.
... Tommy Roccaforte stood in the meager shade of an acacia tree and watched as the movers across the street carried his brand new furniture up to his brand new apartment.  An entire household, packed flat in cardboard boxes.  When he thought of the heavy oak and Italian leather with which he’d furnished his home on Staten Island it made him want to weep.
... He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
... The movers made one last trip up the stairs and down again, packed their dolly and their mats and ropes, and waved as they climbed into the truck.  Tommy stood there, hands on hips, and watched them go.
... As the truck pulled out of the parking lot a car slowed and turned in.  It was a few years old, dinged and dented but well-maintained.  A fleet unit – a company car or a rental.  Someone in town on business.
... The driver’s door swung open and a chubby man in a gray suit stepped out. In his right hand the man held a paper bag, about the size of the brown lunch bags Tommy had carried to school back when he was a kid.
... It looked heavy.
... The man glanced down at a piece of paper in his other hand, then up at the numbers on the side of the building. After a moment he nodded to himself, slammed the door, and headed up the stairwell.
... Tommy flipped away the cigarette and strolled across the street as casually as he could, what with the adrenaline putting an extra hop in his step. Probably it was nothing, but even the prospect of some action had his heart thudding against the inside of his chest.
... He paused at the base of the stairs. The other man’s heavy footfalls echoed from above, proceeding steadily. Tommy trailed behind him, step by silent step.
... At the second-floor landing Tommy knelt and risked a peek around the corner. Sure enough, the man, his back turned, was there in front of the door to Tommy’s new home. He reached for the doorbell, hesitated, finally reached into the bag instead.
... Tommy surged to his feet. Two quick strides, then his foot swung in a tight arc, like a soccer striker’s, that ended at the side of the man’s knee.
... The man howled and fell writhing to the concrete. Another kick and the bag went flying. As the man rolled over Tommy raised a foot to stomp a hole in his face.
... Then he lowered it. “Barton,” he said.
... Barton sat up, rubbing his leg and chuckling. “Don’t you know assaulting a federal officer is a crime, son?”
... “What are you doing out here?”
... “Oh, just keeping an eye on you, making sure everything’s okay. It is my job after all. How you like Tucson so far?”
... Tommy shrugged. “New York has potholes bigger than this dump.”
... Barton got to his feet with a groan and retrieved the bag. “Well, maybe this will lift your spirits. I brought you a present, and some good news.”
... From the bag he pulled a gift-wrapped package, about the size of a hardback book.
... Tommy peeled away the wrapping paper and let it fall to the ground. Inside was a cheap drugstore picture frame. He turned it over to see his own face staring back at him in black and white.
... His lip was swollen; blood crusted the edges of his nostrils. Eyes glaring at something out of frame to the left, mouth half open ready to unload another obscenity. The heavy black lines painted on the wall behind him gave his height as six feet even.
... His booking photo.
... “What the fuck, Barton?” he said.
... “Oh, just a reminder,” said Barton. “You’re not out here because of all the crimes you pulled, all the people you hurt. You’re out here you were stupid enough to get caught. Remember that and you’ll stay out of trouble.”
... Tommy turned and flung the picture against the wall, where it burst in a shower of glass and debris, and started back downstairs.
... “Go ahead, Tommy, keep on walking,” said Barton. “All the way back to New York. Think you’d get a warm welcome there?”
... His steps slowed, then stopped. “No,” said Tommy. “No. I can’t go back.”
... “Then get back here and clean up this mess.”
... When he was done, when he’d picked up every shard of glass and scrap of wood, Barton said, “Now for the good news – I found you a job.”
... “What job?” said Tommy.
... Barton laughed. “You ran the book for Salazar, right?”
...
     
 
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