by Maria Herren
"You couldn't afford me, stranger," she responded with the same smile in place, putting a full glass in his hand. She had a slight accent that wasn't quite French.
"How do you know that?" Eric asked.
"I know exactly how much you've won tonight," she said, facing him directly. "I know exactly how much you have in your pocket. Don't check it, I already have. Trust me. You can't afford me."
"Well, you're the prettiest little pickpocket I've seen so far tonight!" Eric said with admiration.
"Actually, no. A lot of the other girls are prettier than I am. I'm a good waitress, a great thief, and the best they've got to sell in bed," she said with confidence, looking him directly in the eye. "Too damn bad you can't afford me, Mr. Eric Tyler," she said, holding the tray high and leaning in to kiss him hard on the lips.
His lips burned from the unsolicited pressure while she walked away. He fell in casual step beside her and touched her arm. "Yvonne, did all of my credit cards make it back in my pocket?"
"They never left," she said.
"Right," he drawled. "Anything I should cancel?"
''No," she said, sweetly. "They just wanted me to check you out."
"Sorry I didn't check out to be a billionaire, Yvonne."
"Not as sorry as I am," she said, squeezing his hand.
"You know how much I've got in my wallet, right?" Eric asked. She nodded, her eyes were bright.
"You answer a few questions, you give me the right names between now and when we hit the door and you don't have to spread your legs or go between mine. You pick my pocket free and clear. Deal?''
She nodded, glancing up. "Would you like another drink?"
"Yes, Yvonne," he said, although he really didn't. He knew there was a time limit for how long a server could talk to a customer without placing a drink order.
The ice tinkled happily in the glass when she came back through the crowd. Eric took a long drink of the cool water. He wanted to hug her for her thoughtfulness. Over the course of the evening he'd drunk more whiskey than he needed.
"Do you know Paolo Lugo, Yvonne?" Eric asked her.
"Yes," she said. "The rumor is that all of his debts are paid."
"Paid by whom?"
"That I don't really know. He had a very large debt here, by any standard. It must have been a very wealthy person to clear that much debt so quickly. I heard he'd gone for a vacation to America, but that was months ago. Maybe he found a wealthy American lover?" she suggested.
"Maybe. Did he leave one here?" Eric asked.
"What do you mean?'' Yvonne asked with surprise.
"The red-headed man at my table. Was he ever Paolo's lover?" Eric asked. It was a shot in the dark.
Yvonne dug her fingernails into the palm of his hand. "Is Paolo okay?" she asked.
"Sweetheart, your nails are sharp. Remember, I'm not a paying customer," Eric said, bringing his hands together.
"I'm sorry," she said earnestly. "Do you know if Paolo is still alive?"
"When I left him he was. The decision wasn't up to me," Eric told her. They were almost to the door. "Tell me his lover's name and address. You can't help Paolo, Yvonne, but I've got a good friend caught in the middle of this who could die."
Yvonne said his name immediately. "He's Enzio," she said, scribbling his name on a napkin.
Eric caught the beauty of her profile, wiping briefly at what could have been a tear on her cheek.
He didn't have to check for his wallet. It was already gone.
⇼
Outside the casino he transferred the roll of money he'd stashed in his sock.
Eric waited in the rain outside of Enzio's house. He was glad to see Enzio coming home alone. While Enzio searched for his keys Eric approached the gate.
"Chi? Che voi?" Enzio asked uncertainly, peering into the rain. "Ahhh! You are the American, vero?"
"Si, I'm the American, amico mio. Posso entrare con te?”
"But of course you can come in with me," Enzio responded, smiling coyly. "If you can figure out which of these to use!" he said, passing him the keys. He giggled drunkenly and leaned against the fence.
There were only three keys on the ring. Eric opened the gate on his first try.
It was even easier to get into his home. His servant had opened the door before he could ring the buzzer. "Via! Vial Perdone moi, but can't you see I have a friend with me?" Enzio said, slurring his languages.
