The Given

by Vicki Pettersson

  “Hey!” That finally drew Zicaro’s attention from his wineglass.

  “—doing on my doorstep on a Sunday afternoon?”

  The uneasiness fell away as Kit explained about Barbara McCoy’s murder, Zicaro’s kidnapping, and the beef that’d chased them from Sunset. Marin was silent throughout the telling, just biting her lip while Amelia stood behind her, head tilted attentively. Kit didn’t worry about her presence. If Marin trusted her, she was worthy of it.

  It made Kit’s feud with her aunt, she thought, pointedly ironic.

  “Can I see the flash drives?” Marin finally asked.

  Zicaro immediately stuck his hands down his pants. When he tried to hand the plastic drives to Marin, she leaned back in her chair and gestured for Amelia to take it.

  “Wait a minute . . .” Zicaro drew his arm back.

  “Amelia is a computer nut. I can locate information easily enough in the family archives, but if those things are encrypted she’ll be able to crack them well before me. Not to mention flag any unusual files.”

  “And why would she?” Grif asked, earning a glare from Kit, even though she was thinking the same thing herself.

  “Because I’m happy to help Marin’s beloved niece in any way I can.” Amelia smiled, once again holding out her hand. “And I owe Marin for saving my nonprofit with a particularly timely piece on the city council member who was trying to shut it down.”

  Marin scoffed, a sound that meant Amelia owed her nothing. The sound stuttered when her gaze found Kit’s.

  You owe me, Kit thought, but said nothing as Amelia gave Marin’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze.

  “What else do you know about the men who chased you today?” Marin asked.

  “One of the guys’ name is Justin Allen,” Grif put in. “Calls himself ‘Fuck You,’ though.”

  “The others were Larry and Eric,” Kit said. “Surnames—and, uh, nicknames—unknown.”

  They all looked at Zicaro. The old man shrugged, eyes never leaving his full glass. “I never thought to ask while they were drugging me up to my eyeballs.”

  Marin, at her writing desk, was already scribbling the names down. “Of course I’m going to want something in return.”

  “The full story, right?” Kit had been anticipating that.

  “Hey!” Zicaro was suddenly sitting up in his seat, eyes bulging like an angry bullfrog perched atop the lily pad of Marin’s Persian rug. “I got the disks, it’s my story!”

  Marin may have been seated in her living room wearing nothing more than a kimono, but as she shifted her gaze his way, she was every bit the editor in chief. “Why should I give you a byline? Because your crazy-ass rants finally got you locked up?”

  “Marin—”

  But she held up one finger, silencing Grif. Kit, too, would’ve gone easy on the old guy, but she knew better than to interfere. If Zicaro wanted a byline, he’d have to earn it. Knowing it, he straightened in his seat. “I had to put up with those knuckleheads questioning me day in and day out. It got on my nerves. And the food was crappy there, too.”

  Marin just stared.

  “It’s bad if my blood-sugar levels get low,” Zicaro told her.

  Picking up her own wineglass, Marin shrugged. “Well, my kitchen is closed.”

  That was Kit’s opening. “You know what? I’m pretty hungry, too. Let’s go hunt something down while Amelia goes to work on the files, shall we?”

  Zicaro sputtered. “But—”

  “Thanks again, Marin,” Grif said, moving behind Zicaro, clearly intending to wheel him out forcibly if he had to. Yet all Zicaro did was chug his white wine before warning Amelia not to muck up his damned story.

  Zicaro was still ranting as Kit swung onto Sahara Avenue and arrowed past a city block advertised as the world’s largest gift shop. Kit made polite noises as Zicaro continued to huff and puff, but Grif tuned him out, coming around only when struck by a bony elbow or a faceful of wheezing breath. If the old-timer was going to roll with them, he thought, they were going to have to get a bigger car.

  But then Kit swerved and even Zicaro fell silent at the sight of a giant golden cow.

  “The Golden Steer?” Zicaro asked, and pumped his bony fists at Kit’s answering nod.

  Shooting Grif a smile, Kit shrugged. “I think Loony Uncle Al deserves one of the best steaks on earth after his time of enforced confinement. Besides, if the past is intent on rearing its head, we might as well go in for a touch of nostalgia as well.”

