“Shows how much you know. I happen to be very good at it now.” If you count Slice and Bake cookies and the occasional grilled cheese sandwich as knowing how to cook.
Bobby stopped on his way to the front door. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do,” he started, “but please be careful today. I don’t like the idea of you being alone.”
“I don’t much like it either,” I admitted. “I’m going to call Janine to see if she’ll meet me for lunch.”
“Why don’t I drop you off at her place?”
“No, you’re late. I’ll be fine.”
Bobby turned back to the living room and plopped down on the couch. “Humor me. Please?”
“Well, since you asked so nicely.” I called Janine.
“How’d the aura cleansing go?” I was sitting in Janine’s studio apartment, tossing peanuts out the window to the pigeons down below. Janine lives in a four-story walk-up, near St. Dom’s. She’s always threatening to move to a larger apartment, but the place really suits her personality. It’s quirky and comfortable.
“Apparently, my aura was friggin’ filthy. She wants me to come back next week and finish cleaning it.”
“Are you going back?”
“Fuck, no. What a racket.” Janine finished applying her third layer of mascara and wiggled into the shortest skirt I’d ever seen.
I looked down at my blue jeans and sighed. “I’m boring.”
“True.” She studied me for a moment. “But it doesn’t seem to make a difference.”
“What do you mean?”
Janine rifled through her closet alcove, pulled out a beige off-the-shoulder cashmere sweater and yanked it over her head. “I swear to God, sometimes you can be so dense.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but she beat me to it. “That boy is so in love with you, he wouldn’t care if you were wearing a potato sack with arm holes. He’d still think you were the most beautiful thing that ever walked the earth.” This time my mouth flew open and stayed that way. “Oh, come on. Don’t pretend you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t,” I whispered, getting all emotional. Was it possible that Bobby still loved me?” It was too much to think about. “Janine, I told you, the only reason he stayed with me last night is because he knew how scared I was, and nothing happened! He was just being a friend, that’s all.”
Janine added some bangle bracelets to her outfit and was good to go. “Okay, toots, if you say so.”
“Well, don’t say it like that,” I replied, irritably. “Say it like you mean it.”
“But I don’t mean it,” she grumbled under her breath. Sometimes Janine can be a royal pain in the ass.
CHAPTER TWELVE
We decided to go to Sargenti’s for lunch. Sargeniti’s is a family owned restaurant, down on Locust that offers up home style cooking at affordable prices. As my mother says, “The food isn’t very good, but they give you a lot,” which was fine by Janine and me because we were both really hungry.
We walked into the restaurant and were greeted by Angie, one of fourteen Sargenti children ranging in age from sixteen to twenty-nine. Janine veered off to the bathroom while I perused the newspaper rack for throwaway papers. I love free stuff. My eye fixated on the “Philadelphia Freedom News,” an independent press whose slogan is “Underground and Above Board since 1967.” My dad was one of the original founders of the paper, and although he’s long since given up his spot to a new generation of conspiracy hunters, I still get a kick out of reading it from time to time. I flipped it open to the editorial page.
Silence of the Lamb?
By
Ken Robbins
Democratic mayoral candidate Ira Lamb is an outspoken critic of ultra conservative mayor Bradley Richardson. Lamb has challenged Richardson on everything from his views on gay marriages to his tax cuts for the wealthy. Why then is he being uncharacteristically silent when it comes to demanding full disclosure of Richardson’s campaign finances? Could it be that Lamb had been warned off by the ghost of investigations past?
The last time an incumbent was investigated for alleged irregularities in campaign financing the FBI ended up embarrassingly empty-handed, while public outrage over what was perceived as major harassment tripled the former mayor’s re-electability quotient. He won in a landslide.
Perhaps Lamb is smart to overlook certain glaring questions regarding Mayor Richardson’s campaign finances—such as: how did he manage to raise so much cash without any visible fundraising efforts, and who has benefited most from his time in office? I’m an inquiring mind and I’d really like to know. And if you’re reading this newspaper, chances are you’ll want to know too.