"I see him very well, sir. Will you be able to dry yourself off tonight?"
"I believe so," Enzio said with a look over his shoulder at Eric. "I don't know about breakfast. I haven't decided how long he'll be staying," he said, holding a decanter up to the light.
The servant made his exit.
"He loved me as a baby but he doesn't like me as an adult. He thinks I'm spoiled," Enzio shrugged, languidly swirling an amber liquid in a tall glass. "Something for you, my exquisitely handsome friend?"
"No, Enzio. Thank you, I'm done for the evening," Eric said, walking to a chair and propping his feet on the divan.
"That's over 800 years old you know," Enzio said, taking a chair beside him and propping his legs on the same divan. "You don't like men, do you?" he asked point blank.
"Not sexually, no," Eric told him.
"So who's in trouble and how much will it cost me?"
"What do you mean?" Eric asked.
"Oh please! You were in the casino! I lost some money and you won some money. You found out where I live. You're here to blackmail me, fuck me, or steal from me. You can't kill me," he said, reaching underneath the divan and raising a pistol with hands that were remarkably steady. "Which is it?" he demanded.
Eric was surprised at how confidently Enzio handled the gun. "First of all, I didn't win a little money; I won a lot of money. And I've got all of it with me," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a tightly wrapped roll of bills.
"Why would that interest me?" Enzio asked, admiring his manicured fingernails while keeping the gun steady.
"Even professional gamblers need some time off. Call it mad money," Eric said, keeping the wad of money directly in Enzio's line of sight.
"I know some interesting things I might be willing to share for some mad money," Enzio said, thoughtfully.
"I want you to tell me who paid off Paolo Lugo's debts. I already know why."
Enzio sat a little straighter in his chair. "I... I don't think I know that particular name," he said hesitantly.
Eric pitied the man across from him who was on the verge of putting his life in jeopardy for the money he could see, without knowing exactly how much there was. Typical gambler.
"I think you do, Enzio," he said gently. "Try a little harder to remember what your lover Paolo told you before he went to America."
"Well," Enzio started, nervously, "Paolo said a lot of things. I haven't seen him in quite a while."
"He's called you though, hasn't he, Enzio?" It was another shot in the dark, but it hit its mark.
Enzio lowered the gun and began to weep. Eric took the gun from his limp hand and brought him the unfinished drink from the counter. Enzio gulped it noisily, then delicately placed it on the table beside him.
"Yes, you're right. He's called. They beat him badly," he said, taking a moment to wipe the tears from his cheeks. "Really badly," he continued, "but he's still alive. He wants me to come to live with him.”
Eric nodded to show him that he was listening.
"We've been friends for years, lovers almost from the first day. He's my best friend. I want you to know that he's not a bad man, he just makes bad decisions. He got himself in debt, you know?" he asked, looking up for verification.
Eric nodded again.
"There was an offer for a lot of money, nobody would get hurt and Paolo would be out of debt ... instead ..." he started to cry again. "Paolo's broken up, there's already one dead and probably more to die." Suddenly he reached out and rang the bell. His servant appeared a little bewildered. "Bring us some co
ffee," Enzio instructed.
When Eric finally stood to leave hours later he knew the history of Vincenzo and Carlo. The name of Giovanni Terrazi was acid on his tongue.
Twenty
Eric flew in the coach section. It was a short flight but it was enough time to reread the reports and go over in his mind everything he knew so far. He'd tried hard to convince himself this was just another assignment but finally he had to stop trying. He was too smart to fool himself.
He signaled the attendant and paid a premium price for a small drink. It was worth it.
Reaching in his briefcase he extracted the photographs from both cabins. Analytically he picked apart each photograph, section by section.
Shots of the cabin where Jimmy had been slain revealed a kitchen stacked with a few unwashed dishes on one side of the sink, a higher stack of clean bowls on the other. The position of Jimmy's body and bloody prints told the story of someone trying hard to resuscitate him.
