The
Racket

The Boss of the Family, which has run the back nine since Prohibition. Nothing moves without his say, and he has never lost a putt he cared about.

Runs the Family day to day while the Boss poses for posters. Every quota report crosses her desk, and she has never once been late.

The Family's counsel, who quotes the rulebook from memory and finds a loophole in every page. Advises the Boss in a whisper and the rest of us in footnotes.

Runs the bar behind the bakery wall and changes the password every night. Knock wrong and the door stays a wall.

Has planned the vault job for eleven winters and knows every bolt in the bank. Never touches the money, only the plan.

Promotes every fight at the gym and knows how each one ends before the bell. The fighters are the last to find out.

Keeps the peace with the rival family down at the docks, one firm handshake at a time. Count your fingers after.

Owns every fast car in the Family and every back road out of town. The engine is always running.

The Family's man inside the federal office. Files every report on time, and every report says nothing happened.

Runs the midnight freight out of the rail yard, barrel by barrel. The train schedule is whatever she says it is.

Runs the laundromat out front and the counting room out back. Every dollar comes out pressed and folded.

Owns the nightclub, the stage and the back booth. Hears every deal made in her club and takes a cut of each one.

Hosts every summit of the bosses and seats each one exactly where they belong. Nobody leaves his table angry, or early.

Takes every bet on every fight and already knows which ones pay. Her odds are never wrong, which is suspicious.

Keeps two sets of books and can recite both. His pencil is sharp and his alibi is sharper.

Holds the Velvet Room stage every night with one sad song. Half the Family is in love with her and the other half owes her money.

The fastest driver in the city, in snow or out. Has never been caught, and never once used the brakes.

Can open any lock by listening to it. Says the vault under the bank has been humming his name for years.

Makes the papers that keep the G-Men's files tidy. Signs anyone's name better than they do.

Shows up when something goes wrong and leaves when it doesn't. Nobody remembers seeing him arrive.

Cuts every suit worn at the Sit-Down and sews a hidden pocket into each one. Knows what every boss is carrying.

Boss of the rival family across the river, with a tommy gun slung over a silk scarf. Smiles at every deal and means half of it.

Watches the street from the bakery's top window and whistles twice when trouble turns the corner. Has never missed a whistle.

Handles anything that needs to open loudly. Counts down from three and usually starts at two.

Brings the barrels in by water and hands them to the rail yard by night. Smells of salt, oak and alibis.

The one G-Man who isn't on the payroll, tommy gun at his side and a file on everyone. He is very close to something, every single week.

Tunes every getaway car until it purrs. Can swap a license plate faster than you can read it.

Stands behind the Boss's chair at every summit with a tommy gun on his shoulder and a soft spot for kittens. Nobody tests either.

Sings to whoever pays best, which is why both families keep her around. Knows the next double-cross before it happens.

Leads the Velvet Room's house band and plays a signal in every song. When the trumpet goes flat, someone's leaving by the back door.

Pours the bathtub gin and remembers every face at the bar. Forgets every face the moment the G-Men ask.

Bakes real bread out front so nobody asks about the back. Her rolls are excellent, and they are not the point.

Guards the vault under the bank and has never seen a thing. Nobody is sure whether that is skill or a payroll.

Digs the tunnels under the tee pads that the whole Family uses. Knows the city from underneath.

Patches up the fighters between rounds at the gym. Can tell from one look who is supposed to lose.

The gym's heavyweight, paid to go down in the third. Has started to wonder what would happen if he didn't.

Loads and unloads every crate at the docks and never reads a label. The crates are heavier than they say.

Sounds the horn at the docks, one blast for a ship and two for the rival family. Hasn't slept since the fog rolled in.

Directs the city's traffic and happens to wave every black sedan straight through. Gets a fruitcake from the Family every winter.

Sells the late edition on the corner and shouts every headline before it happens. Nobody knows how he knows.

Listens to the Family's phones from a van parked down the block. Has heard everything and understood none of it.

Types up every hearing for the federal court. Her transcripts are perfect, except for the parts the Family asked her to skip.

Runs the rail yard's timetable and looks the other way at midnight. His pocket watch is always eleven minutes slow.

Signals the midnight freight with a swinging lantern. Green means go, red means G-Men.

Runs the machines at the laundromat and folds the cash with the linens. Has never once lost a sock or a dollar.

Carries the take from joint to joint in a battered leather bag. Never looks inside and never sets it down.

Works the Velvet Room's floor with a tray of smokes and a long memory. Sells more secrets than cigarettes.

Holds every coat in the Velvet Room, and everything in their pockets. Hands back exactly what you came in with, mostly.

Serves the bosses at the long table and has never said a word. Hears more than the Consigliere.

Guards the speakeasy's door and the password with it. Has turned away a mayor, two G-Men and the Boss's own nephew.

A long black sedan with a full tank and no plates. Has outrun every squad car in the city and still smells of cigars.

The steel vault under the bank, older than the Family and twice as stubborn. It has been waiting a very long time to be opened.

The real ledger, the one with every debt in the city written in it. Whoever holds it holds the Family.

Flies the gym's odds across town faster than any phone line. Has never been tapped and never been late.

Lives behind the bakery and sleeps on the speakeasy's warm pipes. Was there every time something happened, and never says a word.

The copper still hidden in the rail yard, bubbling day and night. Every barrel in the Family started here.

The Velvet Room's piano, with a false bottom and a perfect tune. Plays the Family's favorite songs by itself after closing.

A very small, very real beetle in a pair of headphones, hidden in the Boss's phone. The G-Men think it works for them.

The single lamp over the long table at every Sit-Down. Has lit every deal the Family ever made, and kept all of them in the dark.

Shines shoes outside every joint in the city and hears everything said above his head. Nobody notices him, which is exactly how he likes it.