by Lynda Rees
The odor of his rage angered her. She would not have this. “What are you blustering about? Don’t be ridiculous. Everything Mom had, including her businesses, she bequeathed to me. I assume ownership and review properties with my business managers. I decide if holdings are kept or disposed of. Out of respect for your relationship with my parents, I’ll ask my attorneys to advise you should any company or real estate be available. They’ll treat you fairly in a deal to acquire them. It is, when and if I decide to sell.” Tisha put emphasis on the word if.
“Like hell.” Carlo shouted wrinkling his face which swelled with anger emphasizing pock-marked cheeks and turning a vile shade of purple. Was he about to have a stroke?
Carlo grabbed her arm hard. Tisha struggled trying to free herself from his painful grip. “I don’t give a damn about real estate. I’ll have it. Mark my words,” Carlo blurted twisting her arm. “Little Missy, you get the books together. Do it now. Have them delivered to my office immediately. I’ll not take prissy insolence from you. Do as I say, or else.” Leaning into her threateningly, his vile breath stank rancid on her face. She fought back an urge to puke on him.
“Take your hands off my Granddaughter, you greasy old baboon.” Gran shouted. Rarely did Gran get angry enough to raise her voice. Filled with laughter, love and fun, she proved extremely hard to rile.
Carlo released Tisha’s arm backing a step toward the closed front door. “What the hell? Get back in your room, you old hag.”
Gran stood as tall as her five-foot, arthritic frame allowed framed by her bedroom doorway. Thighs leaned into her gaudy walker, strategically placed in front of her freeing her hands. She drew a nine-millimeter Ruger from her robe pocket carefully aiming it toward Carlo’s chest.
Tisha was in awe. “I won’t warn you again. Leave this house. Stay away from my granddaughter. Or I’ll shoot you in the balls, you slimy old fart. You’ll not intimidate me or her and will damned well leave us both alone. Now get out.” Gran’s strong words came out calm and clear bearing no argument.
Carlo hesitated and stepped toward Gran. A shot reverberated. Ringing in Tisha’s ears tolled.
Carlo lurched and grabbed his right foot. He broke out in a sweat. His expensive, black, leather loafers dripped blood. Raising his foot in his hands he hopped awkwardly around. His foot seeped a steady stream of glistening blood. A pool puddled on the mahogany floor.
“You old bag, you shot me.” Carlo screamed.
“Damned right.” Gran still aimed the automatic at Carlo’s privates. “I hit what I aim for. You should know it. The next one will put you out of commission in the bedroom, big boy.” She giggled wickedly, clearly not joking. “No big loss. I can’t imagine any woman willing to sleep with your sorry ass, at least not unless you paid her well. Don’t try my patience. Get out of here. Get the bleeding checked out before it gets any worse. Gangrene could set in if the bullet remains lodged in there.” Gran laughed loudly with the pistol directly aimed at Carlo’s balls.
Carlo hopped to the door and opened it. “This ain’t over. You hear me, you ancient troll? You’ll be sorry.” He hopped down the walk to his car.
Tisha closed and locked the door as Gran yelled behind him. “I already am. I should’ve shot you in the balls.”
“Gran, what on earth?” Tisha rushed to the old woman and eased the gun from her hand carefully. She put the safety on. Gran leaned on her walker returning to her room where Tisha helped her into bed. Tisha released it. Gran reached for the weapon and laid it behind her pillow then settled into the softness, calm as a summer breeze, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
“The man needed an ass whipping. He’s no good and means to hurt you. He has hurt this family enough. He’ll not hurt you further.” Gran’s voice grumbled.
“What do you mean, Gran?”
Tisha began putting pieces of her family puzzle together and didn’t like what she learned. “How has he hurt me already? You’re not telling me—you and Mom think Carlo killed Dad?” A cloud of doom fell over her.
“I’d bet everything I ever owned on it. Your Mom thought so as well. We couldn’t prove it. He’s a gangster in the worst way. He doesn’t care who gets hurt long as he gets a big profit. He’s involved in all sorts of nasty stuff including drugs, human-trafficking, and murder for hire.”
