But Pasco Ferri tells them no. Standing in the little kitchen area, he stirs the chowder that’s been simmering on the stove since early morning. Real Rhode Island chowder, with clear broth, not that milky baby puke they throw at you up in Boston. He turns and looks deliberately at Paulie Moretti. “If you hit John Murphy’s son we’ll be in a war that won’t end until we kill every mick in Rhode Island.”