I tucked the newspaper into my bag as Janine came out of the bathroom. Angie seated us at a booth and said that Monica would be with us shortly. Janine and I went to school with Monica. That is, until she became pregnant and dropped out in the eleventh grade. I hadn’t seen her since high school, but she looked exactly the same as the last time I laid eyes on her—short, freckle-faced and eight months pregnant. Monica looked over at us and lit up as recognition dawned.
“Brandy, is that you?” She waddled over and slid into the booth next to me. It was a tight fit.
“Oh my God! It’s been so long.” She threw two beefy arms around me and squeezed me hard.
“Hey, Mon, how’ve ya been?”
“Busy.” She rubbed her stomach and laughed. “Hank and I are on our third.” Hank, being Henry Winiki of Winiki Brothers Construction Company. They got married about a minute before Henry Jr. was born.
“Listen, you guys,” Monica whispered, in what I came to realize was a gesture of respect, “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about Johnny.”
“What about Johnny?” asked Janine, tearing at a piece of Italian bread like she’d never seen food before. I was really thirsty and I wanted a glass of water, but it just didn’t seem right to ask Monica to get up again, seeing as she looked like she was about to plop the next kid out at any given moment. Monica shot Janine a puzzled glance.
“You know, the accident.”
“Yeah, bummer,” Janine said absently, stuffing the bread into her mouth. I kicked her under the table and she looked up, confused. “Oh, I mean it was a tragic loss.”
Monica nodded and crossed herself. I did too, just for the hell of it. My cell phone rang and I scrambled to get it.
“Hey, angel.” My body temperature shot up about twenty degrees at the sound Nick’s voice. It was soft and low and sounded like really good sex.
“Oh, hi.” I turned away from Monica and Janine, but not before they caught me turning beet red. Two sets of elbows leaned forward as they strained to listen in.
“Are you alone?”
“Not exactly. I’m at a restaurant having lunch with some friends.”
I pictured Nick sitting behind his desk, rolling one of his exotic cigarettes that he would never smoke, gently in his hands. Then I pictured him touching me the same way. I shifted uncomfortably in the booth. “What’s up?”
“I thought you told me you and the cop are just friends.”
Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting that. “We are. Why?”
“He’s been asking around about me.”
“He has?”
“As we speak.” I thought about this for a minute.
“Will he find out anything interesting?”
Nick laughed, softly. “Let’s hope not. By the way, word on the street is Williams disappeared a few days ago. Maybe he heard someone was able to I.D. him and it made him nervous.”
Nick and I hung up and I turned my attention back to Janine and Monica, who were, by now, flat-out were ogling me.
“What?”
“Somebody’s got a boyfriend,” Monica sing-songed.
Janine snorted with laughter. Now I remembered why Monica and I didn’t hang out together in high school. She has the emotional maturity of an eight year old. I looked to Janine for help, but she was busy finishing off the bread.
“I don’t have a boyfriend, Monica. That was a business associate. So, how’s Hank?” I asked, not really caring but needing a change of subject. Hank always struck me as really boring.
“Eh, not great,” she said, settling in. I think she’d forgotten all about being our waitress and was now planning to catch me up on the past decade since high school. Janine looked over at me and sighed. I gave her a “What can I do?” shrug in return. We both gazed longingly at the now empty breadbasket.
“Business has been really slow, and with the new kid on the way, Hank gets nervous.”
“Has he considered free lancing for another company?” I asked. “Just until business picks up? I see signs for Hoffman and Gruber Construction everywhere. Maybe he could work for them for awhile.”
“Hank would never do that,” she sighed. “First of all, it would be a major slap in the face to his brothers and secondly, he says Hoffman and Gruber are notorious for shoddy craftsmanship and cheap materials. A couple of people on Hank’s crew used to work for them, and they said it was a wonder buildings weren’t falling down all over town. It just really ticks me off that they were awarded those huge contracts, when my Hank is struggling to make ends meet.”
