“I swear, Rook, if you’re wasting my time here . . .”
“Hey, Jamie,” came the voice from behind her. She turned to see Rook’s mob buddy, Tomasso “Fat Tommy” Nicolosi, across the lot, holding open the glass door to the wash lobby and waving them over. Rook gave her a self-satisfied grin and walked to meet him. She followed, making a casual sweep of the lot for any hood pals.
Inside the lobby of the Apple Shine, Fat Tommy gave Rook a bear hug and a double-clap on his back, then turned to Heat with a smile. “Nice to see you again, Detective.” He extended his hand and she shook it, all the while wondering how many beatings and worse he had used it for over his decades in The Life.
A livery driver in the requisite black suit and red tie came out of the restroom and sat down to read the Post behind them and they could see Fat Tommy’s face tighten. “It’s a beautiful day,” said Rook. “Would you rather talk at one of the outside tables?”
The mobster made a cautious appraisal of the busy corner where Tenth met Gansevoort. “I don’t think so. Let’s use the office.”
They trailed him around the counter and into the room marked “Private.”
“Are you losing more weight?” asked Rook as Fat Tommy closed the door. The hood had gotten his nickname in the early 1960s when legend had it that during one of the racket wars he took three slugs in the stomach but survived because of his gut. Nicolosi was still heavy enough to tilt his El Dorado to one side when Rook first met him, but now he was more afraid of cholesterol than brass jackets. Heat noticed he was wearing a similar track suit to the one he’d worn when she was introduced to him at the construction site in the summer, and it did seem a little loose on him.
“Bless you for noticing. Five more pounds. Check it out, Fat Tommy’s tipping it at one seventy-three.”
Rook tugged at some excess velour. “You lose any more, I’m going to have to tie a ribbon on you just to find you.”
Tommy laughed. “You gotta love this guy. Don’t you love this guy?” Nikki grinned and did a bobble head. “Sit, sit.” As they took seats on the couch, he eased into the chair behind the desk. “By the way, that was some nice article Jamie wrote about you. Real nice. Didn’t you like it?”
“It was . . . memorable, for sure.” She turned to Rook and gave him the ready look.
Rook picked up on it. “We really appreciate the courtesy of this meeting.” He waited for the protocol of Fat Tommy dismissing it with a wave and continued. “I’m working with Nikki on that murder from this morning, and I told her you had some information that might be helpful.”
“You didn’t tell her?”
“I gave you my word.”
“Good boy.” Fat Tommy removed his oversized sunglasses, revealing his basset-hound eyes, which he set on Nikki. “You know my business. I keep my hands clean, but I know people who know people who aren’t the most upright citizens.” Heat knew he was lying. This cordial little man was as bad as they come but was a master at insulating himself from anything prosecutable. “Right, just so you understand. Anyway, I got a call recently from somebody inquiring about what it would involve to take out a hit on Cassidy Towne.”
Heat sat herself up a little higher on the couch. “A contract hit? Somebody called you to make a hit on Cassidy Towne?”
“Not so fast. I didn’t say someone asked for a hit. Someone asked what it would take. You know, there are stages to these things. So I’m told.” She started to speak, but he held out his palm and continued. “And—and nothing ever came of it.”
“That’s it?” she said.
“Right, it ended there.”
“No, I mean that’s all you have?”
“Jamie said you wanted help, so I’m giving it. What do you mean, is that all?”
“What I mean,” she said, “is I want a name.” He put his elbows on the desk and looked to Rook and then back to her. Heat turned to Rook. “Did he tell you the name?”
“No,” said Rook.