Icy wind lashed the constant rain; beams of light from the streetlamps slithered across the deserted sidewalks of Mulberry Street. Cars huddled at the curbs. From the brick tenements above, life glimmered through frost edged windows. A white neon sign flickered TWO STEPS DOWN INN through the plate-glass front of the small restaurant in the middle of the block. Within, lights were shining brightly; several men sat at tables near the front. The jukebox pulsed with the tones of Sergio Franchi’s Male Femmina. Franchi dominated all the jukeboxes since Jimmy Rosselli had become temperamental about appearing at the Italian Civil Rights League concert. The restaurant had fifteen white-clothed tables in front. Toward the rear, behind a small divider, were a few more tables, a television set hung from the ceiling, and a glass-faced refrigerator, its shelves filled with wine, fruit, vegetables and whipped-cream pastries. Further back was a small service bar and, through a passage, the kitchen. “Hey, Mike,”
