Tony Accardo walked into the dining room. Salita thought he could see Vin going weak just standing there. Rhino, nearest Salita, looked stricken. One of the other guys swallowed audibly, and another of them said, under his breath, “Jesus, God.”

Here he was. In the flesh. Shorter than Salita had thought, and older, but otherwise the same guy he recognized from newspaper photos.

Accardo removed his hat and his coat, which his driver accepted and laid across the nearest table. Accardo wore a loose wool suit, church shoes, a wide tie of black and cream stripes. He walked to the empty chair and pinched up the fabric over his thighs and sat.

Everybody in the room watched this. Some seemed to be holding their breath. After many more seconds of tense silence, Accardo made his raspy voice heard.

“Maybe I need to introduce myself,” he said.

He looked at each face. Nobody said anything.

He said, “My name is Antonino Leonardo Accardo. Some know me as ‘Joe Batters.’ Other people just refer to me as ‘the Man.’ That is because I hold a position of responsibility in an organization of like-minded individuals. It’s a thing we have, like a union, with structure, not written down nowheres, but rules anyone can follow. A regime. Orders go down, money goes up. Nod your head if you’re following me—you all seem kinda slow.”

The others nodded dutifully. Salita was on edge, keeping half an eye on the drivers flanking Accardo, no idea where this was going.

“Chicago is a big city,” said Accardo, “but it’s a small town too. ‘The City That Works’—works for us. Some people think because a machine runs good, it’s easy to run it, anybody can. Maybe that’s what you all think.”

To a man, they shook their heads. Accardo looked around at them, eyes only, his head still.

“You’re good thieves,” he said. “Good thieves can go far. Doves was a good thief in Cicero. Me, I did all right for myself. There’s room for earners, always. There’s room for loyalty. There ain’t room for nothin’ else.”