For the first time since I got into the van, I allowed myself to think that I might actually live to see tomorrow. Still, I was far from comfortable. I wasn’t here with Pinero to discuss the weather or the series finale of
The Sopranos. Did Tony get whacked or not? What do you think?
“Come, Nick, let’s walk. Bring your drink,” said Pinero. “I need to talk with you. Don’t worry, you’re not going to get hurt. You’re with me. You’re perfectly safe now.”
I TOOK ANOTHER sip of Scotch only to notice that Pinero hadn’t joined me in a drink. I also noticed he wasn’t wearing one of his natty suits with the trademark black handkerchief. As for what he was wearing, it was impossible
not
to notice that. I followed Pinero, in his royal blue Fila tracksuit, to the water’s edge, the choppy waves of the Rockaway Inlet lapping against the breakwater of his property. He lit a cigarette and pulled a deep drag. Slowly, he exhaled into the breeze.
“So, Nick, that must have been some frightening scene that day at Lombardo’s,” he began with a slight nod. “It’s not every man who witnesses murder that close. Unnerving, isn’t it?”
“That’s definitely a good word for it,” I said.
“
A good word?
I’ll take that as a compliment, you being a big-time writer. So you were there to interview Dwayne Robinson?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head ruefully. “Sad story. All that talent, wasted. What a shame.”
I didn’t say anything to that. I was too consumed with trying to figure out where this conversation was heading. Pinero was obviously aware of the recording and how it implicated him. Instead of serving a little time for loansharking, he was looking at a murder conviction. So what did he want to talk to me about?
That’s when I decided to try to cut through the bullshit and just ask him. “Mr. Pinero, exactly why am I here?”
The man they called “The Prince” took another long drag off his cigarette, his eyes never leaving mine. I don’t even think he blinked. Then he calmly explained.
He didn’t want to kill me. He wanted to help me.
Or at least warn me.
“Nick, I’ve been set up,” he said. “And that means you’ve been set up, too. I would like you to help me figure out who screwed us both. Let’s help each other, Nick.”
MY FIRST LOGICAL assumption was that slick Eddie Pinero was full of good old-fashioned Grade A bullshit. He was, after all, the high-profile head of an organized crime family, not exactly a poster boy for the straight and narrow. Clearly he was appealing to my journalistic instincts, hoping that he might pique my interest so I’d dig a whole lot deeper into what had happened at Lombardo’s. If he couldn’t prove his own innocence, maybe I could.
All in all it was incredibly transparent. The problem was, it worked on me. Or, at the very least, it got me thinking. The guy had his goons basically kidnap me, but I wasn’t heading straight to the police. What was I going to do,
press charges?
Instead, like metal to a magnet, I found myself right back at Lombardo’s Steakhouse later that same day.
I still hadn’t eaten, but a nice porterhouse was the last thing on my mind.
No, the rumbling in my gut was the feeling that something wasn’t quite right about my originally being there to interview Dwayne Robinson. Or, I should say, everything was
too
right.
Too convenient.
That’s why I’d come back to see my new good friend — Tiffany.
As it happened, I caught her with one foot out the door. It was half past three; lunch was over. The dining room was all but empty.
“You got a second?” I asked. “I’m really sorry to bother you again. I’m relentless, I know.
“Sure, what is it?”
Only there was nothing “sure” about her response. She seemed anxious at the sight of me, even glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone was looking at us.
“Hey, are you okay?” I asked her.
“Huh?” she said, turning back to me. “Oh … um, yeah, I’m fine.”
I wasn’t exactly sold on that. But I pressed on.
“I was hoping you could check something for me,” I said. “You mentioned that the day before Vincent Marcozza was murdered, Dwayne Robinson came in but never sat down. I was wondering — did Marcozza eat lunch here that day?”
“Probably,” she answered quickly. “He practically ate lunch here every day. Sometimes dinner, too. Mr. Marcozza was a
big
customer.”
“Is there a way you can check for sure? About the day before the shootings? Maybe in your reservation book?”
Again, she seemed distracted. It was as if the question had
caught her off guard.
What gives, Tiffany?
After another glance over her shoulder, she motioned for me to follow her.
