The usual routine in murders like this is that the word creeps out. That’s how the Jack Farrells of this world create the fear that lets them exercise power. First the villains get to know. Then it filters down to us through our snouts and our undercover cops. There might not be any proof, but everybody who needs to know gets to know. But with Scardino there wasn’t so much as a whisper. The usual suspects were giving each other the hard stare, wondering who had ordered the hit on Scardino. There wasn’t even an obvious motive. Yes, Joey Scardino had bought a slice of Jack Farrell’s action. And yes, his death meant that slice should end up on somebody else’s plate. Most likely the plate of the person who had seen him off. But that wasn’t what had happened. Oh no, nothing that simple. What had happened was that the business had fallen to pieces faster than Patsy Cline. It had split into splinters and now bits of Jack Farrell’s fake ID business were being operated by half a dozen slimeballs who had been quick off the mark.
