Date: Unknown

"So. Armando. Seems we have a lot to talk about."

Ray strains against his bonds, and tries to guess where the voice will come from next. The woman questioning him is obviously walking around the room, probably to keep him disconcerted. He's been conscious a few hours. At least… it feels like hours. And she's been asking the same question, over and over again. He flinches when, this time, her voice comes from just behind him. "When did you first think you were being betrayed?"

"Who by?" Ray snaps, finally speaking. "You guys, or my cousin?" He has no idea who these people are – local families, foreign rivals, his own cousin. Maybe even both of the brothers are in on this, he tells himself. Ray shakes his head, and bluffs as convincingly as he knows how. "Don't think I don't know who you are."

The voice sighs. "Leave him a little longer. Maybe he'll be more cooperative later on."

Saturday, April 5th, 1997 8pm

Five weeks, two days in, and Ray hated the fucking cops. Hated them with a passion.

"Boss," Stevie said in a low voice. "They're here again."

Ray managed not to groan. You've gotta be fucking kidding me. "I'm sorry," he told Tarasov. "Something has come up – Jackie will be here soon. He can discuss business. In the meantime… enjoy the amenities." He made a generous spreading gesture with his hand as he stood, indicating the dancers. "I'm sure you'll find something to your taste."

Of course, it's not just the fucking cops I hate, he told himself. Me and Armando. His brother was sitting next to Tarasov, and gave Ray an amused shrug. Yeah, figured Armando wasn't about to give him moral support – or immoral when it came to that. One of the few benefits of being dead – the cops couldn't arrest you. Ray flashed a look of loathing at his brother, for less than a second, before turning to the policemen with a smile. Three of them… no. Make that four. They meant business.

"I take it," Ray said, shrugging his way back into his jacket, "that you're not here to check on the liquor licence?"

"No, Sir. We have a warrant for your arrest." The cop who spoke kept his voice down. He obviously knew the score – don't arrest the Bookman in front of an international client while physically surrounded by the fucker's bodyguards. The policeman nodded his head toward the door. "If you'll step outside."

"Certainly." Ray lifted his tumbler from the table, and emptied the remnants of his drink down his throat in one easy swallow. He nodded to his bodyguards that it was alright. "Tarasov," he said to the Russian. "My budem govorit' pozzhe." He was pretty sure he'd said it right – 'we'll speak later.' His brother's extensive library contained a few well-worn phrasebooks – apparently Mando had learned some sentences by heart in a dozen languages. It went down well with the foreign clients if they thought you were trying. And as Ray had explained once to Benny, it had always worked on women. Besides, it made people think he was some kind of crazy-ass multilingual genius. So what if Armando and Ray were bull-shitters together? The Bookman had a reputation to maintain.

Tarasov was too distracted to worry about Ray's accent anyway. "Da, da," he agreed, eyes on everyone but the cops. He came out with a string of incomprehensible gobbledygook. Ray assumed the man was thanking him for his hospitality, and grinned. "Ya ponimayoo," he lied, although he didn't understand at all. It was simply too much fun to wind up the cops. Tarasov groaned and closed his eyes as one of the more self-assured dancers approached, and straddled his lap.

Good woman… She flicked her blonde hair and started grinding her ass on the Russian's ample paunch. She smirked at Ray and winked. She was obviously trying to spare 'the Boss' some embarrassment. What was her name? Hailey? Kelly? A quick thinker whoever she was. The way she was moving, Tarasov would only know that Ray had been called away on unexpected business – not 'that he had been arrested again. Hopefully, this wouldn't take long.

"Five times in five weeks," Ray pointed out, as they left the club. "Once when I was the one being shot at, and four times since for Sarah's death. Three times you've interrupted a business meeting, and every single time you've come up with nothing. You know why? Because I had nothing to do with it. You guys getting off on this? You should be looking for the Onofris." Fucking bastard lawyer Pender. Why hasn't he sorted this out already? He said he'd sorted it out.

