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AT 241 ATWELLS AVENUE, Sandy Tarantino sat in his father’s office along with another man who prided himself on being one of Sal’s closest friends for years.

The man was awakened early that morning by a telephone call and alerted to Richardson’s story in the Herald. As soon as he read it, he got dressed and called in sick at work. He disguised himself with an expensive toupee, horn-rimmed glasses and a paste-on beard, all purchased much earlier and kept ready for occasions such as this. In his closet, he found an old raincoat and a white Cape Codder hat that he could pull down over his forehead, just above his eyes. Before leaving home and driving seventeen miles to a mall in East Providence, he removed the telephone receiver from its cradle as he would do if an illness kept him at home in bed. At the mall, a taxi picked him up outside a “Benny’s” department store and dropped him off in a small parking lot belonging to a building facing Atwells Avenue. He quickly made his way to the rear entrance of the building, punched the right combination of numbers into the coded lock next to the door, and entered. The stairway to the Tarantino offices was just as steep in back as it was in front.

As soon as Joe Gaudette sat down in the chair in front of Sal Tarantino’s desk, he removed all parts of the disguise he put on earlier at home. He saw the light covering of white powder on the rash areas of the Mafia don’s face and watched in silence as he took out his handkerchief and softly patted his cheeks and chin. When he finished, Sal spoke sharply to his son and the police captain whose help and advice he so often relied upon. “I told you, Salvy, and you too, Joe, I was against letting that Richardson come in here. The broad’s poison, and she could cause us a lot of trouble, a lot of trouble.”

“You’ve already said that a few times, Pop. Now that Joe’s here, let’s just figure out what we’re going to do.” Sandy was irritated with his father, but still spoke softly, with respect.

Gaudette moved his chair so that he could easily turn his head from Sal to Sandy. “Alright,” he said, “maybe I can summarize where I think we’re at. We know someone did a job on Niro and Cardella. We didn’t know why and we didn’t care who it was. It was a big break for Fiore and the Family and that’s all we were concerned about. But now things have changed. Half of Rhode Island probably thinks that Cardella’s death sentence came out of this room because that’s what Richardson was saying between the lines. She made it sound like the Family is the only one that could have a motive. So we’ve got to move fast and try to get our hands on this guy real quick, before the election. I’ll do what I can to expand the investigation when I go back to work tomorrow, but your contacts on this are a lot better than ours.”

“Richardson’s one smart reporter,” Sandy said.

“I wish you’d figured that out before we let her in here,” Sal answered, shaking his head.

A half hour later, a different taxicab pulled out of the parking lot behind Atwells Avenue with Joe Gaudette in the back seat. He was fairly certain that his close friend, Sal Tarantino, had nothing to do with Cardella’s death. Still, he wasn’t sure he would bet his life on it if it came to that.

When Gaudette left, Sandy drafted a letter on his word processor and showed it to his father. Sal read it and handed it back. “All on account of that goddamn broad,” he said. “Without her, we wouldn’t have this headache and Fiore would win going away.”

Sandy unlocked a drawer in his desk and took out a listing of names and telephone numbers. He went over to the fax machine and sent the letter out 14 times.