"It's Eddie, not Ed," I grinned, "and if you've been trying to catch him so long, then you know what he's capable of, he finds out I'm defecting, get me? How can I get out without him knowing or coming after me?"

"Look. I give you not my word, because I don't think that would be good enough for you, but the word of the entire Boston Greater Metropolitan police force, that our contact inside is the best at what he does. He's the one that tipped us you might be willing to jump on the shop," he said as he stood back up and put his hands in his pockets.

I chuckled. "Kid, er, sorry. Officer, the saying is 'jump ship' not 'jump on the shop,' and I'm telling you, your insider has to have been made already. Heavy Sal doesn't have people checked out. He checks them out his own self, and he was a private dick in the seventies, before he decided to engage in extralegal-type activties. Nobody gets in that organization without him knowing every skeleton in their closet on a first name basis. They may think they do, but they don't. I won't be telling you kind gentlemen anything, unless you can guarantee me out under those circumstances."

He looked up at the mirror in the room -- which anyone that's watched any cop shows or flicks since 1960 knows is a window with his bosses on the other side where toughs like me can't see 'em. I was beginning to like the kid, he really was trying, and he was just his organization's version of me. A working stiff trying to impress the honchos.

The door opened and a couple of suits filed in, and introduced themselves, but I wasn't paying attention. Their names weren't as important to me as the kid's, and his was more out of curiosity now, and I could do without it. I think he'd given it to me already, but at the time, I didn't care as much as I would for rat-testicle soup.

"Mr. Palmieri --"

"Eddie," put in the kid. I was really starting to like him. I wonder if he plays golf?

With an annoyed-type look at the kid, the suit started again, "Eddie, then. Eddie, we really need this. Crawford wasn't just talking out his ass when he gave you word of all of us. We have over one hundred officers at different levels working on the Hadrian case at any one time. There's not a meatier main course for us. You will be removed as quickly as it can be arranged, and Hadrian, while he'll know you were gone, will not know how you did it, how we did it, and will never be able to point a triggerman at you. I swear on my mother's soul -- and yes, she's dead, died at 72 last year."

"What's his name?" I asked.

The other suit was the one that answered oh-so-intelligently, "What?"

"I said, 'What's his name?'" I repeated.

"Whose name?" asked Crawford (gotta remember that).

"The guy that'll be getting me out," I answered.

"He won't be using his real name while undercover, Eddie," said the first suit.

"Oh," I replied, "I know. But if you really have a guy in there already, one - you'll know his name and two - I gotta know who it was could beat Hadrian's background check."

The suits looked at each other and did that thing with the puffing out cheeks and rubbing a hand up over the face from the chin to the forehead and back over the hair. In unison. I wondered if they practiced that.

"Robin Carlotti."

The suits whipped around with angry faces to stare at my buddy Crawford as I grinned.

It was Papa's friend Sal.

"Yes, Mister Hadrian," I replied, "three A's, two B's and only one C last report card." I was rightfully proud of my achievement.

"What grade're you in now ...fifth? ...sixth?" he asked with a grin.

"Eighth," I answered, and fought the scowl at being called a little kid back. Wouldn't do to let Papa know I'd been rude to his friend.

"Eighth grade? Already?" he asked, and looked surprised. So it was just an honest mistake, after all. I was glad I'd hidden that scowl.

"Yessir. Last year before high school," I replied, all puff-chested and proud.

"Well. At your age, a young man has to start thinking about the important things. College is in your future, m'boy," he said with a big grin.

"You want I should go to college? I want to, but I don't think Papa makes enough. I mean, I shined his shoes for a week for enough to buy that comic book," I pointed at the four-color treasure through the window of the shop he'd stopped me outside of.

"Ah, but Eddie, do you know what a scholarship is?" he asked. "It's money from companies and even the government for kids what make good grades to go to college and continue their learning educations. And a young man can get a job. In fact, I'll tell you what. I'll help you out. You come to me with your next report card and show me you have nothing lower than a B, and I'll have some work for you. You can save up what you make from me, and with the better grades, get better scholarships and then you can get to go to college."

I didn't buy the comic. I went home and got a big gallon-pickle jar from Mama and put some masking tape on it, then wrote on it with a black marker, 'College,' and put my fifty-five cents in it. Any money I got after that from chores or even just finding it on the sidewalk went in that jar -- or the others that came after it. When Christmas break came, I went to find Mister Hadrian, and showed him my straight-A's report card. From that day on, just before my fourteenth birthday, I was in the employ of Salvatore Hadrian, Private Investigator.

I'd run and get cigars from the Tobaccanist. I'd get the morning and evening papers from the newsboy on the corner. I'd shine the shoes for the fellas waiting to see him in his office. I'd take a letter across town on the bicycle Sal bought for just such a purpose.