"Mind yourself," one of the younger cops said, trying to look hard, as Ray got into the back of the blue and white. Fucker put his hand on Ray's head and pushed him down – as though Ray was resisting, or reluctant to get in. Wasn't like Ray had never done that to a suspect before, but now he knew just how damn annoying that 'take charge' gesture was. Which was why cops did it, of course. Still, it was only a gesture. There were no teeth behind it.

Ray settled in the back of the police car as comfortably as if it was a limo, and yawned through it while the young cop remembered to Mirandize him. It pissed cops off if you weren't scared. Ray knew that one for a fact. He also knew that when he was a cop, especially with Benny to back him up, he'd have been frisking a bastard like the Bookman in public – but then Ray always was a fucking lunatic. These guys, he told himself, were pussies. They'd wait till they got to booking to take his guns.

Yeah, all the good it did, playing hardball with Zuko, back when I was a cop. He closed his eyes and pretended to doze off. Ever since we were kids, playing cops and robbers. And then someone ends up dead…

He did sleep for a little while in the back of the car, because Sarah was next to him. Or maybe it was Irene. She rested her fingers on his hand. He smiled, and opened his eyes, but whoever it was had gone.

Sunday, April 7th, 1997. 10:45 am

By the time they let him out of the holding cell, he was sick, and shaking. Not a lot, but enough that he could feel it. Thank God his hands were out of sight, or they'd all know he was a fucking coward.

"Mr Langoustini." Detective Burns slapped his hand down on the table, startling Ray back to full alertness. God I'm exhausted… "Answer the question. What were you doing between two and four am, on Saturday the eighth of March?"

Wow, for such a little guy, he could sure dominate a room.

"I've told you already," Ray gritted out through clenched teeth. "I passed out drunk in my son's bedroom." God Almighty, how many times is he going to ask me the same question? How long have I been here anyway? He'd spent the whole night in the cage with winos, and schizos and junkies, not able to sleep.

It wasn't just the noise from the other inmates, though that didn't help. It was the fact that his sleeping tablets were back at Armando's place. He couldn't even check his fancy-schmancy watch for the time. They had taken that from him, along with his guns, his tie, his vest, his cufflinks, his jacket, the contents of his pockets, including a compass, and his shoes. Finally, his mother's cross.

No blanket, and the temperatures dropped at night, so, he'd even been cold. That's why I'm shaking. Not because I'm afraid.

"According to your household staff," Burns' voice dragged him, again, to the present, "you weren't in your son's room all night."

"Oh? And how the fuck would they know?" What fucking bastard was talking to the cops? It's not Nero… has to be one of the cleaners. Who was cleaning that day? I'll fire the fucking bitch.

"Not to be too delicate about it, Mr Langoustini, you'd thrown up in your 'rec' room."

"That's your whole case? So I stumbled drunk from one room to the other and threw up on my own carpet. Is that against the law?"

"No. What is against the law is lying to the police and giving false alibis. Both of which you've done."

"Look, I've lied to nobody." Ray would have rubbed his eyes, but when they brought him to the interview room they'd bound his hands behind him. This time, they'd gone for plastic ties rather than cuffs. Even though he didn't have to use the splint anymore, his left hand was throbbing, and he'd have been much happier if it was resting on the table. He was fairly sure the cops knew it, and were doing this deliberately to add to his level of discomfort. "All I know is that I left Sarah at the hotel, did some business with my brothers, went home with Sal and Jackie, and got drunk as a skunk. That's it."

"What 'business' did you do with your cousins? Anything to do with your new casino?"

"Not that our 'business' is any of your 'business,' but just paperwork."

"I see."

Does he? Ray wondered. He asked about the casino. He never asked about that before. Does he see? Because I didn't kill Sarah – Anya – but I did kill…

"You should be looking for the Onofris," Ray closed his eyes for a moment. He felt a little more damned every time he told this lie. "They vanished right after Sarah died. Why don't you ask the Feds?" he scoffed, hoping Johnny and the rest of them got to see this. He could show how much he hated the Feds on camera and get away with it. Pretend he was acting. "They've got the fuckers stashed away somewhere."

