The World According to Vince - A romantic comedy (Gym or Chocolate Book 2)

by Stuart Reardon

  Hat hair was an inevitable part of city life in the winter.

  First stop was Vince’s apartment again.

  He’d given me strict instructions on what and how much to feed his dogs, and asked—or rather begged—that I spend ten minutes throwing a ball for Tyson in the back yard. I agreed: as long as the hairy beast didn’t slobber all over me. He had a lot in common with Vince.

  Traffic moved like treacle, and with tired eyes I watched the taxi’s meter tick steadily upwards. Although I’d promised myself to go through my notes one more time on the ride over, the heater was making me sleepy.

  I jolted awake when the taxi jerked to a stop outside Vince’s apartment, and I staggered out, bleary-eyed, without having read a single page.

  Predictably, the dogs were delirious with excitement, and bounded around like they were on springs. Tap whined and cried, telling me what a terrible night she’d had worrying about Vince.

  “Me, too,” I sighed as I let them out to do their business. “I’ve hardly slept, but with a pinch of luck and a great attorney—that would be me—your dad will be home soon. Just hang on in there, sweet pea.”

  I filled their food bowls according to Vince’s detailed instructions, Zeus’s bowl toy-sized next to Tyson’s trough.

  While they wolfed down their food, I stepped into Vince’s bedroom, my nerves jangling. I don’t know what I’d expected to find—a mirrored ceiling, whips and bondage implements, silk sheets, framed photographs of himself—but it was all very single-man-about-town normal. Except, perhaps, for the three dog beds next to his, arranged by size.

  The only photographs on his dresser were of the dogs. I’d expected to see a legacy wall of Vince’s time in the fashion industry, but the walls were bare and painted a soft, dove gray. Realizing I was dawdling, I opened the door to his walk-in closet … his enormous walk-in closet filled with dozens of beautiful, hand-crafted suits in fine wools, cottons, linens and even silk. I half expected a blaze of holy light and angels to start singing, it was that incredible.

  I found his passport at the back of his closet, shoved into his underwear drawer with a roll of twenty-pound notes thick enough to choke a Vince. Tempting.

  Starting my day searching Vince’s underwear drawer hadn’t been on my to-do list. Ever.

  Then had five minutes playtime before I had to get going. The traffic wouldn’t have gotten any lighter in the last half-hour.

  Once again, Tap tried to come with me, and once again I felt like a worm as I pushed her gently back inside.

  I tried not to wince when I saw the triple figures on the taxi’s meter, especially since I couldn’t bill it anywhere. Oh well, this would be my good deed … for the rest of the year.

  I arrived at court early, and sat waiting for Rick to arrive. I prayed that Vince looked presentable, rather than like the kind of idiot who thought rescuing 17 dogs with no onward plan was a good idea.

  I changed into my pumps and stowed my faithful Uggs, then studied the notes, making sure I knew exactly what I was going to say to the judge (as little as possible), and what Vince would say to the judge (less than that).

  When I felt a dark presence looming over me, I glanced up.

  “Thank goodness you’re here, Rick!”

  I gave him the quick, awkward, one-armed hug that seemed appropriate for the boyfriend of my best friend, then upgraded with a quick kiss on his cheek, seeing as he was now Cady’s fiancé and had strayed into uncharted but ‘trusted male’ territory.

  The only other man I kissed on the cheek was my dad.

  “I brought my credit card,” he sighed. “I can’t believe the dickhead has done this. What was he thinking?”

  “Vince? Thinking? I know not of what you speak.”

  He grimaced. “Yeah, that’s the problem. How serious is this?”

  “Worst case scenario would involve a custodial sentence, but as it’s a first offense, I’m confident to plea-bargain down to court-ordered community service and a fine. I just need Vince to not speak, and we should be okay.”

  “Shall I offer to thump him?” Rick asked earnestly.

  “Tempting, but no. Because then I’ll have both of you before the judge, plus a seriously pissed-off Cady, and no one wants that.”

