The Marker: Book One in the Bridge Series

by Howes, Ann

  Hmm. I could smash it to hell with my softball bat, or if I owned a gun, I could shoot the thing. Not sure Marshall would appreciate the hole in the ceiling though. Which leaves me with the only option left. I’ll have to use my step-stool and with my clumsy tendencies, that could be a death sentence in itself. Fortunately, that’s when somebody bangs on my door.

  “Shelley?”

  Oh, thank God, it’s Billy.

  Maybe he’s got a gun.

  The smoke’s thinning but not enough to stop a coughing fit as I fling the door open and stumble into the hallway.

  “What the hell?” Billy staggers back, then grins. “You burning dinner?”

  “Noop,” I mutter, when I stop coughing long enough to speak. “Just the brownies I was planning for dessert.”

  “Forgot how accident-prone you are,” he chuckles.

  “Glad you find me amusing.” I point the spatula at the smoke alarm. “Can you kill that thing?”

  “Yep, give me that,” he orders, covering his nose with his gray San Francisco Giants sweatshirt and holding out a hand.

  Happily, I relinquish control of the spoon. A moment later he shoves the end into the reset button and we have instant silence.

  Expecting it to start up again, I glare at it.

  Any second now.

  Hmm.

  “How do you do that?” My ears ring and I can barely hear myself speak.

  He smirks and waves the spatula under the alarm, circulating the air beneath.

  Of course. It wouldn’t dare mess with him.

  “We on fire?” he asks.

  I shake my head, but check my oven to verify.

  “You wanna head out of here and get dinner elsewhere?” Billy cocks an eyebrow. “Before we die from smoke inhalation?”

  “You buying?”

  “You bet.”

  “Done…give me a second to grab my purse and my sunglasses...” Shit. Gianni still has them.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, Billy guides me to a little Italian bistro with terraced vineyards painted on the walls. White candles, dripping wax, serve as centerpieces on tables draped with red-checkered cloths. Not the plastic kind.

  Though early in the evening, the little restaurant is filled with people in business suits and other work attire. A skinny, middle-aged waitress with badly dyed red hair who sounds like she lives on cigarettes and smells like spearmint leads us to a table by the window. Perhaps I should give her my card and offer to fix that hair for her.

  As we take our seats, her eyes dart between Billy and my bruise.

  “Quit looking at me like that, Maureen,” he grumbles. “I’m not the one responsible.”

  “Mm huh.” She smacks her gum and flips open her little black order book. “What can I getchou?”

  “How about a bottle of Zinfandel while we figure things out?”

  “You betcha.” She snaps her book shut and spinning on her heel saunters away to deliver our order to the bar. Moments later she returns with our wine and plonks the bottle down in front of Billy. Hard enough to make the table shudder. “Enjoy.”

  When she’s out of earshot, our eyes meet and we burst out laughing.

  “Think she likes you,” I say and aim the bottle at the glasses, filling them halfway.

  “Kiss my ass,” he mutters, lips twitching.

  I giggle even louder and push a glass across the table for him. “Here’s to having you back, Uncle Billy.”

  “Cheers, kiddo. Stick around for a bit, will you?”

  We touch rims, and I sit back to gaze at him, unable to keep the smile off my face. He never had kids of his own and he used to slip me cash when I had to have the latest pair of hot new jeans or boots, and got me out of a jam or two.

  “Remember when I snuck out my window and went with Darren McGee to that college party?”

  “You mean when I came and got you ’cause the asshole left you there amongst a bunch of drunk and horny freshmen without a ride?”

  “Yep.”

  “Never told me why he bailed on you, but then again, maybe I don’t wanna know.”

  “Yeah, well…I was too embarrassed to tell you. I wouldn’t let him steal third base. So…he got mad and kicked me out of his car, then drove off with Gloria ‘big boobs’ Tortino.” I hated the slut, as she had a knack for constantly popping up in my relationships, but that night she actually did me a favor.

  “Thought it might be something like that. Gave him a lesson in how to treat women but I don’t believe it stuck.”