For a second then, he saw them, father and son; the Onofris, standing behind Burns. Their faces were grey as the concrete they slept in, adorned with neat little bullet holes, at the midpoint of the forehead, right where Armando's secretary, Padma wore her bindi dot. Ray shook his head, and they vanished. These, he knew, were not ghosts. Ghosts felt different. This was just a guilty conscience.

"So," Burns mused, ignoring Ray's tirade. "You were 'drunk as a skunk.' Can you explain again why?"

"Oh, fuck off. My whole family died. My son just died."

"Yet, you were in a hotel room with his doctor, having sex only hours after his death. That doesn't strike me as the act of a grieving father or husband."

"Fuck you," Ray snapped. "You know nothing. One minute you're saying I killed her because I blame her for Joey's death, next minute you're saying I was fucking her. Make your damn mind up."

"You know what I think, Langoustini? I think you took it very personally. I think you took it so personally you did it yourself. You're the kind of sick bastard who'd get off on it. Poor woman probably felt bad – what doctor doesn't when they lose a kid? And you played her sympathy, fucked her brains out, and then you shot her brains out."

Ray hitched in breath, like he'd been punched in the stomach. He knew they thought that – they'd implied it often enough – but it had never been stated quite so baldly before.

Fuck…

Burns was watching his reaction with interest. Ray steadied himself, schooled his face. If he lost his temper he'd only give them an excuse to hold him longer. Besides, this sudden change of tactics might be a good thing. They'd never held him overnight before, and even Burns had never been so direct in his questioning. Something had changed. They either thought they had something, or they knew they were running out of options and trying to break him before it was too late.

"Where's my lawyer anyway?" Ray rolled his head, and felt a crack in his neck. His shoulders were starting to ache. "I've been here all night." Come to that, where are the fucking Feds? They know I'm stuck in here. He nearly laughed. Maybe I should do what all the villains do – tell this guy I want Witness Protection, and get out of here.

The Feds would have been here in a shot if he really was the Bookman, ready to flip.

"Your lawyer is engaged in other business."

"Other…" Ray's heart froze. Pender only had two other clients – Jackie and Sal. That could only mean one of them had been arrested. Maybe even both. "Look," Ray said, "I don't know what you got, or what you think you got, but I did not kill Sarah. I had no motive. She didn't kill Joey. He just died."

So far Ray hadn't stepped outside the story that the brothers had concocted, that all three of them had been together all night, but God, sometimes he just wanted to break ranks, and screw the FBI and this whole damn operation. Fuck, he suddenly realised. What if the Feds just hang me out to dry? Would they actually let me go to jail, and expect me to keep cover? What the hell do those fuckers want me to do?

Burns was nodding, looking thoughtful. "So," he said, and sat on the table. "Joey just died. And, you didn't blame Sarah?"

"No," Ray's voice was tight. He missed her – which was stupid. He hardly knew her. Sometimes in his dreams he thought he knew her name but… He didn't even know that. Joey was safe, that was all he knew. Somewhere in Witness Protection, with his mother. "No. I don't blame Sarah." Sarah had saved Armando's family – what was left of it. Even if he hadn't fallen in love with her, he'd have been forever grateful. "I don't blame Sarah at all."

"Would you like some water, Mr Langoustini?"

Oh, that's right – the old switcheroo. Burns was famous for it. Usually you needed two cops for the routine to work, but Burns could pull it off. Good cop, bad cop. Ray started laughing. Good cop, bad cop, crazy cop. God, I miss Benny.

Oh fuck. That nearly did it. Ray put his head on the table and breathed steadily. He was not going to let Burns see him crying. What the hell was he crying about Benny for anyway? Benny was away in Chicago, or for all he knew back in Canada. Benny didn't need him.

Shit. Five weeks in, and I'm about to start sobbing in an interview room, and they're filming through the window, and every fucking cop in Nevada is hoping for the Bookman to break down. Do not fuck this up, Vecchio. Do not cry.

The metal table was screwed to the floor, as was his metal chair. Ray concentrated on the sensation of cold against his forehead, and squeezed his eyes tight shut. Any dampness would drop onto the table top rather than run down his cheek. Best he could do since he couldn't wipe his face. He blinked hard, then sat up, with attitude, and grinned.