  We sat in silence watching the comings and goings of suited attorneys, uniformed police and other state officials including a game warden (or conservation officer as they were now designated in Minnesota), and a wide mix of clientele.

  Just before court was in session, ushers led us into Courtroom Three. Rick sat near the back and I joined the bench with a weary bunch of state-appointed defenders.

  Judge Herschel was a woman in her late fifties, with dark, all-knowing eyes—the kind that stared right through you. She reminded me of my scariest college professor, and I automatically straightened my spine when her sweeping gaze paused on me and she gave a small frown over her glasses.

  Was it the suit? The briefcase? Or the fact that she didn’t recognize me as one of the defense attorneys? I scanned my notes again although I could have repeated them verbatim by now.

  She read through the docket, and I knew I could have a long wait because Vince was third on the list. In fact, the judge was pretty darn fast. Was that a good thing?

  The first case was a repeat DUI who was seven times over the limit.

  Fascinating factoid: the record for blood-alcohol-content is 32 times over the limit, which was achieved by a sheep rustler in South Africa. He was caught driving a Mercedes, and his passengers included a woman, five boys and 15 sheep.

  Mr. Seven-times-over-the-limit frowned at the usher who was helping him cross the courtroom. I wasn’t even sure how he’d been able to stand with that much alcohol in him, let alone drive. He didn’t seem entirely sober now.

  Bail was requested and refused.

  The second case was a woman who’d been caught dealing meth—also a repeat offense.

  Bail was requested and refused.

  I shut down any expression on my face and glanced toward the door where Vince was being brought into the courtroom in handcuffs by the Deputy Sheriff.

  He wore an orange jumpsuit and prison sandals, but his height and handsome face made him stand apart. The stubble on his face looked deliberate and just added to the raw glamor.

  He saw Rick first and gave him a wide smile and a double-thumbs up, then noticed me and winked. The judge saw it too, and raised her eyebrows.

  I wanted to slap the smile right off of Vince’s face.

  “The State of New York versus Vincent Alexander Azzo on the charge of burglary and larceny,” said Judge Herschel.

  “Yeah, but they was only little bugs,” Vince said seriously.

  “Bugs?” the judge said, glancing up and frowning. “You stole bugs?”

  “Ah, I’m Mr. Azzo’s attorney,” I interrupted, leaping to my feet.

  “Then please restrain the defendant,” said Judge Herschel.

  “I would if I had a muzzle,” I muttered to myself.

  “Do you have something to say, Counselor?” the judge asked in a warning tone.

  “No, your Honor. My apology.” My client makes me crazy.

  Vince was asked to confirm his name, date of birth and address, agreeing that he’d only lived at his present residence a month. I knew this was a demerit in the judge’s eyes.

  The judge then read the charge sheet, making the same astonished face that everyone had so far, while the prosecutor hunched in his chair, clearly uninterested.

  “The defendant attempted to steal seventeen dogs? By himself? On foot?”

  “An attempt to re-home dogs from an animal shelter that the defendant now recognizes was ill advised,” I said firmly.

  “You see the thing is, M’Lud,” Vince interrupted. “Three of them was about to be murdered and I couldn’t walk past and not do nothing. I’ll look after them and…”

  “Mr. Azzo,” the judge said sharply. “Do you wear spectacles?”

  “Um, no, M’Lu
d,” Vince said earnestly. “Perfect 20/20 vision, me.”

  “Then you may have noticed the woman standing in front of you who claims to be your attorney?”

  “Yes!” Vince said happily. “That’s Gracie. She’s me mate!”

  From the corner of my twitching eye I saw Rick drop his head into his hands. He looked like he had a headache. I know I did.

  The judge threw Vince a frosty, unamused look.

  “She’s paid to talk for you. I strongly suggest you let her.”

  “Ah, gotcha! Shut up, Vin!” he laughed good-naturedly.

  The prosecutor handling the whole docket had finally woken up and was gaping at the show going on in front of him.

  “Counselor, please approach the bench,” Judge Herschel said to me.