We walked over to the reservation book. “That was Thursday, right?” she asked.
I nodded and watched as she flipped back a few pages, the ruby-red nail polish on her index finger scrolling down the list of reservations for that day. Putting my upside-down reading skills to use, I kept looking for Marcozza’s name.
But I didn’t see it. Neither did Tiffany.
“Hmmm. I guess he wasn’t here that day,” she said. “That’s unusual for him.”
“
Who
wasn’t here
what
day?” came a sharp voice over Tiffany’s shoulder.
IT WAS THE manager of Lombardo’s. Jack, was it? No, Jason, I thought. Given his tone, though, his name might as well have been Mr. Royally Pissed Off. Tiffany froze at the reservation stand, like a deer in xenon headlights.
I took that as my cue to help out. “My fault. I was just checking to see if Vincent Marcozza had eaten here the day before he was murdered. That’s all. Nothing sinister.”
I was expecting the guy to ask me why I wanted to know that. He didn’t. Instead, he said, “Reservations made by our guests are considered private. It’s restaurant policy, Mr. Daniels.”
Jason knew my name. That was a little strange. We hadn’t officially met. Or exchanged business cards.
“Then my apologies,” I said. “I didn’t know.”
“Yes, but Tiffany did,” he said, turning to her.
She raised her palms apologetically. “Jason, I know you told me —”
He cut her off. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“But —”
“Shut up!” he barked at the poor girl. “You’re fired.” Fired? You’ve got to be kidding.
“What are you doing? She was only trying to help me,” I said, dumbfounded. “I was a customer here, too. Actually, I
am
a customer. I was about to have a steak.”
My new best friend, Jason, gave me a drop-dead stare. “Was I talking to you?”
“You are now,” I said.
He took two steps forward, getting right smack in my face. He was so close I could tell what flavor gum he was chewing. Wintergreen.
“In that case,” he said, pushing the words through his clenched teeth, “I want you to listen to me real closely, okay?
Get the fuck out of my restaurant
. Don’t come back.”
So much for the customer always being right … or even tolerated.
“What are you going to do?” I asked. “Call the cops?”
“I won’t if you won’t,” he fired back at me.
I wasn’t exactly the technical adviser on the movie
Fight Club
, but I’d been in enough scuffles to more than catch his drift. This prick was challenging me.
Keep your cool, Nick. Diplomacy first
.
“Listen, there’s no reason this thing needs to get out of hand,” I said.
No sooner had I said it, though, than he suddenly grabbed
the lapels of my jacket, pushing me backwards. “I don’t think you heard me,” he said.
Oh, I heard you all right …
Screw diplomacy!
I dug my heels hard into the floor and gave Jason the shove back he so richly deserved. Then he raised his fists. Suddenly, this might as well have been a Rangers hockey game down at Madison Square Garden.
The gloves were coming off, whether I wanted this to happen or not.
Smack!
He threw a right-handed jab, tagging my cheek. It was a sucker punch, completely uncalled for. So I let fly with one of my own — only to catch nothing but air. Jason wasn’t big but he was quick. Too quick to go toe-to-toe.
Time to improvise.
“Nick, be careful,” Tiffany called from the sidelines. Well, that was my plan for sure.
Dropping my head, I charged him straight on and wrapped my arms around his waist. We went hurtling into the dining room, his feet barely skimming the floor as I kept pushing and pushing him like a football tackling sled.
Then,
crash!
Table for two, please!
Make that two tables. We upended the first and kept right on going, landing squarely on the table behind it. Plates and silverware went flying above our heads as we hit the floor, barrel-rolling back and forth while trading punches.
I gave a whole lot better than I got now, too. A good right
to Jason’s jaw. Another right on the cleft of his chin. “You asked for this,” I yelled in his face. “You wouldn’t let it go.”
Hey, this was even better than a hockey fight. If we were on the ice, the refs would’ve broken it up by now.
But no.
Jason and I were just getting warmed up.
“BOY, YOU’RE HAVING some kind of week,” said Courtney, gently dabbing at the dried blood below my nose with a damp paper towel. “Keep this up and they’ll have to name an action figure after you.”
