Russo LLP, resident in the Philadelphia office. He concentrates his practice in defending companies against frivolous class-action lawsuits. Most recently he had a $100 million lawsuit against the Acme Styrofoam Cup Company of Philadelphia overturned. The law suit had been brought by a hundred plaintiffs whose fingers were singed by hot coffee served in the company’s cups.
Russo earned his Bachelor of Arts, magna cum laude, from St. Joseph, and his law degree, cum laude, from Villanova University School of Law. He is admitted to practice law in both Pennsylvania and New Jersey.
Russo is an avid poker player, and put himself through school playing cards. In 2002, he was named by Philadelphia Magazineas one of the city’s most eligible bachelors. His other hobbies include listening to music and exercising.
DeMarco felt light-headed, and leaned back in his chair. It was all there, like a genetic fingerprint. Poker, music, working out. All the things Christopher Charles Russo loved were the things heloved. Even their nick names were the same. Thatcouldn’t be a coincidence.
He dragged the cursor on his computer across the screen, and returned to Hamilton Pepper Russo’s home page. At the top was the firm’s address and main phone number. He memorized the number, then shut down his computer.
Crossing the room, he retrieved the sheets from the floor, and climbed into bed. He lay absolutely still and felt something swell up in his chest. It was three hours later back east, and he imagined Russo at his desk right now, the tireless defender. He took the phone off the night table, placed it on his chest, and punched in zero.
“How can I help you, Mr. DeMarco?” a hotel operator said brightly.
“I’d like to make a long distance call.”
“My pleasure, Mr. DeMarco.”
He recited Hamilton Pepper Russo’s telephone number to the operator, and she made the call for him. The room had turned chilly, and as the call went through, he felt the receiver’s icy plastic against his chin.
“Hamilton Pepper Russo LLC, can I help you?” a male receptionist answered.
“Is Christopher Russo in?”
“I believe he is,” the receptionist said.
“Put me through to him.”
The receptionist forwarded his call.
“Christopher Russo’s office,” a female secretary answered.
DeMarco hesitated. As far back as he could remember, he’d imagined that one day he’d track his father down, and have a talk with him. Now the moment had come, and he didn’t have the slightest idea what to say.
“Hello, is anyone there?” the secretary asked.
“I’d like to speak with Christopher Russo.”
“Mr. Russo is in court this week, and cannot be disturbed. If you’d like to give me a message, I’d be happy to relay it to him.”
“Disturb him, would you?”
“Excuse me? Who is this?”
That was dumb, DeMarco thought. “I’m sorry. This is an old friend. We knew each other back when he was in college. I wanted the call to be a surprise.”
“In college?” the secretary asked suspiciously.
“When he was at St. Joseph.”
“Please hold for a moment.”
The secretary put him on hold. DeMarco lay motionless, no longer sleepy. One of the things he’d wondered about was his father’s voice. Would it be strong or soft, deep or high-pitched? The secretary came back on.
“Still there?” she asked.
“I’m here.”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Russo does not take calls from anonymous callers. If you’d care to leave a message, I’m sure—”
“Tell him it’s Skip,” DeMarco said.
“Skip?”
“That’s right. Skip.”
“Skip who?”
“He’ll know who it is.”
“Sir, I’m sorry, but Mr. Russo won’t talk to you now. If you’ll leave a message, Mr. Russo will get back to you once his trial is finished.”
She sounded ready to hang up on him. DeMarco couldn’t let that happen. He had to hear Russo’s voice, and connect to the man that, until now, he’d only dreamed about.
“Tell him it’s his son,” he said.
41
Little Hands sat in his car in Celebrity’s parking lot, the rising sun searing his eyes. It was seven o’clock in the morning, and he’d driven to Celebrity prepared to kill Tony Valentine. He’d killed several dozen men in Las Vegas, and it usually went like this: He went to their hotel room early in the morning, kicked the door down, ran in, and strangled them with his bare hands. Usually the victim was sleeping and didn’t put up a fight, or he was in the john, which made it harder; one guy had sliced him with a razor before Little Hands broke his neck. But, whatever the situation, the result was always the same. He caught his victims with their guards down and ended their miserable lives. Tony Valentine would be no different.
As the sun crested over the distant mountains, Celebrity’s neon sign went off, and he smothered a yawn. After leaving the Peppermill, he’d gotten involved in a craps game at a joint called Lots of Slots across the street. The craps table was on the sidewalk in front of the casino, the action hot. He’d gotten on a roll, and had turned five hundred bucks into a thousand, then two, and finally built his winnings up to seven grand. The process had taken him well into the night, and by the time he’d gotten into his car, his heart had been pounding so hard he couldn’t have slept if he’d wanted to.
His money sat in a paper bag on the seat beside him. It contained seventeen hundred from the video poker game at the Peppermill, seven grand from the craps game at Lots of Slots, and the thousand down payment for whacking Valentine. It was enough to go to Mexico, and start his life over.
He stared up at Celebrity’s top floors, and envisioned Valentine fast asleep in one of the rooms. The last time they’d tangoed, Valentine had tricked him and broken Little Hands’s nose. A dirty movie had been playing in the motel room they were fighting in, and Little Hands had seen the movie and given up. He’d always had a thing about dirty movies. According to the prison psychiatrist at Ely, it was his mother’s fault. He’d seen her having rough sex when he was a kid, and never gotten over it.
The clock in the dashboard said 7:05. He picked up the paper bag from the passenger seat and looked at the money. It was morethan enough to start his life over. So what the hell was he doing here, risking everything?
“Screw this,” he said aloud.
He pulled the car out of the lot and drove down a winding road that took him past Celebrity’s front entrance. Celebrity hadn’t existed the last time he’d been in Las Vegas, and he slowed down, craning his neck to look at the array of colorful parrots trapped in giant cages by the front door.
Satisfied, he started to speed up, then spotted Valentine walking out the front door with a nice-looking blonde on his arm. With them was a lanky cowboy carrying a golf bag filled with clubs. Little Hands had thought about Valentine every day since going to prison, and fantasized about paying him back. Pulling up along side the curb, he threw his vehicle into park.
Valentine and the woman were holding hands and sharing meaningful glances. Another car pulled up to the curb; a valet jumped out. Valentine tipped the valet while the cowboy put his clubs into the trunk. The cow boy got into the back, the blonde into the passenger seat, and Valentine slipped behind the wheel. The car pulled away from the curb.
Little Hands decided to follow them.
Soon he was on a narrow road heading toward Celebrity’s golf course. His window was open, and the wind rustled the paper bag on the passenger seat. The mouth of the bag was open, and he glanced at the money and imagined all it would buy down in Mexico. He didn’t need to kill Valentine. His life was set.
He continued to follow Valentine’s car anyway.
Valentine had always been a fan of the Marx Brothers, his favorite film being A Night at the Opera.In the film, Chico Marx plays an unusual piano solo. Beginning on the lower keys, he performs a lightning-fast run until his fingers run off the piano and continue to play furiously in midair.