by Dave Daren
“I wish I could,” I replied with a grimace. “I had a client request a meeting tonight, so I’m headed there now.”
“Bummer,” she pouted. “Rain check?”
“Rain check,” I agreed. “Now, go finish your work and get to twittering or tweetsing or whatever you do.”
“I will.” Alessia’s laughter echoed for a moment before she hung up.
I chuckled to myself as I continued down the LIE toward Riverhead until I finally hit the exit and took the winding road toward my client’s mansion. I broke through the trees that hid the home from the road and glided to a stop in the circular driveway. I stepped out of my car and strode to the front door, but Michael didn’t run out to greet me like he usually did.
So, I knocked on the front door and waited until Katarina pulled it open with a confused smile.
“Mr. Morgan, you didn’t come inside?” the Polish girl asked.
“I, uh, don’t live here,” I replied, and I felt my cheeks warm.
“Oh, true,” she mused and tapped her lip. “Well, come in, come in. Mr. Lamon is waiting for you in the den.”
I followed Katarina through the house to the smaller living area where Anthony had the back door wide open and a lit cigar in his mouth. He stood up and grinned around the tobacco before he took my hand and shook it vigorously.
“Things are looking good, Hunter,” he said in a chipper voice and held a cigar out to me. “One for you?”
“Sure,” I laughed and joined him in the smoky celebration. “It seems like Alessia might really have a shot at this.”
“There’s only one thing left in her way,” Anthony replied coolly. “Chatel, by way of the mayor.”
“My reporter’s leads are getting nowhere.” I frowned. “Her sources are being pretty tight-lipped during campaign season, and no one wants to get exposed as the mole right now.”
“I’ve been working a few things also, but we don’t have anything solid just yet,” he murmured and tapped the cigar on the ashtray next to him. “There has to be some way to make him look bad.”
My mind reverted to the conversation we’d had with Sicily and how disgusted Alessia had been with her political tactics.
“I don’t think Alessia would want us to just run his name through the mud,” I pointed out. “She wants to win because she’s better.”
“She is better,” Anthony chuckled. “But right now, she just looks inexperienced. The polls all say the same thing. In ten years, she’d be up by thirty points already, but right now, Chatel has experience and Webber behind him.”
“And Flores,” I muttered. “I saw the chief’s interview about how great it was to meet with the future DA and the mayor for an impartial lunch about how they’d work together to get rid of all the Mafia activity in New York.”
“Likely,” Anthony snorted.
We puffed on our cigars for a few minutes while we pondered what we could do to expose Chatel for the slimy bastard he was. We didn’t have to make things up to make him look bad, but we still needed some proof to give the story credibility and further support Alessia’s campaign.
“Would either of you boys like a roll while dinner is cooking?” Gulia glided into the room with a basket filled to the brim with the cream-colored baked goods.
“Please,” I murmured as I grabbed one and bit into a warm potato-flavored center. “Wow, what is this?”
“Focaccia rolls,” Anthony’s mother answered with a smile. “Made with potatoes, rosemary, and a few other things.”
“Delicious,” I said and picked another from the basket.
“I started following a recipe group on that gram thing,” Gulia announced proudly. “I haven’t had these since I was a child.”
“Are you talking about Instagram, Mother?” Anthony chuckled. “You can’t call it a gram thing.”
“I can call it whatever I damn well please,” she fired back as she yanked the basket away from him. “It’s my phone.”
“Well, that’s true,” he conceded and eyed the rolls. “Have you found anything else interesting on it? Anything about the DA campaign, perhaps?”
“I saw DA Jordan left the running and endorsed that lovely Italian woman,” Gulia murmured and pulled her phone out from her pocket. “And something about a tweeting forum later tonight. Oh, and a party.”
“A party?” I asked with curiosity. “What kind of party?”
