by Gina LaManna
“Give it,” I said grumpily. “It’s my one vice.”
Clay raised his eyebrows. “One, huh? You were never good at math.”
I opened my mouth to retort, but he gestured for me to come behind the marble countertop and I clamped my lips shut real fast.
“Wow, you are fast, buddy.” I was face to face with Andrey Shemyakin, a cutie with blue eyes, even if he was a bit skinnier than my normal tastes.
“This twerp is new to the Organizatsiya. I scoped him out and found a lot of info on your guys – they’re not fun people. You’ll have to be careful.”
My stomach dropped a bit at Clay’s serious tone. “How dangerous?”
“They arrived in Minneapolis six months ago. Since then, we’ve seen six homicides, all tied to them...”
“How could you possibly know that?” I asked. “Isn’t that, like, police records and stuff?”
Clay gave me a patronizing look. “Child’s play, cousin.”
I nodded. “Sorry. Continue.”
“Seems they’re determined to claim the Minneapolis turf as their own. We have St. Paul pretty much locked down. It’d take a pretty big event for them to overturn the fortress we have here. But Uptown, they’re determined to show everyone there who’s boss. And it looks like the others are listening. They’ve got – let’s see here – Lyndale through, wow. They’ve got all of Downtown and Uptown in their hands already. This’ll be ugly.”
“Alright, alright. Enough with the terror tactics. Tell me what I need to know to get the good stuff back.”
“You’ll need to know all of this because the good stuff is going to be in Minneapolis, and you’re going to need to go and get it. Right into the lion’s den.”
I scoffed. “There’s no way they can own a city. Plus, there are some bars I like on that side of town. I know the bartenders. You’ve met Meg, right?”
Clay raised an eyebrow and ignored my question. “Gotta be careful who you talk to on that side. I suspect there might be new loyalties.”
“Nah, not a chance. Meg?”
Clay again raised his shaggy eyebrows. “I just said be careful. It looks like this Andrey guy is fresh off the boat and looking to make his bones. He was linked to two of the six homicides, though nothing was ever proven. If he managed to nab this fifteen mil, he’d be looking pretty good to his superiors. My money’s on him.”
“How sure?”
Clay stared me down. “When have I ever given you faulty information?”
“Not questioning, just asking.” I sipped my diabetes cup. “Alright, Andrey. It’s on, cutie pie.”
“He’s way too skinny for you,” Clay snapped.
“What are you saying?” I asked.
Clay looked at my cup containing a thousand million trillion calories. “Nothing.”
As I nursed my hurt feelings, I bid Clay a terse goodbye and headed out to my clunker. I pondered the task at hand, trying to decide how I felt about chasing after a group of organized, hardened criminals. Not only were they dangerous and ruthless, but they were smart. They’d be a tough match. Not to mention, it wasn’t like I was out trying to save a kitty from a mean guy – I was trying to rescue stolen drugs, which, to be honest, may or may not have been stolen in the first place.
Mostly, I felt confused. But deep down, I wanted to do well by Carlos. A fair man by nature, I found myself inherently trusting his judgment more than I probably should. And if he thought that chasing down the drugs was the right thing to do, then I was willing to bet he had a good reason for doing it. He didn’t dabble in petty, trivial problems. He only dealt with the important kind of problem, the type of issue scaling into the fifteen million dollar range, I reminded myself.
I reached my car and slipped into the driver’s seat. I turned it on and pulled onto the road, operating on auto pilot, my mind still whirring, miles away.
It was tough sorting all my feelings out, searching for ways to justify my actions in an area covered with all sorts of gray. Most of all, I guess my loyalty to Carlos was strong enough to override the feelings of confusion. My gut told me I was risking a lot joining up with this crew, but at the same time, I had confidence in the Family. They would never let anything happen to me, even Nora said so...
Right?
Chapter 8
LATER THAT EVENING, after Clay had closed up shop and I was wired on sugar and caffeine beyond belief, I stood in the bathroom trying to curl my limp hair.
