“Show me.” It was an eleven-hour drive and, surface appearances aside, Gennaro was a businessman.

Pulling crumpled currency from his jacket pockets, Egon tossed them into the front seat.

Gennaro's dark eyes widened. Mostly American. Large bills. He could exchange them on the black market for a good profit. Nice-next stop.

“Get your ass in gear. I'm in a hurry,” Egon ordered in a brutish Neapolitan slang he'd picked up when he was very young. He'd not only mastered the broad inflection of the Naples dialect that summer long ago, but Gianni had introduced him to spaghetti alle vongole at Zм Teresa and sex tableaux in waterfront taverns. Spaghetti alle vongole was still his favorite food, although it was best with the pungent smell of the bay invading your nostrils. For the rest… sex tableaux had long since failed to pique his jaded appetites, and beautiful young Gianni had died at twenty in a drug war.

Casting a swift glance back in the rearview mirror, Gennaro decided the rich man wasn't from Naples. Not with that pale, sculpted face, although the accent was pure Camora. Shooting the gears home, he stepped on the accelerator and snaked his way around the parked cars. When he reached the open road, he asked without turning, “Who taught you that?”

“Some friends,” Egon said, the inflection so perfectly Naples, Gennaro was startled anew.

“Are they still alive?” The answer would satisfy several more unasked questions.

“No.”

Drug smuggling, Gennaro understood with clarity. “Do you want to go on the coast road or on A-1,” he asked, a faint deference in his tone now. One never offended the Camora and lived long.

Egon felt for the kit in his breast pocket. He had four points left. Enough till Nice, and then some. “Whatever's fastest, and turn the radio down.” He was feeling better already, beginning to tune out, and the music was distracting.