"Keep it," he'd say, "you've earned a bonus, you're a good worker."

"Okay, Hands," came the brogue hefting his broomstick almost as though he really meant to use it, "you have your money to give to that bastard Becelli, now get out of my store!"

I raised my hat and settled it back on my head with a grin, "See you next month, George."

For just a moment, I thought George might actually have the panache to thump me with his stick. Then he just set his shoulders and pointed, so I strolled out, nabbing an apple on my way. My day was done, it was just after lunchtime, I was twenty-three, and it was a beautiful Spring day in Boston. Perfect day to take Paulina out on the boat, if the Boss would let me use it.

I started up the car -- an old clunker of a '57 Chevy -- and drove back across town, taking the long way to see the water. Life in 1974 was great, and I was in with a bunch of great fellas living the good life. The life of a Tough for Boss Bony Becelli was pretty easy, even if you had to rough some of the... what did Numbers call 'em? Oh, yeah... even if you had to rough some of the clientele around now and then.

I came around the corner leading up to the Pub where Boss did most of his business, and Big Antony staggered out before limping around the corner to an alley. I parked and sat tight to see what was going on.

I stepped outta the car to buy a paper from a kid, then went back and sat there, reading when nothing was happening. Over the next half hour, I saw way too many uniforms and a few of the trenchcoat brigade going inside what was thought to be a pretty safe place for gangsters. Three paddywagons full of my... colleague-types left. Most of them were carried out all unconscious-like. Then I got spotted. That private dick that had been helping out the cops looked right at me. I shoved my paper to the side and reached for the keys, but then the guy reaches up and scratches his nose to hide shaking his head at me. Was that a signal? He lowered his hand and grinned at me and looked away. I sat there wondering, and nothing happened to me. Soon enough, all the cops were gone, and they'd taken Boss Becelli along with 'em. I still sat there, not really knowing what to do, my idea for a boating excursion with Paulina forgotten.

The tap on my window scared me like so I nearly wet myself. I looked up and there was the guy. I rolled my window down.

"Let's take a drive," says he.

I just kinda nodded and reached across to unlock the other door. He walks around like we was best buddies and opens it, kinda tosses my paper into the back seat and gets inside. He shuts the door and looks at me.

I look back.

"You hafta start the car, Hands," he reminds me, "Or, you want I should call you Vincento? I think that would be all friendly-like, seeing as how I'm gonna be your new employer. I like to make my employees feel that they can trust me."

I startled and started the car. We drove around, he paid to fill up my gas tank (Sheesh, fifty cents for a gallon! It was getting so a fella had to be involved with folks like Boss Becelli just to afford to drive around!), and we talked. We talked about how he had been setting up Bony Becelli for a fall so he could slide in and take over. We talked about how he had organized plans for the area. We talked about how he was gonna need a fella with a good head to oversee a bigger group of Toughs -- though he called 'em "Free-Range Bodyguards" instead. I kinda liked the sound of that, it made it sound respectable-like.

"How many Tou -- er, how many of these Bodyguards are we talking about here, mister Hadrian?" I asked, because if his plans went over, I knew a couple of guys that would want in on this operation on the ground floor.

The flowers, the little guy with the violin... if I didn't know better, I'd say you were fixin' to make an honest woman outta me, Vincento Fanteoni!"

I smiled at her. Paulina was as beautiful now as she was three years ago when I started working for Salvatore. He was a great Boss. Better than old Bony Becelli ever thought about being.

"And what, my dear lady, makes you think that you know better?" I asked, hoping my eyes were sparkling at her as I stood up and stepped around the tiny table.

The violinist switched to a soft tune as I pulled the ring outta my pocket. You coulda heard a pin drop in the place, as every single eye was on me as I knelt in front of her.

I wiped my face and took a swig of the beer -- good brand, have to remember that -- then asked, "Whaddya mean, Mister Hadrian?" I was always careful not to be too familiar with my employer in public unless he brought it down casual first. I mean, I'm responsible for the man's well-being, I need to be professional.

He swallowed the last of his bottle of beer and motioned the waitress to bring him another before replying, "Six months ago, when I recruited you. Well. When I poached you out from under that has-been Becelli. I knew I could trust you to stick with me more than you had with him."

"Well, yeah, Boss. I mean, with old Bony it was just a job, but you treat me like I'm somebody. I gotta respect that," I answered, then the thought filtered to the top of my brain. I asked, "Not to sound like I'm not loyal, but how do you know I been sticking with you, Boss?"

He laughed, "Remember, Vincento, what I do for a living!"

He laughed again and that's when I caught on he didn't mean the extralegal activities what I watched out for him while he was occupied with. I wasn't sure how I felt about that, so I asked him.

"How exactly am I s'posed to feel about you keeping tabs on me, Boss?"

Robin Carlotti