Valentine had already thought it through. They were in too deep to quit. He had killed a man over that stupid address book, and he wanted to know why.

“I’m not afraid. Are you?”

Doyle shot him an exasperated look. “All right, already. We’ll spy on Mickey Wright.”

Sparks steakhouse on New York’s tony upper east side was where you went to talk business, and eat a good steak. It was a mob joint, and had no windows on its bottom floor. Every day, the owners checked the dining room tables for bugs and hidden microphones before opening their doors. And, the food was good.

Sparks had a number of rules. Women were not welcome, unless they were draped on the arm of a local hoodlum. Men were required to wear jackets and ties, no exceptions. And, you were not supposed to raise your voice in anger, although it sometimes happened.

It was noon, the restaurant packed with hoodlums from each of the five boroughs. At his usual corner table sat Paul “The Lobster” Spinelli with two of his soldiers, Gino Caputo and Frankie Musserelli. Gino had elephant ears, Frankie six fingers on his left hand. Someday, these would be the two men’s nicknames, if they lived that long.

The Lobster was wrestling with a five pound monster flown in that morning from Maine. His bib was splattered with melted butter and tiny bits of white meat. He ate like a man going to the electric chair. The Lobster knew he was a spectacle, and he didn’t care. “These Philly fucks are messing with the wrong people,” he said through a mouthful of food. “I’ll whack every one of them if they don’t stay out of Atlantic City.”

The Lobster snapped open a claw, and a piece of shell flew onto a nearby table.

“Hey,” he called to the adjacent diners. “Any meat in that?”

The claw was dutifully examined.

“No,” the man at the table said.

The Lobster resumed speaking to his men. “I hate Philly. You know what I’m saying. It’s a rat prick town. I went twenty years ago. Nothing to do.”

Gino was eating a plate of garlic meatballs. He speared one with a fork, and ate it in small bites while sipping on a glass of draft beer. “I took my kids last year. My son looks at the Liberty Bell and says, ‘The crack in my ass is bigger than that.’”

The Lobster snorted and slapped the table.

“I love kids,” he said.

“Dumb fucking town,” Frankie added.

The Lobster lowered his voice, and his soldiers conspiratorially leaned in. “If those Philly fucks don’t pull out of Atlantic City, we’re going to drive over there and kill them in their fucking beds. We can’t let them muscle in on this thing we’ve got going.”

“In their beds,” Frankie said, like he wanted to be sure.

“Isn’t that what I just said, you dumb shit?”

“I just wanted to be sure, that’s all.”

“Don’t ever make me repeat myself.”

“No, sir.”

“What did I just say?”

“That I should never make you repeat yourself.”

“That’s right. And don’t forget it.”

“What about Nucky Balducci?” Gino asked.

The Lobster had lost his appetite and tore off his bib. He extracted an Arturo Fuente Opus X from his pocket and viciously bit off the end. A waiter appeared with a light, and the cigar’s tip glowed a bright orange. “What about that dumb wop?”

“I thought he was running things in AC,” Gino said.

“Nucky runs the nickel-and-dime crap,” the Lobster said. “This is out of his league. I sent Vinny Acosta down. He’s running the AC operation now.”

The Lobster spent a few minutes enjoying his cigar, oblivious to the stifling haze it was creating inside the restaurant. Three years ago, on November 5 ^th, 1976, one day after New Jersey voters voted to legalize casino gambling, New York’s five mafia families had congregated in the back room of a restaurant on Carmine Street in Little Italy. A single topic had been on the agenda: The opening of Resorts’ casino in Atlantic City. At the meeting, it had been decided that The Lobster would run the Atlantic City operation, with the five families splitting the profits. The Lobster was the natural choice for the job. He’d made his bones in Las Vegas in the fifties, and knew how to rip off a casino.

The Resorts’ scam was a huge moneymaker for the mafia, and was netting the five families three million dollars a month. Eight more casinos would be opened in Atlantic City in the next three years. Each would be shaken down, and the operation set up. The projected take was twenty-seven million a month, almost a million bucks a day. It was enough money to make the Lobster’s head spin.

“Life is fucking good,” he proclaimed.

The Lobster paid the tab, then flirted with the twenty-year old hat check girl before venturing outside. The air was chilly, and he took his time tying his scarf, enjoying the last few puffs on his cigar. Gino and Frankie dutifully trailed a few steps behind.

Tossing the cigar into the gutter, the Lobster stepped out of the restaurant’s shadows into the sun-drenched afternoon and sucked in the invigorating air. His black Lincoln town car was parked at the curb, its engine idling. He considered taking a short walk, then decided against it. Exercise had never appealed to him. Opening the passenger door, he started to climb into the town car, then heard pounding footsteps on the sidewalk. His head instinctively snapped at the sound.

A skinny Italian kid with pimply skin and wearing a tan leather jacket was running towards him. The Lobster immediately recognized him. It was one of the Andruzzi twins from Philly, come to assassinate him.

“Frankie! Gino!” he cried. “Get him!”

Frankie and Gino jumped in front of their boss, at the same time drawing their weapons. Before they could get off a round, the Lobster heard a dull popping sound, and saw his bodyguards crumple to the sidewalk. A set-up,he thought.

The Lobster had always suspected he’d die this way. His belly full of rich food, the taste of a cigar in his mouth, his guard down. The price for being a glutton. He glanced over his shoulder just to be sure. The other Andruzzi twin stood behind him, aiming a gun with a silencer directly at his face. Nearly a million bucks a day, the Lobster thought, and joined his Gino and Frankie on the sidewalk as he was shot dead.

Chapter 19

Fuller and Romero pulled into Valentine’s driveway at noon the next day. Valentine hobbled out of his house on crutches, his right foot covered in a green ski sock. He slid into the back seat of the FBI agents’ car, and laid his crutches on the floor.

“I hear you want to talk to some ladies of negotiable affection,” he said.

Fuller’s eyes danced in the mirror. He was driving, and wore a black sweater that showed off his physique. “Rumor has it you’re the expert.”

“You can’t work this town and not be one,” Valentine said. “Get onto Pacific Avenue and head north until you hit Harold’s House of Pancakes.”

“That the local hangout?” Fuller asked.

“There’s usually one or two girls hanging around.”

Fuller followed his instructions. Leaving Margate, he drove through the suburb of Marvin Gardens, entered Ventnor with its rows of majestic mansions that locals called slammers, and then came to the mean streets of Atlantic City. The scenery changed from spectacular to slum in the time it took to smoke a cigarette. A sign for Harold’s House of Pancakes loomed in the windshield. Valentine had Fuller pull into the lot.

“Hookers like to eat here,” Valentine said. “Manager has a special for them.”

They went in. The restaurant was paneled in knotty pine turned smeary from grill grease and smoke. Valentine canvassed the back of the room. In the corner sat a hooker hunched over a plate of rheumy eggs with hash browns that looked like wood shavings. Her eyes locked onto his.