Eric sipped his drink. The handprints were way too large to have been made by Charly's hands. Another picture revealed a cot in a small room adjacent to the kitchen. He stared at the imprints left by her body. "You've always been a hell of a fighter, Charly," he said softly, remembering the night she'd tripped Tommy at the dance years before and been so angry when he interfered. "Now you're in a different league."
He shuffled the photographs back to order. Closing the clasp on his briefcase he signaled for the attendant. "Be generous," he said, including enough money to back up his smile. She was, bringing back three of the small bottles. Eric downed the drink and gazed out the window.
Finally, he took out his phone and called his father.
His father was waiting for him at the airport. "I heard most of it, already, son. Sam, the guy who got shot up by the Salvi brothers, used to be one of ours. I'm in touch with your buddy Jesse. He's going to be calling you."
"Thanks, Dad. I should have called him earlier."
Eric was exhausted when he got to the hotel. He lay on the bed and closed his eyes, thinking about when he and Jesse had met.
⇼
In training they had initially been adversaries. They both recognized and reveled in their competitive natures. Eric was a charismatic leader who had the good fortune of also being a thoughtful planner. Jesse would throw caution to the wind, then get enough people to blow it back in his direction while he waited with a parachute.
The senior officers at the survival training school allowed the separation of camps between the two for longer than they should have because they enjoyed it, too.
One of the most difficult exercises was a night field training where a detail was awakened without prior warning and had to maneuver through the woods with real and imagined enemies, each man being timed, each unit being timed as a whole.
Most of the men went to bed every night with a certain small part of them wondering with a little dread if they were going to be put to the test that night. Eric and Jesse went to bed with anticipation, hoping that they would be.
They'd been through the exercise separately many times and that night they didn't know that they were in the woods together.
Eric had a silent clock ticking in his head. It had been a terrific night. A bright moon, no wind. All but two of his team were clear. No "deaths," not even a capture. He was well within reach of the lowest "escape" time on record.
Crouched down in the leaves he heard the low, quick moan of a sleeping bird that he'd prearranged as a signal. One left to go, he thought.
Seconds later he heard a similar call.
Goddamn! These boys are good! Wait'll they hear we've set a new damn record! he thought to himself, easing slowly up from the leaves. Later, no one would accuse him of using a brash approach.
He crept carefully through the underbrush. His approach had been so quiet that even his own team didn't hear him. They were standing in the clearing, checking their watches and peering into the woods.
Finally he was ready to stand, after just over four hours spent on his belly. He was hit by a mass of silent muscle. A quick arm encircled his neck and pinned him to the ground. Eric knew who it was before he heard Jesse hiss, "Got ya', got ya', got ya', motherfucker!"
Jesse was heavy on his back and he was exerting blackout pressure. It was so quiet that Eric thought he could hear the breathing of the men who'd made it out before him. With enormous effort Eric strained against the ground and heaved himself upward. He staggered out of the woods with Jesse's arms wrapped around his neck, both men snarling viciously.
"Stop the clock! Who's got the time?" yelled a senior officer.
"Fuck the clock, sir! My money's on Eric!" one of the men yelled back.
Eric was a foot taller than Jesse. Jesse had tremendous upper body strength. They were both equally mean.
Jesse had been raised in Louisiana by a mother who sent him daily into the bayous to provide her restaurant with fresh stock for the menu. After he got big and strong enough she'd learned to do a lot with alligator. The locals all said it tasted better than chicken.
A few latecomers from Jesse's team made it out of the woods to join the fast forming, loosely knit circle. One quickly wiped the sweat out of his own eyes and yelled, "Who'll give me even up on the Gator?"
"I'll take your money!" an officer yelled.
The two gladiators didn't pay any attention to the crowd.
