by Tatum West
“I’ll wait until after dinner,” I say. “We’ll have one upstairs on the roof deck before we put this day to bed.”
My appetite returns the second I get a taste of perfectly fried, fresh caught flounder and amazingly crispy, perfectly seasoned French fries. I’m going to eat my fill of this meal, even if it’s bad for me, even if it threatens my ‘boyish figure’. I’m feeling my oats after standing my ground with James and tasting the first grain alcohol I’ve had since high school.
It’s well past midnight before we make it to the rooftop deck, and it’s cold up there. Fox and I huddle together under a blanket, cozy, watching the stars and moon above us like watching a movie. The heavens are especially intense tonight.
“This is one of many things I miss,” Fox says softly. “You can’t see the stars in LA. Not this kind, anyway.”
From our high perch, we can see the security guys below, walking the property lines. Just as we’re about to head in, a large Chevy Suburban approaches on the public street and slows. It stops at the drive and one of the local men approaches. Fox and I watch intently as the vehicle is waved in. It parks, and a moment later six big men dressed all in black, pour out. They carry gear bags and wear guns on their hips. They all look ferocious in a cool, controlled way. James appears from inside the house, shaking hands with one of the men. A few seconds later, they all disappear inside.
“The new detail,” Fox says softly, leaning into my shoulder. “They look deadly.”
They do. “Should we go down and meet them?” I ask.
Fox shakes his head. “Let’s wait ‘til James does his thing. If he wants them to meet you, he’ll pull it together.”
I’m exhausted, overfed, and a little blurry from the Scotch. Fox puts me to bed, tucking me snugly under the covers, telling me he’ll be up soon. I don’t have the energy to protest, or even the desire. I want sleep, and when I wake up, I want all this bad news to have just been an unpleasant dream.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
FOX
There’s nothing in my email. Maybe that’s because I told Stephan I wouldn’t have access, or maybe he’s waiting for me to ask. I suspect it’s the latter, which is fine. I’m a senior partner, I can see any file in the firm’s possession.
I log in using my secure VPN and go straight to Stephan’s files. Nikki’s folder was updated just two hours ago; Stephan’s working late. I go through the discovery files, looking for the details behind the summarized briefs we received today via James. I’m interested in getting an answer to the question Nikki posed earlier; ‘Why does Sal want to meet?’
It’s a good question.
The most recently acquired financial records—along with Molly Rippon’s notes and comments—shed a lot of light on things.
Sal has made a series of large cash withdrawals – amounts in the middle six figures—over the last six months. There’s no indication where the money went. Nikki mentioned something about Sal having a gambling habit. Ellis Robards, our private investigator, backed that up in his surveillance report, indicating Sal frequented a couple of mob-run betting sites. He was seen on several occasions in friendly, close company with prominent members of LA’s only real mafia crime family.
I make note of specific names Sal has been associated with. It’ll be interesting to see if there’s overlap between them and the crime connections Derek has; the ones he owes money to.
I find Ellis Robards’ last report on Derek. There are three names mentioned. They all sound like inner city street gang members, not mob. Still, you never know.
Ellis picks up on the first ring. After exchanging niceties, we move on to the point of my call. For him, it’s an easy assignment. Either Derek’s drug dealers and pimps run in the same circles as Sal’s mafia contacts, or they don’t. LA’s a big city; there’s plenty of crime to go around without bumping into friends or coworkers.
“Give me a few days,” Ellis says. “I would get it faster, but Molly Rippon has me jumping through hoops, trying to trace every dollar Salvatore Domenico has spent in the last three years.”
Nikki was right about his mother, she’s thorough and her instincts are spot on.
I’m working in the kitchen, with my laptop set up on the bar, just finishing my call with Ellis when I hear feet on the stairs coming up from the basement. It’s James.
I end the call, setting my phone down on the bar top, waiting warily to learn what he wants.
“I heard you from downstairs,” he says. “Just wanted to let you know the new detail is here and working. We’ve got six men, working three to a team on alternating twelve-hour shifts.”
“We were up on the roof deck when they came in,” I say. “They look… formidable.”
“They probably are,” James quips. “I sent the locals home. Paid them. Made them all sign non-disclosures, for what that’s worth.”
It’s probably worth more than he thinks. The people who were born and raised out here, the ones who’ve remained, are made of a different sort of mettle than the rest of us. Their word is better than a signed contract, and they keep their promises.
“Did we pay them well?” I ask.
“Very well,” James replies. “Plus a bonus.”
He lingers as if he has something more to say. The silence becomes awkward, but I’m not about to break it. I’ve already stepped in it enough for one day.
“I also want to offer you an apology,” James says. “For earlier. I was out of line.”
I shake my head. “Maybe you were a little out of line,” I grant him. “But your harsh words didn’t put anyone’s life at risk. My fuck-up could have gone off the rails in more ways than I even want to think about. Don’t worry about it, we’re good.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, doubtful.
“I’m sure,” I promise him. “Seriously, I have nothing at all to gain by having a beef with you. Nikki needs you, and he wants me around. We both have the same goal: to keep him safe and happy. We’re on the same team.”
