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ON TUESDAY AFTERNOON, THE third day after the end of Daylight Saving Time, it was already dark outside by 4:30. Sandy Tarantino stood by the window of his office, sipping a cup of espresso he ordered from the café downstairs. He was watching the traffic pick up on Atwells Avenue, most of it heading toward the Interstate just blocks away where it would divide north and south. Behind him, he heard the ringing on his fax line. Moments later, he was aware of the humming sound made by the printing element as the machine began to accept a message.

Tarantino was thinking about the Family’s chances of keeping a casino gambling bill from getting through the State legislature in the event Doug Fiore lost the election. There was no doubt in his mind that the momentum was now with Singer, thanks to Jenna Richardson’s reporting, and he figured that Singer’s latest TV ad would keep things moving in his direction. It was powerful, reminding the voters that he fought in Vietnam while Fiore avoided the conflict through the influence of Rhode Island’s notorious Buscatelli family.

Tarantino spoke to Cyril Berman by phone earlier that afternoon while Fiore was making a speech in Glendale. He hoped to hear that Berman had uncovered one or two bombshells he could use against Singer in the final days of the campaign. The news in that regard was disappointing.

“What we’re down to now, Sandy, is that Doug has to do a fantastic job in the debate Thursday night. A lot of people are going to be tuned in to that one. And we’ve got to hope like hell the Herald gives him its endorsement for governor on Sunday.”

“What are our chances of that?” Sandy asked.

“I’d say it’s at least fifty-fifty,” Berman offered optimistically. “I’m going on the fact that Fiore’s position on gambling is consistent with what’s appeared in the Herald’s editorials on that subject, and they feel pretty strong about it.”

In Berman’s view, there was no reason to conclude that Singer would get the paper’s backing. He didn’t think that was an automatic just because Richardson raised the possibility of the Tarantinos being responsible for Cardella’s death. Her view was pure speculation, with nothing to back it up. He had a strong feeling that under those circumstances the senior editors at the Herald would choose not to give it any weight in their endorsement decision. “Hell, this is still America, Sandy,” he said, “the presumption of innocence and all that.”

Berman told Tarantino that he had an appointment to meet with Dan McMurphy on Thursday afternoon. “He’s the editor Richardson reports to. I want to talk to him about the crap she’s been writing and make a case for them giving their editorial support to Fiore. Maybe I can convince McMurphy that they owe it to us after all the slime ball stuff she’s been putting in the paper.”

* * *

Sal Tarantino came into his son’s office through the adjoining door. “I’m getting out of here, Salvy,” he said. “Maybe if I go home and lie down, I’ll feel better.” As he finished speaking, a single beep from the fax machine indicated that it completed its receipt of the incoming transmission. “You’ve got something on your machine there,” he added, pointing toward the fax.

“I know, Pop, I was just waiting for it to end.” Sandy went over and removed the two sheets of paper from the tray. He crumpled the cover page in his left hand and flipped it into the wastebasket as he looked at the letter addressed to his father.

“It’s from Dave DePaolo in Cleveland. It’s for you,” Sandy said, extending the paper toward him.

“What does he want?” Sal asked.

Sandy read the letter. “It looks like he wants you to start feeling better right away. He says the man we’ve been looking for will be in Providence tomorrow morning.”

Sal sat down, took out a cigarette without removing the package from his shirt pocket, and lit it. “That’s good news. How do we get hold of him?”

Sandy looked at the fax. “He’ll be on US Air flight 170, scheduled in at 9:52 in the morning. His escort wants to hand him over and go right back to Cleveland. DePaolo says we should have someone standing there holding a sign that says MR. CARTER-EXPRESS, so the escort will be sure he’s giving him to the right person. Here, Pop, I think you ought to read everything he says.”

Sal Tarantino scanned the letter. “Tell Rocco and Al to meet me in front of the Dunkin’ Donuts near the airport at nine in the morning, with that sign you just mentioned. After we see this guy, I’ll call you here.” He dropped the fax back on his son’s desk. “It’s going to be hard waiting until tomorrow,” he said.