you take away Paulie’s best muscle. You take away one of the few people Paulie still trusted. It was valuable information. Lorenzo would be able to write his own ticket. Someplace warm, that much was for sure. An apartment for Sasha, too, if she’d come. Would she?
And then something felt wrong, and all at once Lorenzo felt exposed. Nothing he could put his finger on, but it wasn’t an accident he’d managed to stay alive for fifty-two years, thirty-four of them with the Capparellis.
He slowed his pace and removed his Beretta from the back of his pants so that he was holding it at his side. The streets were empty. The nearest bars were two blocks away. Other than a couple on the corner who appeared to be engrossed in each other, Lorenzo felt reasonably sure he was alone.
Still, he widened his approach to his parked car, so that he could see into the backseat before he got too close. Okay, the backseat was empty, good enough. As he kept walking around his car, he saw something on the ground, a single flower and a note. It stopped his movement for just a moment, while he focused on the ground behind his automobile.
In that brief window of time, a bullet threaded his windpipe and sent him staggering backward against the chained-up door of a used bookstore. He tried to hold himself up, tried to raise his gun, but the signals weren’t reaching their intended targets.
A second bullet shattered Lorenzo’s left kneecap. A third did the same to his right.
Lorenzo crumpled into a heap at the door of the used bookstore.
He tried to scream, but no sound came except something warm and sticky through the hole in his throat.
You had your chance, he told himself, as the lights went out.
11
I was back at Vic’s, a bar I adopted as my preferred choice when I couldn’t find drinking buddies. You hit your mid-thirties and most of your friends have wives and kids, like I once did, and while five martinis at a fine local establishment on a Monday night might sound appealing, they usually have higher priorities. I did, too, once upon a time.
I took my usual seat, on one end of the wraparound bar, drunker than usual, because I’d forgotten to eat anything for dinner. The place had filtered out by now and it reminded me of that time a few days ago when I’d made the acquaintance of those two idiots bothering that lady.
I thought about Tom Stoller and my three failed attempts, thus far, to get him to open up to me. Shauna was working with our expert, Dr. Baraniq, but whichever way you cut it, we had holes in our defense. I’d reconciled myself to that. In the end, it was like I’d said to my team-if we did our job, they wouldn’t let the technicalities of an insanity argument get in their way. Either the jury would want to acquit him or they wouldn’t.
I was tired. Today was the deadline in the Stoller case for the defense and prosecution to share any remaining discovery-information to be used at trial-and witness lists. No matter how much you planned, it was always a rush at the end to get it done. And with Judge Nash, you didn’t want to omit anything. If it wasn’t turned over in a timely manner, it wouldn’t be admitted at a trial where he presided.
I raised my empty glass for a fifth Stoli. I wasn’t an alcoholic-which, of course, is what every alcoholic says. But I was different (a lot of them say that, too). I wasn’t trying to hide from anything or blur reality. I was coping with reality pretty decently these days, thank you very little. I still missed my wife and daughter so desperately that it sucked oxygen from my lungs, but I’d learned how to coexist with it.
No, I drank so I could fall asleep at night. I’d lost that ability to let my mind settle into that calm transfer from wakefulness to dreams. Once I’m down, I stay down, but I can’t find that equilibrium to get me there.
The bartender, not the normal guy, shoved a glass of wine in front of me filled with ice cubes and slices of lemon and lime. I stared at it for a long time.
“The fuck is that?” I asked.
“A wine spritzer. From the lady.”
I turned back to the far corner of the bar. The lady from the other night, again with the white coat, was sitting in a booth. Somehow I’d missed her coming in.
She walked over to me. I’d fancied her a bit from afar the other night. “Intrigued” was probably a better word. Up close now, she looked pretty much the same, the petite build and girlish features, but now with the details filled in. A crooked mouth, cautious eyes, nice pale skin with a dusting of freckles high on her cheeks. She smelled pretty damn good, too.
“That cocktail you wanted,” she said.
“Great.”
She still hadn’t taken a seat. She seemed to be debating with herself.
“You want to thank me but you don’t know how,” I said. “You’re a lady who can take care of herself and you don’t appreciate men acting like they’re rescuing the damsel in distress.”
She listened to me with a trace of amusement.
“On the other hand,” I went on, “those two big goombahs were a bit of trouble for you. Maybe you’d underestimated them. So you were relieved when I came out and offered some assistance. You appreciated and resented the gesture at the same time.”
She worked her mouth a bit as she watched me. Waiting for me to go on, but at the moment I was spending some time on that mouth of hers and letting my imagination move to places dark and steamy. I was in what you’d call a dry spell, you see. I made Mohandas Gandhi look like Hugh Hefner.
“How’m I doing so far?” I asked.
“In your mind?”
“We can start there, sure.”
“You’re doing great,” she said. “You’re charming and insightful and oh-so-confident.”
“Don’t forget I rescued you, too.”
“How could I?”
I gestured to the chair. “Have a drink with me.”
She paused, the mirth disappearing from her eyes. “I did want to thank you.”
“There’ll be plenty of time to do that between sips. I’ll even let you buy, if that’ll make you feel better about it.”
“But you’re making it hard. To thank you.”
“I’m rough around the edges to mask my sensitive, vulnerable side.”
“You’re also married,” she said. She nodded in the direction of my left hand resting on the bar. “No ring tonight, though.”
She was right, you could still see the pale outline on my ring finger. I finally took the ring off a few months ago, but I guess the impression hadn’t yet worn off.
“Then I guess you better be on your way,” I said.
The bartender put down a Stoli next to the wineglass. I turned away from the lady and went to work on the drink. A few minutes passed and she didn’t move.
“It was nice of you to help me the other night,” she finally said.
“Think nothing of it.”
“I’m not used to people trying to help me.”
I didn’t answer. I drained the Stoli and felt the effect immediately.
“You’re not married, are you? I was wrong about that.”
I put down my glass. “I’m not married anymore.”
“You have a pen?”
Did I have a pen? No, I didn’t. But the bartender did, along with another glass of Stoli for me.
She handed me a slip of paper. It had the word “Tori” and a phone number.
“If you want to call me sometime,” she said.
“Good to know,” I said, but Tori was already headed for the door.