  “Oh, honey,” Zicaro said before Grif could reply. “I’d kiss you if it weren’t already dangerous enough with you behind that wheel.”

  He wiggled, doing a little dance when Grif snorted, though he stopped when Kit exited the car and slammed the door shut, leaving Zicaro to fend for himself.

  “Good job, sport,” Grif muttered, and went to wrangle with the wheelchair by himself.

  They met up with her again inside the Golden Steer, Las Vegas’s first steakhouse. Built in 1958, the iconic gold steer out front was still hard to miss, though now overshadowed by spearing towers, plummeting roller coasters, and flashing signs. Yet back in Grif’s day, this was the stomping ground of Sinatra, Monroe, the Duke—John Wayne—and every made mobster ever to set foot in the valley. Longhorn steaks at just five bucks a pop, a private dining room, and a hidden exit door just in case the fuzz busted down the front.

  The prices had changed in the ensuing years, but the decor had not, and as Grif stared at the mahogany wainscoting and deep velvet wallpaper dotted with landscapes of the Old West, he felt himself being dragged by the collar right back into the past. The burgundy carpeting muffled even Kit’s heels as they sidled into the bar. Tuck-and-roll booths could be seen lining the walls, offering both intimacy and a clear view of the entire dining room. The waitstaff, all male and tuxedoed, looked like they’d been there for almost as long as Grif had been dead.

  “My God,” Grif said, turning around. “Some things never change.”

  He glanced at Kit, who was watching him carefully. So the old-school atmosphere wasn’t a mistake. It’d get Zicaro talking, yes, but after the events of the past day, and in a world where everything changed too quickly, it was nice to take refuge in a place that had roots.

  “Thanks,” he said softly.

  “Don’t thank me,” she said, and smiled sweetly. “You’re paying for it.”

  The maître d’ approached. “Reservations?”

  Grif peeled off a bill that made even this jaded man’s eyes go wide. “Table for three.”

  Kit immediately corrected him. “Four, actually,” she said, and gestured back to the entrance. Grif turned just as Dennis Carlisle spotted him, and they both scowled. The intimate dining room no longer seemed as homey.

  “What?” Kit said, as Dennis joined them. “You called him when we were out at Sunset.”

  “I called the cops.”

  “I’m still a cop in my off-hours,” Dennis reminded Grif, his gaze almost shining it was so hard.

  “And a friend, remember?” Kit said, voice gone soft. Grif’s eyes flashed between the two of them, though he relaxed a bit when he saw Dennis doing the same with Kit and him.

  And Dennis was off duty, his jeans cuffed high, T-shirt sleeves rolled, hair now slicked with enough grease that the candlelit tables might prove a danger. He, too, looked like he’d just walked out of the fifties, though the maître d’ didn’t seem to appreciate it as much.

  Dennis caught the look. “I brought a jacket,” he said before the man could speak, and he shrugged into a sports coat while Kit nudged Grif. He sighed, dug into his wallet for another bill, and handed it over.

  “This way.” The maître d’ led them to a corner booth where Zicaro shunted aside his wheelchair and squeezed in between Dennis and Kit. Oblivious to the tension at the table, he proceeded to pore over the timeless menu, face stretched in glee. “Look at that! Beef and spuds!”

  Grif and Dennis, seated across from each other, propped their menus in fr
ont of their faces.

  “So,” Grif finally said, eyes trained on his menu. “Still like the beat?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Dennis replied flatly. Kit swallowed, almost audibly, and bent her head over her menu, too. “Every day is different. You never know if you’re going to get a domestic disturbance, a routine traffic stop. An anonymous tip about a dead woman in a high-rise apartment.”

  Dropping his menu, Grif speared a look at Kit, and this time Dennis’s gaze, too, stuck.

  “It’s Dennis,” she said, with a lift of her slight shoulders, causing Grif to sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose.

  “So are you going to tell me about it?” Dennis asked, flicking his napkin to his lap.

  “We all are,” Kit said, but didn’t look him in the eye.

