“Sure, Pop,” John said again.
That was when Saint noticed his son really wasn’t paying attention to him at all; John’s attention was instead focused somewhere else entirely.
Saint turned and saw where.
A striking young blonde woman—Saint thought he recognized her from the last car commercial—was out on the dance floor behind them, beckoning John toward her with every part of her equally striking body.
“John,” Saint began, turning back to the table. “You know that is a very important time—”
“I got it, Pop. Don’t worry. Have her call me, yeah?” He nodded to Livia. “Excuse me, Mom.”
Saint watched his son go, and sighed.
“Don’t be hard on him.” Livia reached across the table and put her hand on his. “Boys will be boys.”
Saint nodded. She was right, of course. He couldn’t expect John to concentrate on business twenty-four hours a day, especially now, although he would have liked—
His train of thought rolled to a stop as Robert Chadwick entered the club, Big Richie Constantine a step behind him.
“Howard,” Quentin said. “Isn’t that—”
“It sure as hell is,” Saint said, rising to his feet and waving to the two men. Constantine took a spot at the bar and waved for Saint to join them.
Saint hesitated a second. This was his club. People came to his table to do business. But this was Big Richie Constantine, a man whose organization ran Miami Beach, a man who was a conduit to a considerable amount of wealth. Wealth that could sew up the primary for Saint even before he announced.
What the hell, he decided. Constantine had come a few hundred miles north. For Saint to walk a few dozen feet to meet him . . .
No big deal.
“Quentin,” he said to Glass. “Would you dance with Livia? I’ll be right back. Darling—you’ll excuse me?”
Leaving his wife in Glass’s good care, he made his way to the bar.
“Robert. And Richie. This is a surprise.”
They all shook hands. Saint motioned the bartender over, ordered drinks all around.
“Nice place you got here, Howard,” Constantine said. “Little bit of Miami right here in the boonies. I like it.”
The boonies. Saint forced himself to smile.
“We try, Richie.”
“You do more than try, Howard,” Constantine said. “You succeed. Can’t say that about a lot of people in this world. Make something out of nothing.”
That was gracious, Saint thought. He was about to say as much when there was a commotion behind him.
He turned and saw the Toros—Mike and Joe—arguing with Cutter, who was on the door tonight. Jesus. Talk about lousy timing . . .
“Excuse me, Richie. Robert.” He nodded toward the disturbance and smiled apologetically. “Be right back.”
He made his way through the crowd to the club entrance, where he found only Joe Toro waiting for him.
“Hey.” Joe smiled. “Howard. Good to see you.”
“Joe Toro. What a surprise. Can I get you a drink?”
“I’m all set, thanks.” Toro raised a glass he’d been holding by his side. “Heard the news, Howard. Came by to offer our congratulations.”
“I appreciate it. I couldn’t have done it without you—or Mike.” Which was true enough, but this was neither the time nor the place to get into details. “Where is he, by the way? Your brother?”
“He’s dancing. Gonna join him myself in a moment— soon as I finish my drink.” He took another sip, let his eyes wander around the club. “Now this is class. This is real class, Howard.”
“Glad you like it, Joe. Make yourself at home,” Saint said, not meaning a word of it as his eyes scanned the floor for Mike Toro. He wanted these two out of here, now, so he could get back to—
Saint cursed inwardly. There was Mike, out on the dance floor, just like Joe had said.
The other Toro had apparently decided to make himself at home, as well. With Saint’s wife.
It was always good to spend time with Livia, and even though Quentin Glass preferred dancing with men— really, boys, if you got right down to it—he’d actually been enjoying the feel of her in his arms, sleek and hard in some places, soft and sweet-smelling in others, when all of a sudden he’d smelled cigar smoke and felt a hand on his shoulder. He’d turned to see—of all people—Mike Toro.
“Hey, Quentin Glass. How’s it going? Hope you don’t mind,” and before Glass could think of a response, Toro had cut in on him and taken Livia in his own arms.
Her eyes clouded over with fury.
“Quentin? Who is this?”
Toro answered before he could. “Who am I? I’m Mike. Mike Toro. You’re Livia; this is Quentin; that’s my brother, Joe, over there with your husband, Howard, who I do business with. Quite a lot of business, in fact.”
Toro smiled, wobbled on his feet, and Glass suddenly realized the man was drunk as a skunk.
Livia tried to free herself. Toro put one meaty hand right on her ass and drew her in even closer.
“Hey, your old man’s from Havana, just like mine. Livia, loosen up, all right? We might be cousins. We should be nice to each other.”
Glass had had enough.
“Mike,” he said, putting a hand on Toro’s shoulder. “This is Mrs. Saint, and you’re Mr. Saint’s guest. If you would please—”
But Toro wasn’t listening. “It’s a party, Quentin—relax. Tell this beautiful woman to have another drink and I’ll show her how I cha-cha-cha.
Toro made what Quentin supposed he thought was a dance move, but to Glass it looked like an obscene motion.
Apparently it looked the same to Livia.
She slapped him across the face, hard.
“I know what it means,” she said, and stalked out of the club, glaring at her husband as she walked past.
Quentin and Howard exchanged glances.
Saint joined them, Joe Toro a step behind.
“Okay. Sorry about that, Mike. Livia’s a little tense, still. The whole thing with Bobby. You understand?”
Mike Toro frowned. “Sure, Howard. I understand.” An expression crossed his face then that made Quentin think that maybe the man wasn’t as drunk as he looked.
Saint must have caught it as well. “Listen. I’m glad to see both of you—you’re welcome here anytime. Drinks on the house, something to eat . . . ?”
Toro looked at Toro, and both shook their heads.
“No. We’re goin’, I think, Howard,” Mike said. “Just came by to congratulate you—on Castle.”
“Joe told me. I appreciate it.”
Good-byes were said all around.
Saint sighed, watching the Toros go.
“We’re gonna have to do some serious fence-mending later, Quentin.”
“I know it, Howard.”
Glass thought he was talking about the Toros, which was true enough, Mike and Joe would have to be attended to for sure, but there was also Livia to consider. His wife did not like it when he brought home the kind of business the Toros represented.
Saint would mend that particular fence on his own, later tonight. He suspected the little velvet box inside his coat— some very nice Harry Winston earrings he’d had couriered in from New York this morning—would make that process go a lot more smoothly. Besides, after twenty years of marriage, he knew his wife, and Livia was not in a fighting mood tonight, not really. No, she was in a mood to celebrate, and so, despite the unpleasantness with the
