Dante’s Aunt Cloris didn’t look like a gangster’s relative. She was at the high end of middle age with a bland face, uncertain eyes and a doughy body stuffed unevenly into a girdle. She tended to flutter—her eyelashes, her hands, her voice—when she was distressed, and let the stars and horoscopes rule her life. This was why Dante went to great lengths to keep her from getting upset. It annoyed the hell out of him—made him want to kill somebody, since he couldn’t kill her.
“You telling me Arvin didn’t tell you anything about his business? Didn’t even give you a phone number to call?”
“He called me every night. I didn’t need to call him,” she said, her voice wavering as she tried to control a sob. “He traveled, didn’t have a fixed number.”
“Do you know where he called from?” Dante tried t