“Roberta and I couldn’t prove he did the killing. So Roberta kept him close and kept digging—carefully. Carlo wouldn’t hesitate to kill her if he suspected she knew. He’d gladly killed all three of us.”
“Oh, Gran, I’m so sorry for all you’ve experienced. I’m beginning to understand why Mom kept so much from me.” She kissed the old woman’s forehead.
“Yes Baby, you’re only scratching the surface.” Gran looked tired—too tired to go into more now. And Tisha had a date—not enough time to get into it with her.
“Gran, he called Dad Snake. How did he get the nickname?”
“Your Daddy was Snake to the people he did business with.”
“It’s a strange nickname.”
“Yes.”
Tisha had more questions but was reluctant to ask them. Facts came to light, shocking revelations one-by-one. A sinister story went along with Asher’s nickname, she wasn’t ready to hear it now, so let it pass. It could wait.
“Get ready for your date. Let an old woman rest.” Gran ordered. “Before you go, hand me the phone, dear.”
“Shouldn’t we? You calling the cops?”
“No, dear, it wouldn’t help.”
“But won’t Mr. Tallarigo call them about the shooting? Shouldn’t you call first?” Tisha worried. What would they do to the aging woman? She didn’t really know what to do.
“He won’t do it. He’s afraid of the shit it would stir up. He’ll get medical care from a private source and leave it at that. Carlo has his ways. Don’t waste time worrying about him or me.”
“Gran, you’re a pistol and very brave. You know it?”
Grans satisfied grin answered. “You okay while I’m out? He won’t come back tonight with the foot. Will he?”
“Heck no, he’ll be back—when he can walk.”
Convinced by Gran’s resolve of their safety for the night, she dreaded facing Carlo’s future wrath. Men like him didn’t get shot and leave it be. He’d return with a vengeance—but not tonight.
Tisha cleaned the blood from the foyer. Finished, she passed Gran’s door on the way upstairs. Gran talked softly on the phone, but Tisha couldn’t make out the words in her low, muffled voice. One rang clearly however. “Scumbag,” spit out with venom as Gran informed someone about the incident.
She’s telling Uncle Vinnie. Was it a mistake, not reporting to the cops? It could come back to hurt her. They’d deal with it the next day. She’d try convincing Gran to alert the authorities. At least Uncle Vinnie would no doubt, have a talk with Tallarigo and tell him to keep away.
Without disturbing Gran’s conversation, Tisha went to her room. She placed her mom’s pistol on the nightstand in case she needed it later. Then she went about readying herself for her date with Sam.
How would Sam take, knowing what happened? It would put him in an awkward position. She shouldn’t bring it up, but he was her attorney. She might need his help.
Gran, a little minx full of surprises and mischief acted the southern lady if need be. She fought like a lioness with her family threatened, taking no prisoners. Fearless and brave, she faced the evil man.
Lucky to have her, Tisha loved the sweet old woman beyond reason. She laughed as the replay in her mind, proud of Gran but afraid of retaliation. She’d be careful of Carlo. The police would try to protect them if she convinced Gran to report the incidence. They should at least give a statement in case more happened—best to nip it in the bud. How effective would the cops be—considering what happened to Dad?
Bad enough, he acted rude and insinuated he had power to take what he wanted. Carlo got physical with her. She couldn’t tolerate it. She’d better tell S
am—tonight.
“Sam, I’m sorry for calling so late. You’re my attorney and I didn’t know who else to turn to. I may need of an attorney. An incident happened tonight you should be aware of. I can call your father if you wish but I thought of you first.” Tisha admitted.
CHAPTER 14
Sam drove into the disheveled parking lot of an ancient, ragged, and bustling night club. The building had been added onto time and again apparently with no plan in mind, and colorful neon lit the area from a roof sign declaring, Bobby Mackey’s. Clientele varied in age and dress testifying the club catered to all sorts.
It was a glorious fall night, and the moon shot through evening mist looking soft and fuzzy. Given their location, it could be conceived as eerie, but Sam’s presence took the edge off, even though the club they were heading for had a spooky history.
“Your college hangout? Interesting—” Tisha scowled eying him from head to toe before busting into a chuckle.
“Absolutely, this pickup joint rocked. A guy could sip a cold one and watch ladies dance, catch a winner on the floor, or ride the bull.”