  Nope, Grif thought, as the waiter poured water and brought bread. They hadn’t been seeing each other. He’d have felt good about that except that his relief came at Dennis’s expense. And what had the poor sap done, really? He’d fallen for Kit, he’d taken a bullet for her and almost died because of it. Nothing Grif wouldn’t have done himself.

  Except that he hadn’t.

  “And how’s the head?” Grif asked, more softly, jerking his chin at Dennis’s right ear. The hair had grown back in the months since his hospital stay, but a bright red scar still peeked from underneath.

  “Pretty good,” Dennis admitted, unconsciously touching the scar. “The doc gave me a clean bill of health. Said it was a miracle I didn’t die.”

  Grif nodded. Miracles were commonplace when one was possessed by the Pure. Even if the angel was only using the body to manipulate his environment, and, he thought, looking at Kit, those in it.

  “I’m glad, Dennis,” Grif finally said, lowering his menu and nodding once. “Really. You saved Kit’s life, you did it square. It was the bravest damned thing I’ve ever seen.”

  And just like that, the tension eased from the room. Dennis’s hunched shoulders dropped, and the hardness left his gaze so that he looked both younger and more himself. Kit let out an audible sigh next to Grif.

  “And now that we’ve got that settled,” Kit said, which was clearly what she’d intended all along, “let’s eat.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Breaking bread with another person went a long way toward smoothing over old hurts. What started out as a tense reunion between Kit and the two men who had most defined her personal life over the past year gradually eased into an amicable evening. Following up that broken bread with seared filets; fat, round wines; and tableside Bananas Foster settled both bellies and old grudges for good, and Kit smiled to herself as she leaned back in the booth, mentally patting herself on the back.

  The stop at the Golden Steer had been a spontaneous but inspired bit of theater. However, her gut had told her they all needed it. There were bad things coming in the next few days—Kit could feel it even without Barbara’s death or Grif’s sudden reappearance in her life—and her gut also whispered that she was going to need both Grif and Dennis working as a team if she was to survive the forces she’d put into motion by visiting Barbara in the first place. There were more balls to juggle now that her unlikely team also included Zicaro and Marin, but she’d acted as ringmaster in this sort of circus before.

  And if grilled meat in the belly and burned sugar in the air were needed to keep the lions tame, then so be it.

  Otherwise, it was a hell of an almost-last supper.

  “Schwear to God,” Zicaro was saying, spilling gin over the lip of his martini glass for a half-a-dozenth time, “I saw Monroe sitting right in this very booth. Saw her with my own eyes. She was with DiMaggio, though they were already divorced. And she was throwing her head back, opening her mouth with that wide, beautiful smile. Showing her neck . . .” He threw his head back to demonstrate. Grif and Dennis both cringed. “But when she stopped laughing with him, man, she was looking right at me.”

  “Bullshit,” Grif snorted, looking relaxed for the first time since Kit had seen him. He’d taken off his jacket and hat, and had one arm flung over the back of the red leather booth, his shirtsleeves rolled, candlelight sparkling in his stubble. “You were even a scrawnier sonna bitch then than you are now, and Monroe liked ’em beefy.”

  “How do you even know that, Shaw?” Dennis asked, while Zicaro scowled into his drink. Fortunately, Dennis was no longer entirely sober, either, and scoffed as he said it.

  “I know that because this old stringer was a reckless fabulist. He’d catch scent of a story and run it down like a bloodhound, often to the same effect.”

  “I told the stories everyone else was afraid to tell!” Zicaro said defensively, then waved his spotted hands in the air with practiced drama. “I brought things that were festering in darkness right into the glare of the neon-splattered night!”

  Grif raised one dark eyebrow. Dennis just continued staring at Zicaro as he rolled a toothpick between his fingers before turning to Grif.

  “Is that why you’re carting him around hours after you were supposed to have returned him to an assisted-care facility where a man the size of a freight train is waiting for him?”

  Zicaro, belly full and tongue loose, came to life. Bringing his fist down on the table, and spewing a string of profanity that was nothing short of astonishing, Zicaro alone managed to bring Dennis up to speed. Kit listened, sipping her after-dinner cappuccino.

  “Lemme get this straight,” Dennis said, throwing his arm over the back of the booth when Zicaro had finished. “You were taken from your room in the middle of the night, questioned to the point of exhaustion, and then relocated and held against your will by the men I met today?”