He caught his reflection in the mirror, and grinned even harder. It worked. Outside the room nobody would have caught the moment of weakness. You'd never guess, looking at that pumpkin smile that he'd been at the point of tears. You'd think he was a psychopath with too many teeth. Burns had noticed though, the fucker. He'd glanced at the little drops of wet on the table. Damn bastard noticed everything.

"Actually," Ray joked. "What I really want is a piss, but it's kinda difficult under the circumstances."

Burns laughed, like he hadn't noticed a thing. "I think we can manage to un-cuff you. You seem to have cooperated so far." He stood, and tapped on the door of the interview room. It opened slightly, and a middle aged woman poked her head around the door. "I think Mr Langoustini should see our doctor now," Burns said. "I'm sure his wrists must be uncomfortable." The woman nodded, and disappeared. Burns walked casually around the table, and with a snick released Ray's hands.

"Owh, Jeez…" Ray heard himself, and realised he sounded very Ray, and very un-Armando. He should be swearing his head off or playing it cool. He shook his hands to get circulation going, then finally got to rest his left hand on the table, unobtrusively wiping the tears from the surface as he did so. Burns' eyes tracked the movement. Great, he noticed that too. Under normal circumstances, Ray would have thought Burns was one hell of a cop. Right now, he was just an irritating bastard. Fuck… and as if that wasn't bad enough, it felt as though Ray's whole heart was pounding through the tightness of his injured palm. He bit his tongue.

"'Jeez?'" Burns looked amused as he sat back down on the table. That's not just to rest his ass, that's taking a dominant position, trying to see if he can intimidate me, make me feel like a kid.

"Yeah. As in, 'Jeez Louise. Owy, I got a booboo.'" Ray grinned again, lifted his hand and played the game. "You wanna kiss it better?"

"Not particularly." Burns' sounded like he was trying not to smile. The door opened, and the detective stood. "I'll step out while the doctor has a look at you."

"I need a piss more than I need a doctor."

"When the doctor's finished with you, I'll find some pretty young police ladies to escort you."

Ray sniggered – he knew he shouldn't, but it was kinda funny. "You guys have arrested me so much I'm getting Stockholm Syndrome," he quipped. "I'm laughing at your crap jokes." He rolled his eyes as the doctor stepped in. Not one he'd ever met before. Some locum or other. "Okay, Sawbones, let me have it."

Better than that, send in Pender, he thought, as the doctor examined him. Ray glanced at the mirror. His own face looked back – thank God. He'd refused to grow his brother's moustache. At least this way when he looked in the mirror he knew who was looking back at him.

Shit, he realised, seeing his naked expression. Hope the fuckers have stopped filming. He slammed the Bookman mask back down, and hoped nobody had noticed Ray Vecchio peeping out, like a scared child. He knew at times Welsh bent the rules and left the camera running; he wasn't the only cop to do it. Don't worry. It was only a moment. The doc didn't try to chitchat or get in his head like the last one, so he was probably okay. It was mainly his hands the guy was bothered about. And as for the slight tremor in Ray's fingers, the man didn't even mention it. He was probably used to prisoners having the shakes.

Fuck, I need to know what the hell is going on. Things were still risky right now. The Iguana brothers were in the middle of taking over Nevada; the cops arresting their consigliere all the time wasn't just bad for business, it was fucking dangerous. Made everyone look weak. That was bad enough, but if Jackie or Sal got dragged in, then all the gains the brothers had made over the last month could easily be lost, not to mention the Russian deal. Ray had seen this same war played out in miniature in Chicago. Zuko had been sent to prison for the attempted murder of a cop – Ray, as it happened – and second degree manslaughter. Don't think about Irene. By the time Zuko's lawyers got him out, Warfield had taken over everything.

The big difference here was that there was a scattering of little families who might try to take advantage, as opposed to one big opponent. Ray had taken out the big opponent, expecting it to stabilise their position. And it woulda done too, if it hadn't been for them pesky cops. All of which meant they had no way of predicting what would happen next.

'You and your clever shit,' Jackie told him, last time he'd been arrested. 'You forgot all about the cops screwing things up.'