“I’m going out,” I called to the living room, where Clay had about six monitors glowing. “Wanna come?”
I took the silence as a probably not tonight, dear cousin. Maybe another time.
“Cool,” I yelled back.
I looked at my botched hair job and sighed. Examining my medium brown hair on my medium-sized build with my larger-than-average mouth, I ranked quite unfailingly as “average” on most human scales. Which would be fine with me, if my hair would just curl every now and again. Instead, it insisted on remaining perfectly straight, right past my shoulders, no life whatsoever.
“Alright, you win.” I bent in half and wet my hair, destroying all my hard work. I went to town scrunching it up with some mousse, hoping the faux curls would give it some volume. I flipped my head back up, nearly cracking my skull on the open mirror.
I swiped on a streak of lipstick and a couple dabs of mascara – already planning to forgo the tedious task of lining my eyes. I sighed. “Better.”
“Fine, respectable,” I amended under the mirror’s harsh gaze.
“I’m gonna go see Meg,” I said, stomping out to the living room in high heels, underwear, and a bra. I had one arm in my dress.
Something twitched in Clay’s cheek. “Meg?”
“Yep.” I grabbed my purse, slipped on the remainder of my dress. My partial nudity didn’t matter – Clay’s eyes never left his screens.
“Doesn’t she work in Uptown?”
“Yep. A pretty cool bar. Shotz, it’s called. Heard of it?” I egged him on, knowing that he’d discovered more information on the Russians than he’d told me.
“Lacey, that’s right in the heart of their little Russian nest. Don’t do it.”
“Meg and I are best friends. She’d tell me if there was something funny going on. And that’s exactly what I’m going to find out.” I swiped my prescription strength deodorant on my armpits. If things were getting sketchy tonight, I didn’t want to pit out the entire time.
“That’s the place with those lava cakes and the – uh, giant pickles, right?”
“Of course. Why else would I be going? It’s the only place in town you can get a four dollar well vodka and a gladiator pickle at the same time. Ciao.”
“Wait.” Clay lumbered to his feet. He wasn’t an unattractive guy – he just had the sheen of a computer nerd (pale, almost translucent skin in direct sunlight) and was a bit soft around the waist. The rest of him was rather attractive: dark hair often pushed to one side, intelligent gray eyes, the height of a small tree. He was also a great hugger when he made the effort.
Which is what he was doing now.
“Groffff,” I mumbled. “What are you doing?”
Clay released his bear squeeze. “Just wanted to say bye.”
I watched him suspiciously as I walked towards the door and he returned to his seat and plunked away at his keys again. I suddenly felt a lot more nervous than I had seconds before. We were not an emotional pair, and I wasn’t quite sure how to take that hug.
“Scram,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”
And we were back to normal.
However, even as I closed the door, my heart jumped at double its speed, and I didn’t even notice my favorite piece of cuss-work glowing under the lamplight as I hurdled the crooked front steps.
Chapter 9
“I HAVE BEEN STARING at that man’s ass all night.” Meg greeted me with a serious look the second I walked into the bar. I looked over and saw an extremely tall black man in the far corner, dreadlocks halfway down hi
s back.
“Can I get a gladiator pickle?” I asked.
“Mmm,” she said. “Here.”
Meg produced a plate of fries from behind the counter and set it in front of me.
I waved at her. “Hello?”
“What?” she turned to me, tearing her eyes away from her target.
“Gladiator pickle. These are potatoes and grease and ketchup.”
Meg reached to remove the plate.
I yanked it away from her. “I didn’t say you had to take these away...I just wanted a pickle. Wow, you are distracted.”
“Sorry. You wanted a pickle, gladiator style.” Meg shook her head, seconds behind real time, off in her own world. “Sorry, but that man is driving me crazy! He’s all I can think about.”
“Ever seen him before?”
“Nope. He’s a newbie. Here ya are.” Meg leaned over the bar, her voluptuous chest spilling all over the wooden countertop. A “healthy” sized chest, she said. Her doctors said overweight, but she often disagreed, saying that the numbers on the scale shouldn’t be believed since it’s all about how you feel. And Meg had more confidence than a Brazilian supermodel.