“The lot’s full, so it’s apparently still the place to be.” A sea of all sorts and sizes of vehicles parked there.
“Never been here? You led a sheltered life.” His hand warmed her insides from the base of her spine as he laughed.
“I’m beginning to realize it.” She’d never considered bar-hopping. Then she went to college. Mom would’ve been appalled. A snide snicker—the mom she didn’t know could’ve run the damned place.
“They say it’s haunted.” His tone grew eerie.
“Serious?” She blinked.
“I’ve never seen a ghost, but I had fun trying. Everyone swears it’s true. There’ve been documentaries and books written about it. I don’t doubt it’s possible.”
“My sensible, fact-finding, Harvard-schooled attorney believes in ghosts?” She snickered entering the vast, dingy-lit club’s. It had a brassy look and odor of sweat, rot, stale beer and cigarettes.
“I’m open to it. Reputable folks swear they’ve heard, felt or seen creepy aberrations. I’m not sure about ghosts, but the building has a history of death and suicide.”
A band played country-rock from a stage. “They’re good.”
He led her to a small, round table. A sign boasted Bobby Mackey and his band would make an appearance. Bobby was getting on in years. Had Mom or Gran’s paths crossed with his? She’d ask Gran later.
A mechanized, bucking bull surrounded by mattresses occupied one corner bordered by range-fence so spectators could watch from a safe distance. “Many a guy tossed around on The Bull, proving his manhood or trying to impress the opposite sex.”
“Speaking from experience?” She stroked a finger down his nose.
“We’ve tangled.” His shoulders rocked back and thumbs slipped into his belt as he grinned adorably.
Edgy darkness provided little romantic atmosphere. Full and hopping, people milled around chatting, gyrated on a crowded dance-floor. Scantily clad waitresses in cowboy boots and hats took orders and delivered drinks. Sam ordered beers from their waitress whose eyes held unadulterated optimism blatantly hitting on him. Directing cleavage at his face, she leaned in to wipe the table.
Tisha cackled watching Sam swallow hard. “She’s eager for a good tip or coming on to you—likely both.”
Sam spoke raspy focusing on her lips. He extended a hand taking hers. “Let’s dance.”
Soft music turned rambunctious as they stepped onto the floor, but Sam refused to release her. They did a mock-two-step crossed with akin to the jitterbug, making it up as they went. After two songs they returned to their table—so much for cuddling on the dance floor.
Sam fondled her hand, playing with her fingers in a gentle massage, as they chatted sipping beers. The smoldering tone of his voice as his thumb stroked the top of her hand as though he reveled in something delicate and precious. The combination sent shivers along her spine with a sensation of being an exquisite treasure washing over her. Sam gazed into her eyes as though looking at her soul. It was intuitive, like he didn’t realize his effect on her.
Keenly tuned to sensations he invoked she savored the luxury of being treated this way and experienced more desire for this man than any before. She’d planned a future with Simon and had believed she loved him. He had treated her indifferently most of the time and she never craved him sexually. The act of it was fine, tolerable but nothing special. She’d come to the conclusion lately, she’d never loved the man—only the idea of him.
Lusting for Sam brought a revelation. She craved him sensually, not capable of more. Men always wanted sex. Sam awoke her baser instinct, stronger than pure lust conjuring a suppressed primal connection. He acted clearly into her as well. Their joining felt deeper than sex. Sam reached into her core, and they bonded on a soul-level. They’d survived preparing for this moment together. Flawless, Tisha couldn’t ignore it—didn’t want to.
Enjoy it while it lasts.
Having been an obedient youth, and suppressed her rebellious urges as a teen not wanting to hurt Mom, her body vibrated with self-loathing, at her past obliviousness. An extended fling with her fierce attorney could potently boost her stamina. Cleansing respectful submissiveness from her system, Sam felt a safe person to experiment with, happy being a catalyst for conversion from naïve heiress to shrewd, deliberate woman of the world. He’d never harm her or degrade her actions, and he obviously wanted her.
