Inside Out

71

Atlanta, Georgia

Tuesday

A pair of guards came to escort Sam Manelli from his cell to processing and, an hour later, he passed a trio of scowling FBI agents and strolled out through the prison gates toward where Johnny Russo stood waiting beside a limousine. A group of reporters gathered behind a fence shouted questions.

Sam embraced Johnny. “Man, let's get back down to New Orleans,” Sam told him. “I need to get some real food in me.” In a move that was totally out of character, he waved at the assembled reporters like a victorious politician.

“We got a jet waiting, boss. Compliments of some friends of ours,” Johnny Russo informed him. “You'll be back home in a couple hours.”

“Man,” Sam said loudly, “I wish to God Bertran Stern was alive to see justice served.” He took a cigar from his pocket and bit the tip off before putting it into his mouth. Once inside the limo, however, Sam instantly lost the festive facade.

As they pulled off, several cars filled with photographers and reporters fell into traffic behind the limo.

“Where'd you get this car from?” he asked Russo.

“From the Rizzo brothers. We checked it over good anyway.”

Sam didn't want to talk any business in any car, but he needed to make an exception. “Let me hear some music.”

Johnny called out to Spiro. “Let's have some music!” Spiro turned the music up loud and fiddled with the controls until the rear speakers were fully engaged.

“What you found out about Sean?” Sam asked, speaking into Johnny's ear.

“Nothing,” Russo admitted. “Like she vanished off the face of the planet.”

“You tellin' me you still don't know where she's at? What did Herman say?”

“I haven't been able to contact him. Maybe he's lying low.”

Sam shook his head. “No reason to. Nobody can touch him.”

“All I know is he ain't answering his phone.”

Manelli chewed down hard on his cigar. “Do this,” he hissed softly, his lips almost touching Johnny's ear. “I gotta get her. You find her and bring her to me. You put the word out to everybody with eyes in the country. Every airport, bus, train, car rentals, cabbies, Teamsters, whatever. A hundred grand, a quarter million, whatever it takes and no questions. You need special people, hire them. You just make it happen.”

He sat back. “Tell me, how was Bertran's funeral?”

“I didn't go,” Johnny said, swallowing hard. “I couldn't make it with everything that's going on. It was on Sunday.”

“They put their folks in the ground fast,” Sam agreed. “He was a good lawyer.”

Finished talking, Sam removed the cigar and yelled at the driver, “Spiro, cut that noise! You killing my ears.”