“Well, I’m sure you know Mr. Chatel and Mayor Webber have been teaming up a lot,” she explained as she scrolled through her social media. “They’re hosting some sort of black-tie benefit event for the campaign. Well, the mayor is hosting it for Chatel, I suppose. All of their supporters are encouraged to buy a ticket.”
“I’m sure he’s got plenty of Serbian money in his accounts,” Anthony muttered and took another puff of his cigar. “It’s not like he needs anyone else’s.”
“Wait,” I said as a thought struck me. “He has plenty of Serbian money, yeah, but he doesn’t have any mob money, right?”
“No!” My client nearly came unglued as he stared daggers at me. “We aren’t in bed with that slimeball.”
“No, no, I know that,” I assured him. “I mean, what if he did have mob money coming to him? Wouldn’t that ruin all the shit he’s been talking about getting the Mafia out of New York?”
“You want Anthony to pay him off?” Gulia was incredulous.
“By buying a ticket to his party,” Anthony supplied the answer for me, and his anger was quickly replaced with amusement. “Right? You want everyone to see me there.”
“Exactly.” I grinned and took a small hit off the cigar that felt like it was already turning my lungs black. “He can’t exactly kick out a paying guest, and when everyone sees one of the Febbos at Chatel’s event, how can he deny your support of his campaign?”
“Brilliant,” my client chuckled. “How do we get them?”
I pulled out my own phone and searched for the event. I scrolled through the slimy campaign ads and found the gala listed under supporting events.
“Found it,” I murmured as I tapped on the tickets and then whistled. “A thousand dollars a piece. Are you good with that?”
“Buy two,” he ordered. “You can make sure to take plenty of pictures of our pleasant conversation at the party. Two thousand dollars for the chance to rid ourselves of that pig is chump change.”
“You got it,” I agreed.
A few minutes later, the confirmation was sent to my email, and we had our plan ready. Then I had a thought to bump things up a notch and pulled up Brenda’s name on my screen.
“Hello?” the reporter answered in a breathy voice.
“Hey, Brenda, it’s Hunter,” I began.
“Yeah, I have your number saved.” I could practically hear her smirk. “What’s up?”
“You’ve heard about Chatel’s event tomorrow night?” I asked.
“Oh, the thousand-dollar-ticket bullshit?” Brenda muttered. “Yeah, I can’t afford that on my salary. You looking for a date?”
“Nah, I’ve got one,” I laughed. “But I thought press could go to that stuff.”
“Webber has it on lockdown,” she explained. “Only people getting in have a press invite or paid for that ticket. So, I’m sure all the papers that gloat on Webber’s stellar record will be there, but not those of us who have ever pissed him off. And I’m definitely on that list. I’m sure a few of his haters will make it in, though. Someone always does, but it won’t be me.”
“Damn,” I cursed. “What about outside?”
“On the red carpet?” Brenda laughed. “Oh, you bet your sweet ass I’ll be taking pictures there. We have to see who decided to spend that kind of money on that schmuck and blast them.”
“Good.” I nodded to myself. “Make sure to take plenty of pictures when I show up with my date.”
“Are you bringing the ADA?” she asked excitedly. “I don’t know that it would hurt his campaign, but it would sure be dramatic.”
�
�No,” I snickered. “She’s got a big case at the end of the week, so no late nights for her.”
“So lame,” Brenda pouted. “I wanted a soap opera article.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I said with a smile. “How did you know I knew her?”
“I’m a reporter, Morgan,” she huffed. “You may have left your own part of the attack out of your leak, but I’m not an idiot.”
“Fair enough,” I chuckled. “But I think you’ll be pretty satisfied when you see my date for yourself.”
“Alright, fine, keep your secrets,” she giggled. “I’ll see you there.”
We clicked off, and I looked over at Anthony, who seemed to be lost in thought.
“My reporter friend can’t make it inside the party, but she said she and plenty others will be on the red carpet,” I told him when he finally looked at me. “It’s the best I can guarantee for now. And I can always take some pictures inside and send them to her after the party.”
“Sounds good to me,” he agreed. “Now, we have one other matter to attend to before we go to a black-tie event.”
