Strip Poker by Nancy Bartholomew

Strip Poker by Nancy Bartholomew

Author:Nancy Bartholomew
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group
Published: 2011-03-02T16:00:00+00:00


Twenty-one

By the time I realized I should call Pa or be prepared for an invasion from Philly, Moose Lavotini had us seated at a table on the patio of San Genarro, a tiny Italian café in Atlanta with twinkle lights and red-checked tablecloths. We had the patio to ourselves, and a platter of fresh tomatoes seasoned with basil and capers had just arrived.

“Pa’s gonna kill me!” I said, and reached for my cell phone.

Moose stretched out one big hand and grabbed me.

“Don’t,” he said. “I handled it. A friend of yours called to say your flight got delayed outside of Atlanta. You’ll be calling them tomorrow.”

“What about …”

I let my voice trail off. For a moment I’d forgotten that John Nailor could’ve cared less about my arrival back in town. Maybe I was just a complication to him now.

“Screw him!” Lavotini said. “Here you are, a beautiful woman, called out of town on a family emergency for Christmas, and the schmuck takes his ex-wife home with him? And you’re still looking to give him an explanation? What is this?”

His eyes were moving across my body, flicking back up to my face and then starting their relentless journey again.

“You got a mirror at your house?” he asked. When I nodded, he continued. “You ever look in it? I don’t think you’re seeing what I see. I see a beautiful woman whose man don’t appreciate her.”

I fingered Nailor’s locket. There was an explanation. There had to be an explanation.

Moose picked up the vibe and dropped the line of questioning. “I want to talk about what happened at your club,” he said.

“What about it?”

“Update me,” he said softly. “I want to know who the new owner is. Who’s the competition? And what’s with the whack–accidental crossfire or your boy, Denny, got an enemy? And don’t worry, I know Gambuzzo ain’t got the cochones to hit somebody cold or otherwise.”

So I told him. I gave him everything I had on all the rival club owners: Mike Riggs, the new owner of the Tiffany, and Izzy Rodriguez, the snake from the Beaver. I told him about the bikers and every other bit of information that had occurred to me in the days since Denny took the cap and Vincent lost the club. I told him about the dead biker at Dennis Watley’s funeral, and how some guy named Turk seemed to be in charge of taking care of Denny. My presentation could’ve been more organized, but considering my blood alcohol level, I figured I was doing good to remember my name.

Lavotini nodded. He was tracking it all, keeping it logged in his brain without seeming to extend any effort. The food arrived and we hadn’t even placed an order. Moose had merely nodded at the waiter and things had begun arriving at the table. The soup came first, carabaccia, rich with pancetta and onion, a thick slice of toasted focaccia covered with cheese floating in the rich chicken broth. This was followed by pasta allo scoglio, so full of seafood you almost overlooked the noodles.



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