Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

W atson and I head downstairs right here in Red Satin Gentlemen's Club, past the maze of slot machines—my uncle's illegal casino is thumping and jumping tonight every bit as much as Loretta's knockers were just a few minutes ago—and down the dark hall that leads to my uncle's office.

The guard recognizes me and sends me through, where I find Uncle Jimmy seated in what amounts to a room the size of a janitor's closet. You'd think for all of his worth—all of his ego—he'd have a place a little more befitting of his brooding self-image, but here we are, squeezed into a space that could hardly qualify as a litter box.

"And here's my favorite niece." Uncle Jimmy's grin stretches wide as he spots me. Uncle Jimmy is about my father's age, old, has a wreath of gray hair, dark, unknowable eyes, and a paunch belly that advertises the fact he likes his lasagna for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. "And there's my favorite little furball." He flicks his fingers and I land Watson on his desk and watch as he bounds over with his tail wagging like crazy.

Uncle Jimmy scoops him up and ruffles his fur. "Good boy, buddy. Good boy." He sets his attention back to me and his grin turns sly. "Heard you handled that Honeycutt business like a pro. I knew I could count on you."

I swallow hard and force a smile. "You know me. Always getting the job done."

Or taking the credit for others who got the job done far more efficiently and in a much more public venue than I would have chosen.

Uncle Jimmy reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out an envelope that looks both thick and heavy. He slides it across the desk toward me.

"You did good, kid. Real good. Consider this a bonus for a job well done."

I pick up the envelope and I can feel the weight of the cash inside. It's more money than I've felt or seen in a long time. Blood money, but money, nonetheless.

I should refuse this.

"Thanks, Uncle Jimmy."

What can I say? I like to keep my lights on.

He leans back in his chair, lighting a cigar and blowing out a puff of smoke. "You're a real asset to the family, Effie. Keep this up, and you'll be running the show in no time."

Just what I've always dreamed of, running a crime empire from a closet-sized office that reeks of stale cigars and bad decisions.

"I want Frankie ‘The Bull' dusted by Thanksgiving," he says, taking another puff of the stick that's about to dust his lungs and most likely him in one day.

Watson tugs at my sleeve, eager to leave the smoky confines of this coffin.

"I'll do my best," I tell him. "But for now, I've got to get Watson home. If he doesn't get his eight hours, he tends to eat my shoes."

"Better yours than mine," he says, kicking his feet up on his desk and taking another puff. "I meant what I said, Eff, I want The Bull gone before we break bread on the big day. In fact, if you can get it done a little earlier, I'll throw in another bonus for you." He winks my way. "You keep up the good work and you'll have enough dough to fund your holiday spending spree. I expect something nice."

"I'll do my best," I say as I make a beeline out of there. I head back up the dark hallway and the weight of the cash feels heavier with every step.

I didn't kill Peter Honeycutt, but now I'm in deeper than ever. And somehow, I have to find a way to off Frankie "The Bull" before I settle in to have that turkey feast I did my best to manifest. As if the Lazzaris and the Canellis would ever come together to break bread. As if I could hold onto Cooper for that long. Sure, he kissed me, but for all I know, he's using his charm and full lips to coerce a confession out of me.

I head back up to the strip club and note Loretta and her girls have already taken off for banana hammock pastures and left behind a table full of virtually untouched antipasto. I head over and help my pooch to a few bites of the world's best capicola. I'm about to take a bite myself when I spot an all too familiar older gentleman seated by the stage, giving those dancing dolls his full attention.

Well, well, if it isn't Frankie "The Bull" Santoro.

Suddenly, I've lost my appetite.

Okay, so that's just a brief hiccup in my otherwise robust desire to nosh on just about anything. I quickly stuff my face with as much antipasto as I can before I dash out the door.

I may have just scored a huge payday for a hit I didn't commit, but within the next few days, it looks as if I'm going to have to earn my keep, and perhaps give Cooper all the ammo he needs to put me in the slammer.

I doubt the antipasto in prison is anything to brag about.

But on the bright side, I might finally catch up on some sleep.

As for now, I've got to sleep with one eye open.

There's a killer on the loose, and if they find out I'm after them, I might be the next one they're looking to populate Honey Hollow Cemetery with.

If my Uncle Jimmy has anything to say about it, it'll be Frankie Santoro landing there next.

It's either him or me.

And that's no bull.