Page 1 of The Associate

Chapter One

“Okay, who’s next?” Gio asked.

Vic Croce flipped over the top page of his spiral-bound steno notepad and tapped his ballpoint pen on the second to last name not yet crossed out. “Ying’s.” He flicked his gaze ahead of them, to where a distant traffic light blinked yellow. “Where are we now, Huston Street? Easiest way to get there from here is to hang a right at the light and drive two blocks,” he said. “It’ll be on the corner.”

Scratch-scratch went the pen, grating on Gio’s nerves. “You know about these newfangled contraptions called cell phones, right? You can tap out notes right on the screen”—quietly—“so you don’t have to tear through sheets and sheets of paper and kill all the trees.”

Vic stabbed the pen’s tip on the notepad again, for emphasis. The move left a thick blue smudge next to Ying’s name. “Hey, I don’t need every search engine and tweety site listening to me through those so-calledapps,” he said. “Pen and paper keep your secrets.”

Gio snorted. “Until somebody finds a carelessly discarded note.”

“What?” Vic flashed the small pad. “It’s a list of local restaurants. People’ll think I’m a food critic. Fuckin’ drive already, G.”

Joseph “Gio” Spatafora huffed out a mirthless laugh and gripped the wheel of his black sedan. He checked the rearview mirror for approaching traffic. Amber-colored eyes, tired yet intense, set underneath a pair of bushy black brows urged him on to the next stop. He almost spoke up on seeing them, to warn Vic he wasn’t looking like himself lately. Who was this bum in the reflection, staring back with such exhaustion?

Gio was twenty-eight years old and an associate for the San Gaetanos, whose boss controlled the sprawling west side of the city from downtown to the river. Having worked for the family since elementary school, he hoped to soon move on to more substantial work beyond these tedious bagman runs. Preferably in the daytime, leaving his nights free. Nothing against Vic, his partner for this route—he liked the man’s company—but he was capable of working alone.

“Gio?” Vic slapped the notepad on the dash, snapping Gio out of his reverie.

“Right,” Gio said, and pulled away from the curb. It was close to six, and Ying’s delivered until midnight. That he and Vic would have the bag packed before suppertime spoke of their efficiency, considering their growing ‘client list.’ Between the restaurants, bodegas, services and miscellaneous retail shops, Gio figured he’d collected from just over a hundred entrepreneurs over the past few days…with added muscle from Vic, of course.

He didn’t bother with his seatbelt on the short drive, and lucked out on a free stretch of curb outside the storefront. Checking under the flap of his green and white varsity jacket for his gun, tucked into his belt, he joined Vic on the sidewalk.

“You want to pick up something to go while we’re here?” Vic asked.

“No. Get what you want if you’re not hanging around.” Friday at their capo’s house meantsaltimbocca, and the capo’s wife cooked not only well but in volume. Every dinner was like Christmas Eve and Gio, who survived on canned ravioli and single-serving noodle cups, was always glad of a home-cooked meal. Vic, who still lived with his mother, clearly took that benefit for granted if he craved over-salted Chinese food.

The setup of Ying’s discouraged lingering diners. Blinding lights from exposed fluorescent tubes, two drinks coolers taking up space on the other side of the counter, and only two four-top tables with three chairs apiece. Two children occupied the one farthest from the door, textbooks and binders spread over the surface among opened soda cans. Gio spoke curtly to the older one in halting Mandarin.

“Get your father. Now.”

The boy grabbed his sister and pulled her through the red embroidered curtains separating the service counter from the busy kitchen. Gio watched the movement through the slit, of bodies hunched over grills and stock pots. A face, eyes wide with worry, glanced in his direction briefly before disappearing to one side.

When the old man emerged, he held two white paper pint containers with reedy metal handles. He nodded silently and showed them to Gio before placing them in a brown paper bag. Mr. Ying addressed Gio by his last name, his accent thick. “One moo goo gai pan, one pork lo mein,” he announced loudly, and shoved a fistful of sauce packets and napkins on top.

Vic stepped forward, irritated. “Excuse me, old man?” he barked, and reached for the lower flap of his windbreaker. “You out of your fu—”

Gio slapping his hand on Vic’s shoulder cut short the tirade. He countered Vic’s venomous glare with a crook of his head behind them. A young couple had walked in, the man with his wallet out, presumably to pick up their order. Vic got the message quickly and stood down.

As muscle, Vic served well, but he had much to learn before the San Gaetanos allowed him to make these rounds on his own. With potential witnesses in their airspace, Gio wasn’t keen on hanging around for additional orders. He took the bag from Ying and gave a sharp bow.

“Xièxiè,” he said. “See you next time.”

Ying returned the gesture, silent.

Back in the car, Gio chastised his partner. “You had to have known the old man was speaking in code.”

“No, because everybody else handed us envelopes, not ‘takeout.’” Vic turned in his seat to face Gio head-on. “Where’d you learn to speak fucking Chinese?”

“I read books. You should try it,” Gio said. “I pick up enough to show these people some common courtesy. These transactions occur more smoothly when you relate to them.” To that effect, Gio also spoke enough Spanish, Portuguese, and Russian to deal with their marks, in addition to his fluency in Italian. It worked, too. He got the sense shopkeepers felt less threatened by a collector who greeted them in their native tongues.

“For the record,” Gio added, “I was speaking Mandarin, a dialect of the Chinese language.”

“A dia-who?” Vic shook his head. “You sure go through a lot of trouble for a pickup job.”

“Yes, and you saw how easily Ying paid up. No arguments, in MandarinorEnglish.” Gio grunted and dropped the bag in Vic’s lap. “Count it. Make sure it’s all there.”

Vic opened one of the pint boxes to a thick roll of cash. Gio watched the block for signs of police activity and curious window peepers. The latter could be discouraged with a dirty look, Gio surmised, but cops were tricky. Don San Gaetano kept a few officers in his pocket, but they all looked alike to Gio. Big risk to bribe the wrong one if he came up to the car tapping on the windshield.

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