Yeah, well, Ray hadn't expected them to be this fucking relentless.

By the time the doctor had finished with him, and he'd finally managed to empty his bladder he really did want to be sick. The toilet was no bigger than a closet, and the door didn't lock. If he took too long in here one of the cops would just pull it open and catch him with his dick hanging out. He flushed with shame at the idea and finished his business. He splashed water on his face, caught a glimpse of himself in the plastic mirror and winced. Close up, he needed a shave, and his face was grey. Shit.

Thank fuck though, Pender was waiting when he got back to the interview room.

"Where the hell have you been?"

"I'm sorry, Armando," the lawyer said smoothly. "Jackie came in to make a statement last night, and I had to come with him."

"Jackie came in? He wasn't arrested?"

"Yes. After he concluded the business with Tarasov, he came in." Pender steepled his fingers, examined his nails.

Ray felt his mouth go dry. "So, now you're gonna tell me there's a conflict of interest, and you can't represent me."

"That may be the case someway down the line, in which case we would find you alternative council, but just for now, I'm here to tell you that you're free to go."

What the fuck did Jackie say? Ray felt something fluttering in his gut – an instinct – cop instinct he'd have called it once. Jackie's setting me up.

His face must have given the game away. "Don't worry," Pender said. "Jackie's looking out for you. He came in to tell the police that he wasn't with you all night."

"He didn't –" fucking shitting bastard piece of scum – "How does that help me?"

"He says you were too drunk to do anything, and the only one of you with no alibi is him. And that if you could be motivated in revenge of your son, he could be just as much of a suspect, given Joey was his nephew."

"Shit." Ray stared at Pender, then realised he probably looked like a dead fish, the way his jaw was hanging open. Why would Jackie put himself in the firing line like this? "He didn't confess to anything did he?" This didn't make sense. "It was Onofri, for God's sake." Jackie would never go to the police about anything. And Onofri killed Sarah – everyone knows that.

"He didn't confess, because as you know there was nothing to confess. He simply presented himself as a credible alternative, because he knew it would create reasonable doubt in the mind of any jury, and get the cops off your back."

"He…" Ray flushed, embarrassed by his unworthy suspicions. "He think of that himself?"

"Yes, as it happens." Pender looked annoyed at not being able to take the credit. "I had considered it, but not mentioned the possibility because – frankly I didn't expect either of your cousins would consider it worth the risk."

"Yeah, well." Ray beamed, suddenly warm in his chest. "You underestimated Jackie." For a happy moment he felt as though Jackie was his own cousin – brother – stepping up to the plate to save him.

Then he remembered. Jackie was a mobster, and he, Ray, was a snitch for the FBI. Not only that, but a murderer.

"Come on," Pender said. "Let's get you processed and out of here." He shook his head. "I can't believe they took your shoes."

"I'll get everything back in the end," Ray said. "I always do."

Sal was waiting for him at the back of the police station, rather than the parking lot round the front. If seen they might be able to bluff it and say they had business with the unions running the Mandalay project – but it would only slow the rumours down. Waste of effort, Ray thought, we've got our own build, and it has nothing to do with Mandalay. If anything, it'll just make folks more suspicious. We should stop sneaking around every time I get pulled in. Just shrug and swagger it off. He'd suggested it, but for once Sal turned down his consigliere's advice, so – here they were, failing to be invisible.

"Fuck, Mando, you look like shit."

"Well, you don't look any better," Ray lied. Sal had dressed down, presumably trying not to draw attention to himself. Bastard looked better in jeans and a tee-shirt than Ray did in his slightly crumpled Armani. Fucking show off, Ray thought, though it was hardly Sal's fault what he looked like. "I need those," he stated, and plucked the sunglasses of his cousin's face. Actually, he really did need them. He'd obviously turned into some kind of vampire – the sunlight was piercing daggers in his eyes, and his head was killing him.

"What did they do to you in there?" Sal walked alongside him to the Lincoln.

"Nothing. Holding cell was noisy, didn't get any sleep." Didn't get a visit from Armando either. Piece of shit.