  “I think you gave him more than that. He’d bragged all summer about going to Paris for a modeling gig. I heard he missed his shot because his face was so messed up.”

  Billy lets out a little huff. “That wasn’t me. That honor belongs to Gianni and Joey.”

  I’m about to stuff bread into my mouth, but stop halfway. “What do they have to do with it?”

  “When they heard what the prick did, those two, who never got along mind you, decided to do something about it. Joey gave him the black eye, Gianni cracked his rib.”

  “Gianni?” As much as I want to believe it, I can’t afford to let my heart take any satisfaction. “You must be remembering it wrong. Gianni would never waste his time defending me.”

  “Kiddo, a man with any kind of honor doesn’t allow women to be disrespected the way that prick disrespected you.”

  Ah!

  Honor.

  How disappointing.

  “I always assumed it was you.”

  “Oh, I supervised, made sure they didn’t do too much damage. Only enough to teach a lesson.”

  “I never knew.”

  “Didn’t want you to know.”

  Smile lines radiate from the corners of his soft, cinnamon eyes. “Shithead never saw it coming.”

  “Oh my God, I actually feel sorry for Darren McGee now.”

  “Don’t. The bastard earned what he got. Last I heard, he’s in prison for sexual assault. Perhaps we weren’t tough enough.”

  “You kept tabs on him?”

  “Have to with fuckwads like that.”

  I let that simmer for a moment, then realize I have been away a long time.

  “I think my parents were the only people not afraid of you. Mom almost lost her curlers when you taught me to drive when I was fourteen and threatened to shoot Daddy with his Glock for letting you.”

  “Gave me hell too,” he chuckles. “She’s the reason I have two assholes.”

  “Yep, Mom can be fierce. What she wants, she usually gets.” I take a sip of wine, savor it, then sit back in my chair releasing a sad sigh. “Talk to me about Dad.”

  “Aah…your pop.” Billy swallows as his shoulders slump a little. “Smartest man I ever knew. Could hide money like nobody. Without him, Papa couldn’t have done business like he did. The feds never had nothing.”

  “Why didn’t you stay in touch, you know…after he was shot?” I twirl my wine glass by the stem, straightening it quickly when I almost spill some.

  “I tried,” he says and clears his throat. “Lisa…your mom wouldn’t let me. Said she wanted a clean break, no contact at all…fresh start for both of you away from our world.”

  “I felt like I lost you too.” My throat’s thick and it hurts to swallow. “Mom won’t talk about you or Dad or anything to do with what happened that day.” I use my napkin to catch a tear. “I’ve always had this hole I couldn’t fill. Guess it’s why I’m back here in San Fran, looking for some sort of closure.”

  “I’m sorry, honey,” he says softly. He reaches for my hand and squeezes. “Know it was painful, but Lisa was protecting you.”

  “I wanted to remember him, and it was like she was trying not to.”

  “Lisa happy now?”

  “I guess so. She’s remarried and he’s a decent guy. Treats her well.”

  “What about you? He treat you well?”

  “He’s fine. I sympathize, because no one will take Dad’s place, but he’s tried to fill the
gap.”

  “Wish it’d been different.” He lets go of my hand and breaks off a small piece of bread and dips it into a bowl of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. “Glad you’re back because I missed that beautiful face and maybe now would be a good time to tell me who damaged it.”

  “Yeah!” I suck air through my teeth then chew on my thumbnail. “I’ve got a problem.”

  Billy snorts and rubs his thighs. I brace myself to tell him the PG version and figure I may as well just blurt it out. “So, I met this guy.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And he pursued me, was really persistent actually, until I said yes.”

  “How long?”

  “How long he pursued me? Does it matter?”

  “Just trying to get a picture on this prick”

  “Ah…about a month I guess.”

  “Mm hmm. And then?”

  “Well, things were good at first and after about three weeks of dating he became super possessive. Don’t know if it’s because I hadn’t slept with him yet or what, but one night I smiled at a waiter when he brought our drinks and he lost his shit. Called me a cock-tease and a slut then hit me.”

  “In front of everyone?” His brows are raised.

