The Dead Gigolo Caper (Suds and Sam Book 4)

by Stella Marie Alden

  I may be wrong about her uncle, but the way the guy’s eyes widen, I’m pretty sure I hit the mark. I wouldn’t be surprised if her dad was in on it too. And, while I understand their concern, being a private dick is her dream. She’d go for it, even if I was out of her life. If anything, me being with her is keeping her safe. Hell, they should be thanking me.

  I got some mansplaining of my own to do. And soon.

  Back upstairs in our apartment, Sam’s eyes flash to my jaw as she taps her foot with her hands on her hips. “God damn it Suds. Did you fight with the construction workers?”

  “I wouldn’t actually call it a fight. It was more of a skirmish.” As I speak, sharp pain shoots from my mouth, and I rub the tender lump.

  Sam wets a dishtowel, opens the fridge, and empties a small tray of ice into it. Twisting the cloth, she none-too-gently places it on my chin.

  “Besides this, did anyone get hurt?”

  Before she decides to kill me with kindness, I grab her first aid, and step back. “No, sugar. We all sat down and had sweet tea. Everything’s perfect. I think those boys now have a better understanding of the noise ordinances in this neighborhood.”

  “Do I need to call a lawyer? Are they going to press charges?” Her brown eyes spit fire.

  I hold one hand up in the air. The other’s kinda busy keeping the swelling down. “It’s me, Suds.”

  “You owe me an apology.” She glowers but I’m saved from more chewing out because Catrina jumps on the counter and meows for her breakfast.

  “Huh. What did I do?” She should be showering me with kisses, not getting all mad at me.

  “Do? You almost got yourself arrested.” She slams a few cupboard doors, preparing the kitten’s food.

  “You know what, sugar? I am a patient man but y’all need to readjust your attitude.”

  “Me?” Her voice goes up an octave and I have to bite my cheek to keep from laughing.

  If she was a cockatoo, her feathers would be pointing at the ceiling and she’d be hopping on her perch, squawking.

  I place a kiss on her angry mouth. “Honey, I fixed our problem. They won’t be starting up until nine. You’re welcome.”

  “Violence never solved anything.” She pouts but I grin.

  “Sure as hell did. What about World War Two.”

  “Now you’re comparing next door to Normandy?”

  “Let’s drop it, have a cup of coffee, and think about our next caper.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Only if you promise to never fight with those construction guys again.”

  “No promises.” She may not like it but I’m not letting her Uncle Vinny get away with any more shit.

  I open the fridge and hold up the eggs. “French toast? Maple syrup?”

  Smiling, she accepts my peace offering. “With powdered sugar?”

  “Bien sur, ma cherie.” When I lean over and kiss her hand, she shoots me a crooked smile.

  Together we make breakfast. After, she sits back and heaves a heavy sigh. “You need to stop being so overprotective.”

  “Huh? This wasn’t about you, babe. I’m in dire need of a few hours of sleep and the fucking noise triggers my nightmares.” That much is true but I don’t think she believes me.

  Frowning, she opens her computer. “Whatever. I’m sending Mrs. Nardo her bill. No pictures until she pays. I don’t trust she won’t forgive her cheating bastard husband.”

  Nodding, I make my way to the bathroom where more tiling awaits. Maybe she’ll be less touchy if I get the shower finished. Sure as hell, she’ll be surprised at all the extra sprays I’m installing. I imagine her with her arms raised and water blasting her naked sexy body.

  Yup. I need to get a move on.

  After a while she sighs from the other room. “Okay, I got to get to the salon.”

  “Did you find out anything more about Mrs. Gallo?”

  “Not yet. I’m going to tap a resource at the FBI. Do you think you can copy her phone the same way you did Mr. Nardo?”

  “We’ll need to get it, first.”

  “Hmm. True. I’ll work on a plan.” She kisses me goodbye, walks to the door, and all of a sudden I remember my conversation with Slate.

  I call out from the door, “Sam? I almost forgot to tell you. I won’t be here when you get back. Slate got me a gig, guarding some diplomat. I’ll text you from the Waldorf.”