“Okay,” James says, visibly relaxing. “I’ll apologize to Nikki tomorrow.”
He takes another moment of contemplation, then he says: “It’s was kinda cool to see him get all bowed up like that. He’s got some swift words and a short fuse when it gets down to brass tacks. Underneath all that glam, is a wound-up little fighter who can defend his turf pretty well.”
I smile. “Yeah,” I say. “I guess so. He’s damn glad you’re his friend, too, James.”
James gives a little nod. “He got under my skin, you know. He’s just… good to be around. I’m not ordinarily friends with my clients--”
“Me either,” I say, smiling.
James laughs. “Well, Nikki is different, right?”
“He is.”
Nikki is different. He’s got talent that you don’t see much on the pop charts, and he’s humble. That’s a rare thing in any part of the world. When it comes to people, well, maybe he loves them too much. He’s open, and genuine, and warm--and fiercely loyal to people he cares about.
Today, he showed me that I have that loyalty.
At that thought, a great warmth spreads through me. I’m not sure I’ve ever had that before. It’s scary, this feeling--but it’s true and real and more than I could have hoped for.
“IT’S NOT MUCH OF A VACATION,” I reply to Stephan in response to his question. I slip my reading glasses up on my forehead, sitting back in my deck chair. I was studying the briefs he sent through yesterday, when he returned my call from earlier this morning. “Paparazzi. Stalkers. Criminals. It’s rock star drama. Can’t escape it, even out here on the edge of the world.”
“Sorry to hear it,” Stephan says. “With that in mind, is there any way I can convince you to bring my client home a few days earlier than anticipated? I need him present for a meeting with Domenico on the twelfth. I guess we could do it without him, but Domenico was clear he wanted Nikki there, in person.”
“You’re running up against the court-ordered deadline on the
account holds?” I ask.
“Precisely,” Stephan replies. “I talked to a judge about extending it a couple weeks, but he wasn’t inclined. He said if we have anything we need to act, or let the man have his money back. I called my friend at the IRS to see if they could do anything. He said it would take months for them to get around to freezing assets for seizure, maybe years.”
I had an idea this might happen. I’ve already made my peace with it.
“We’ll be there,” I say. “In the meantime, I need to let you in on something I did that may add something to all this.”
“What’s that?” he asks.
I explain to him what I have Ellis Robards looking for, and why.
“If we can prove they’re all wrapped up together in the same stuff, with the same people, we may be able to add criminal conspiracy and a raft of RICO violations. The FBI may even be interested in talking to them.”
“That’s interesting,” Stephan says. “That’s a hell of a lot of leverage to hang over someone at the negotiating table.”
It is. If Sal and Derek are smart, they’ll give Nikki his money back and walk away rather than face the FBI and the wrath of the mob. Of course, if they’re both into the mob for serious money, they may prefer flipping on the people above them and getting protection, as opposed to having their kneecaps shattered.
“Ellis said he’d have the report to me in a few days. I’ll send it on to you as soon as I get it.”
“Thanks,” Stephan says. “I’ll update you if anything else turns up, otherwise, I’ll see you when you get back.”
After the call I go in search of Nikki. I find him in our bedroom, cross-legged on the bed, hunched over his laptop.
“What are you doing?” I ask, surprised.
He looks up without altering his posture. “Working,” he says. “I came down and checked my messages and got some excellent news!”
“What’s that?” I ask, coming around to see his screen.
“A few months ago, I was asked to score the soundtrack for this new series pilot that’s being pitched by the same people who produced Queer Eye,” Nikki says, fiddling with some music application on his screen. “Except this is a dramady, not a reality show. It’s starring Simon Woods—melt my cold, hard little heart—and Chris Colfer. It’s all about queer kids coming out, and their queer teacher, who’s too afraid to. The pilot was great.”
“So, what’s the news?” I ask.
He looks up from his screen, a big grin on his face. “The pilot got picked up!” he gushes. “That’s a guaranteed Top-40 song on the charts every few months for at least a year, plus royalties forever, without ever having to do a single live show.”
“Congratulations,” I say, resting my hand on his flat back. “That’s incredible.”
“That’s just one part,” Nikki says, sitting up, animation brightening his already beautiful face. “The writers have written me in to three episodes in the first season. I’ve been on TV plenty, but never like this. This is real acting!”
That actually sounds like a big deal. “Three episodes?” I ask. “When does production start?”
“January,” he says. “Right after the new year. I have no idea when my parts shoot, but probably within a month of the production start date. The episodes I’m in are early in the season.”
Maybe all this good news will blunt the disappointment of the bad news I need to deliver.
“That’s really cool,” I say, because it really is. “Have they sent you a contract yet?”
He nods. “I just sent it to Stephan,” he says. “Along with the terms for the soundtrack and scoring. It’s the real deal.”
I let my fingers glide gently across his back, brushing his shoulder blades over the soft material of his shirt.
“Let me tell you about something else that’s the real deal,” I say. “It’s important.”
Nikki turns to me, his brow furrowing slightly. “What?” he asks, his tone registering the fear of a hammer drop.
“I talked to Stephan,” I say. “He’s running up against a court-ordered deadline to either have Sal charged or drop everything. Sal’s asked for a meeting and it needs to happen before that deadline runs out.”
