Page 101 of The Furies

The Hitch Knot stood at the end of Junkins Avenue, and looked like what it probably was: a bar for locals, with a menu to which the word “experimental” could be applied only if the option of sweet potato fries was one’s idea of cutting edge. Oddly, I couldn’t recall ever having noticed it before, despite being a fairly regular visitor to Portsmouth. The bar blended into its block, so that unless it was a destination, the eye would skate over it. Even the name was barely visible, and the only concession to theories of design was a brass version of the knot that gave the place its name, which hung from a rail above the door. But if Mattia Reggio was right, the Hitch Knot was also somewhere Portsmouth cops didn’t frequent when off duty, although one could be sure they kept an eye on it. If Dante Vero felt safe conducting his business there, then its connections to the Office ran deep.

We parked outside, put our cell phones in the glove compartment, and had a brief discussion about weapons. We didn’t want to come across as actively hostile, but nobody likes being a pushover, and Louis’s warning about the Office’s penchant for basement hospitality had stuck. In the end we decided that sometimes even the NRA was right, and it was better to have a gun and not need it than vice versa. A sign on the front door read CLOSED FOR PRIVATE FUNCTION. Either we were about to gate-crash a wake, or Dante Vero didn’t want any witnesses or eavesdroppers. I could feel myself tensing up. Walking into these situations was never pleasant, and the more often I did it, the greater was the likelihood that one day I wouldn’t walk out again.

I’d been expecting the interior of the Hitch Knot to be functional, but I was wrong. Money and care had been put into its furnishings: brass fittings, dark wood, red upholstery, and illumination bright enough to allow a newspaper to be read without inducing a headache, but subdued enough for intimacy. Five men waited for us inside, not counting the bartender, who had long white hair, a long white beard, and a face to match. He seemed unimpressed by our arrival, which put him on a par with the rest of the welcoming committee. One of them, the largest, was sitting at the bar, while the remaining four were congregated around a table halfway down the room. Dante Vero, recognizable from some brief Internet research, was second from the right, a medium-sized man dressed like a construction worker: jeans, checked shirt, and a padded jacket, topped off with a weathered Red Sox cap. He looked as though he wished he were somewhere else, which, if what was said about him was true, counted as his default mode of being. Some men are born to lead, and some have leadership thrust upon them. The hunch in Vero’s shoulders, and his expression of weariness, suggested the weight of responsibility rested heavily on him, and he’d surrender it with gratitude the first chance he got.

The guy at the bar dropped from his stool, and we all waited a moment for the floor to stop shaking. He came toward us with a bug detector in hand, and swept it over each of us before turning to Vero and shaking his head.

“I suppose you’re carrying,” said Vero.

“We are,” I said.

“Hardly worth asking you to hand them over, is it?”

“We wouldn’t have bothered bringing them if it was.”

Vero glanced at his companions and made a gesture of resignation with his hands.

“Then I guess you can hold on to them,” he said, “if they mean that much to you.”

Behind us, the man-mountain locked up, monitored by Angel. He’d dozed on the ride down, and was sharper now.

“You don’t mind if my friend here takes a seat by the door?” I said, indicating Angel.

“He can sit anywhere he likes,” said Vero. “But if you’re worried about being stopped from leaving, that’s not why we’re here.”

“We’re not worried,” said Louis, speaking for the first time. The ambiguity of the statement brought a smile even from Vero.

“Then take a seat. If you want something to drink, Saverio over there will provide.”

“Coffee might be welcome,” I said, as Louis and I joined the quartet at their table. The bartender stroked his beard, but didn’t make any move to oblige until Vero gave him the nod, after which he sprang—or shuffled—into action. At the rate he was moving, we’d have been better off asking for the coffee iced. Angel stayed at the table closest to the door, keeping everyone in sight. The man-mountain stared at him for a while, as though trying to figure out why God would have bothered making anything so inconsequential, before returning to his perch.

Of the four men, I recognized only one apart from Vero: Luca Zamboni, or Luca Z, as he was known. Luca Z was about fifteen years younger than Vero, and had been in line for the position that the latter now occupied before the bosses in Providence opted for a more cautious, conservative hand to steady the ship in the Northeast until a more permanent solution could be found. Luca Z had taken the decision reasonably well, because he knew his time would come, perhaps even as soon as Vero was permitted to stand down. Until then he had been instructed to shadow the older man, thus providing some steel to underpin Vero’s softer approach. Luca Z was also the one who had been prepared to allow his associates to rape Sarah Abelli. If the opportunity ever arose to do him an injury without bringing the wrath of the Office down upon me, I’d take it.

The others at the table—one older than Vero, one younger than Luca Z—struck me as a consigliere on the one hand, and a driver-cum-errand-boy on the other. The more senior of the pair was regarding Louis closely, the way one might some rare species of animal about which one had heard much, and which might give cause for concern if roused. He had sad, rheumy eyes, and hair that had thinned to wisps. He was also the most formally attired of anyone in the bar, which meant that he was wearing a tie.

“Is it Lew-is or Lou-ee?” he said, before introductions had been made.

“It’s Lou-ee,” said Louis. “My people came from Evangeline Parish, Louisiana, way back.”

“Really? Because I heard both, Lew-is and Lou-ee.”

“Then some of the time, you heard wrong.”

“I like to get names straight. It’s polite, you know?”

“I know,” said Louis. “But you have the advantage over me when it comes to names.”

“This is Adio Pirato,” said Vero. “To my left is Luca Zamboni, and the young man here is Anthony. Mark, over by the bar, you already met.”

Anthony and Mark clearly didn’t merit last names. The only people who mattered were Vero, Luca Z, and Pirato, with their staunchly Italian nomenclature. I vaguely recalled the latter, maybe from gossip or court reports. If I had retained some memory of him, it was almost certainly with good cause.

“I’ve been interested to meet you gentlemen for some time,” said Pirato. “That’s quite the reputation you’ve established for yourselves. Frankly, there are a lot of people who would pay good money to see you end up as landfill.”

“Are you tempted?” I said.

“Not me. I figure only my next of kin would get to spend the bounty.”

Which settled the matter. I can’t say I wasn’t relieved, although I couldn’t speak for Louis. He was probably feeling sorry that they hadn’t tried. Luca Z might have been inclined, if only to prove a point. Up close, I could practically hear his fuse sizzling.

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