The disco music and its breakfast cereal lyrics have brainwashed me.
“Yo, Sean,” I holler. He went to school with my little brother so he has to answer when I “yo” him. It’s an unwritten rule.
“Danny Boy Boyle.” He’s bouncing in place to the beat. Has his Irish cap turned sideways on his head. “Twice in one night. Wassup, brurva? This music is bumpin’!”
I lean in so I can whisper without his date hearing me, although she has that obliviously blurry look most hotties get whenever I draw near.
“Where’s Daisy?” I ask.
“Who?”
“The girl you were with last weekend.”
“She be history. This is my new dime.” He gestures toward the brunette, who’s still staring off into space. “She is so fly!”
Meaning she’s a ten and very appealing. She also looks totally smashed.
“So, Sean, how come you drive around town with Smurfs in your backseat?”
“Aw, that just be a favor I do fo’ a friend.”
“What friend?”
“Bruno.”
“Mazzilli?”
“King of the boardwalk, biatch.”
“So you work for Mr. Mazzilli?”
“When he axe me I do.”
“Sean?”
“Yo?”
“You grew up in Sea Haven. Went to Catholic School. How come you talk like that?”
“Like what?”
“An uneducated idiot.”
Sean’s eyes get all beady. “Don’t you have a bad guy to catch or something, Danny Boy?” He’s totally dropped the gangsta rap.
“Yeah. I just hope it isn’t you.”
“What’s the problem here, Boyle?”
I turn around.
Dominic Santucci.
“Who said there was a problem?”
When I started on the job, Santucci used to scare me. Mostly because he was riding my butt all the time. Now? I think he’s kind of pathetic. Besides, I was there when he shot up the lobster tanks at Mama Shucker’s Raw Bar. He may carry a lethal weapon, but if you’re his target, not to worry. He couldn’t hit a bull’s-eye the size of a manhole cover.
“Mr. O’Malley here is still in mourning over the loss of his mother,” says Santucci.
“Yeah,” I say as Sean and his new squeeze, ignoring Santucci and me, suck each other’s faces. “My bad. ’Scuse me.”
I walk away from the bar.
Santucci follows me.
“You on the job?” he asks.
“Yeah. You on your other job?”
“Yeah. And guess what? Right now, I’m pulling down more per hour than you’ll make all night.”
“Who you running security for, now? Bruno Mazzilli?”
“Confidential.”
“What’s Mazzilli so worried about?” I ask. “He’s got you running interference and Sean O’Malley cleaning up his front porch. Who picks up his dry cleaning? You?”
“Word to the wise? Keep your nose out of this thing. People with money-they can rock your world if you mess with theirs. They can reach out and touch anybody they want to. No matter who they are or where they live-even if it’s Paradise Valley in Arizona.”
“What? Now you’re threatening my parents?”
“I’m not threatening nobody, Boyle. I’m just sayin’.” He snaps his gum three times hard. Swaggers away.
I let him.
Ceepak and the chief will deal with Santucci. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were filling out the Italian Stallion’s walking papers right now. Santucci’s side job is about to become his only job-if he doesn’t go to jail first for helping to hacksaw Gail Baker, something I could see him doing if it paid enough.
I head back to the dance floor.
I see Bruno Mazzilli dancing (and I use that term loosely) with a raven-haired hottie who isn’t Marny Minsky in a wig. Guess all the sugar daddies are in the market for new girlfriends.
And then I see Samantha Starky.
She looks a little wobbly, which is how she usually looks after sipping one weak drink. Low tolerance for alcohol. She’s kind of hanging on to her law school study buddy Richard for support, hands linked around his neck. It’s not a slow song but Richard’s swiveling his hips like maybe he wishes it were.
“Danny?”
She sees me. Unclasps her hands. Stumbles out of her dance sway.
“What are you doing here?” she slurs. I move in. Steady her by the elbow. “I thought you had to work?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh!” Her hand goes up to her mouth. Her eyes bug open wide. “Is this work?”
“Yeah.”
I glance over at Richard.
“Uh, hi,” he says, smiling nervously. Stuffing his hands in his pockets. Maybe he’s heard how good I am with my gun.
“How many drinks did you buy her?” I ask.
“Just two. Maybe three.”
I shake my head. One is Sam’s limit. Doesn’t matter what it is. Beer, wine, rum. One drink and Samantha Starky is plotzed.
“Can you take me home?” Sam asks, hanging on to the front of my shirt. “I’m drunk.”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks, pal,” says Richard. “I owe you one.”
I just nod. Dude doesn’t dig taking on responsibility, like watching out for the girl he boozed up so he’d have a shot at her pants.
“Come on.” I prop a hand under Sam’s arm. Guide her toward the exit. All the while, I’m scanning the crowd. Looking for Marny. Sam is an unexpected delay of game, but she needs to go home and sleep it off. I guide her toward the DJ booth.
“Hey, Cliff?”
“Yo?”
“I’m taking Sam home. If Marny comes in …”
“I’ll give you a shout. Text you.”
“Thanks. Appreciate it.”
We’re walking to the door when the damn song about the girls of summer finally quits rhyming “sand” and “tan.”
“We need to talk,” Sam mumbles when the music dies.
“Okay.”
“About us.” It comes out “ush.”
“Fine.” We make it to the bouncer stand.
