They didn't look like hoods, more like mid-career bureaucrats, fortyish, chubby, thick glasses. But they'd brought two good-looking molls with them; I can't imagine they were even 18: blonds, Marty and Will. It fell to me to keep the boys entertained while my brother retired to his bedroom with the two Mafiosi for what was to be a very, very serious conversation. My brother had warned me that there was a good chance they'd kill him, and, without spelling it out, that if I was on hand my own health might be in jeopardy. We were very close at that stage. I loved my brother, more than anyone in the world, and didn't have anywhere else to go.

LRB 21 August 2003 | PDF Download