by Jed Power
Chapter 30
"We're here, Boss."
Dominic looked out the Lincoln's window. They were in a parking lot, one of a couple dozen cars. Outside a few people walked through the heavy drizzle, heading towards and then disappearing around, a large gray bathhouse.
"Don't look like a famous beach. Talkin' Beach–bah. Whoever named the place was dumb as a post."
"Singing Beach, Boss," Jorge answered, speaking very slowly, like he was talking to a child. "Singing Beach."
"Singin', Talkin', who gives a fuck?" Dominic shrugged. "It's a stupid name for a beach. Why the fuck they call it that anyway?"
"I heard it sings like Sinatra," Sal piped in. No one even chuckled.
"It's because of the sand," Jorge explained. "It makes a noise when you walk on it. Kind of like a squeaking sound."
"Ahhh, I don't believe that," Dominic said. How the hell did the kid know something like that? Dominic had lived around Boston his whole damn life and he'd never heard of a beach that could sing. Yet the kid–smartass that he was–knew all about it.
But that was one of the reasons he was going to leave the kid in charge of the business when he went south anyway. The kid had a good head on his shoulders. Knew stuff that would keep him ahead of the boys. And those smarts were going to keep Dominic comfortable in Florida, real nice-like.
A carrot-topped teenager with a black windbreaker sporting the words "Parking Attendant" walked up to the driver's side window. Sal lowered the window.
"Sir, you need a parking sticker to park here." Carrot-Top's eyes were locked on two young cuties sauntering by.
"Kid, look at me," Sal said. The kid slowly turned, an insolent look in his eyes.
"Get the fuck outta here." Sal tapped the pistol tucked under his coat. Carrot-Top blinked twice, then headed back to his booth.
Jorge turned in his seat to look at Dominic. "There wouldn't be any parking except for this rain. It's usually packed this time of year. Our meet guy must've checked the forecast."
"So, he's smart. We're smarter," Dominic said. He'd spent enough time thinking through all the ifs, ands, and buts on the drive over. There was two hundred grand in the trunk, compensation for the sleazebag who'd ripped off his product.
Some punk steals his–Dominic Carpucci's–product and then demands that he buy it back? Wasn't going to happen. He still didn't have a plan, but that didn't matter. He was real close now. So close he could almost smell his product. Time to go get it back.
Dominic opened his door and slid out into the rain. "Let's go see if we can make some dreams come true."
A puzzled expression flashed across Jorge's face. Surprised at the statement or the fact Dominic had opened his own door? Either way, it was good to keep the kid on his toes. Dominic chuckled to himself as the look disappeared.
"Sure, Boss," Jorge said. "Whatever you say."
~*~*~