Sam hung on her every word and asked pertinent questions. She felt understood without invasive probing. He asked as though learning what she was made of. This time of discovery built a strong foundation for a premeditated love-affair. Common ground, a shared love for art, travel, skiing, their passion for New York lifestyles and watching the Bengals play, even if they got their butts kicked, they enjoyed many of the same things. Both made a great deal of money, but chose to live simply. These elements would make a successful hookup.
Sam thoughtfully perused the dimly lit room. “I always wondered if the mob started those rumors. Haunting would keep curious eyes out. The daughter of a past owner hung herself in the building.”
“The mob owned this place?” Her voice grew raspy as her breath caught.
“A slaughterhouse and meat packing plant at one time, maybe during prohibition, so the scent of hog masked the, illegal moonshine business.” His laughter unfurled without malice.
Did he know?
Hell, Gran did know the owners. Her insides sparred in an out-of-rhythm way, and her heart thumped like it would plow through her chest without effort. “It was a fancy supper club during the twenties and thirties. Famous people came from around the globe to entertain or be entertained.”
Sam didn’t notice the quiver in her voice. He radiated warmth as he sought her hand surging heat through her icy veins. She shuddered as a finger slid down her neck and spine. He didn’t appear to notice her tension.
“After prohibition The Primrose Club was a successful, nationally known night spot with A-List acts and big-stakes gambling. The Cleveland Syndicate renamed it The Latin Quarter, and it became a happening place.”
“Mob related?” A shock jolted her.
How notorious were Mom and Gran in historic journals?
An authority on local mob history, had Sam broached the subject to help her open up? Did he know? Twinkling eyes as he bantered didn’t act like he was hedging a big reveal.
Would her past drive him away? She wanted to discuss it objectively, but it ruined their chances for a lusty roll in the hay.
“The Syndicate moved in and acquired the Beverly Hills Club in a brutal takeover. Old Buck Brady attempted to kill the enforcer, Red Masterson, shooting him in 1946. He survived, and they took over. Schmidt, a member of the Syndicate became the new owner. The Kefauver Commission, a scandalous Senate hearing about it proved ineffective.”
“Wow, I remember Beverly Hills on the hilltop in Southgate. It’s creepy realizin
g this went on in our neighborhoods under our noses. As kids we didn’t have a clue.” She’d lived her life with blinders on. “The elegant dinner place boasted banquet rooms for weddings, proms and even a show place for stage entertainment. Before Dad died, we ate dinner there on a special occasion.”
“Yes, much later after the FBI shut the area mob back in the 1970s wanting the Latin Quarter. Brady, a smart gangster, made a deal with the Cleveland Syndicate and obtained partnership in the Beverly Hills Club and the Yorkshire Club.”
“You have a head for dates and names. It’s a good quality for an attorney. You know about my family’s history. Right?” In her case, it wasn’t a good quality for a lover.
“It comes in handy. I guess boys naturally find a fascination with gangsters. Yes. I know about the strip clubs, your dad’s shooting and Roberta’s record.” Sam sheepishly shrugged.
“Record—as in prison?” Her face fell limp and her mouth opened.
He clasped both her trembling hands in his on the table. “Yes, Tisha, I figured you knew. Your mom went to jail for running a whorehouse.”
Blood drained from her head and her ears rang. “When? Oh, God, no. She sent me to a boarding school at the age of twelve. I hated it, so she brought me hope a couple years later. I had no idea.” It started making more sense. No wonder she wouldn’t allow Tisha home for holidays and the summer. Roberta had insisted it essential ensuring her full benefit of the schooling experience.
“Damn, Tisha, I didn’t want to break it to you. I assumed Lola told you or you already knew.”
“My mom worked as a madam—a stripper, club owner, mobster and madam. What the hell else did she have up her sleeve?” Tisha’s eyes rolled. She closed them leaning her head back.
“It’s in the past. You loved your mom, and she was good to you.” He patted her hands and stroked her arms, but the usual sensations failed to appear, as she tried grasping the latest explosive news.
She’d gone over the numbers in her rental portfolio, and they didn’t jive—too much income. It ate at her, and she hoped to get to the bottom of it. Bringing it out into the open to discuss with Sam terrified her. No, she’d wait and talk with Vinnie before discussing it with Sam. As Mom’s partner, he knew every dirty detail.