  Her mouth drops open. Maybe it’s because I’ll be staying at one of the fanciest hotels in the city but her passionate kisses tell me something altogether different.

  “I’ll miss you.” Her eyes leak and I feel real bad we had a fight so lighten up the mood while reminding her I care.

  “No sleuthing while I’m gone. No blind dates, no eating after midnight, and no partying with your cousins. If I missed anything, none of that neither. Wait. And no going next door. Those guys are bad news. You call me if they keep up with their wolf whistles. I’ll help teach ’em some more manners.”

  “Okay. The only thing I’ll do is research on my computer. I promise. Scout’s honor.”

  As she walks out the door, my stupid heart tightens. I hate leaving her alone in the city which make no sense. Before she met me, she lived in DC and grew up around here. Maybe I am overly cautious about her well-being.

  On second thought, probably not. She’s either got an incredible guardian angel or it’s pure dumb luck she survived before she met me.

  Chapter 8

  Sam

  Shit. I hate fighting, especially because he’s going to be gone for a few days and we’ll miss the best part, makeup-sex.

  The rest of the day goes without incident and on Friday I wake with Catrina’s wet nose pressed to mine.

  “Hey sweetheart, it’s just us girls.” My heart aches as I picture Suds at the fancy hotel.

  The cold sheets on the other side of the bed remind me how much I miss him and want him home.

  “From this day forward, I solemnly vow to be a normal girlfriend.” I hope I didn’t chase him away. If I’m honest, lately I have been a little high-maintenance. Shit.

  Pulling out my earplugs, I hear the kitten’s pathetic whines and the sweet, sweet rumble of the subway across the street.

  Thank God, the nightmarish construction has ended.

  Cat eyes me as I slip into Suds’ huge sweatshirt and inhale his scent. Then, I grab the railing and circle down the staircase with the kitty underfoot.

  I push on her little behind. “No murdering your owner.”

  Purring, she pads over to the cabinet where I keep the food and stares. “I’m so glad you reminded me, otherwise I may have forgotten where I put it.”

  Chuckling, I dish out a kitty-sized portion of wet food and add a little dry, too.

  Without so much as a meow of thanks, she dashes to her bowl and scarfs it down while I make coffee.

  At the salon, I receive a package with no return address. When I tear open the brown wrapping, a red scrapbook appears with a yellow sticky note on the front.

  Hope this helps, Martha

  Old-school, she printed out images of Mrs. Gallo and pasted them on each page, in chronological order. The first few date back to the seventies. One in particular catches my eye. In the photo, a much younger version of her is seated at a round table, smoking a cigar with eight gangsters, one who happens to be my uncle Vinny.

  After working my shift, I phone him and he answers straight away. “How’s my favorite niece?”

  He says that to all of us. Usually I smile, but not today. “Can I ask you a question about Anne Gallo?”

  There’s a long pause. “How about we talk over lunch. You hungry? My treat.”

  With Vincent, there’s always a price but I’ve come up empty handed on this case and need a little insight. “Absolutely, positively, no blind dates.”

  “Petey’s in about an hour. I’ll be in the back room.”

  Huh. I never knew it had one but don’t admit it. No doubt he’d add that intel onto the cost of today’s meet
ing.

  I hang out for a while then don my raincoat and exchange my sneakers with mid-calf yellow vinyl boots.

  Icy rain falls and the wind whips my face, too windy for an umbrella. I’m stuck trying to stay dry under my wool cap which I pull lower. I’ll probably die from wet hair, according to my nonna.

  Holding, my purse tight. I jog, or rather slog, to the pizzeria and inside catch my breath as Pete looks up. “Hey Sam. Coffee?”

  “Oh my God, yes.” I unbutton my dripping coat, shake it, and wipe my boots on his rubber mat. “What the fuck is wrong with the weather?”

  “At least it isn’t snow.” He opens an oven door, slides a few pies around with a paddle, then shuts it again.

  Outside, the slushy rain turns to small pellets that bounce on the empty sidewalk. I suppose that’s why the usually busy pizza parlor is empty.

  Petey points to the kitchen. “He’s back there.”

