“I’ll bet.” Fuckin Rebecca was good at looting. She was good at everything, including fucking me senseless. I hoped she would be a very sore loser, because it would be so much more pleasurable for me to watch her total meltdown. I wanted her destruction to be a public, ruthless event so that no one ever considered doing such a thing to me again. Yes, I knew that made me a hard man. But it also would make me bullet-proof.
“Well, Marco, see you in a few.” His voice wavered with nervousness.
“Yes. You. Will. And by the way, will you join me for a Breakfast in Boston? It’s some specialty drink the bartender makes here. I’m going to try one and want you to join me.”
“Whatever you like, Marco.”
“And I understand the bacon is specially cured, comes direct from a hog farm in Nebraska, too.”
“Marco—I don’t—”
“Oh, that’s right. You eat Kosher.”
“I try. If there is a reason I am to eat bacon, like are you considering purchasing a meat packing plant, I can justify some things, but…”
“No. Bacon for the greasy goodness of the fat sizzling in the pan. That kind of hickory-smoked bacon. I’ll enjoy it alone, then. But you can drink.”
“Yes, I can. But I usually—”
“Today is a new day, Frank. We’re going to do a lot of things differently from now on. We have a lot of territory to cover, and the enemy has had a head start on us.”
“Exactly. That’s the Marco I knew would show up. And I’m greatly relieved to see it too, sir. We’re taking no prisoners, is that right?” The timbre of his voice didn’t match his words, but they were good words, nonetheless. It meant he was trying to keep up.
“You’ve got it. I hope you have the taste for war.”
Frank didn’t answer that one, which bothered me a little. I knew he wasn’t a wartime CFO, but he was an excellent forensic accountant, which had been his job as a department head at the IRS for nearly twenty years before he joined my firm.
“See you shortly, Marco.”
I scanned the cityscape, following cars traveling along the seaboard. This wasn’t the commercial or shipping district more for tourists. A few regular sport fishing outfits and even a pirate ship for roaring drunken parties were docked and sparsely attended. Tugboats and tour ferries crammed into the harbor too. A steady stream of delivery trucks and caterers worked along the docks. A couple stainless steel breakfast burrito trucks honked and attracted workers from the nearby warehouses.
After one last check in the mirror, I headed downstairs, ready to do battle. It might have been my imagination, but I thought I could smell faint traces of her scent lingering still in the elevator. I guessed I was only the second or third person to use it after her early morning departure. It was nice lace on an otherwise steel-cut day.
I nodded to the bartender. He motioned me over.
“Everything okay? Was something not to your liking, Mr. Gambini?”
“No. It was the headline that bothered me some. Nothing to do with you.”
“I want you to know I will re-create that breakfast for you if you’ll take a seat.”
“I’m meeting a colleague in the dining room. Make it two, but hold the bacon on his. And two Breakfast in Bostons please.”
“You got it. Just have them seat you and I’ll be right over with the drinks. And the envelope—do you need duplicate information? I can get another copy for you, if you need it.”
“Yes, that will be good. Sealed again, like the first time.”
“Yessir. Coming right up.”
He spread his hand, palm up, out over the bar and Marco followed his direction to the small dining room. Even at nine in the morning, the lighting was dimmed and intimate.
Within minutes my refreshed Breakfast in Boston drink was sitting in front of me. Just as my biscuits and jam arrived, Frank Goodman walked into the dining room with his black briefcase in tow. I’d always thought he was a good-looking guy hiding behind those big glasses. He dressed so conservatively, nobody ever remembered him. I wondered what would make a man do that to himself.
He sat across the table from me, set his case on his knees and flipped open the brass locking devices with two loud clicks, releasing the top.
“Frank, Frank. Let’s eat first. I’m sure we can delve into all the financials after we get something in our bellies,” I said, stopping him.
He was flummoxed for just a second.
“It’s going to be bad news, anyway. Have some biscuits, coffee, and this drink is to die for. A little orange juice and alcohol is needed to digest this stuff, right?”
He pushed his horn-rimmed glasses back on his nose, closed the case and tucked it beside his ankles under the table.
“Very well.” He took his lay of the table, draped his lap with a linen napkin, chose a fluffy biscuit, and covered it with soft whipped cream cheese. Then he added blackberry jam.
“Really? Cream cheese and jam?” I asked him.
He hesitated before depositing the entire top half of the biscuit in his enormous mouth but smiled with lips closed as he consumed the warm delight, nodding. Covering his mouth, my CFO mumbled.
“Excuse me, Mr. Gambini, but it isn’t often you get whipped cream cheese. I thought it could be butter at first, which would have worked just as well. Trust me, the combination is outstanding, assuming you don’t have a hockey puck for a biscuit. These are fabulous.”
I could barely understand him.
“They are,” I said, matching his combination. “And I agree with your choice. I’m hooked on something new.”
“No doubt you’ll work it out in the gym later. I’ll just keep adding it to my pregnancy,” he said, patting his small but developing paunch.
The brew was not as pleasant as my Black Rifle coffee upstairs, but with the cream, was acceptable. I made a mental note to inform them I’d like the Towers to support my Veteran-owned coffee company friends.
“How was
