"When everybody agrees on something, Pauly, you can always bet it's wrong." Mickey didn't say good-bye as he closed the door of the Flamingo Suite behind him. Warren Sacks was waiting in the blue Ford. Mickey got in and sat next to the media consultant. They headed back to the deserted airfield.

"Nice place," Mickey said, smiling at Warren. "Boy that suite of Paul's is nifty. Are they all that good?"

"Pretty much the same. Mine's the Seafoam Suite, all done in green, really restful."

"If I get back down here, I'll ask for it. Is it on the beach?"

"Just one road down from Paul's, right on the sand," Warren said, helping to seal his own awful fate.

After they took off, Mickey sat in the back of the Lear-55 in a chair facing Little Pussy and New York Tony. "Tony, go up and tell Milo t' put this call on the scrambler."

Mickey waited for the three tinny-sounding beeps that indicated the voice scrambler was on, then dialed. In a few minutes, he had his father on the phone in New Jersey.

"Yes," Joseph said to his only son, who was now circling at ten thousand feet over the Great Bahama Bank. Joseph Alo's voice sounded hollow through the scrambler. His emphysema was getting worse. Fluid in his lungs gargled when he spoke.

"We're on the scrambler, Pop. I wouldn't call you from the air, but we got a problem."

"Gimme."

"Pauly's had a brain fart. The DNC offered him the nomination. He's going to take it… Wants us to go away."

"Change his mind," the old man said softly.

"It's blown, Pop. He's already said yes. Beyond that, he's risking security. He basically told me to take a hike."

"Whatta you suggesting?" the old man wheezed.

"I wanna send him over. I got Tony and Little Pussy here with me. We can make it look right."

"I ain't gonna be here much longer, Mickey, maybe a couple a' months, a year at the most. After I'm gone, this is your business. You know what's at stake. You know how hard we worked, how difficult it will be to replace Paul. You make the decision, you're gonna have to live with the result."