  “No. We were at a bar after work. It was busy and he had my arm twisted behind my back. Almost broke it forcing me outside into an alley. Then…um…” I clear my throat and take a deep breath. “He…kissed me really hard…brutally hard and the next thing I knew his hand was coming towards my face and I was on the ground. He left me there.”

  “Fucking hell, kiddo.”

  “Yeah. It kind of sucked.”

  “How did you get home?”

  “Uber.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Monday.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “At first I thought I could. Now he disgusts me.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Let’s just call him the ex, considering I don’t want another Darren McGee situation.”

  “Honey, a man like that doesn’t deserve consideration from you.”

  “I know, Billy. I hear you. I just…”

  “Not going to hurt him, I don’t do that no more.”

  I know he’s saying that for my benefit, to take what guilt I might feel for any retribution, but I can’t tell him. Just like I couldn’t tell Gianni.

  “I own a bakery now,” he continues. “Tell me this…is he still bothering you?”

  I shrug, and choose not to tell him Dean pounded on my door last night.

  “How can I help?”

  “Thinking I need something small and clean, something that will fit in my purse.”

  “Do you still know how to use one?”

  “Puh-lease.” I arch a brow. “You’re the one who taught me how to shoot.”

  “Still a sequoia tree in Woodside with a bunch of lead in it. Often wonder if we killed it.”

  “We sure killed that poster of Osama bin Laden.”

  “Good face for a target,” he agrees. “Okay, but we’re gonna practice some. I wanna make sure you’re not rusty.”

  Grateful and relieved that part’s over, I summon a smile and refill our glasses with wine. “You said you own a bakery?”

  His face lights up. “Yep, called the Flour Barrel. My nephew, Carmine, runs it. I fronted the money and earn a portion of the profits.” Billy grins and rubs his girth. “He does a good job, as you can tell.”

  I shake my head, picturing Billy in an apron.

  Our food arrives and he checks his with a suspicious eye, throwing a glance at Maureen. The woman looks down her nose, blows a bubble in her gum and walks away.

  My taste buds explode when I fork a mouthful of Tortellini Alfredo. Billy examines his, moving it around, searching for signs of anything odd. He sighs and takes a leap of faith, spooning spaghetti and a chunk of meatball into his mouth. Since we eat in silence, it must have passed scrutiny and we stop only to sip on wine.

  The city lights begin to blink on. Our window faces Fillmore Street and I turn my attention to jaywalking pedestrians, honking cars and storefronts casting fluorescent shadows.

  Lost in the rhythm of the city, it takes a moment for my brain to register a low rumble. At first, I think it’s thunder, then my view is blocked by nothing but orange.

  My heart rate spikes into the red zone

  Ohmifuckingword…Dean’s Ferrari.

  Billy’s engrossed in his meatballs and doesn’t notice me splutter on a half-swallowed sip of wine.

  Maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Surely there’s more than one orange Ferrari in San Francisco?

  That delusion is immediately shattered by the car window rolling down and Dean’s blonde head appearing, back-lit by the interior light. He looks right at me. Our eyes lock and that adrenaline prickle spreads from my toes to my scalp.

  He revs the engine, attracting everyone in the restaurant’s attention. Drivers behind him lay on their horns, but he ignores them, forcing cars to drive around blasting their horns and flipping him off. The whole time he holds my gaze. And just to be a dick, he lifts two fingers and blows a kiss.

  “What the hell is Melnikov’s problem?”

  Ripping my eyes from Dean, I stare at Billy. “You know him?”

  “Of him.”

  My stomach plummets and I can almost feel the blood draining from my face.

  Glancing up from twirling his spaghetti, he looks at me, at Dean, then back at me. And it dawns.

  His cinnamon eyes get wide. “Holy fucking fuck.” He jerks a thumb towards the window. “Him?”

  Before I can answer, Dean blasts the horn and we turn to glare. Well, Billy does. I mainly just stare, unable to do anything else. Then Dean cocks his head, winks and pulls away.

  My eye twitches, so I press a finger to the muscle and it occurs to me that if Billy recognizes him this is way worse than I thought. The question is, precisely how much worse?