Sal's eyes darkened. "Let's see your wrists."

Ray sighed, and held out his arms. Sal lifted the left wrist, turned it to see the welts. Ray clenched his fist, even though it stung the palm, to cover the shakes. Sal caught the tremor though.

"Every fucking time," Sal growled. "They know you need physio on that arm. Does it hurt?"

"What do you think?"

"Yeah, well, we'll slap another lawsuit on the bastards. Not just harassment, actual bodily harm. Can we do that, Val?"

Pender gave a stately nod, like a priest. "Certainly," he said. "We'll get a medical report from a sympathetic doctor and…"

Poor fucking cops, Ray thought, remembering what this was like from the other side. Fucking Mafia bastards think we can run roughshod all over them, and we can.

"Hey," Sal brightened. "You hear what Jackie did?"

"Yeah." Ray settled on the passenger side. "Jackie succeeded where three quarters of a mil a year and a fuck load of kickbacks failed." He glanced over his shoulder at Pender on the backseat, and gave him a filthy look. "Just so you know, our capo bastone's a fucking genius, and you're an idiot."

"Well, genius or not," Pender said, with one of his unpleasantly thin smiles, "he's smarter than the LVPD. They'll have to stop harassing you now, Armando, since they know between you and Jackie you'd hang a jury. Not that the police ever had any physical evidence at all – just gossip and innuendo."

"I'd love to know who the gossips are this time." Ray scowled.

"Don't worry, Mando," Sal assured him. "We're looking into it."

"Great. But before we go busting balls, I just wanna get home, get cleaned up, and get some fucking shut eye." Finally, he could lie down somewhere, stop thinking. Not thinking about things was the answer to everything.

"Yeah," Sal apologised. "About that… you won't get much time to sleep."

"Oh?" Ray put a snarl in his voice, but closed his eyes wearily behind the shades, where nobody could see it. And why's that?"

"We need to nip any more rumours in the bud. Cops keep arresting you, it looks bad. So, you need to show your face at the Executive Game. Nobody's gonna expect you, and you'll scare the shit out of 'em."

"Yeah, yeah." Ray sighed. "Business as fucking usual."

"Yeah." The frown line between Sal's eyebrows deepened a little, as he took in Ray's appearance. "You sure you're up for it?"

"I'm up for it." Ray made himself smile. "I can't believe those fucking degenerates are still playing." Ray used to gamble himself, all cops did, but the Bookman was famous for never touching a card. And having seen fortunes lost at the 'Executive Game' Ray was pretty sure he'd never gamble again – not even with Benny for candy.

"Well," Sal started the car, "use one of the suites to get cleaned up, maybe have an hour's shut-eye, then swagger on in there like you own the place."

"We do own the place."

Sal laughed as he looked over his shoulder and backed out of the parking lot. It was an old joke.

3:32pm

As soon as Ray appeared on the floor the manager scuttled up to him, with a rictus of fear on his face. Presumably Herzog thought he was smiling.

"Mr Langoustini, we're so honoured you could join us –"

"Yeah, yeah." Ray dismissed Herzog with a jerk of his chin, and gazed sharply at the room. Even though he'd not got any sleep, he'd showered, shaved, changed, and finally managed to take some pills – not his own, but it was somebody's prescription. He was feeling better.

The gamers had been playing since Saturday night, and the table was stacked high with multi-coloured chips. "So, who's at the table? Anyone new?"

"Oh – uhm. There's a new lady. And a Japanese gentleman…"

Ray looked at the Japanese gambler. Yakuza. "Yeah, he's a friend of mine. Don't let him lose everything, and if you can, try and let him win just enough to go home happy."

"Yes, Sir. I'll try." Herzog's head bobbed eagerly. "What do we do about Smithson? He can't cover his debt –"

"We talked about this. Of course he can cover his debt, just not the way he thinks he will. String him along till he's drowning in it, then we use his businesses for a front. He'll never be able to pay us back, we have other legitimate outlets." Until the poor bastard kills himself, Ray thought. Nah. He's like me – he'll never have the guts.

"How's the lady doing?"