She was wearing little more than a black bra and a tight, bandage style dress she’d pushed around her hips into a makeshift skirt. A shiny belly button ring dangled from her navel and no less than nine holes were plunked in each of her ears, some of them in places I didn’t know were pierce-able.
Meg expertly slid me a vodka diet with a lime and a pickle the size of my forearm. I bit in, moaning.
“Don’t do that,” Meg said.
“What? Eat?”
“Moan like that. I already told you I’m horny.”
“Not really – okay, whatever.”
“Those dreadlocks.” Meg smacked her lips. “You can tell that man is a free spirit. He is going to be into all sorts of new things. Gotta keep things spicy in the bedroom, you know? In my experiences, men with dreads are just another specimen entirely. A real treat. A real...gladiator pickle if you catch my drift...”
I choked on said bite of pickle.
Meg winked.
“Meg, I have to talk to you about something serious.”
“What’s that?” She pulled her eyes away from the man with what seemed like excruciating pain.
“It’s about some bad people,” I said as a teaser.
She slid her eyes to mine. Meg was a former cop who’d been “let go” after punching out more than one of her suspects when they mouthed off to her. With a sailor’s vocabulary and a temper hotter than a tea kettle, her supervisors had agreed that a career change would be in everyone’s best interest. A bartender was the perfect job – she got to swear all she wanted, make inappropriate jokes all night long, and nobody dared snap their fingers at her for a drink. When she took over the bar from its previous owners, she’d actually reduced the number of bouncers.
“Spill, girl.” I had her full attention.
Keeping my voice low, I filled her in about the Russians moving into her side of town, how the whole thing connected with our stakeout extravaganza.
“I noticed some people talkin’ funny in here,” she said.
“The Russians have stolen some of the good stuff from some people I’m working for and it’s my job to get it back.”
Meg nodded approvingly. “Your first assignment since we kicked ass the other night?”
“If you call that kicking ass,” I hedged, looking around. Meg was still a former cop. And despite her less than pristine record, I wasn’t too keen to have people finding out my newest profession willy-nilly. And I definitely didn’t want people to overhear.
“’Bout time Carlos puts you on the real payroll.” She winked with understanding. “I’m glad he approved of our work. Now you’ll finally make some money and be able to tip me properly.”
I rolled my eyes and half joked, “Not gonna turn me in?”
Meg wrinkled her nose. “Why the hell would I do that? I’d lose half my Monday thru Wednesday customers.”
“Touché.” As I was all too often her only customer, she must’ve been counting herself in that tally.
“Honestly,” she said. “The cops know about you and the Luzzi Family. But Carlos treats everyone alright.”
I glared at her.
“I said alright, I didn’t say he was the next Mother Teresa. He’s fair, and he keeps away from the Po Po. Nothing violent most of the time, and when it is, it’s for a pretty good reason. So as long as you guys keep your business to yourselves, I can tell you the cops won’t be bothering none of ya’ll.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. Ever since I’d known him, Carlos had always kept his cards close to his chest. Probably one of the reasons he was still alive and successful. But it also gave me the feeling I hadn’t yet fully realized the extent of Carlos’s power in the Twin Cities arena.
Each new nugget I found made me fear and respect my grandfather a little bit more.
“All I’m saying is that Carlos rewards the police well when it’s in their best interest to keep their noses away from the business.” Meg cracked her knuckles. “Let me put it this way: say Carlos needs to move a shipment of the good stuff. Well, it’s not really hurting anybody, is it? So if he gives a little extra money to Officers Diego and Bretty boy to take an extra long coffee break while they’re supposed to be patrolling the drop spot...”
Meg trailed off.
“But that’s...that’s not legal,” I said. “It’s corruption.”
“Don’t look at it like that,” Meg said. “Carlos chooses wisely. He’s not paying off the corrupt assholes in the department. He’s paying off the Joes and Johns that have a wife and kids at home and could use a little extra cash.”
