driver’s license like they’re supposed to do the rest of the time. Helps make his logbook look at least half kosher.”
Serge pumped his eyebrows. “Nicky’s got his address?”
“Just pulled it. He’s waiting for your call.”
“Can’t thank you enough.” Serge pointed beside the bed. “That pile of pipes? On me.”
“Nice to be back doing business with you.” Manny pulled work gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. “So what’s going to happen now?”
“Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving.” Serge retrieved his pistol from a suitcase and checked the magazine. “Only polite thing is to invite him to dinner.”
Chapter Two
South Tampa. The neighborhood was called Palma Ceia. An oasis of pastel bungalows, preserved Mediterraneans, and old Florida ranch houses. Tastefully landscaped with royal palms and bougainvilleas. Kids on sidewalks. Bikes and skateboards. Safe.
The streets had names like Santiago, San Juan, and Sunset Drive. A few blocks in from the bay sat an unassuming road called Triggerfish Lane.
Fourth house on the left. Whitewashed with turquoise trim and, next to the front door, a turquoise sailfish over the address: 888. In the middle of the yard stood an arching date palm that was illuminated after dark with a baby spotlight, but it was only noon, and the tree didn’t need attention.
Thanksgiving Day.
Inside, the home was filled with the kind of loving aroma from holiday cooking that makes women think of past family gatherings and makes men want to watch football.
Jim Davenport opened the oven door with pot holders.
“Jim!” whispered Martha. “Your mother’s fluffing the cushions!”
“You made a great turkey this year.”
“You’re not listening!”
“I am.” He slid the turkey out. “I just want this to go well.”
“And she brought her own stuffing, even though I asked her not to because I had my own recipe. And then she shows up at the door with a bowl and claims she doesn’t remember me saying any such thing. She conveniently forgets all my requests.”
Jim set the pan on the counter. “Martha-”
“It’s passive-aggressive.”
“It’s stuffing.”
“Did you see her stuffing? Hamburger! Who puts meat inside of meat?”
“Let’s go sit down…”
… Silence at the dinner table.
Martha Davenport smiled tensely across the serving platters.
Rita Davenport smiled back and looked at her plate. “Martha, do you need a new dishwasher?”
“Why?”
“Nothing. But remind me to ask you where the bleach is.” Then she shifted her eyes. “Jim? Remember the turkey your grandmother used to make? Nothing could compare to her recipe… Oh, and by that, I didn’t mean anything about your turkey, Martha. I’m sure it’s fine. Especially with my stuffing.” She placed her napkin in her lap. “Yessiree, his grandmother was quite the cook…”
Martha practiced breathing exercises.
“Jim,” said Rita. “Have you heard anything from Tommy Kilborne?”
“No, Ma.”
“I heard his wife invited his mother to move in with them. Isn’t that nice? I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. I worry that nobody will be there. I was trapped in my bathtub the other day.”
“What!” said Jim. “For how long?”
“Just a few seconds this time, but soon, who knows?”
Martha clutched her napkin tightly under the table.
Jim glanced anxiously at both of them. “Ha ha, don’t want the food to get cold.”
Rita scooted her chair closer to the table. “I always liked Tommy’s wife. So generous. Some women could have a problem with their mother-in-law moving in, even if it means leaving them to rot. I have spastic colon.” She bowed her head. “Jim, why don’t you say grace?”
“I’d much rather hear you give the blessing,” said Jim. “It’s practically tradition.”
“No, I insist.”
“Mom, I’m not sure I even remember.”
“How can you forget grace if you say it every night?”
“You know I converted years ago.”
She briefly waved a hand. “I don’t believe that. You know, it’s not too late to have the children baptized.”
“Mom,” said Jim. “Melvin’s in college, and Debbie’s married.”
“What about Nicole. She’s still in high school.” Rita looked in another direction at a young girl seated at the table, dressed entirely in black with heavy black eye makeup. “Nicole, why are you giggling?”
“Nothing, Grandma.” She turned and smiled in her mother’s direction.
“Nicole,” said Rita Davenport. “Why don’t you say grace?”
Martha’s eyes shot daggers when she saw the grin on her daughter’s face: Don’t you dare!
Nicole looked back at her grandmother. “I can’t say grace.”
“Why not, young lady?”
“Because I don’t believe in God.”
“Ahhhh!” Rita clapped her hands over her ears.
Martha involuntarily shrieked.
Jim lowered his head and sighed.
Nicole cracked up.
Rita Davenport rocked back and forth in her chair. “I didn’t hear that! I didn’t hear that! Jesus in heaven, the child-she doesn’t mean it!..”
“Nicole!” shouted Martha. “Tell your grandmother right now you don’t mean that!”
The teenager stifled laughs. “Sorry, Grandma. I was only kidding.”
“What kind of a joke is that?” Then to Martha: “You approve of this behavior?”
Jim’s arms flew out, practically lunging halfway across the table. “Mom, Martha didn’t say anything. I’ll talk to Nicole later.”
Rita turned back to the teen. “Please don’t do that again to your sweet grandmother. So, you really do believe in God?”
“Yes.” Nicole shot her mom a glance, then back to her grandmother. “But I choose to follow Satan.”
“Ahhhhh!” Hands over Rita’s ears again.
Martha shrieked.
Jim slowly covered his face with his hands.
Nicole was still cracking up as she rose from the table and headed for the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” yelled Martha.
“To the mall.”
“No, you’re coming back to this table and sitting down right this minute!”
The door slammed behind the teen.
Rita’s hands fell from her ears. “I’ll be dead soon.”
