“Ah, Paul,” Fleur said, as Kit silenced the phone. “You are a bundle of nerves wrapped in a spray-on tan wrapped in a thousand-dollar suit.”
“Ah, but he’s fiscally sound.”
“And a few other adjectives.”
Chapter Ten
Anthony “The Cobra” Prima was twenty-four years old at the time of Grif’s death, but had already been a lieutenant in the Chicago outfit of the Las Vegas mob. Despite being on what was essentially opposite sides of the law, he and Grif had hit it off fifty years earlier, due in part to an incident where Grif had crossed sides to deal with a card shark who was also responsible for early-morning stairwell rapes in the city’s most glamorous properties. It was ironic that, of the two of them, Tony was the one to survive the era, but here he was-a spry, if bow-legged, seventy-four-year-old with an irreversible slouch and a bad case of psoriasis.
Prima’s digs were in a neighborhood aging similarly to Kit’s, with owners clearly obsessed with keeping bygone years alive. The most notable difference was that Tony’s wrought-iron fencing was double-enforced, guarded by two Dobermans, and the home iced over with bulletproof windows overlooking a green where Sinatra had once allegedly sunk a hole in one-though the cart girls had never said which of them it was.
His security system would pass muster at NASA, and he had phone jacks in every bedroom closet, each of which turned into panic rooms at the touch of a button. Yet as state-of-the-art as his defenses were, they collectively spoke to the one thing that clearly hadn’t changed in the last fifty years: Anthony Prima was as paranoid as ever.
Thus, it had to be disconcerting for the old coot to hear his bell ringing when the community’s guard hadn’t called, the gate opening when the voice box failed to signal, his perimeter breached when the alarm hadn’t tripped, and a knock on the door almost no one ever touched.
I am the prodigal son, Grif thought, marveling at the way bolts gave under his touch. Sure, he was undeniably in the celestial doghouse, but for some reason he had a long etheric leash.
Ringing Prima’s doorbell, listening to chimes that would do Liberace proud, he was just about to knock when a blast from above shattered the melody. Hunching, Grif dodged as the ground erupted beneath his feet. Concrete shrapnel trailed him as he fled, and he dove behind a planter as the unmistakable sound of bullets ricocheted to his left.
“Goddamn it, Tony!”
The potted bush in front of him lost its fringe.
Holding up his hand, he hoped the smooth magic he’d used to calm Kit wasn’t lost in the frantic wave. “Stop firing, Prima!”
The tommy gun stuttered. Then an equally hesitant voice emerged from the ceiling speaker.
“Hello?”
Prima’s voice came through the intercom system, staticky with suspicion and possibly something else. Fear? Excitement?
“Open up, Tony.”
Silence. “Step into the outer foyer so I can see you.”
Grif hesitated. The tiny rotunda could easily be jerry-rigged for explosives. If so, he might be back in the Everlast sooner than he thought. Straightening, he took a tentative step forward.
“Take off your hat.”
Grif removed his stingy brim, and held it in front of him, turning his head up at the camera to give Tony a good, long look.
“Grif?” The static accentuated the disbelief. “Griffin Shaw?”
“Hello, Tony.”
There was the scrape of multiple bolts being thrown, then the door gave way to a squinty blue eye and an errant tuft of wiry gray hair. “I heard you were dead,” Tony said, with his characteristic candor.
Grif’s stomach clenched. So
Tony scoffed. “You
“C’mon,” Grif said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Old time’s sake.”
“The only old times we had together involved beating the shit out of some asshole in a urine-soaked stairwell.”
“The good old days,” Grif said, undeterred.
Tony opened the door wider, but left it bolted. “Then you disappeared, never to be seen again.”
“You see me now,” Grif pointed out.
“Yeah. You look good, too.” Tony rubbed at his eyes. “Damned cataracts. It’s like you hardly changed at all.”
“Well, everyone’s pretty well-preserved where I went.”
“California, huh?” Tony huffed. “They didn’t offer nothing like that to me. Know what they said when I asked about witness protection? Said I might skate on extortion and embezzlement, but I was still going to take a hit for tax evasion. I got two years then house arrest. Can you believe that?”
Grif just raised his brows. “You gonna let me in, Tony?”
The sole blue eye narrowed. “How do I know you’re not here to kill me?”
Because there’s not a hint of plasma around you, Grif thought. “Why would I kill you?”
Face creasing further, Tony thought about it. “Look, Grif. I know we go back a ways, but some things don’t change. I don’t throw good money after bad. I don’t believe Joe Pesci just plays a made man on TV. And no one ever, ever comes into my home. Got it?”
Grif nodded. “Well, that’s too bad, Tony. It really is.”
Tony nodded back. It was.
Then Grif pulled his housewarming gift from behind his back. “Because I brought this.”
Tony glanced down and let loose a deluge of Italian curses that would topple the famous tower in Pisa. Chest heaving, he glared at Grif. “All right. But just this once.”
Grif handed him the bottle of vintage Sangiovese on the way in. “Don’t forget to put out the dogs.”
Once Tony got over the novelty of having someone in his home, once he stopped marveling over the way his Dobermans inexplicably turned into lapdogs around Grif-“But they don’t like no one!”-and once he opened the bottle of wine and took solitary communion with the first few sips, he actually warmed to Grif’s company.
Sitting in a living room wrapped in wall-to-wall shag, Grif looked around and decided the place couldn’t be called retro. That was how Kit had referred to hers, but that would imply effort at gathering together items for a space to reflect a bygone era, and from what Grif could tell, the wood paneling and dark stone fireplace and built-in bar had been here from the first. Watching Tony recline on a sofa already molded to his frame, Grif thought of the genie in Aladdin’s lamp, a man locked in luxury and a slave to the same.
Tony didn’t seem to notice or mind. “Remember that time we set up the unsanctioned fights in the back of Vinnie Covelli’s restaurant?”
“Vaguely,” Grif said, but he couldn’t fight the smile.
“Yeah, you remember,” Tony said, pale eyes sparkling. “You won the whole thing, bare-knuckled.”
They’d run that racket every weekend for months. It was how Grif had paid off Evie’s diamond. “That was the last time I saw you,” Grif said, smiling lightly.
Tony’s smile faded. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it was.”
Grif leaned forward, casual-like, elbows on his knees. “So you heard I was dead, huh?”
A bony shoulder lifted and dropped, a slight movement that betrayed the gun beneath his sweater vest. “Just hearsay. Not solid, like with your Evie.” Tony winced when Grif stiffened. “I’m sorry about that, by the way. She was a real gem. Had a way about her. Coulda given that Virginia Hill a run for her money, that’s for sure.”
Grif swallowed hard. “Yeah, well. It was a long time ago.”