  Feeling trepidation to the soles of my stylish shoes, I walked up to stand in front of her so she could address me privately.

  “Is the defendant mentally competent to understand the arraignment and plea process, Ms. Cooper?” she asked in a clipped tone.

  Oh, so many ways to answer that question.

  I sighed heavily. “Yes, your Honor—he’s just … different. And British.”

  “Not another word from him or contempt of court will be added to his charge sheet. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, your Honor.”

  “Can you make the defendant understand?”

  I nodded firmly, trying to look competent, confident and professional.

  “Hmm,” she said, her gimlet gaze making me want to squirm like a bug under a microscope.

  I approached Vince at the podium and leaned forwards. He smelled surprisingly good after a night in the cells. Maybe it was the whiff of expensive cologne that clung to his skin. I wanted to grab him by his orange jump suit, crush it in my fists, then slap that silly smile off of his face.

  Vincent Azzo brought out my inner Alexa Bliss, and the man in front of me was heading for a smack-down.

  I laid my palms flat on either side of him on the podium, and spoke slowly and clearly.

  “Do not speak. Nod if you understand me.”

  Looking confused, Vince nodded.

  “That nice lady sitting up there is a judge. Right now, she’s considering including contempt of court to the collection of felonies you’ve already acquired. Without speaking, nod if you understand.”

  Comprehension dawned and a chagrined look passed across his face.

  “For the rest of this arraignment, do not speak to me, do not speak to Rick, do not speak to the courtroom deputy sheriff, and especially do not speak to the judge unless I tell you to. Nod if you understand.”

  Vince’s big blue eyes looked wounded, but he did as requested and nodded.

  I took a deep breath.

  “When you speak, you make things worse. Do you understand?”

  He nodded again, his pouty lips pulling down.

  “Good. Leave the talking to me. Okay?”

  He leaned forward so the judge couldn’t see him. “Are you mad at me, Gracie?”

  I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth three times before I answered.

  “Yes, I’m mad at you.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Vincent?”

  “Yes?”

  “Shut up.”

  He gave a small smile and mimed zipping his lips shut.

  If only.

  It was at that moment that his stomach growled so loudly, it was like having another person in the room.

  “Sorry, me Lud,” Vince said, a serious look on his face. “Breakfast were a bit scarce.”

  Fiery sparks shot from my eyes as he smiled at Judge Herschel and I mimed a slashing motion across my throat.

  Vince got the message and shut up.

  We got through the rest of the arraignment without further incident, although the growling stomach was a continuous acoustic backdrop. There was another slightly sticky moment when Judge Herschel queried Vince’s residential status, but I was able to confirm that prior to moving to New York, he’d lived in California for five years.

  Then we got to the section where Vince had to plead.

  He stood, straight-backed, towering over me and the prosecuting attorney.

  “Mr. Azzo,” said the judge, “to the charge of burglary, how do you plead?”

  “Guilty, M’Lud, um, me Lady, um, your Honor.”

  The judge’s lips thinned but it looked to me as if she was holding back a smile.

  “To the charge of larceny, how do you plead?”

  “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

  Judge Herschel glanced at the prosecutor who simply nodded.

  Mollified, she ordered that Vince’s passport was retained.

  “I’m not a flight risk,” Vince said out of the corner of his mouth.

  “You’d better not be,” I muttered. “I’ll handcuff you to the radiator if I have to.”

  “That’s a bit kinky, Grace. Game on!”

  “Shut up!”

  The bond was set at ten thousand dollars.

  I thought Rick was going to cry, but Vince just smiled and looked like he was about to speak. I made another throat-slicing movement with my hand. Vince took the hint and winked at me instead.

  We all reconvened at the prisoners’ entrance where Vince appeared in a rumpled designer suit covered in paw marks and dog fur, and wrestled me into a bear hug that I most definitely did not want.

  “You were fab!” he crowed. “I thought that Judge Hershey was going to send me to the galleys.”

  “You thought she wanted you to cook for her?” I asked confused.

