The swinging door from the dining room opened.

“Honey,” Helen said, to get his attention.

Sonny looked up at her with annoyance. She knew the rules.

“What?” he asked, less than politely.

“Mr. D’Angelo is here,” Helen said.

Marco D’Angelo was Mr. Boyle’s immediate supervisor. He normally drove the Buick which appeared ritualistically between 8:00 and 8:15 P.M., looking up and down the street as his assistant went into the Boyles’ residence.

As Sonny understood the hierarchy, Mr. D’Angelo worked directly for Mr. Pietro Cassandro. Mr. Pietro Cassandro was the younger brother of Mr. Paulo Cassandro, who was, as Sonny understood it, a made man, and who reported directly to Mr. Vincenzo Savarese, who was, so to speak, the Chairman of the Board.

Sonny didn’t know this. But it was what was said. And he had not considered it polite to ask specific questions.

Sonny glanced at his watch. Marco D’Angelo was not due for another forty-five minutes.

“He’s here? Now? What time is it?”

Mr. D’Angelo appeared in the kitchen.

“Whaddaya say, Sonny?” he said. “Sorry to barge in here like this.”

“Anytime, Marco,” Sonny replied. “Can I get you something?”

“Thank you, no,” Mr. D’Angelo said. “Sonny, Mr. Cassandro would like a word with you. Would that be all right?”

“I’m doing the day’s business,” Sonny said, gesturing at the table.

“This won’t take long,” Mr. D’Angelo said. “Just leave that. So we’ll be a little late, so what, it’s not the end of the world. Finish up when you come back.”

“Whatever you say, Marco,” Sonny said. “Let me get my coat.”

Mr. Boyle was not uncomfortable. He had seen Mr. Pietro Cassandro on several occasions but did not know him. He searched his memory desperately for something, anything, that he had done that might possibly have been misunderstood. He could think of nothing. If there was something, it had been a mistake, an honest mistake.

The problem, obviously, was to convince Pietro Cassandro of that, to assure him that he had consciously done nothing that would in any way endanger the reputation he had built over the years for reliability and honesty.

Sonny did not recognize the man standing by Marco D’Angelo’s black Buick four-door. He was a large man, with a massive neck showing in an open-collared sports shirt spread over his sports-jacket collar. He did not smile at Sonny.

“You wanna get in the back, Sonny?” Mr. D’Angelo ordered. “Big as I am, there ain’t room for all of me back there.”

“No problem at all,” Sonny said.

He got in the backseat. Mr. D’Angelo slammed the door on him and got in the passenger seat.

They drove to La Portabella’s Restaurant, at 1200 South Front Street, which Sonny had heard was one of Mr. Paulo Cassandro’s business interests. The parking lot looked full, but a man in a business suit, looking like a brother to the man driving Marco D’Angelo’s Buick, appeared and waved them to a parking space near the kitchen.

They entered the building through the kitchen. Marco D’Angelo led Sonny past the stoves and food-preparation tables, and the man with the thick neck followed them.

Marco D’Angelo knocked at a closed door.

“Marco, Mr. Cassandro.”

“Yeah,” a voice replied.

D’Angelo pushed the door open and waved Sonny in ahead of him.

It was an office. But a place had been set on the desk, at which sat another large Italian gentleman, a napkin tucked in his collar. He stood up as Sonny entered the room.

The large Italian gentleman was, Sonny realized with a sinking heart, Mr. Paulo Cassandro, Pietro’s brother. He had just had his picture in the newspaper when he had been arrested for something. The Inquirer had referred to him as a “reputed mobster.”

“Sonny Boyle, right?” Mr. Cassandro asked, smiling and offering his hand.

“That’s me,” Sonny said.

“Pleased to meet you. Marco’s been telling me good things about you.”

“He has?”

“I appreciate your coming here like this.”

“My pleasure.”

“Get him a glass,” Paulo Cassandro ordered. “You hungry, Sonny? I get you up from your dinner?”

“No. A glass of wine would be fine. Thank you.”

“You’re sure you don’t want something to eat?”

“No, thank you.”

“Well, maybe after we talk. I figure I owe you for getting you here like this. After we talk, you’ll have something. It’s the least I can do.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Marco tells me you’re pretty well connected in your neighborhood. Know a lot of people. That true?”

“Well, I live in the house my mother was born in, Mr. Cassandro.”

“The name Frank Foley mean anything to you, Sonny?”

Sonofabitch! I didn’t even think of that!

“I know who he is,” Sonny said.

“Me asking looks like it made you nervous,” Paulo said. “Did it make you nervous?”

“No. No. Why should it?”

“You tell me. You looked nervous.”

Sonny shrugged and waved his hands helplessly.

“Tell me about this guy,” Paulo said.

“I don’t know much about him,” Sonny said.

“Tell me what you do know.”

“Well, he’s from the neighborhood. I see him around.”

“I get the feeling you don’t want to talk about him.”

“Mr. Cassandro, can I say something?”

“That’s what I’m waiting for, Sonny.”

“I sort of thought you knew all about him, is what I mean.”

“I don’t know nothing about him; that’s why I’m asking. Why would you think I know all about him?”

“I got the idea somehow that you knew each other, that he was a business associate, is what I meant.”

“Where would you get an idea like that?”

“That’s what people say,” Sonny said. “I got that idea from him. I thought I did. I probably misunderstood him. Got the wrong idea.”

“Sonny, I never laid eyes on this guy. I wouldn’t know him if he walked in that door right this minute,” Paulo said.

“Well, I’m sorry I had the wrong idea.”

“Why should you be sorry? We all make mistakes. Tell me, what sort of business associate of mine did you think he was?”

“Nothing specific. I just thought he worked for you.”

“You don’t know where he works?”

“He works at Wanamaker’s.”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know. In the warehouse, I think.”

“Just between you and me, did you really think I would have somebody working for me who works in the Wanamaker’s warehouse?”

“No disrespect intended, Mr. Cassandro.”

“I know that, Sonny. Like I told you, Marco’s been saying good things about you. Look, I know you were mistaken, and I understand. But when you were mistaken, what did you think this guy did for me?”

Sonny did not immediately reply.

“Hey, you’re among friends. What’s said in this room stays in this room, OK?”

“I feel like a goddamned fool for not knowing it was bullshit when I heard it,” Sonny said. “I should have known better.”

“Known better than what, Sonny?” Paulo Cassandro said, and now there was an unmistakable tone of impatience in his voice.

“He sort of hinted that he was a hit man for you,” Sonny said, very reluctantly.

“You’re right, Sonny,” Paulo said. “You should have known it was bullshit when you heard it. You know why?”

Inspiration came, miraculously, to Sonny Boyle. He suddenly knew the right answer to give.

“Because you’re a legitimate businessman,” he said.

“Right. All that bullshit in the movies about a mob, and hit men, all that bullshit is nothing but bullshit. And you should have known that, Sonny. I’m a little disappointed in you.”

“I’m embarrassed. I just didn’t think this through.”

“Right. You didn’t think. That can get a fella in trouble, Sonny.”

“I know.”

“Ah, well, what the hell. You’re among friends. Marco says good things about you. Let’s just forget the whole thing.”

“Thank you.”

“You know what I mean about forgetting the whole thing?”