"Not too well, but she's got false confidence. If we let her carry on playing she'll start losing big –"

Ray looked where Herzog was pointing, then shot an angry glare back at him. "Hey, numb-nuts, what the fuck do you do all day when I'm not around? Don't you know who that is?"

"Uhm… well, we checked her credentials, but –"

"That's Denny Scarpa, you moron. What are we paying Griffin for if you can't be bothered to look at the damn mugshots?"

"I'm sorry, Mr Langoustini."

Ray felt a fierce hatred for the man overwhelm him. Did Herzog have to be so – so fucking cringing? He'd do anything to accommodate the Mob. Fucker might just as well roll on his back and let us tattoo 'Welcome' on his stomach. Fucking doormat.

"How the hell did you miss Lady Shoes?" Ray snarled. "So, she's wearing a blonde wig – so what? Next time try looking at her face, not her tits."

"Sorry, Mr Langoustini, I don't know how this happened…"

"Fuck 'sorry.' Just do your job right next time. I can't always be here to clean up after you. God."

Herzog backed off, still muttering apologies. Ray strolled up to the table, putting on his most elegant, imperial smile.

Even in the middle of a hand his arrival was noticed. Someone turned down the volume, Ray thought. He was getting used to having that effect on a room.

He circled the table, inclining his head so he could see each player's hand. The French man fanned out his cards so Ray could see. He was shaking slightly – Ray wouldn't have noticed Gouffet was afraid if the tiny tremor hadn't been magnified by the cards. Ray patted the man's shoulder. There was something unpleasantly satisfying about the fact that he could crack the cool of one of the stoniest faces at the poker table.

Finally he got to Scarpa's chair, and leant over it from behind. Looked at her hand. She snapped the cards shut and covered them with her fingers. Either she didn't know who he was, or she was courageous to the point of psychosis. Had to be the latter; the chances of a professional card player not knowing the Bookman were remote. Ray leant his face in close to hers, cheek to cheek, and the smile froze on her face. Oh yeah, she knows me.

"Fold," he told her, quietly.

"But –"

"Fold."

She folded.

"Sorry to leave you boys," she smiled, and gathered up her purse, "but I've been made a better offer."

Ray stood back, cocked his head to one side, and offered his arm, as though he was a gentleman, and she was really a lady. "Come, Ante," she called, and a ridiculous poodle emerged from under the table. She turned to Ray, and laid a hand flat against the lapels of his jacket. Still playing poker then, he thought, as she trailed her fingers down his chest. Crazy bitch really does have guts. "I'm all yours," she told him in a sultry voice.

Does she expect me to actually fall for this crap? He smiled at her heavy lidded gaze. Despite himself he felt a physical response. Yeah, he conceded wryly. I guess she does.

He didn't have time for this. He'd had women coming onto him ever since his wife died… Shit. What's with my brain? That was the damn cover story. Ever since Armando's wife went into Witness Protection. Okay, so the Bookman was one vicious bastard, but apparently a lot of women were willing to overlook that. Just over a month ago, Ray had become an eligible bachelor – an eligible millionaire bachelor at that. He couldn't beat the social climbing gold-diggers off with a stick.

His lips lifted in a bitter smile at the irony. Now that he had no shortage of women, he found he didn't want any of them. The only person he had been interested in was –

Fuck it. He was not thinking about Sarah.

It wasn't him these women were interested in anyway – it wasn't even Armando. It was just money, and power. And this woman, Denny Scarpa – God knew what her game was. Money, certainly. Thought she could manipulate him, seduce him into turning a blind eye so that he'd let her run around his casinos and clean them out. Well, she didn't know the Bookman if she thought Ray could be won over that easily.

"One drink," he told her, as he led her off the floor and away from the game. "We'll sit at the bar together, and pretend to be civilised. One drink, then you're outta here. I do not want to see you ever again. You understand?"

She drifted her eyes up and down his body, and raised an eyebrow. "You don't want to see me again? That's a terrible shame – I would have thought a man like you was the type to make a woman feel appreciated."

