Inside Out

48

Atlanta, Georgia

Sam Manelli took his meals alone in his cell. The Justice Department wanted to make sure he didn't have any contact with other inmates, or anyone except his lawyers, who they couldn't bar from the prison. They needn't have worried. No one in the population would have dared approach him without Sam's first instigating that contact. If he had been sentenced to life without parole, perhaps he might have been in real danger. Even Al Capone, once he was in prison, became just a middle-aged mop-pusher who was physically assaulted by more powerful inmates. Only if Manelli was cut off completely from his organization, his money, and his political influence would he be in danger, and everyone knew it.

Occasionally, when Sam was being escorted to the dayroom or the yard to meet one of his high-dollar lawyers, a mob-connected inmate in the prison hallway would meet Sam's eye and nod. Sam might, depending on his mood and who made the gesture, acknowledge this with a lowered chin. Or he might ignore it. Word in the facility was that the feds were inclined to turn their backs and allow Manelli to fall victim to foul play. Inmates knew better: No reward outweighed the hell awaiting the man who lifted a hand against Sam Manelli.

The young guard carrying the tray containing Sam's dinner arrived on the other side of the bars. His appearance distracted Sam from his thoughts, which, these days, centered solely on the murder of Dylan Devlin. Sam was wondering when Dylan would be dead, how he would die, what he would think in his dying moments when he knew Sam had gotten to him. The gangster would have paid any amount to have the rat bastard handed over to him. He daydreamed constantly about the most painful way for Devlin to die. The challenge for Sam was to keep from allowing his temper to cause him to kill what he could keep alive but in amazing pain for days, weeks, even years.

“Hello,” Sam said. He even managed a smile for the guard. He didn't have to be nice to the kid, but what the hell did being friendly hurt?

The guard returned the greeting cordially and slid the tray halfway through the slot in the bars. He was set to receive the second half of twenty-five thousand dollars in cash the day Sam was released. Johnny Russo had, at Sam's instruction, been generous with Sam's money. It was easy to make sure that the men Johnny passed it to were in positions to help.

Sam's father had taught him well, rules Sam had never broken, rules that had always before kept him out of jail. Make the right friends. Buy people who can help you. Information is life, ignorance is death. Never write anything you don't want some D.A. showing a jury. Don't be stingy. Never waste money. Use threats only as a last resort. Never go back on your word. Never apologize, never cry or show any sign of weakness. If you say you'll do a thing, do it, no matter the cost. Never trust anyone but yourself. Assume everybody steals. Know when to make an example of a thief, when to overlook theft. Pay your people right, but not too much, because that is weakness. People who owe you hate you. A friend will kill you faster than an enemy will. Mercy breeds contempt, so never show any.

Sam knew all of the Manelli Rules. Hundreds of them-all passed down from mouth to ear. The one that made the deepest impression on him was when his father said, “Sammy, I love you more than anything I ever loved. Way more than I can say. But if someone thinks they can make me do something by threatening you or your mama, I tell you this for true. I gonna tell them, Go on and kill my wife, kill my sweet baby. 'Cause you are gonna be dead after a long time in pain you ain't gonna believe.”

“What if they give us back?” young Sam had asked. “You just forget what they did?”

“Of course, I'd take you back, but I'd still do to them what I said. The most important rule, Sammy, is never let love make you break any rule you have to live by.”

Then, in his old office on Magazine Street, Dominick Manelli had placed his massive hands on Sam's ten-year-old cheeks and kissed him full on his mouth. All those decades later, sitting in a cell in Atlanta, Sam could still close his eyes and feel his father's stiff afternoon whiskers. Sam could also remember the look on his father's face when, years later, just before he died, Dominick had summoned him close and whispered through his last gasps, “Sammy, listen. I want you to give the archdiocese two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. In my name. Tell the priests they can pray me into heaven for it.”

Sam had replied, “You crazy, Papa? Nothing the priests can pray will keep you out of hell.” Sam thought he'd seen a smile flicker in his dying father's eyes. Dominick had waited until the last seconds of his life to offer God money that he knew was now his son's. Dominick could have made the contribution himself when he was in control. The old man could tell Saint Peter that he had asked Sam to donate to charity in his name, so if he didn't, it sure wasn't Dominick's fault. Even in death, Dominick Manelli had an angle to work.

Sam took his tray from the guard and set it on the table. He opened the stainless-steel lid and admired the meal. The plate held a filet medium rare, scrambled eggs, baked garlic, and a slice of toasted French bread lathered with butter before it was broiled. There was a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and a thermos of very strong coffee.

Sam bowed his head and said a brief prayer. He ate slowly, saving the filet for last, chewing every small piece he placed into his mouth exactly thirty-seven times.

The last thing Sam Manelli wanted to do was to choke to death.