“You handle all that stuff like a breeze,” Tony said.
“Things have been going a little too well,” Angelo said. “I’m starting to get concerned.”
“You worry too much,” Tony said with a laugh. “The reason things have been going so well is because we know what we’re doing. And the more we do it, the better we get. It’s the same thing with everything.”
“Screw-ups happen,” Angelo said. “No matter how much you prepare. We have to expect it. And be able to handle it when it does.”
“Ah, you’re just a pessimist,” Tony said.
Engrossed in their banter, neither Tony nor Angelo took note of a black Cadillac cruising two cars behind them. At the wheel, a relaxed Franco Ponti was enjoying a tape of Aida. Thanks to a tip from a contact in the Times Square area, Franco had been tailing Angelo and Tony since their stop at the pizza place.
“Which one are we doing?” Tony asked.
“The woman,” Angelo said.
“Whose turn?” Tony asked. He knew Angelo was due but hoped he might have forgotten.
“I don’t give a damn,” Angelo said. “You can do her. I’ll watch the man.”
Angelo drove by the brownstone several times before parking. It was five stories tall with a double door at the top of a short flight of granite steps. Beneath the stoop at the ground level was another door.
“The service entrance is probably the way to go,” Angelo said. “We’ll be a little shielded by the stoop. I can see there’s an alarm, but if it’s the kind I think it is, it won’t be a problem.”
“You’re the boss,” Tony said. He took his gun out and attached the silencer.
They parked almost a block away and walked back. Angelo carried a small flight bag full of tools. When they got to the house, Angelo told Tony to wait on the sidewalk and let him know if anyone was coming. Angelo descended the few steps to the service entrance door.
Tony kept an eye out, but the street was quiet. No one was in sight. What Tony didn’t see was Franco Ponti parked only a few doors down, blocking a driveway.
“All right,” Angelo whispered from the shadows of the service entrance. “Come on.”
They entered a long hallway, moving quickly to the stairs. There was an elevator but they knew better than to use it. Taking two steps at a time, they climbed to the first floor and listened. Save for a large antique clock ticking loudly in the dark, the house was quiet.
“Can you imagine living in a place like this?” Tony whispered. “It’s like a palace.”
“Shut up,” Angelo snapped.
They continued upstairs, climbing a curving, double staircase that circled a chandelier Tony guessed was six feet across. On the second floor they peered into a series of sitting rooms, a library, and a den. On the third floor they hit pay dirt: the master bedroom.
Angelo stood to one side of the double doors that no doubt led to the master suite. Tony took the other side. Both men had their guns drawn. Their silencers were attached.
Angelo slowly turned the door handle and pushed the door in. The room was larger than any bedroom either of them had ever seen. On the far wall—which seemed very far to Angelo—stood a massive canopied bed.
Angelo stepped into the room, motioning for Tony to follow. He went to the right side of the bed, where the man was sleeping. Tony went to the other side. Angelo nodded. Tony extended his gun while Angelo did the same.
Tony’s gun went off with its familiar hissing thump and the woman recoiled. The man must have been a light sleeper. No sooner had the shot gone off than he sat bolt upright, eyes wide. Angelo shot him before he had a chance to say a word. He toppled over toward his wife.
“Oh, no!” Angelo said out loud.
“What’s the matter?” Tony questioned.
Using the tip of the silencer, Angelo reached over and separated the fingers of the dying man. Clutched in his hand was a small plastic device with a button.
“He had a goddamn alarm,” Angelo said.