Senior is undead – but that’s not necessarily a synonym for ‘immortal’, as the number of vampires who have died in this town recently should demonstrate.”

“Yes, I was aware of that very basic fact,” Loquasto said. “Were you planning to tell me anything that I don’t already know?”

“I was just going to point out to you that if something should happen to his old man, Ronnie would probably pull up stakes here – no pun intended – and go back home to take over the family business. He’s the only son, right?”

“Yes.” Loquasto chewed his lower lip for a moment. “But if you’re suggesting that some hypothetical ‘pet shark’ of ours should be sent to Philadelphia on a mission to assassinate Charles Delatasso, you’re wasting your time – and mine.”

“Why’s that?”

“If we did have some Boston hit man on retainer, I would be fairly certain that he’s never worked in Philadelphia before.”

“And that would be a major problem?” I already knew the answer to that question, but I wanted Loquasto to say it himself.

“Of course.” He made an impatient gesture with one hand. “A man like Delatasso is going to be well protected. If there is a gap in his personal security, even a local professional could take weeks finding it. As for someone coming in from out of town, who’s unfamiliar with both the city and its criminal element…” Loquasto’s thin lips pursed for a second before turning down at the corners in a frown. “Let’s say that the talents of such a man would be better employed… elsewhere.”

“Good as Harding is, he hasn’t been able to stop the Delatassos from kicking your asses so far.”

“I would dispute your characterization of asses being kicked, as you so elegantly put it,” Loquasto said. “Besides, as I told you, it’s not over yet.”

“But you agree that if Charlie Delatasso was to run into the business end of a wooden stake tomorrow, your troubles would be over.”

“In theory, perhaps. But I find wishful thinking a waste of time and mental energy, Sergeant.”

“Yeah, me, too,” I said. “I don’t figure it would come as a surprise to you that the Philadelphia cops have been keeping the Delatasso family under surveillance for years, waiting for the Don to make a mistake so they can put him away.”

“As you say, not much of a surprise.” Loquasto maintained his poker face, but I was close enough to see the pupils of his eyes contract, which meant that I’d finally said something that interested him.

“What if this guy you never heard of, John Wesley Harding, got his hands on the Philly Organized Crime Unit’s file on Delatasso? A file that lays out where the Don spends the day, the places where he does business, and the guys he hangs out with – including names, addresses, phone numbers, and even photos of Delatasso and his ‘business associates’?”

Loquasto sat back in the booth and looked at me for a few seconds. “I’d say that kind of information would be of… considerable interest.”

“There’s one thing you were wrong about, earlier, Counselor.”

I got the raised eyebrow treatment again. “Indeed?”

“Delatasso Senior’s got bodyguards, sure, both for daytime and at night – but only a few, and they’re not what you might call high-quality guys.”

“Is that right?”

“Uh-huh. It’s been more than ten years since anybody made a serious move against Delatasso. He’s been top dog down there for so long, he’s grown complacent. And so has his security.”

“And you reached this conclusion how, exactly?”

“By reading the OCU’s file – the one I told you about.”

“I see.” Loquasto stared into his empty glass as if it were a crystal ball. Then he looked up. “I believe I’ll have another drink,” he said. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, I’m good, thanks.” I figured Loquasto wanted another shot of that bourbon about as much as I wanted another hemorrhoid, but if the guy wanted some time to think, I was happy to give it to him.

The service in the Brass Shield isn’t what you might call speedy, so it was almost five minutes before Loquasto returned with his fresh drink.

He sat down, took a sip, and grimaced slightly at the taste. Then he leaned forward. “Alright, Markowski – what do you want?”

“Two things,” I said. “One of them is information.”

“Concerning?”

“Patton Wilson.”

Loquasto’s eyes narrowed. “That rich fool who was behind all the ‘helter-skelter’ nonsense last year? What about him?”

“I want to know where he is.”

“Somewhere in Australia, the last I heard.”

“Then your information is out of date. He’s here.”

Loquasto blinked a couple of times. “Here?”

“In Scranton. Or close by.”

“What’s the source of your information?” he said quickly.

“Sorry, that’s confidential,” I said. “But it’s reliable.” I didn’t want to have to explain that I was working from deduction here, rather than cold fact. I wanted results from Loquasto, not an argument. Anyway, a guy named William of Occam once wrote something along the lines of “The simplest explanation that fits the known facts is probably true.” And there was only one thing that made sense out of the chaos I’d been dealing with – Patton Wilson was back.

“I find it difficult to believe that Wilson could be in the area without any of our people even catching so much as a glimpse of him.”

“Somebody with Wilson’s money can buy a lot of concealment,” I said. “Besides, you had no reason to look for him – until now.”

“Alright,” Loquasto said. “I’ll have all our people start beating the bushes. If Wilson is in the area, they’ll locate him. I hope you’re not also expecting us to… deal with him for you.”

“No, just tell me where he is – I’ll take it from there.”

“Very well. So, you want an address for Mister Wilson. What else is that file of yours going to cost us?”

I hesitated. What I’d done in the past twenty minutes or so had probably broken about six different laws, but what I was about to say now was really over the line.

“You ever hear of Dimitri Kaspar?” I asked him.

Loquasto thought for a moment. “Local vampire, isn’t he? Not affiliated with the Family. Fancies himself some kind of politician, I understand.”