She put her hand on her hip. “In fact, you should feel good about your grandfather – he’s nothing if not fair. You know the Weavers? Smitty and his wife, Lana – they took a trip to Cancun courtesy of your grandfather. Without the money from Carlos they’d a never ‘ave been able to do it. Got five kids. Smitty’s as straight a shooter as they come. He just ‘forgot’ to read the Miranda rights when arresting your cousin Joey. The one with the orange skin. Joey ain’t no killer. He just happened to be carryin’ a little something that our society considers bad. Smitty let him go on account of a mistake...” Meg brushed her hands. “No harm, no foul.”
I nodded. “So, it’s not really bad, right?”
“Not at all,” Meg shook her head. “Smitty says he’ll owe Carlos ’til the day he dies. First vacation that family’s had in fifteen years.” Meg patted my shoulder. “Tough for you to believe, kiddo, but you’re grandfather’s not all bad. He’s tough on everyone, but he’s not ruthless unless you deserve it.”
“True,” I said.
Meg shuddered. “But I’d hate to be on his bad side...”
I nodded. “So, anyway, tell me about the Russ—”
“Hello,” Meg said, widening her eyes to quarter-sized dimensions. “The Russsstic Inn, you heard of it?”
Meg’s question was directed at a lithe, sexy-in-a-nerdy-way man topped with dark, curly hair.
I snapped my head up, thankful that Meg was smarter than the average person. Though her personality was anything but subtle, she understood when business was business and secrets were secrets. One of the many reasons she made a kickass best friend.
“Never,” he said with a cocky smirk, his dark eyes flicking towards my feet before resting on my face. “I’m new around here. I’m Michael.”
Meg alternated between staring in my direction and ogling the newcomer.
“Oh, hi,” I said, finding my voice. “I’m Lacey. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Have a seat,” Meg encouraged, glaring at me. “Lacey’s forgotten her manners.”
I grinned at him. “How’d you find out about the bar?”
“I live around here,” he said flippantly. “Just wandered in.”
I shot a suspicious glance at Meg.
“I was walking
my dog.” He shrugged shyly, and gestured to a gorgeous Golden Retriever tied out front.
“What’ll ya have?” Meg asked, giving me a stare so pointy it could’ve poked an eye out.
While he settled on Johnny Walker of some color label, I studied him – handsome, tall, just enough muscles to not be skinny. Plus, he had a wonderful dog. Men with dogs were more sensitive than others, in my experience. Unless they were bulldogs or something and wore spikey collars and nipped at my heels.
Meg handed him the drink and he slipped her a bill – of what amount I couldn’t tell, but judging by the size of Meg’s eyes it was quite large.
“Keep it,” he said. He smiled at her in a way that was so innocent and sweet I just wanted to swoop him up in a hug.
Then, he turned to me and his soft eyes warmed me from the inside out. He started speaking, but I couldn’t make out any of the words – I was too busy staring at his lips, which quirked up in the corner as he spoke, a cute smile just a half second away at all times.
I went through my mental “lip” checklist: Not too large, not too small, not too dry, not too slobbery – this guy’s got it all.
“–heard of it?” he asked, waiting expectantly.
“Oh, uh, no. Sorry. Never heard of it,” I said quickly.
Meg was looking at me rather funny. “You’ve never heard of the Backstreet Boys.”
“Oh, sorry.” I blushed. “Heard of those peeps.”
What was I saying? I felt like I’d turned into a nervous ten-year-old.
Michael’s eyes crinkled into a smile. “It’s alright. I’m a computer programmer, so I’m used to people dozing off when I talk.”
“You’d love my cousin,” I mumbled.
“Your cousin?” he asked. “Is he a programmer, too?”
“Of sorts,” I said. Then, seeing the look of genuine curiosity in his eyes, unlike most of the guys I’d dated with their blank stares, I elaborated. “Clay. You’d like him – or, well, he’d like you definitely. Huge computer geek.”
“Sounds like he’d be my type,” Michael said thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll meet him sometime. Would you like to grab a drink this weekend?”