Eric let out a low growl and hulled his way through the onlookers, swinging Jesse with him. They were airborne for a millisecond before they landed in the marsh. It was hard to keep track of the mud-covered men. Minutes would pass underwater, then one would drag the other's head from the water to take a swing, only to be forced back into the muddy water.
The encouraging cheers from the men finally turned to silence as they slowly ringed to watch the dark water.
"One of 'em has to give up ... pretty soon!" one young soldier said, glancing around for validation.
"Nah. They ain't neither one of 'em gonna' give up," came the laconic reply from an officer who was stripping off his shirt. "I'm going to get into this fight before they both drown." The officer launched himself into the water and was quickly joined by the rest of the men.
They drug the still struggling men out of the water. With their chests heaving for breath Eric and Jesse had just enough left to glare at each other.
"It looks to me like you two ain't ready to kiss and make up," the officer announced, dragging them down and dunking them under. Eric and Jesse were too exhausted to offer much underwater resistance. The officer drug Eric up first, holding Jesse under. "Soldier, are you prepared to acknowledge that this fight is a draw?"
"NO! SIR!" Eric heaved.
The officer shoved him back under.
He brought Jesse up with a mouthful of water, which everyone later agreed he should have spit skyward.
When the officer finally drug the two men out of the water they were weaker than newborn kittens.
"Take care of 'em!" he barked to the circle of soldiers who rushed forward. He stood with the other officers in the circle of trees apart from the activity and took a lit cigarette that was offered to him.
"Damn! It's hard to find that kind of action!" he said to no one in particular and murmurs of agreement. "When they graduate I want them both in the elite corps, under my command."
⇼
Jesse had been lying on his bed, listening to Elvis when Eric's father called him. There were only a handful of people who knew his number, none that he really wanted to talk to, but Elvis was singing about being lonely and he didn't want to be so he picked up.
"You ain't nothin' but a hound dog!" he yelled into the receiver.
"Sounds like I'm talking to the Gator," came the slow reply.
"You got the Gator. I don't know you. Where'd you get this number?"
"A mutual acquaintance. I'm Eric Tyler's father, John Tyler."
"I have a small circle of friends and it just got smaller by one. No one gives out my number without ta
lking to me, first. Talk."
⇼
Jesse checked his watch and hummed along absently to Elvis. He was in a different time zone than the call he had to make. He stood to flex and felt the muscles cord up in his back. It surprised him that he was so tense. He brought several terrain maps to the table. He thought about what John Tyler had told him. I bet it's the girl he was wild about who got married when we were on our first assignment, he thought.
Jesse would never forget when Eric got the letter. He'd ripped it open so fast he ripped the letter almost in half. He'd read it quickly, then slowly ripped it the rest of the way.
"What's up with the long face?'' Jesse asked him. "The Girl Scouts don't deliver here?"
"A friend of mine is getting married," Eric said.
"Really. That's good news. Did he write to tell you you're not invited?"
"It's a she," Eric said, reaching in the cabinet and bringing out two tumblers and a bottle of whiskey.
"What are you doing?" Jesse asked with concern. "Hey, man, we've got a serious job to do."
"I'm up for it," Eric said, downing his first shot.
It was the only time Jesse would ever see him drunk. They'd played cards and smoked cigars until it was late in the morning. When Jesse won all of Eric's money they split it up and started over. Jesse drunk himself sober. Eric just drank and watched cartoons. Jesse covered him with a blanket. Before he closed the door he heard Eric whisper, "You can't marry him, darlin'. You wouldn' if I'd been able to tell you ... love you. I always will."
Yep, Jesse thought, pouring himself another cup of coffee. That's got to be her. What a damn shame. He stretched again, then did some slow pull ups on the bar over his kitchen door. "This could be a long ride," he muttered. "Count me in, my friend."
⇼
Eric had been so tired he hadn't thought he could sleep. He was wrong. The ring of his phone woke him up. "It's Eric," he answered.