Nikki knows where this is going. “So we need to go back to LA?”
“In a few days,” I tell him. “We need to be back by the twelfth.”
Nikki checks the date on his laptop, then smiles at me. “That’s okay,” he says. “We still have a few days with the rooftop deck. We can’t go out anyway, because of the paps and the ghost-stalker. We may as well make the most of a few days, then dust outta here in time to tell Sal Domenico to get fucked.”
I laugh at his confidence and glass-half-full attitude. “Is that what you’re going to do?”
“Hell yes!” he replies, his hackles up and sharp. “He may have stolen money from me, but he didn’t steal my backbone. I’m not dealing with a criminal. I want him prosecuted. But I also want an opportunity to look him in the eye and tell him just that. I’m tired of people underestimating me. Fuck that noise. I can punch as hard as the next guy.”
My sweet little Nikki has found his inner Sly Stallone. God, I’m proud of him. I can’t wait to see the look on Sal Domenico’s face when he realizes Nikki is only listening long enough to tell him to shove his offer straight up his ass.
“Can I tell Stephan you have no intention of accepting the offer? It’ll save him and the staff some paperwork. Plus, it’ll make their day.”
Nikki shrugs. “Sure, as long as they don’t tell Sal. I want Sal to hear it from me the first time.”
“Done,” I assure him. “Now, let’s go have a drink and plot dinner. We might need to send someone out to the store for some supplies. We’re running low on essentials.”
Nikki grins slyly. “Let’s just fuck up everybody’s plans and get out of here,” he says. “We’ve got an army of security. Let’s go to the marina for dinner. It’ll give the locals something to talk about, and it’ll make James and his expensive crew of muscle-bound ex-soldiers earn their keep. What do you say?”
The idea is tempting.
“Let’s see what the alert level is on security threats and see what James says,” I suggest. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
Nikki rolls his eyes dramatically. “It’s dinner in a dining room-bar that seats one hundred and fifty people tops; members only. I looked it up. Surely professionals like James and company can handle it. We’ll call ahead.”
I love how Nikki thinks everywhere is just like La Dolce Vita, in Hollywood. It’s not.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I say. “You keep working.”
I leave Nikki upstairs while I go down to the basement to find James. He listens to this idea patiently, quietly considering all the implications. When I’m done apologetically pitching Nikki’s outrageous request, he stands back, thinking it over.
“I think we can do it,” he finally says. “Let me call the venue and talk to the manager. I’ll check back in with you shortly and let you know what the plan is.”
* * *
A FEW HOURS LATER, I’m standing in the bathroom after my shower, having a too-close look at my crow’s feet in the magnified bathroom mirror. Nikki and I are going out to dinner at the Anchorage Inn Marina. I think it’s our first truly ‘in public’ appearance together as a couple.
“Stop being so critical of yourself,” Nikki preaches, loitering in the doorframe.
He showered and dressed first..
I don’t know what I expected him to wear; maybe flaming pink Prada’s and a skin-tight sequin gown. But, that’s not the costume he’s put on for tonight. He’s dressed in a nicely tailored blue suit, with a crisp white herringbone dress shirt beneath. The suit’s color brings out his eyes. There’s no eyeliner. No mascara. No lipstick. He’s wearing cufflinks and understated Italian loafers.
“Jesus,” I mutter. “Who are you?”
He’s stunning. My Adonis in glimmering blue silk.
; Nikki slips his arms around my hips, resting his chin on my shoulder. “Same old me,” he says. “Get dressed. You need to help me pick out a tie.”
I can do that.
* * *
JAMES and his team are crafty. They put together an elaborate diversion that hooks all the camped-out paparazzi into following two shiny black SUVs on a wild goose chase toward the airport. Meanwhile, Nikki and I, with just James and Troy accompanying, leave in a Honda Accord borrowed from a neighbor.
No one’s the wiser until we’re safely delivered to the restaurant, and by then, the paps don’t know where we are, only that they’ve been hoodwinked.
It’s an off-season weeknight, so the restaurant isn’t busy. A few elderly retirees are tucked into booths, nursing cocktails and appetizers. Locals gather at tables near the windows, enjoying trays of oysters and other boiled seafood. A few more, mostly couples, linger at the bar. They’re obviously in from the water, probably just spending a day or two at anchor in Ocracoke before putting out again, sailing to Florida or the Caribbean for the winter.
“This place is hopping,” Nikki observes with a wry smile. “And I mean that in the nicest way possible.”
The hostess, a lovely local girl with long brown hair and dark doe eyes shows us to a booth near the back, overlooking the marina. Gleaming yachts gently rock on their moorings, so close we can nearly touch them. Troy and James take seats at the bar between our table and the door.
Nikki and I both have been to much nicer restaurants, but we’ve probably never had a better meal. We start with fresh, farm-raised South Carolina oysters on the half-shell. They’re so sweet and briny, they melt on our tongues.
Nikki slurps one down suggestively, smacking his pouty lips, swiping them clean with his tongue.
“I think they’re working,” he purrs. “Can’t wait to get you home.”
