someone, I lose them, but this time I think maybe it’ll be different. Maybe
you’ll change things for me the way I helped change them for you, and maybe this
time luck’s with me.”
Her heart raced. She could barely get her breath, but she said, “I love you.”
“Will you marry me?”
She was stunned. She did not know what she’d expected to happen, but certainly
not this. Just hearing him say he loved her, just being able to express the same
sentiments to him—that was enough to keep her happy for weeks, months. She
expected to have time to walk around their love, as if it were a great and
mysterious edifice that, like some newly discovered pyramid, must be studied and
pondered from every angle before she dared to undertake an exploration of the
interior.
“Will you marry me?” be repeated.
This was too fast, recklessly fast, and just sitting there on a kitchen chair
she got as dizzy as if she had been spinning around on a carnival ride, and she
was afraid, too, so she tried to tell him to slow down, tried to tell him they
had plenty of time to consider the next step before taking it, but to her
surprise she heard herself say, “Yes. Oh, yes.”
He reached out and took both her hands.
She cried, then, but they were good tears.
Lost in his book, Einstein had nevertheless been aware of what was transpiring.
He came to the table, sniffing at both of them, rubbing against their legs, and
whining happily.
Travis said, “Next week?”
“Married? But it takes time to get a license and everything.”
“Not in Las Vegas. I can call ahead, make arrangements with a wedding chapel in
Vegas. We can go next week and be married.”
Crying and laughing at the same time, she said, “All right.”
“Terrific,” Travis said, grinning.
Einstein wagged his tail furiously: Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
5
On Wednesday, the fourth of August, working on contract for the Tetragna Family
of San Francisco, Vince Nasco hit a little cockroach named Lou Pantangela. The
cockroach had turned state’s evidence and was scheduled, in September, to
testify in court against members of the Tetragna organization.
Johnny The Wire Santini, computer hacker for the mob, had used his high-
tech expertise to invade federal computer files and locate Pantangela. The
cockroach was living under the protection of two federal marshals in a safe
house in, of all places, Redondo Beach, south of L.A. After testifying this
autumn, he was scheduled to be given a new identity and a new life in
Connecticut, but of course he was not going to live that long.
Because Vince would probably have to waste one or both of the marshals to get at
Pantangela, the rubout was going to bring a lot of heat, so the Tetragnas
offered him a very high price—$60,000. They had no way of knowing that the need
to kill more than one man was a bonus to Vince; it made the job more—not
less—attractive.
He ran surveillance on Pantangela for almost a week, using a different vehicle
every day to avoid being spotted by the cockroach’s bodyguards. They did not
often let Pantangela outside, but they were still more confident of their hiding
place than they should have been because three or four times a week they allowed
him to have a late lunch in public, accompanying him to a little trattoria four
blocks from the safe house.
They had changed Pantangela’s appearance as much as possible. He had once had
thick black hair that he had worn longish, over his collar, Now his hair was cut
short and dyed light brown. He’d had a mustache, but they’d made him shave it
off. He had been sixty pounds overweight, but after two months in the care of
the marshals, he had lost about forty pounds. Nevertheless, Vince recognized
him.
On Wednesday, August 4, they took Pantangela to the trattoria at one o’clock, as
usual. At ten minutes past one, Vince strolled in to have his own lunch.
The restaurant had only eight tables in the middle and six booths along each
side wall. It looked clean but had too much Italian kitsch for Vince’s taste: