by JB Lynn
“But,” he continued, “it’s also your greatest weakness. It makes you vulnerable. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I didn’t know you cared,” I teased lightly.
He cleared his throat gruffly, the sound vibrating through his little body into my shoulder. “A lot of us depend on you. You don’t know how important you are.”
I didn’t feel very important the next day as I sat at my desk at Insuring the Future. I felt exhausted and the rock in my gut was still there. I could barely keep my eyes open as I took a claim from yet another driver who claimed a deer had just jumped out and hit her at 3:30 on Sunday morning. It’s amazing how busy deer are on Friday and Saturday nights. It’s almost like they’re the ones at the bar until all hours of the morning.
A burst of laughter told me that Armani had finally made it into work.
Not that there was anyone around to give her a hard time about coming in late. With Harry gone on his elopement adventure to Vegas, all of the other supervisors had declared it an “out of office meeting day” and had disappeared.
Half the workers who’d bothered to show up were milling around, drinking coffee and exchanging gossip instead of doing their jobs.
That left those of us who took our responsibilities seriously dealing with callers who were annoyed that it had taken so long to have their calls answered.
I don’t like Harry. He’s a letch who always smells like pepperoni, but at least he runs a tight ship. Usually, I hate his enforcement of policies and rules, but on a morning like this, when anarchy ruled, I missed him being a pain in the butt and keeping everyone in line.
When Armani approached me, I’d just finished up another call. This one with a woman who’d pulled right into the side of her garage. We get a lot of calls like that. At least she’d had a sense of humor about it, so taking the claim hadn’t been as unpleasant as they sometimes are.
Something about Armani was different. If she didn’t have a perpetual limp, I would have sworn there was a bounce to her step.
“Hey, chiquita,” she trilled.
I flinched. There was definitely an almost-manic joy about her. “Nice that you finally made it in,” I drawled sarcastically.
“All work and no play makes Maggie a grouchy girl.”
“Some of us take our job seriously,” I countered. “When the rest of you slack off, it makes more work for me.”
Resting her good hand on her hip, Armani considered me. “You trying to start a fight with me?”
I shook my head.
“Cuz you’re starting to sound like that uptight aunt of yours.”
I frowned, not relishing the comparison, but hearing the truth in it. “Did you want something?”
“Take a break with me.”
“I’m actually working.”
Armani looked around at our co-workers who were acting more like it was a party than a workday. “I’m betting you’re the only one.”
The phone beeped insistently in my headset reminding me that there were calls waiting.
“I’ll see you at lunch,” I told her dismissively before answering the call. “Thank you for calling Insuring the Future. This is Maggie. How can I help you?”
Armani rolled her eyes at me before limping away.
As I finished the morning’s work, I thought about what she’d said. Was I turning into Aunt Susan? All work and no play. All responsibility and no fun? The idea worried me and I made a mental note to ask God about it.
When it was time for me to break for lunch, Armani was nowhere to be seen, so I took my peanut butter sandwich and went to sit at one of the outdoor picnic tables despite the fact it looked like it could rain at any moment.
I couldn’t help but think about the fact I’d been sitting in that very seat the first time I’d met Patrick Mulligan. My life had been a lot simpler then.
I stared up at the stormy clouds, thinking about how they matched my mood. I heard Armani limp up behind me before she spoke.
“I brought you something. Okay if I join you?”
“Seat’s empty.” It wasn’t actually a warm invitation, but it was all I could muster in the moment.
She sat down heavily on the bench opposite me. Without speaking (which is unusual for her) she rummaged in her lunch cooler and pulled out a jar, which she placed in front of me. “For you.”
“Most people offer a figurative olive branch,” I told her, picking it up and twisting the lid, which gave way with a satisfying pop. “They don’t give actual olives.”
“It’s not supposed to be an olive branch. It’s a thank you gift.”
I took one of the green, salty delights and popped it into my mouth. “What for?” I asked while chewing.
“Helping me yesterday.”
I recalled our weird outing to the cemetery to choose Scrabble tiles.
Leaning forward, her eyes sparkling, she whispered, “I found him.”
“Him?” I sucked the pimento out of another olive, my sandwich forgotten.
“Ike Medd.”
“Ahhhh,” I murmured. Usually her Scrabble letters spelled out messages, but apparently she was convinced that this time they were a name.
“He’s great,” she gushed excitedly. “Smart . Funny. Perfect.”
“How’d you find him?”
“He called.”
“He called?” That was a first. Usually her messages from another realm were a lot more circumspect. “How’d he get your number?”
“He called here.”
I swallowed the olive, almost choking on it.
“I took one claim today and it was him.”
“Sometimes your messages aren’t all that clear,” I said carefully. “Are you sure about—?”
“Don’t doubt my gift,” she interrupted. “He’s it. The one.”
A knot formed in my stomach, heavy and cold. “The one?”
“He’s my match.” She beamed happily. “I’m meeting him tonight.”
I put the olives down. “How do you know it… they… the universe”—I waved my hands wildly, trying to name whatever the source of her information was—“wasn’t trying to warn you about him?”
In an instant her smile turned into a frown. “Just because you aren’t happy doesn’t give you the right to begrudge me mine.”
“I’m not,” I assured her quickly. “It’s just that a lot of your messages are warnings. Most of the them. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Her frown eased. “I appreciate that, but it’s cool. Everything is cool.”
“Where are you meeting him?” I asked. “Somewhere public?”
She cocked her head to the side and regarded me with amusement. “Yes, Mom. Someplace public. He invited me to dinner at the Pizza Palace.”
I nodded my approval. It’s a busy place. “Good.”
Reaching across the table with her good arm, she patted my hand. “I appreciate your concern. I really do. But don’t you think that you’re letting your recent bad luck color your opinion?”
“It’s made me more cautious,” I agreed slowly. “But I also know that paying attention to your predictions has saved my butt.”
“Wow.” She laughed. “You almost sound as though you actually believe.”
I stared into her eyes. “I do.”
She sat back a little taking that in. “Really?”
I nodded. I believe that I talk to animals, that I’ve communicated with my dead sister, and that when Armani told me to “meet the man,” it actually meant that I had to use a leg of lamb to hit an assassin who was trying to kill me. But I couldn’t tell her any of that, so I just said again. “Even ‘thrusts’ was a warning of sorts.”
She shook her head. “No. It was the way to save you. If that paramedic hadn’t performed the thrusts, you could have choked to death.”
I could see that I wasn’t going to win the argument with her, so I just said, “So if Ike Medd called this morning, when did you have time to go get olives?”
“I was keepin
g them in my desk.”
“Why?”
“Well certainly not because I like them. They’re absolutely disgusting.” The woman who eats candy corn in her Caesar salad shuddered at the thought.
“Then why have them?” I asked, befuddled.
She shook her head. “Sometimes it amazes me how dense a smart girl like you can be.”
I maturely stuck my tongue out at her.
“My best friend has been going through a tough times and I thought she might need them.”
Impulsively, I jumped up and hugged her.
Sure, she’s a kook. And a slacker when it comes to work. But when it comes down to it, Armani Vasquez is a pretty great friend to have.
Chapter 7
After work, I returned to the hospital, hoping to visit with Katie and Patrick. Unfortunately, the first person I ran into, before I even entered the building, was Vinnie.
The steroid-fueled bodyguard watched me approach the building through narrowed eyes.
“You ever think about getting your eyes checked?” I asked as way of greeting.
“Why?”
“You squint a lot.”
“My eyes are fine. I wear contacts.”
“Okay.” I shrugged. “I just figured a guy who takes such pride in his appearance”—I gestured at his muscle-bound physique—“wouldn’t want to end up with wrinkles from squinting so much.”
He stared at me for a long moment, trying to determine whether I was making fun of him. Unable to, he finally said, “Pudding time.”
I’d have liked to tell him that I didn’t really have any interest in eating since I still had a constant uneasy feeling that left me nauseated, but as a rule, turning down a mob boss isn’t good for one’s health. I walked inside the hospital, tossing over my shoulder, “At least consider investing in some sunglasses. They might help.”
The mobster’s henchman muttered something I couldn’t make out, but from his tone, I doubted he appreciated the advice.
I went straight to the cafeteria so he couldn’t call Delveccio and tell him that I was blowing him off. When I got there, he was twirling his pinky ring and staring off into space, deep in thought.
Seeing that he had two bowls of pudding in front of him, I approached cautiously. He smiled when he saw me and pushed one of the bowls of jiggling chocolate across the table for me. “You look tired.”
“Trouble sleeping,” I admitted sliding into a chair.
“Worried about our mutual friend?”
“Among other things.”
“Is Katie okay?” Despite being the head of a criminal organization, the Delveccio twins had a real love and respect for family.
“She’s doing well. How’s Dominic?”
His shoulders slumped as though the weight of his beloved grandson/grandnephew’s condition was too much for him. “They tell me he’s improving, but he still hasn’t woken up.”
Silence stretched between us until I confessed nervously, “I’m not sure I should say, ‘That’s great’ or ‘I’m sorry.’”
He nodded. “That’s okay. I don’t know how to feel about it either.”
I sucked in a sharp breath. Usually, Delveccio seemed like a larger-than-life character, but in that moment he was just a man. A man powerless to help someone he loved.
I remembered that feeling all too well from the time Katie had spent in the same condition as the boy was in. Without thinking, I reached across the table to pat his arm, trying to offer comfort.
He looked down at where I touched him and I froze, worried that I’d somehow broken mafia protocol or something. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, snatching my hand back. “I didn’t mean—”
He looked up at me, his normally sharp gaze, misty. “You’re too kind for this world. The first time I saw you in that black dress and those heels, having taken on Alfonso to save my Dominic, I thought you were one tough chick, but now…” He shook his head.
I didn’t tell him that I’d been in the black dress because I’d come to the hospital straight from Teresa’s funeral. Nor did I think it was the time to mention that my surviving his son-in-law’s attack had been dumb luck.
“Our mutual friend wasn’t sure you were cut out for what was being asked of you,” Delveccio continued, picking up his spoon. “But here you are.”
“Here I am,” I confirmed weakly.
“One of my most trusted associates.” He scooped up some pudding. “You understand the importance of family. Of doing whatever it takes to protect them.”
“I do,” I murmured.
“You can’t teach someone that lesson.” He put the spoon down without having eaten its contents. “Look at my daughter. She only ever puts herself first. She married Alfonso and now she’s dating an idiot cop. But do you know the worst part?”
He paused.
I held my tongue, pretty sure I knew what he’d say next.
“Well do you?” he prompted.
I swallowed hard. If I didn’t answer him he’d think I was an idiot. But if I answered incorrectly, I could upset him by insulting his family.
“Say it,” he urged.
“She doesn’t do what’s best for Dominic?” I guessed.
He pounded on the table, causing the bowls and spoons to clatter. Flinching, I looked around to see if anyone else was aware of the outburst, but there was no one else in sight.
“Right.” He hit the table again for emphasis. “She’s his blood but she doesn’t do what’s best for the boy. She should be at his bedside all the time. Talking to him, reading him stories, holding his hand. She says it’s ‘too hard,’” he mocked in a cruel tone. “But that’s the reason he hasn’t opened his eyes. He doesn’t know he’s loved. He doesn’t feel it.” The mobster buried his head in his hands.
I got the impression that was the first time he’d said those terrible thoughts aloud. I could feel the tension emanating from him like heat off a fire.
“I disagree,” I whispered so softly that I could barely hear myself.
He looked up. “What?” There was an edge of anger in that one syllable that threatened to slice me to shreds.
“I disagree,” I repeated, steeling myself against the killer look he gave me. Even so, the fear made it hard to breathe. “You’re there every day,” I choked out. “He knows you love him. He has to feel it.”
Delveccio’s anger melted away and I saw tears shimmering in his gaze. “You think so?”
I looked away, not wanting to see the tough mobster cry. “I know it.”
He didn’t speak for a long time, but I stubbornly kept my eyes on the clock on the far wall, watching the second hand tick away.
Finally he cleared his throat. “Thank you.”
Daring to look at him, I saw that he’d regained his composure.
“It’s nice of you to say.”
I nodded, not sure of what would be safe to say.
He systematically ate his entire bowl of pudding before he spoke again. Noticing I hadn’t touched mine, he asked, “Not hungry?”
“I had olives for lunch and now I don’t feel so great.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Too much salt. I wanted to give you the package to be delivered.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box wrapped in silver paper and slid it across the table.
I covered it with my palm. “Where does it have to go?”
“All in good time,” he murmured mysteriously. Then he warned, “Just don’t open it.”
I tilted my hand to look at the tiny, light as air, box. “It’s not a bomb, is it?”
He chuckled. “Where do you come up with this stuff?”
I shrugged.
“No. It’s not a bomb and it doesn’t offend your sensitive principles.” He got to his feet, his half-unbuttoned shirt gaping and showing off an expanse of jiggling flesh I could have lived without seeing. “I’ll be in touch.”
He lumbered away, leaving me with uneaten pudding and a mysterious box.
Chapter
8
I didn’t dare to go visit Katie right away because I was afraid that Delveccio had gone to see his grandson, so I ate the chocolate pudding.
Hey, it’s a legitimate stalling technique.
“Ahhh, I see you’ve slipped to the dark side.”
I looked up to find Jack Stern, the man who hadn’t bothered to mention he was a reporter, watching me eat. Remembering how chummy he’d been with Mrs. Mulligan the day before, I tried to keep my expression blank.
“Jack Stern. We met yesterday,” he prompted. Just like the last time I saw him, he wore black jeans and a black leather jacket, but this time a white shirt softened his look.
“I remember, Mr. Stern.”
He hesitated, puzzled by my cool demeanor. “I shouldn’t have intruded,” he murmured finally, stepping backward.
“You weren’t,” I found myself admitting. “I was just daydreaming.”
“Mind if I join you?” Without waiting for an answer, he settled his lanky frame into the seat Delveccio had occupied.
I stared pointedly at his bottle of water, the only type of sustenance he carried.
He grinned and leaned forward and whispered, “I’m waiting for an order of French toast.”
“You’ll have a long wait,” I countered. “They only serve breakfast in the morning.”
“Maybe they’re making an exception for me.”
Glancing over my shoulder, he smiled and waved at someone behind the counter.
I turned in my seat just in time to see the young hair-netted server turn a lovely shade of pink and duck her head.
His low, amused chuckle made me twist back toward him.
“A little charm goes a long way,” he told me with a wink, leaning back in his seat.
His self-satisfied smirk annoyed me.
“You make it a habit of preying on young women who are barely legal?”
He cocked an eyebrow and made a show of leaning to the side so that he could get a better look at his clueless victim. “You think she’s legal? I’d pegged her as younger, but if you’re saying you believe she’s over eighteen…” He trailed off, letting the speculative innuendo hang there.
If I’d had any pudding left I would have flung it in his face like mud on the pig he was.