Ray did not like this woman. He returned her scrutiny, taking in her appearance from the strappy high heels, the slinky dress, the scooped neckline, all the way up to her patrician face, framed by what was either a very expensive wig, or recently dyed hair. She suited the look. This was a woman who knew how to use her assets.

The last woman who gave him a vibe like this was…

"You remind me of someone I used to know," he said.

"You miss her?"

"Oh yeah." Ray brushed her hair back behind her ear. On closer inspection it was a wig – made from real human hair. They sold their hair in India, didn't they? He wondered about the woman who'd sold her hair for this. Wondered how much she'd been paid, how much the mark-up was after the wig manufacturers dyed it, wove it, styled it. "Yeah," he said. "I missed her. Won't make that mistake twice."

He leant in close, nearly touching her cheek, and cupped his hand round her head. "One drink," he whispered in her ear. Her breath hitched, and he could see her pulse speeding up in her throat. "One drink, then you're gone." He smiled at her fear, and feathered her face with a kiss. "Don't make me shoot you."

April 7th 1997. 6:02pm

"Hey, Cuz." No sooner had Ray entered the Bacchus than Jackie bounded to his feet and gave him a bear hug. For once Ray returned it with genuine enthusiasm. 'Jackie really does love you,' he thought at his brother, who was standing at his cousin's side, a faint smile playing on his lips. So that's where he was when I was in lock up. Keeping an eye on Jackie. 'Okay, you're right,' Ray silently conceded,although his brother hadn't said a word to him in weeks. 'He's not all bad.' He found himself admiring Jackie's dedication to famiglia. The man might not have many virtues, but what virtue he did have, he had in spades.

"Thanks Jackie," he broke the hug, and sat down at the table. "What can I say? You're a rock star."

"Runs in the family." Jackie was smiling, uncharacteristically, which was normally a sign that he was going to beat the shit out of someone. On this occasion he just looked happy. "I ordered already," he said, sitting back down. "Thought we'd try the saltimbocca."

"Yeah, thanks."

"So, how did it go with the gamers?"

Ray rolled his eyes. "Herzog's a dick," he said. "You'll never guess who he let sit in at the game."

"Who?" Jackie furrowed his eyebrows and leant forward, his elbows on the table. Nonna Esposito woulda had a fit…

"Only Lady Shoes."

"You're kidding." Jackie's incredulity was almost comical – his jaw hung open for a moment. "You're not kidding." He shook his head. "What do we pay that fucker Herzog for?"

"I got no idea." Ray ran his right hand over the crown of his head. He still wasn't used to the roughness of his palm against his skin, and wondered briefly if the scars would get smoother as they faded. And how bad the left would look… Stupid really. Who cared? "I mean, fuck's sake," he said, as the food arrived. "A mistake like that, you gotta wonder if he's doing it deliberately." No sooner than he'd said it he was cursing himself for a fool. Of course, Jackie picked up on it immediately.

"You don't think he is, do you?" His cousin was glowering now. "Doing it deliberately? I mean, he coulda been working a deal with her."

Great. Me and my big mouth. It was quite possible Herzog really was in on it – he was scared of the Iguanas, but people got greedy, and in this city greed was stronger than fear. But Jackie didn't need to know Ray's suspicions. If I'm not careful I'm gonna get another guy killed… "Nah. He's just an idiot. She probably fluttered her eyelids, and pushed her bosom in his face, and he completely forgot to look in the book."

"You'd not forget that mugshot." Jackie smirked. "She's a fox."

"Yeah. Wily like one too. You know she came onto me?"

"Oh yeah?" Jackie started cutting the meat. "And what did you do about it?"

Ray kept a straight face, even though it suddenly seemed funny. "Told her to get out, or I'd shoot her."

Jackie sucked his cheeks in, trying not to laugh. "You're hopeless, Cuz," he said, then started cackling at his own joke. "At least you shoulda fucked her first."

Ray was laughing himself when…

Benny. Standing at the table, in his brown uniform, as cool and calm as a sommelier. Oh God. He choked on his wine at the hallucination. What the fuck am I doing here?

"Don't worry." The worst thing was Benny's eyes. He didn't judge him, and he lied. "It'll be alright."