  “He means galleys like a Roman ship,” Rick sighed. “He’s been watching too many episodes of Spartacus.”

  Vince raised his fist in the air and yelled loudly. “I am Spartacus!”

  I jumped and everyone turned to stare.

  “Shut up, Vince!” I hissed, grabbing his arm and hustling him toward the elevator.

  “Fookin’ great film that,” he grinned goofily.

  When we found the bondsman, Rick handed over his credit card looking a little green as he was given a receipt for ten thousand dollars.

  “Cheers, mate!” Vince said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll pay you back.”

  I sighed again. I sounded like a leaky tire around this incredibly annoying man-child.

  “Vincent, this isn’t a fine. Providing you return to court for sentencing on the date required, Rick will get his money back.”

  “Oh, coolio!” he smiled at his friend.

  “Although there’s every chance that in the future you’ll be fined and have to pay costs, but you’ll be given a reasonable time so to do. Understand?”

  He nodded. “You know you’re fookin’ hot when you go all lawyer on me.”

  I shook my head and turned to Rick. “He’s all yours. Don’t let him get into any more trouble.”

  But of course, this was Vince we were talking about.

  As we descended the steps from the Supreme Court, there were two news crews setting up at the bottom. I don’t know who they were waiting for, but they got Vince.

  “I want to make a statement,” he announced in a loud, carrying voice with a stern look in his eyes.

  The journalists turned to stare, and even though they had no clue who he was, the cameramen started to record. Maybe it was the way Vince’s voice commanded attention, or the way he held himself in his designer suit, or that fact that he was 6’4” and looked like he was someone.

  “What’s he doing?” I hissed at Rick.

  “No clue,” he whispered back.

  Vince waited until every eye was watching him. He looked handsome and serious, and I had no idea what was going to happen next.

  “Right now, in our city,” he said, his voice clear and full of purpose, “animals are being murdered. Dogs and cats, our family pets are being ‘euthanized’,” and he curled his lip as he spat the word out. “They’re on death row through no fault of their own. Within 24 hours, five of the
sweetest dogs you’ll ever meet are going to be murdered by a lethal injection. Five beasties who could bring joy and pleasure to your home. This is happening in our city right now!” he boomed. “Because there aren’t enough animal shelters, because not enough people care. Do you care?” he challenged the people watching him, eyeballing each of them in turn. “Do you?”

  My jaw was on the floor, and I watched as he mesmerized his audience with his passion and compelling delivery.

  “Across this city, our furry friends are dying in cramped, overcrowded shelters where diseases like kennel cough run rampant. And who cares? Not the city officials, that’s for sure. If they cared, they’d have honored the law that the City Council passed in 2000 to put a shelter in every borough of the city. But have they done that? Have they bollocks! And because they’ve broken their promises, animals are suffering right now! In this one shelter, 20% of the animals are killed—that’s six thousand every year in one shelter. Animals who have the right to a long and healthy life are being murdered. We’re supposed to protect the weak! We’re supposed to protect those who have no voice! What sort of people are we that mass murder goes on in our backyards and no one cares? Well, I care! I fookin’ care! And I’m asking you to care, too.

  “Last night, I tried to save 17 dogs. I broke into a shelter not far from here when I heard dogs crying. Heartbreaking, it were. Five of those dogs are on the kill list. I’d nearly made it out when the police nicked me. I don’t blame the coppers, they was just doing their job.

  “If you do one thing today for someone else, visit an animal shelter and see the conditions that these beasties live in, these sweet little bugs, tiny puppies, and you tell me that we care! You tell me that!”

  His eyes were blazing as he marched down the steps with me and Rick trailing behind.

  “Who is that guy?” asked one of the journalists.

  “Vincent Alexander Azzo,” said Vince proudly. “And that’s Gracie Cooper, me lawyer.”

  Vince

  We were sitting in the back of a taxi, and Gracie and Rick were staring at me.

  “What? Is it me farts? They’re like a weapon of mass destruction. It’s the beans they gave me for breakfast—I was on the bog for hours.”