We were sitting together on the couch in my office at
CitiZen
magazine. Me, the patient. Courtney, the concerned, and quite beautiful, nurse. With a surprisingly soft touch, too. And she was wearing Chanel.
As it turned out, some referees did break up the fight. The sous-chef and a dishwasher heard all the commotion and came running out of the kitchen. Otherwise, I’m fairly sure I would’ve won big-time on points.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it!
At least for the guys at Jimmy D’s Pub. Courtney was another deal. There was no way I’d jeopardize this sudden warm and affectionate outpouring of sympathy. I’m not
that
stupid. Besides, I’m in love with her. Deeply and hopelessly, I suppose.
“I guess I’ve always been more of a lover than a fighter,” I said with an eye roll.
“Oh, you poor thing,” she cooed, playing the same game on me. “Why would the manager pick a fight with you like that?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I said. “It’s very strange — everything is, Courtney. Mystery on top of mystery.”
I couldn’t help but suspect that Jason was under some kind of orders. Someone didn’t want me snooping around. But who?
That was just one question I had. There were so many others in the aftermath of my recording from Lombardo’s.
But as I laid my head back and closed my eyes, all I could really focus on was how amazing Courtney was. She was sitting so close to me, her hair grazing my shoulder. Finally I couldn’t help myself.
“I love you,” I blurted out.
I just said it —
boom!
— like that. I didn’t know what I was thinking. Actually, that was it. I
wasn’t
thinking.
For a second, there was some hope that she would answer, “I love you, too.” But in the next second, that hope was beaten down — worse than Jason at the restaurant.
It was as if I had suddenly become contagious with Ebola or the swine flu.
Courtney sprang up from the couch, practically darting to the other side of my office. She was shaking her head. “No, no, no,” she said. “Don’t say that, Nick. I wish you hadn’t said that. I really wish you hadn’t.”
“Why, Courtney? Tell me why.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Nick,
because I’m engaged!
”
“But you don’t love him.”
“You’re wrong, Nick. I do love him. I love Tom very much. I do.”
It hurt to hear her say that — worse than any of the punches I’d just taken — but I wasn’t about to stop now. She meant too much to me. If I hadn’t known that before, I sure did now.
“I don’t believe you,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I don’t, Courtney.”
“You need to, Nick.”
“No. You may want to believe that you love him.”
I looked at her. That’s all I had to do. The big white elephant was back in the room. I hadn’t meant for it to happen; neither had she. But it had happened. Courtney and I had slept together. We had made love. Not just lust — which had been part of it, I’ll admit — but love. We’d been intimate with each other. Very much so. We had talked until dawn.
“I told you, that was a mistake,” she said.
“It didn’t feel like a mistake. Not to me, anyway.”
“Nick, it did to me.”
I got up from the couch. That one hurt, too.
“Do you really mean that?” I asked her. I was trying desperately not to let my eyes plead.
“Yes,” she said again.
“Are you sure?” I asked, taking a step toward her. She raised her hand. “Stop,” she said.
“Don’t.”
I took another step toward her. She didn’t say
Stop
this
time. She didn’t say
Don’t
. She didn’t say anything. All she did was stare at me with those amazing blue eyes.
But before I could take another step, the door to my office suddenly swung open.
“There you are!” said Thomas Ferramore, Courtney’s fiancé, the man she said she loved.
I GUESS I couldn’t blame him for not knocking or, for that matter, acting as if he owned the room the moment he stepped foot in my office. Thomas Ferramore literally
did
own the room. The entire building, in fact. What better way to cut down on rent for his
Citizen
magazine than to buy the building that housed it?
I stood and watched as Ferramore, with his salt and pepper hair and perennial tan, strode over to Courtney, planting a kiss on her lips. It seemed to last for a couple of eternities, and probably would’ve had Courtney not finally pulled back.
“Tom, what are you doing here?” she asked. Very good question. Didn’t Ferramore realize that Courtney and I were falling in love now?
“What else would I be doing here? I’ve come to see the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“You know what I mean,” she said, rolling her eyes
playfully. (
Ugh
.) “You told me you were coming home tomorrow.”