left was nervous, his left eye twitching. The one on the right was as cool as a Texas executioner. He took a step and looked through me with flat, dead eyes.
“Chill,” Felix said. They put their guns away, glided back to their dark corner, and flopped back down on the porch floor.
Beside me, Mason had been holding his breath. He blew it out now and took a step back, signaling he thought it was a good time to go.
“Sorry about that,” Felix said. “Marcus and Jamal can be a tad overprotective.”
“Hope you’re not planning on sending them after DeLucca.”
“Not unless word about the beating gets around,” Felix said. “If it does, I might have to do something to restore my reputation.”
“What about the family that owns the club?”
“What about them?”
“Not gunning for them, are you?”
“No way.”
“Your baby hit squad been down to Newport lately?”
“You’d have to ask them.”
“Should I?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it.”
I was about to ask another question, but a long-legged white hooker with a gash over her left eye and a red skirt that barely covered her privates was coming up the stairs now. My old teammate Felix evaporated and King Felix returned.
“Dog,” he said. “I ain’t seen you in a minute. Where the fuck you been at?”
“Makin’ scrappy for my man,” she said, and handed him some bills.
He counted them slowly. “Two fuckin’ hours an’ dat’s all you brung me?”
She looked at her feet and didn’t say anything. He handed her the joint. She plucked it from his fingers, took a hit, and held it. Then she blew it out through her nose and took another.
“Don’t bogart dat shit, Sheila,” he said. He grabbed it back, peeled off two twenties, tucked them into the valley between her breasts, and gave her a hard look. “Get yo’ pale ass back out on the fuckin’ street and bring back some serious green.”
17
The Capital Grille is located in Providence’s old Union Station, a lovingly restored, yellow-brick structure erected by the New Haven Railroad in 1898. It’s a fashionable luncheon spot, but one that lacks my favorite diner’s affordable prices and greasy charms.
In honor of the occasion, I’d shed my usual sweatshirt, jeans, and Reeboks in favor of Dockers, a white dress shirt, a Jerry Garcia tie, and buffed brogans. I’d topped off the ensemble with a double-breasted navy blue Sears blazer that went out of style when Roebuck was still around. It was the only suit jacket I owned since I left my new one behind on an Amtrak train last year. I hadn’t worn the blazer in a long time, but it still fit, more or less. It wasn’t loose enough to conceal a large handgun, however, so I’d reluctantly left the Colt locked in my file drawer.
Yolanda Mosley-Jones had declined to see me in her office, explaining that nosy reporters were banned from the firm’s inner sanctum. After some whining on my part, she’d agreed to meet for lunch. When I slipped into the place, she was already there, sitting at the bar sipping a pale yellow something from a martini glass and fiddling with her BlackBerry. She didn’t see me come in, so I stood there and watched her for a moment, admiring the legs she came in on.
Yolanda was more alluring fully clothed than the babes at Shakehouse were naked. I stood there a little longer, trying to come up with a good opening line, but the sight of her had me flustered. She spotted me in the mirror over the bar, tucked the BlackBerry into her purse, and spun toward me, giving me a better look at those perfect legs entwined around the luckiest barstool in town.
I never understood how some women can dress so simply yet ooze elegance. Yolanda was encased in a black silk suit that must have been made for her. Beneath the jacket, buttoned just low enough to jump-start my imagination, no blouse was evident. Instead, a cascade of thin gold chains sparked against skin so black it was nearly blue, and fell there.
“Sit,”
“Chill,” Felix said. They put their guns away, glided back to their dark corner, and flopped back down on the porch floor.
Beside me, Mason had been holding his breath. He blew it out now and took a step back, signaling he thought it was a good time to go.
“Sorry about that,” Felix said. “Marcus and Jamal can be a tad overprotective.”
“Hope you’re not planning on sending them after DeLucca.”
“Not unless word about the beating gets around,” Felix said. “If it does, I might have to do something to restore my reputation.”
“What about the family that owns the club?”
“What about them?”
“Not gunning for them, are you?”
“No way.”
“Your baby hit squad been down to Newport lately?”
“You’d have to ask them.”
“Should I?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it.”
I was about to ask another question, but a long-legged white hooker with a gash over her left eye and a red skirt that barely covered her privates was coming up the stairs now. My old teammate Felix evaporated and King Felix returned.
“Dog,” he said. “I ain’t seen you in a minute. Where the fuck you been at?”
“Makin’ scrappy for my man,” she said, and handed him some bills.
He counted them slowly. “Two fuckin’ hours an’ dat’s all you brung me?”
She looked at her feet and didn’t say anything. He handed her the joint. She plucked it from his fingers, took a hit, and held it. Then she blew it out through her nose and took another.
“Don’t bogart dat shit, Sheila,” he said. He grabbed it back, peeled off two twenties, tucked them into the valley between her breasts, and gave her a hard look. “Get yo’ pale ass back out on the fuckin’ street and bring back some serious green.”
17
The Capital Grille is located in Providence’s old Union Station, a lovingly restored, yellow-brick structure erected by the New Haven Railroad in 1898. It’s a fashionable luncheon spot, but one that lacks my favorite diner’s affordable prices and greasy charms.
In honor of the occasion, I’d shed my usual sweatshirt, jeans, and Reeboks in favor of Dockers, a white dress shirt, a Jerry Garcia tie, and buffed brogans. I’d topped off the ensemble with a double-breasted navy blue Sears blazer that went out of style when Roebuck was still around. It was the only suit jacket I owned since I left my new one behind on an Amtrak train last year. I hadn’t worn the blazer in a long time, but it still fit, more or less. It wasn’t loose enough to conceal a large handgun, however, so I’d reluctantly left the Colt locked in my file drawer.
Yolanda Mosley-Jones had declined to see me in her office, explaining that nosy reporters were banned from the firm’s inner sanctum. After some whining on my part, she’d agreed to meet for lunch. When I slipped into the place, she was already there, sitting at the bar sipping a pale yellow something from a martini glass and fiddling with her BlackBerry. She didn’t see me come in, so I stood there and watched her for a moment, admiring the legs she came in on.
Yolanda was more alluring fully clothed than the babes at Shakehouse were naked. I stood there a little longer, trying to come up with a good opening line, but the sight of her had me flustered. She spotted me in the mirror over the bar, tucked the BlackBerry into her purse, and spun toward me, giving me a better look at those perfect legs entwined around the luckiest barstool in town.
I never understood how some women can dress so simply yet ooze elegance. Yolanda was encased in a black silk suit that must have been made for her. Beneath the jacket, buttoned just low enough to jump-start my imagination, no blouse was evident. Instead, a cascade of thin gold chains sparked against skin so black it was nearly blue, and fell there.
“Sit,”
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