She was standing behind the bar, chopping up lemons, with a black rag slung over one shoulder. She hadn’t changed much since the last time I saw her. Fake hair, fake eyelashes, fake nails, fake tits, and none of it particularly well maintained.
“Hiya, Vicki,” I said.
She hated it when anyone shortened her name. Victoria sounded to her like royalty, and falling from Anthony’s castle to this hole-in-the-wall had done nothing to slow her ego.
“I know you?” she asked.
I took off the Cracker Jack–prize sunglasses.
“Know me?” I said. “You hate my guts.”
She glared across the bar, her jaw working double time. Vicki’s one of those people who can make the act of chewing gum look and sound like a war crime.
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “You’re the lying, thieving, flat-chested whore. Anthony find a newer model yet?”
I grinned. I felt oddly pleased with myself. Her insults held no sway anymore. Nothing she said could faze me. I needed information from her, and that was it.
Namely, I needed to know who might want Anthony dead. Because while I believed either Sarah or Serena was involved, or maybe both of them, I didn’t believe they’d acted alone. I didn’t believe they’d done the stabbing. Combined they added up to about half Anthony’s weight. Maybe Serena turned off the alarm, let the killer in. Maybe Sarah sprinkled my husband’s eggs with powdered Valium. But the move against him had been sanctioned by a higher power. Maybe Vincent’s men weren’t coming after me to avenge Anthony. Maybe they were just finishing the job.
If anyone could cut through the maybes, it was Victoria. She’d been hands-on with his business interests—especially his extracurricular interests, the side deals he didn’t want Vincent to know about. She was the one who convinced him he wasn’t getting his due. It took a while, but her relationship with Anthony went south because she pushed too hard, wanted his fingers in more and more pies. That’s part of why I played deaf and dumb in my marriage. The other part was that I really didn’t want to know.
“I’m trying to imagine what brings an Italian American princess like you to this shithole on a weekday afternoon,” she said. “I’m not coming up with anything that makes my life better.”
“I’ve got questions,” I said. “Questions I’m pretty sure only you can answer.”
“Anthony did something to you, didn’t he?”
She was gloating. The poor thing really had no clue, and I wasn’t about to break the news until she told me what I wanted to know.
“In a way,” I said. “I’m not involved in his business dealings like you were. I was wondering who…”
“He’s in bed with?”
I nodded.
“You looking to hurt him? ’Cause if that could be done, believe me I’d have done it. Anthony’s protected from every angle. As bad as I wanted to see his little empire collapse—an empire I more or less built for him—I wasn’t going to get myself killed trying.”
“It isn’t that,” I said. “I just want to be prepared.”
An elderly patron at the end of the bar called out for a fresh pint. Vicki told him to keep his pants on.
“I don’t believe you,” she said. “But if you want to make a play against Tony, it won’t be me who stops you. Nothing would make me happier than to see you both go down in flames.”
“That’s sweet, Vic,” I said. “So tell me: where is he vulnerable? Most likely to get in trouble?”
“You asking who would come after him?”
I gave another nod, felt the hair clips knocking against my skull.
“Granted, my information’s dated, but I’d look to the boys in blue.”
“The cops?”
“That’s right, hon: the cops. Tony blackmails them. Gets them to do his bidding. His, not Vincent’s. You starting to see the picture?”
It was a much bigger and uglier picture than I’d imagined. I leaned hard against a stool. Vicki smiled, enjoying herself.
“Could be one of the cops is after him. Could be Vincent himself. But the question you need to ask yourself is, how does Tony know which cops are dirty? Who’s feeding him the intel? ’Cause that person has a hell of a lot to lose. Could be he wants out.”
“You know who it is, don’t you?” I said. “Give me a name.”
She laughed. Her laugh was as fake as the rest of her.
“I’m not a rat, hon. But then I’m guessing you don’t really need me to tell you.”
It was a good guess.
“So what is it?” she asked. “Death threats? A pipe bomb through the bay window?”
“No,” I said. “Anthony’s already dead.”
I’d like to say I told her the truth because I thought she should know, but the even bigger truth is I got a kick out of watching her face turn colors beneath all that rouge.
“What are you talking about?”
“He was stabbed to death. I found him this morning in our kitchen. I’m no expert, but it looked like a crime of passion. I’m sure those dirty cops will come knocking at your door any minute.”
She picked up the knife she’d been using to cut lemons and pointed it at the door.
“You bring this shit to me?” she said. “Get the hell out or I swear to God I’ll do you the way they did Anthony.”
“Vicki, I—”
“You think I’m stupid? You’re here asking questions because you know it’s you they’re coming for next. You’ve got ‘Loose End’ tattooed across your forehead. And now I’ve got to worry about your deathbed confession: ‘I didn’t know anything about anything until Victoria spilled her guts.’ You’re lucky we’re standing in a room full of witnesses.”
On cue, the drunks stumbled off their stools and gathered around. The poor dears thought they were really quite threatening; I could have