  “Shelley?” Billy slumps in his seat, dropping the uneaten pasta with a dull metallic thud. “Tell me that isn’t him.”

  I stare at my half-eaten food. “It’s him.”

  “Did you tell him you were here?”

  “No.” As the knowledge sinks in my head jerks up. “I didn't know we were coming here.”

  “That motherfucker,” he growls, picking up his glass and draining it in one gulp. Those lovable eyes have changed from warm and soft to hard and cutting and I get why people were so afraid of him. “You’re gonna need more than a gun.”

  Swallowing, I sink back into my own chair. “Probably, but a gun is a good start.”

  “What do you know about him?” he asks, massaging little circles in his temples.

  “He told me he was a hedge fund manager.”

  “A hedge fund manager…ugh.” Billy squeezes his eyes shut and rubs more vigorously. “Kiddo, I hate to tell you this, but he ain’t no hedge fund manager. Wouldn’t trust him with my money.” Then his eyes pop back open. “You didn’t give him any, did you?”

  “Do I look like I have any to give?”

  His brows meet in the middle. “What about...? Never mind.”

  Huh…what money does he think I have?

  After he wipes his mouth on a napkin, he pulls out his wallet and drops a fifty and two twenties on the table. I can’t help thinking that’s a good tip for a waitress with an attitude.

  “Come on, I’m gonna introduce you to an old friend.” Billy flashes a wave to Maureen then ushers me out of the restaurant, his hand resting between my shoulder blades. “Alfie’s only a block from here.”

  “Who’s he?” I ask, hunching my shoulders and covering my face with my scarf against the wind.

  “Probably don’t remember him but he’s from the old days. Alfie used to be our weapons man. Still dabbles a little.”

  We turn into an alley next to a New Age book store and walk to the end of a small six-car parking lot. We hustle up a flight of rickety wooden stairs. Billy kn
ocks on an apartment door that looks like the last time it saw paint was during the gold rush.

  Rusty hinges creak as the door opens and a short, shrunken man appears. Wispy silver hair lifts in the wind and skinny arms poke out of a white tank top hanging over black chinos. He looks mildly familiar.

  “Alfie.” Billy grips his hand.

  “Billy, you fat bastard,” Alfie wheezes. “What you doing here? You bring me company?"

  “This is Shelley, Jimmy De Luca’s girl. She’s in trouble and we need your help.”

  While I try to place him and hide my surprise, I offer my hand. I’ve gotta admit, I was expecting the stereotypical large, Italian goombah, not this tiny person.

  “Jimmy, the money man?” He takes my hand in his and brushes my fingers with an air kiss. “You look just like him,” he says, waving us in. “Only much prettier.”

  I respond to his smile and step inside, boot heels click-clacking on scratched parquet flooring as I enter a time capsule from the fifties.

  The furniture’s minimal and boasts the typical pointy, splayed legs so popular during that time. Except for the sixty-inch flat-screen TV mounted on his living-room wall, nothing else is from this century. A scene from The Walking Dead’s frozen on the screen and I instantly like him.

  “Remember you, always running around with Joey.” He shakes his head. “Poor bastard. Shoulda kept his nose clean. Saw you at his funeral talking with Gianni.”

  Aha! Now I remember him. The little old dude Billy was talking to.

  He turns to Billy. “Get my bag from the room while I entertain Jimmy’s girl.” He flaps a hand, shooing him out of the room.

  “Sit with me.” He points to the couch. “You like The Walking Dead? I got the hots for Michonne. What a woman. Kick my ass I got outta line. Like ’em a little spicy.”

  Laughing would be rude so I press my lips together and pull them between my teeth.

  “You look like you got a lotta spice in you.”

  “Some would say I’m a little too spicy.”

  “No such thing. A man’s no man he can’t handle spice. Makes life interesting.”

  He has a point.

  Billy re-enters carrying an ancient brown leather suitcase and places it on a round, faded red, Formica-topped coffee table. Alfie undoes the straps and pops it open revealing a selection of handguns, neatly laid out in sponge. Seeing the one I want, I pick it up.