  His young helper opens a door behind the walk-in freezer and I don’t know what I expected but not a crystal chandelier and a Picasso.

  My uncle sits at a table for twelve, back to the wall. “Sit, sit. I already ordered for us.”

  After placing my raincoat and purse on a red velvet chair, I lean over and kiss both of his clean-shaven cheeks. Then, I take a load off and pop a fried calamari into my mouth. When I moan at the fatty deliciousness, my uncle grins as Pete drops off my coffee with a small white pitcher of cream.

  After he leaves, Vinny sighs. “What da fuck are you doin’ messin’ with the likes of Anne Gallo?”

  Like any well-bred Italian, I open my palms in front of me and shake them. “It’s a case I’m working.”

  He points his wine glass at me. “Drop it.”

  “I can’t. Too important.” I slice the air and meet his gaze without blinking. That last part, I learned from my cat.

  He leans back in his chair, closes his eyes, and to anyone else, he’d look asleep. However, I bet he’s thinking over all the possible consequences of what he says next and how it could benefit Vincent Vitale.

  I grab a few fried rings and chew while I wait.

  “You tell no one you heard this from me. Capice?”

  “Vinny, it’s me. Sam.”

  “The former FBI agent.”

  “Did I ever turn you in?”

  “I know, but this is different. You got no government to protect you if she comes after you. All you got is that bum.”

  “Former SEAL bum.”

  “Mmm.” Using a fork, he scrapes a few calamari onto his appetizer plate. Then, he stabs one and brings it to his mouth.

  He chews, swallows, and sips his wine while I wait, face impassive. His machinations don’t intimidate me. Growing up, my mom used the same tactics and is probably twice as proficient at it.

  Reaching for the fine Barolo, I pour a glass, swirl, and sniff. Pleased with the aroma, I sip and raise one brow when he clears his throat.

  “Anne Gallo owns a large prostitution ring, some drug trafficking.”

  “Import, export?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Would she be capable of murder?”

  He snorts. “Is da pope catholic? If she learns you’re looking into her, we won’t find your body. You’ll just show up missing. You want dat? Huh? How will the bum feel if you’re gone?”

  His words hit home. Suds would be devastated.

  “Okay. I’ll think abouddit.” I use his vernacular to emphasize I’m serious.

  “Good girl.”

  We eat the rest of the meal and chat about what my mom was like as a girl. I love hearing stories of Bensonhurst back then.

  He sighs. “So many have moved to Staten Island or Jersey. I’m thinking I should go, too.”

  I can’t imagine my uncle out of Brooklyn but I understand. These days, the neighborhood looks more like Chinatown.

  “How’s your new living arrangements?” He grins.

  I don’t like his smile so I put up my guard. “Fine, why?”

  “Nothin’. I heard it was noisy.”

  “Nope, everything’s copacetic.”

  “Huh.”

  We finish up dinner, follow it up with some tiramisu and when Pete comes in and pulls back my chair, I take it as a sign my time is up.

  Standing, I kiss my uncle’s cheeks, hoping to leave before he extracts payment for this meeting but no such luck.

  He grabs my hand and catches my gaze. “Friday. Dress real nice and brush up on your Italian.”

  Shit. “Will do. Thanks Uncle Vinny.”

  “Don’t thank me. Just stay clear of the Gallo woman and be careful.” He throws Pete a meaningful look but I don’t get the gist.

  They could be planning to burn down my apartment, leave a horse’s head in my bed, or it could simply mean my interview is over. With them, who knows? However, Vinny’s expression, more than anything today, shakes my resolve. Perhaps I should drop the case of the missing dead man.

  While I was inside, the sleet turned to snow and now, it falls heavily. My boots are warm and waterproof but I wish I had my heavy jacket.

  Shivering at the open door, I wave so long to Pete. “Best calamari in the city.”

  “Stay safe. I fuckin’ mean it, Sam.”

  “I will.” On the way home, I get this eerie vibe and pay close attention. Recently, I’ve gained a healthy respect for the brain’s early-warning system. Whoever is tailing me is good because I turn and no one is there.

