Chapter 11: The Books

At six the next morning, sixty Brandolini men stood on the warehouse floor for the shift change.

I stood on a pallet in front of them in a borrowed work jacket, with my mother's rosary around my wrist.

The watchman's grandson stood beside me and held the log open.

Declan stayed against the far wall with his hands in his pockets.

I had asked him to.

"You all know my name," I said. "My father gave this crew to Renato Falzone as a wedding gift. Some of you cried when he did it."

A few of the older men looked at the concrete.

"I'm not here to ask for anything yet. I'm here to read to you."

I opened the book.

The pages were soft with use, and the old watchman's handwriting leaned to the right.

"This is the night log for the Calumet door," I said. "Every truck, every visitor, every key."

I turned to the last year.

"Fourteen months ago the widows' fund stopped paying. Four hundred dollars a month to every woman whose husband died for this crew."

The foreman in the front row lifted his head.

"Renato told you money was tight," I said. "He told you the docks had slowed."

"He told us it was a delay," the foreman said. "My mother-in-law hasn't been paid since the spring."

"Every Tuesday night since then," I read, "a black Cadillac arrived at the side door at eleven."

I looked up.

"It left at ten past with a gym bag that was heavier on the way out."

"The night watchman wrote down the plate number every time."

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