He rocked back in the leather-covered chair, legs crossed, examining the spit shine on his Gucci loafers and waiting for the caller to wind down a little. "Certainly I've been in touch," he said when there was a moment of dead air. "The minute that I heard. The families share our mutual concern." "They'd better," the voice on the other end informed him brusquely. "If the commissioners don't want to fight for what they've got in Vegas, I'll take care of it myself. And there are others who'll stand by me, too, you betweencher ass." Impassive, Spinoza heard him out, even though his gut was churning now, trying out the soothing phrases he had learned by watching, listening as the capos talked among themselves. But Johnny Catalanotte, as the on-site representative for the Midwestern family, had the strength of an army behind him, and he was no one to fool with. Unless you had the talent. "Believe me, John," Spinoza said, turning on the chair, "they're meeting on it now.
