Chapter 8
A long, black armored Maybach glided down the street, its tires throwing up twin sheets of dirty water, and purred to a stop in front of the building.
The rear door opened.
Dante Moretti stepped out into the rain. He didn't carry an umbrella. He walked through the downpour as if the water were an irrelevance, his eyes fixed on his cousin. Marco followed two paces behind, his hand resting unobtrusively inside the breast of his coat.
Leo tossed his cigarette into a puddle and forced a broad, anxious smile.
"Dante! Jesus, cousin, what brings you down to the swamp? If I knew you were inspecting the residential holdings, I would have had the street swept. What's the problem?"
Dante didn't answer. He walked up the three steps, stopped two feet from Leo, and looked at Henderson.
"Are you Henderson?" Dante asked.
The rat-faced man swallowed hard, clutching his clipboard against his stomach like a shield. "Y-yes, Mr. Moretti. I manage the accounts for Apex."
"Give me the clipboard."
Henderson practically threw it into Dante’s hand.
Dante flipped through the yellow carbon forms until he reached the eviction order for Apartment 3B.
Sarah Vance. Two dependents. Past due balance: $2,850.00.
Dante looked at Henderson. "You filed this."
"The tenant hasn't paid since December, sir," Henderson stammered, looking to Leo for support. "We gave her two notices. Company policy states three months of arrears triggers immediate possession proceedings. The sheriff's deputy is due here in twenty minutes with the locksmith to clear the unit."
"Did you inspect the unit before filing?" Dante asked.
"I... well, no, sir. She wouldn't answer the door. There was a kid inside, but—"
"A kid," Dante repeated. "A seven-year-old child."
Dante turned his gaze to Tariq.
The bodega owner shrank back against the brickwork, his knees trembling.
"Tariq," Dante said, his voice terrifyingly conversational. "Yesterday afternoon, a seven-year-old girl walked into your store with ninety-five cents. She had an infant wrapped in a blanket. She asked for milk. What did you tell her?"
Tariq’s face lost every drop of blood, turning the color of wet sidewalk cement. He looked at Leo, then at Dante, his mouth opening and closing like a hooked carp.
"Mr. Moretti... I... people come in every day begging... kids, junkies... if I give away stock to every stray on the corner, I can't make my margins... I didn't know who she was! I swear to God, I didn't know she was connected to you!"