“Oh, yeah, I need a new suit,” I murmured as I thought back to my typical navy options.
“That’s true,” he chuckled. “But I meant the rest of your, ah, appearance.”
“What do you mean?” I cocked my head to the side while Anthony and Gulia nodded together. “What’s wrong with it?”
“When’s the last time you had a haircut?” Gulia asked with a grin.
I shrugged, and the two of them laughed some more before Anthony picked up his phone and made a call.
The next morning, Anthony sent me the address of a tux shop and a barbershop that sat next to each other in midtown and told me to be there in an hour. I sighed as I climbed out of bed, showered, and got dressed. I’d heard plenty of comments at my old firm about my long-ish hair, but it hadn’t ever been a problem. I stared at my reflection for a moment and shrugged. Maybe I really could use something new. I hadn’t shaved in several days, either, so I figured they could fix that as well.
I grabbed my phone from the charger and contemplated my pistol for a moment. If I was going to be changing in and out of clothes to try on suits, I didn’t want to leave it sitting somewhere. I decided to compromise and take the whole case. Then I could put it in my glove compartment and lock my car, and Anthony wouldn’t be on my ass about leaving it at home again.
So, I picked up the case and headed out to the parking garage. As soon as I found a spot to park in midtown, I walked over to the address to see Anthony standing out on the sidewalk with two of his bodyguards flanking his sides. He waved me over and led me into the tux shop first.
“Helloooooo!” an excited male voice called out from the back of the shop. “Is that you, Mr. Lamon?”
“It is,” Anthony chuckled as a brightly-dressed young man scurried into the showroom with a wide smile that faltered a bit when he saw Anthony. “You must be Elijah.”
“Everyone calls me Eli,” the young man murmured. “You’re Salvatore’s son.”
“I am,” my client confirmed with a smug smile. “Is that going to be an issue?”
“Oh, no, of course not!” Eli chirped as his grin returned. “I just, ah, wasn’t expecting that, but no matter. I have a few suits for you and your companion.”
“My attorney,” Anthony corrected him, and I chuckled. “We need to find something for a black-tie event.”
“I have the perfect option for your attorney already,” he said before he disappeared behind a curtain. “Be right back!”
“He’s one of the best in the business,” Anthony whispered. “That’s what my dad said anyway.”
“I really figured you had some old Italian guy in a back room somewhere,” I snickered.
“Mr. Bodicci doesn’t take appointments without my father’s call,” he replied seriously. “So, he wasn’t an option.”
“Of course,” I muttered as Eli appeared in front of us holding at least five hangers of what appeared to be the same plain black suit.
“Try these,” he ordered and led me to a dressing area off to the side.
Thirty minutes later, I had a Tom Ford suit wrapped in a garment bag and hung next to the register while Anthony found his own. No one else entered the store while we prepared for the gala, and I wasn’t sure if it was an appointment thing or a big, huge bodyguards outside the door thing.
When Anthony had finished and paid for us both, we walked out into the sun and stepped next door into the barbershop. Two rows of black leather seats lined the sides of the long room, and a pair of older gentlemen sat in the first two and lowered their newspapers to peer over the tops at us.
“Tony!” one of them bellowed with a grin as he set down his paper. “How you doin’ this morning?”
There’s the old Italian I was expecting.
“Hey, Marco,” Anthony chuckled. “You think you guys can hook us up with some cuts for a party tonight?”
“Your friend certainly needs it,” the second man laughed.
“Exactly what I told him,” my client agreed with a grin. “Let’s fix him up.”
I was whisked into one of the chairs, and Marco tied a cape around my neck before he got to work. I watched my long, black curls fall to the floor in heaps, and then he started on my facial hair. I started to relax as Marco laid the warm towel over my face, then razored the hair so close to my skin I couldn’t believe he hadn’t cut me.
When he sat me back up in front of the mirror, I looked like a whole new man.