  “Poor guy,” Kit said, earning a soulful look from Zicaro.

  “And they were questioning you about Barbara? Of the old DiMartino gang?”

  Zicaro’s thin lips pursed into a solid line at the doubt underscoring Dennis’s words. Sure, the criminal element was alive and well in Vegas. But Italian mobsters? Those days had died with Spilotro . . . and Dennis said as much.

  “Here’s what you greenhorns can’t seem to understand,” Zicaro said, and hiccupped before he continued. “A made man can’t just jump into normal life like the rest of us schleps. They operated outside of normal for so long that living by the law would be akin to living on the moon. And that goes for the women, too. The woman who died yesterday was Barbara DiMartino long before she was Barbara McCoy.”

  “So?”

  “You don’t know anything about the DiMartinos, do you?”

  Dennis shrugged.

  “They ran the Marquis, best hotel and casino in town. But they weren’t the only outfit here.”

  “The Salernos owned Vegas Village,” Grif put in.

  “And old Nick Salerno was after more,” Zicaro said, nodding. “He began running chip hustlers and card counters through the Marquis, bragged about it, too. That’s when things got nasty.”

  “What happened?” asked Dennis.

  “It was never proven, but rumor was Sal DiMartino retaliated by donning a ski mask, walking into the Vegas Village at the height of midday, and holding up the cage himself. But unlike old man Salerno, he didn’t flaunt his take. Instead, he bought his wife, Theresa, a gift with it.”

  Dennis held up a hand. “Wait, I thought Barbara was his wife.”

  “Theresa was his first wife,” Grif told him. “Love of his life.”

  “She died in nineteen sixty-one,” confirmed Zicaro. “He married Barbara in ’sixty-two.”

  “Fast,” commented Kit.

  “Can I finish my story here?” Zicaro said, glaring until the table was silenced. “So Sal spends every stolen dollar on this necklace he had designed for Theresa. Lemme tell you, it could rival anything in the Queen Mother’s jewels. Three perfect diamonds, each the size of a silver dollar. He then parades her around in it at the city’s annual Fall Festival. Really stuck it to the Salernos, right in public. As you can imagine, this doesn’t go over well with Nick. So Sal DiMartino
gets a phone call. ‘You take something precious from me, I’ll take something precious from you.’ “ Eyes gleaming, Zicaro leaned forward. “The call comes at the exact same time DiMartino’s twelve-year-old niece, Mary Margaret, is abducted from his front yard. I believe this is where you come in.”

  Feeling Dennis’s frown on him, Grif just shrugged. “Sure, I’ll tell the rest of the story, but it’s real basic. The Salernos kidnapped little Mary Margaret. The DiMartinos got her back. End of story.”

  “Except it’s not,” Zicaro argued. “These families are like the Montagues and the Capulets . . . except for the lost love. There’s none of that. But there is a code.”

  Grif nodded. “You don’t mess with a Family’s children.”

  “So the feud hinges on this: The DiMartinos say the Salernos planned the attack, but the Salernos maintain that someone inside the DiMartino home told them there was a way to get their diamonds back. She—and they were clear it was a woman—told them when to be in front of the DiMartino estate. She said ‘a little doll’ would appear, and to take it. So Mary Margaret showed up, and they did.”

  “Who did the DiMartinos trust with their children?” Kit asked, wondering about Barbara. If she married Sal DiMartino within a year of Theresa’s death, then she’d been around before then.

  “Just one person. Gina Alessi, Mary Margaret’s longtime nanny. But Gina disappeared right after Mary Margaret’s return, and for years everyone thought Sal showed her the back door . . . and not in a good way.”

  “Ugh.” Kit made a face.

  “But Barbara didn’t think so,” Grif muttered, closing his eyes to better see the picture that was beginning to emerge.

  “Now you’re using your noggin’,” Zicaro said, tapping on his own head and poking himself in the ear. “She was on a cold rant the night she came to see me. Going on and on about Gina. Said she was back in town and that she had one of the diamonds all these years.”

  “And Barbara wanted it.”

  “No,” Zicaro said simply. “Barbara was after the other two.”