Tommy DeLuca was the kind of man people forgot while they were still looking at him.
He was thirty-seven in 1965, a small-time fixer with connections to the underclass in a city where the underclass stretched for hundreds of miles and included everyone from dockworkers to drug dealers to men who ran numbers operations out of basement apartments in Queens. Tommy was not smart enough to be dangerous and not dumb enough to be irrelevant. He occupied the space between—visible...
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