I couldn’t help but wonder if it was just sour grapes on Hank’s part—which I would have gladly eaten if they’d been offered to me, because I was starving by now and it didn’t look like I’d be getting much of anything else to eat. Then I remembered the article in the Freedom News.
“Who awards these contracts?”
“Essentially, the mayor’s office.”
I opened my bag and took out the article and began to scan it. Who has benefited most from his time in office? I’d always assumed the mayor’s rich right-wing friends were financing his campaign, but now I wasn’t so sure. Could Hoffman and Gruber be bankrolling the mayor’s campaign in exchange for the building contracts? Janine’s cell phone began to ring before I had a chance to think this through.
“That was Franny,” she announced, snapping her phone shut. “She just arranged an interview for me with her boss. They need some temp help and I’ve got to get there right away. I’m sorry, Bran. I’ll drop you off at your place, on the way.”
I glanced sadly at the menu as I gathered up my jacket and pocketbook. Monica walked us to the door. I hesitated at the cash register. There was a bowl of those round, red and white mints sitting on the counter, so I reached in and grabbed a few. Monica turned to hug Janine and I tipped the entire bowl into my pocketbook. I felt guilty but that didn’t last long. I figured that if Monica had been a better waitress, I’d have been fed by now, and I wouldn’t have to resort to stealing her crappy mints. So, clearly, it was Monica’s fault.
I was reluctant to go home to an empty house. Petrified was more like it. Maybe Mrs. Gentile would be home, and I could invite her in for a “Girls’ Night.” We could do each other’s hair and take turns reading from fan magazines. I could go over to Paul’s club, but I’d been sort of avoiding him and Frankie for a while now. I love them both and I know they’d move Heaven and Earth for me, but I just couldn’t handle the inevitable questions. I wasn’t up for justifying myself to anyone. I’d done enough of that with Bobby. Franny was still at work, and so was DiCarlo. John was God knows where, eating raccoon and living the good life. I opened my bag and took out my cell phone.
Janine pulled up at the curb. “Are you sure you want me to leave you here?”
“I’ll be fine. Thanks for the ride, Janine. Good luck on your interview.” I ran the five steps to Nick’s studio and tapped on the door. Nick opened it a minute later and I turned to wave goodbye to Janine. She caught a glimpse of Nick and her mouth dropped open.
“He’s gorgeous,” she mouthed to me.
“I know.” I mouthed back.
I was lying flat on my back on the floor of the studio. Nick hovered above me, grinning like an idiot. I had told him that I wanted to come by because I thought I needed to learn some basic self-defense moves. The trouble was he was doing all the moving, which was how I landed in my current position. He extended an arm and pulled me to my feet. It was one p.m. and I’d just missed the eleven o’clock advanced class, taught by Tanya. Darn it. I’d really wanted to make a complete fool of myself in front of her. There wasn’t another class until three, so Nick and I were alone until then.
Nick was dressed in faded black jeans and a soft, gray crewneck sweater. He had the sleeves rolled partway up, revealing strong forearms. Wrapped around his wrist was his signature silver band. His hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, which he now untied, freeing an unruly mass of beautiful brown waves. I stood in front of him, my chest heaving and tiny beads of sweat dotting my forehead. “Whew, what a workout.”
I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve.
Nick checked his watch, a very expensive vintage Rolex. “Four minutes. You must be exhausted.”
“Only four minutes? Are you sure?” I shrugged. “Oh well, it’s the quality that counts. Not the quantity.”
Nick shook his head in amusement. He slung an arm around my shoulder, drawing me to him and began guiding me toward his office. “Come on, darlin’, let’s go in back where you can get comfortable, and then you can tell me why you’re really here.” I started to protest, but he raised his eyebrows at me, stopping me in mid lie. “Do you want to go another round?” Boy, did he ever fight dirty.
I curled up in my favorite spot on the big red velvet chair, tucking my legs beneath me. Nick reached under his desk and brought out two Perriers. He popped one open and offered it to me.