  A few blocks from home, the feeling overwhelms me so I reach into my purse. If my gun was in my holster, it’d already be in my palm, my finger on the trigger. Instead, I search while I run for my life.

  The sidewalk glistens with black ice, making it more suited for a skating rink. Although it’s only mid-afternoon, most of the vendors closed up early because of the inclement weather. It might as well be midnight because there’s not a soul in sight. Even the train platform is empty.

  My hand slips around the gun’s metal body as someone grabs my purse and yanks me back by the straps. I slip, my ass hits cement, and air whooshes from my lung.

  As I struggle onto to my knees, a big guy in a hoodie looms over me. Sneering, he brings back his fist and shoots forward. I block with my forearm so instead of hitting my eye, his knuckles grind into my jaw. The blinding pain almost makes me black out.

  Picturing the dentist bill if I don’t put an end to this, I kick the heel of my boot to his groin.

  The impact is less than I’d hoped but my attacker staggers back. When he throws a second punch, it connects with my eye.

  “Fire! Fire!” I scream at the top of my lungs and he turns his head in circles as if expecting flames.

  I use his indecision to snatch my revolver from my purse, click off the safety, and point. However, by the time I aim, he’s running down the street and I don’t figure shooting him in the back is my best option.

  I wonder about the look Uncle Vinny shared with Big Petey. Was this his doing? I could call the cops but it would bring my dad and a whole lot of men in blue asking questions about my business. Those kinds of things could ruin a private investigator forever.

  Shit. I grab a handful of clean snow and put it to my throbbing chin while blood drips down my face. Gun in hand, I walk home.

  The workers next door must’ve finished early and I almost miss their catcalls as I make my way to my loft. I latch the outside lock, dash up the stairs, bolt that door and the inside one as well.

  At my table, shaking like mad, I collapse into a chair and call Suds.

  When he doesn’t pick up, I tell him to text me and on wobbly legs work my way past our kitchenette and into the bathroom to check out the damage to my face.

  Shit. I forgot the medicine cabinet isn’t installed yet so I pull out my cell phone, put it in selfie mode, and moan. My right eye is swollen and my chin is so purple, I wonder if the asshole broke my jaw.

  Returning to the table with more ice, I research online and decide it’s not.

  After, I walk over
to the big picture window half-expecting to see the thug out there which is foolish. I saw him run off. Still, what if he wants me dead? I suppose I could camp out on my roof all night and if he shows up again, call the police.

  Instead, I phone my cousin, Joey. “Can woo come and get me?”

  I sound like I came from the dentist and Joey’s no fool. “Sam? What happened?”

  “I got ’ugged. No ’ig deal.”

  “Where the fuck is your asshole boyfriend?”

  My lips fail to meet, as if injected with Novocain. In the morning, it’s going to look bad, no matter how much ice I apply.

  “In the city. ’orking. ’odyguard.”

  “Shit. Stay put. I’ll be right there. Don’t hang-up. Dammit.” He puts the phone on speaker and shouts, “Mia! I need you to sit.”

  I picture him calling up the stairs as Kimmy fusses in the background.

  He speaks closer to the mic. “Don’t worry, Daddy will be right back, sweetheart.”

  Keys rattle, footsteps sound in a hallway, and then his outside door slams. “Where are you?”

  “Home.”

  “And the mother-fucking mugger?”

  “Got a’ay.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you shoot him?”

  “In the ’ack? Don’t tell Daddy.”

  “He’s bound to find out. Hang up with me and call him right now. Dammit, I’m not picking you up until you do. Uncle Mike is scary as shit.”

  A few minutes later he knocks on my door. “It’s me, open up.”

  His face drops when he sees mine. “Fuck it, cuz.”

  After hugging me hard, he lets go, and inspects my shiner, my jaw, and removes my hand holding ice to my lip.

  “Did you call your dad?”

  I shake my head, no.

  He frowns. “If I take you to the emergency room. They’ll ask questions.”

  “Can you ’ix it?” I’ve seen Joey come home from his work looking a hell of a lot worse than me. He’s got a professional-looking first aid kit.