“Wow,” I murmured as I turned my head side to side to admire the new fade. “Looks good.”
“And much less homeless,” Anthony agreed.
“Thanks,” I mumbled with an eye roll.
“My turn.” He grinned and plopped into the chair.
By the time we were done, we looked like celebrities ready for the red carpet.
“I think you look much better now,” Marco declared. “Ready for your party, for sure.”
“Yeah,” Anthony said with a grin. “Let’s go crash the party.”
Chapter 8
Once we had everything we needed for the party, we realized we still had a couple of hours to kill before we needed to leave.
“You know what I’ve never seen?” Anthony said suddenly as we tried to figure out what to do.
“What?” I asked without looking up while I scrolled on my phone for a coffee shop nearby.
“Your place,” he replied.
“My place?” I echoed and finally looked up to see my client full of amusement. “It’s nothing compared to yours.”
“Nothing compared to my father’s, maybe,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I lived in an apartment before I took over, remember? Come on, we can hang out, drink a beer, whatever.”
“We’ll have to stop for the beer.” I smirked as I remembered my nearly empty refrigerator. “I know just the place.”
We hopped in my Mercedes and drove back to DUMBO with his bodyguards right on my bumper. I pulled into my parking garage and led Anthony back out onto the street toward the convenience store a few blocks down from my building. He seemed slightly disappointed in the small selection, but we grabbed a six-pack of Michelob and headed back to my apartment, our two giant shadows following a safe distance behind.
I didn’t recognize the doorman today, which was just as well. I didn’t want a ton of questions about why I was bringing a Mafia boss to my place, and even if they didn’t recognize him, the two linebackers behind us were a dead giveaway that he was someone important.
“You guys stay out here,” Anthony ordered the pair as we arrived at my door.
They nodded without a word and took up a post on either side of the doorway. I unlocked the door and headed inside with my client right behind me as I flicked on the lights. I never realized how bare my apartment looked. I didn’t have pictures or paintings or anything on the walls, just one old poster from a concert I went to in college and a single shelf with s
igned baseballs from the Yankees games I’d gone to as a kid.
“So, here it is,” I said lamely before I walked over to the fridge, pulled two beers from the case, and set the others inside.
“Thanks,” Anthony murmured as he popped the top and took a swig before he grimaced at the bottle. “Oh, man, sometimes I miss working at the brewery. I could make some really good stuff.”
“You could always add that to your list of legit businesses.” I shrugged and sipped my own. “It’s something you already know well, and people like beer.”
“True,” he chuckled. “You do have some pretty good ideas, Hunter.”
“I’m not totally useless,” I laughed and plopped down onto the couch.
We joked around and flipped through the sports channels like old buddies as we finished our six-pack and finally started to get dressed for the gala. By the time we were ready, it was nearly time to leave, and I reached for my pistol and my jacket when Anthony held out his hand.
“They’ll have metal detectors and security at the door, so no gun,” he said. “And we aren’t taking the Mercedes.”
“I’ve had three beers,” I scoffed. “I’m fine to drive a few blocks.”
“Not because of that,” my client laughed. “Because I already have a car arranged for us.”
“Oh,” I replied with a slight blush. “Of course.”
I locked my Smith & Wesson back in the case and took it to my closet while Anthony spoke to the guards out front.
“Okay, the car is downstairs,” he announced. “Ready?”
“Yep.” I straightened my tie and ran my fingers through my oddly short hair one more time before I followed him out to the hallway and down to the front door of the building where a long, blacked-out limo waited on the curb.
A young, caramel-skinned man hopped out of the driver’s seat and rushed over to open the back door for us. Anthony slipped into the seat, and I followed suit. The guards hopped into a dark-colored Chrysler 300 behind us.
The cabin was huge, with a fold-out bar along one side and some kind of light show on the other. Blue and pale-white lights trickled along the window, and it gave the effect of rain outside. It was oddly soothing, and Anthony grabbed us each a glass of whiskey from the bar.
