The men took their accustomed chairs around the green felt table in the den. Orsatti pointed to Joe Romano’s vacant chair and said to Inspector Newhouse, ‘That’ll be your seat from now on, Mel.’
While one of the men opened fresh packs of cards, Pope began distributing poker chips. He explained to Inspector Newhouse, ‘The black chips are five dollars, red chips ten dollars, blue chips fifty dollars, white chips a hundred. Each man starts out buying five hundred dollars’ worth of chips. We play table stakes, three raises, dealer’s choice.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ the inspector said.
Anthony Orsatti was in a bad mood. ‘Come on. Let’s get started.’ His voice was a strangled whisper. Not a good sign.
Perry Pope would have given a great deal to learn what had happened to Joe Romano, but the lawyer knew better than to bring up the subject. Orsatti would discuss it with him when he was ready.
Orsatti’s thoughts were black: I been like a father to Joe Romano. I trusted him, made him my chief lieutenant. And the son of a bitch stabbed me in the back. If that dizzy French dame hadn’t telephoned, he might have got away with it, too. Well, he won’t ever get away with nothin’ again. Not where he is. If he’s so clever, let him fuck around with the fish down there.
‘Tony, are you in or out?’
Anthony Orsatti turned his attention back to the game. Huge sums of money had been won and lost at this table. It always upset Anthony Orsatti to lose, and it had nothing to do with money. He could not bear to be on the losing end of anything. He thought of himself as a natural-born winner. Only winners rose to his position in life. For the last six weeks, Perry Pope had been on some kind of crazy winning streak, and tonight Anthony Orsatti was determined to break it.
Since they played dealer’s choice, each dealer chose the game in which he felt the strongest. Hands were dealt for five-card stud, seven-card stud, low ball, draw poker – but tonight, no matter which game was chosen, Anthony Orsatti kept finding himself on the losing end. He began to increase his bets, playing recklessly, trying to recoup his losses. By midnight when they stopped to have the meal Andre had prepared, Orsatti was out $50,000, with Perry Pope the big winner.
The food was delicious. Usually Orsatti enjoyed the free midnight snack, but this evening he was impatient to get back to the table.
‘You’re not eating, Tony,’ Perry Pope said.
‘I’m not hungry.’ Orsatti reached for the silver coffee urn at his side, poured coffee into a Victoria-patterned Herend-china cup, and sat down at the poker table. He watched the others eat and wished they would hurry. He was impatient to win his money back. As he started to stir his coffee, a small particle fell into his cup. Distastefully, Orsatti removed the particle with a spoon and examined it. It appeared to be a piece of plaster. He looked up at the ceiling, and something hit him on the forehead. He suddenly became aware of a scurrying noise overhead.
‘What the hell’s goin’ on upstairs?’ Anthony Orsatti asked.
Perry Pope was in the middle of telling an anecdote to Inspector Newhouse. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say, Tony?’
The scurrying noise was more noticeable now. Bits of plaster began to trickle onto the green felt.
‘It sounds to me like you have mice,’ the senator said.
‘Not in this house.’ Perry Pope was indignant.
‘Well, you sure as hell got somethin’,’ Orsatti growled.
A larger piece of plaster fell on the green felt table.
‘I’ll have Andre take care of it,’ Pope said. ‘If we’re finished eating, why don’t we get back to the game?’
Anthony Orsatti was staring up at a small hole in the ceiling directly above his head. ‘Hold it. Let’s go take a look up there.’
‘What for, Tony? Andre can –’
Orsatti had already risen and started for the stairway. The others looked at one another, then hurried after him.
‘A squirrel probably got into the attic,’ Perry Pope guessed. ‘This time of year they’re all over the place. Probably hiding his nuts for the winter.’ He laughed at his little joke.
When they reached the door to the attic, Orsatti pushed it open, and Perry Pope turned on the light. They caught a glimpse of two white hamsters frantically racing around the room.
‘Jesus!’ Perry Pope said. ‘I’ve got rats!’
Anthony Orsatti was not listening. He was staring at the room. In the middle of the attic was a camp chair with a packet of sandwiches on top of it and two open cans of beer. On the floor next to the chair was a pair of binoculars.
Orsatti walked over to them, picked up the objects one by one, and examined them. Then he got down on his knees on the dusty floor and moved the tiny wooden cylinder that concealed a peephole that had been drilled into the ceiling. Orsatti put his eye to the peephole. Directly beneath him the card table was clearly visible.
Perry Pope was standing in the middle of the attic, dumb-founded. ‘Who the hell put all this junk up here? I’m going to raise hell with Andre about this.’
Orsatti rose slowly to his feet and brushed the dust from his trousers.
Perry Pope glanced down at the floor. ‘Look!’ he exclaimed. ‘They left a goddamned hole in the ceiling. Workmen today aren’t worth a shit.’
He crouched down and took a look through the hole, and his face suddenly lost its colour. He stood up and looked around wildly, to find all the men staring at him.
‘Hey!’ Perry Pope said. ‘You don’t think I –? Come on, fellas, this is me. I don’t know anything about this. I wouldn’t cheat you. My God, we’re friends!’ His hand flew to his mouth, and he began biting furiously at his cuticles.
Orsatti patted him on the arm. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ His voice was almost inaudible.
Perry Pope kept gnawing desperately at the raw flesh of his right thumb.
‘That’s two down, Tracy,’ Ernestine Littlechap chortled. ‘The word on the street is that your lawyer friend Perry Pope ain’t practisin’ law no more. He had a real bad accident.’
They were having café au lait and beignets at a small pavement café off Royal Street.
Ernestine gave a high giggle. ‘You got a brain, girl. You wouldn’t like to go into business with me, would you?’
‘Thanks, Ernestine. I have other plans.’
Ernestine asked eagerly, ‘Who’s next?’
‘Lawrence. Judge Henry Lawrence.’
Henry Lawrence had begun his career as a small-town lawyer in Leesville, Louisiana. He had very little aptitude for the law, but he had two very important attributes: he was impressive looking, and he was morally flexible. His philosophy was that the law was a frail rod, meant to be bent to suit the needs of his clients. With that in mind, it was not surprising that shortly after he moved to New Orleans, Henry Lawrence’s law practice began to flourish with a special group of clients. He went from handling misdemeanours and traffic accidents to handling felonies and capital crimes, and by the time he reached the big leagues, he was an expert at suborning juries, discrediting witnesses, and bribing anyone who could help his case. In short, he was Anthony Orsatti’s kind of man, and it was inevitable that the paths of the two should cross. It was a marriage made in Mafia heaven. Lawrence became the mouthpiece for the Orsatti Family, and when the timing was right, Orsatti had him elevated to a judgeship.