“Thanks,” I said, taking it.
“So, what’s up?”
“I kind of don’t want to be alone, and everyone else I know in town is busy.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, and it occurred to me I might actually have insulted him. “Well, what about your boyfriend, Bobby?”
“I told you, I’m not Bobby’s girl!” Did I really say that? Unhhh! “Look, I’m sorry I took up your valuable time.” I struggled to my feet. He really didn’t want me there, and I felt like I was throwing myself at the man.
“Sit down.” It was said like an invitation, but we both knew it was an order.
“No, thank you. I think I’ll stand.” He did the eyebrow thing again and I sat down. And then I told him the whole story. About the phone call, and the goat’s head, and how I was tired of people trying to chop me up with hatchets and that I just wanted a little peace, and for some reason that I really couldn’t figure out, I felt safe sitting in his red velvet chair, in the office that smelled faintly of exotic tobacco that was savored but never smoked. And by the time I was finished, I was so mortally embarrassed I couldn’t even raise my head when he called my name.
“Brandy, look at me.” I peeked up at him from under my bangs. “It’s only natural that you’d be scared. You’re dealing with some scary shit. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.”
I stayed all afternoon. After filling Nick in on my theory about Hoffman and Gruber financing the mayor’s campaign, he set me up on his computer so that I could do a little research into their company. Nick’s phone rang. He checked the caller I.D. and frowned. When he picked up the receiver, he spoke in rapid fire Spanish, punctuating his words with gestures of frustration that couldn’t be seen on the other end of the line. I felt equally frustrated. I don’t understand Spanish, and it was frustrating as hell not knowing what he was saying. The only two words I recognized were “guns” and “Ecuador.” That couldn’t be good. Finally, he left the room and I concentrated on the task at hand.
I found various articles and began to piece together a history. Hoffman and Gruber Construction Company was started in the early nineteen eighties by two college buddies, Michael Hoffman and Philip Gruber. They started out doing large residential projects but eventually turned to the more lucrative commercial property developments. They managed to make it through various recessions, at times drawing on family money to keep the
business afloat. Gruber came from old money, his grandfather having something to do with linoleum. In nineteen ninety-nine their business really took off when they bid successfully for their first city contract. I checked the dates and noted that the contracts were offered three months after the election of Mayor Richardson.
There were more articles, but one in particular caught my eye. It was written a few months after they received their contract. It was an obituary for Michael Hoffman. I scanned it quickly, soaking up the pertinent facts. According to the news report, Hoffman, forty- seven was on medication for depression. He died of an accidental overdose when he mixed his meds with alcohol. His partner, Philip Gruber was quoted as saying that his untimely death was a great loss to everyone who knew him.
There was a picture of the two of them together at a charity golf tournament, on the Main Line. Gruber, wearing traditionally goofy golfing attire, mugged into the camera, while Hoffman, the more reserved of the two, remained in the background. Gruber appeared to be about five feet nine, slightly built and a little on the nerdy side. A multi- million-dollar nerd, that is. The article also stated that he had been married briefly to a woman named Marlo, but there were no details on the marriage.
After that I tried to look up the mayor’s campaign financing records, but I didn’t know how to or even if things like that were a matter of public record. So then I looked up SoapOpera.Com to see what was happening on Days of Our Lives. When I was finished catching up, Nick still hadn’t come back into the room, so I curled back up in the chair and fell asleep.
It was almost dark when I awoke. I glanced at the clock. Four forty-five. Wow. I’d been asleep for almost two hours. For close to a week I don’t sleep at all and now at the drop of a hat I’m dead to the world. Maybe I have narcolepsy. Oh goody, something new to worry about. Where was Nick?
A thin stream of light emanated from underneath the office door and I peeked out to see what was going on. A class was in session, but this was no housewives group here. I’m talking major muscle. A testosterone festival. Big, make that enormous men of various ethnicities were standing in a line as Nick demonstrated self-defense techniques.
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