Before The Fall

by Patricia Rosemoor

  “Why?”

  “I just wondered if you had the foggiest notion of where certain states were in relationship to one another. Like Nevada to Illinois, for instance. Nevada is southwest of here.”

  “All of a sudden you’re in a hurry to get back? Find what you were looking for in that black book?”

  “If it’s there, I haven’t deciphered it yet. Mariscano has his own shorthand.”

  “Then what’s the rush?”

  “I don’t exactly look forward to spending more time than I have to in your company.”

  He should have known she’d take another shot at him. “Nice thanks a man gets for going out of his way.”

  She gestured toward the sea of cars before them. “This is out of the way?”

  “This is going to confuse anyone who’s looking for us. Who would think we’d take a northern route?”

  “Us?” she echoed.

  “Right.” Bullets were indiscriminate. And witnesses inconvenient.

  “As in either one of us,” she went on doggedly, “or the two of us together?”

  “Whatever.”

  He could feel her frustration, a building wave of energy. That was it. That’s what he needed to keep him going. Even as his brain came fully awake, he yawned.

  “Sleepy, huh?”

  “Tired,” he admitted. “Late night.” Let her make of that what she would.

  “I can drive.”

  “I’ll bet you can.”

  Only, he couldn’t even guess where she’d take him if he fell asleep. Maybe she’d open the passenger door and push…if she could figure out how to unlock it.

  Angela sighed. “After all we’ve been through, you don’t trust me.”

  “Should I?” he asked, snorting at her hurt tone. He wondered if acting came naturally to her or if she’d taken lessons.

  Traffic had loosened up somewhat. And they were out of the greater metropolitan area. Buildings on either side of the road had become scarce.

  “So what’s our route?” Angela asked. “We’re heading for Wisconsin, right?”

  “You do know your geography.” He didn’t figure telling her would hurt anything. “We’ll go through Minnesota, South Dakota, Wyoming, Colorado—”

  “Utah and Nevada,” she finished for him. “What? They pay you mileage in addition to the bounty? Maybe you can use your spoils to buy a newer car.”

  “I like this one just fine.”

  The irritating crack about his car sent a pure dose of adrenaline straight through Micah and he cut the conversation short. Though the recharge probably wouldn’t last long, he felt as if he could handle anything.

  Even Angela Dragon.

  FIGHTING GUILT over her last dig, Angela took refuge in Mariscano’s phone directory as, finally free of rush-hour traffic, they picked up speed.

  As he had on the calendar, Mariscano had identified his contacts using initials rather than full names. And the few times two people had the same initials, he’d used a first or nickname to distinguish one from the other. Encryptions had also been added to many of the entries, though it was useless to speculate on their meanings. That would take more concentration than she was capable of at the moment.

  In the process of scanning the directory, Angela kept an eye out for her own initials…as well as Kaminsky’s. Better to be too suspicious than gullible.

  But apparently neither of them had made the little black book.

  Eyes hooded, she glanced his way. Though he still appeared fatigued, his movements were injected with a newfound energy. She guessed he’d gotten his second wind. While tempted to study him for a while, she had work to do.

  But a while later, halfway through the directory with nothing to show for her trouble, Angela began to lose heart. Doing little more than going through the motions, she scanned rather than fully read pages. She’d finished the last entry and was ready to close the cover on her disappointment when something hit her.

  She backed up to W.

  “W.W.,” she read, then stared at the unusual entry directly below.

  A single name.

  “Am I supposed to understand that?” Kaminsky growled, obviously more aware of her than he’d seemed.

  “Mariscano’s calendar—his appointment with me was noted. And so was another later that evening. W., Mir. That could be the person in Las Vegas who carried out his plans.”

  “How do you know his other meeting was in Vegas? After leaving your office, Mariscano could have gotten on a plane for anywhere.”

  “True.” She tapped the page. “But someone named Wily has a Las Vegas phone number. And I’d bet his last name begins with W, too.”

  Kaminsky glanced her way, his expression a combination of surprise and regard. “And I figured you took me on a wild-goose chase.”

  She didn’t admit she’d been figuring the same.

  Elated that the chance they’d taken could be duly rewarded, she said, “We have to get off this tollway so I can find a telephone. I just saw a sign that said there’s an oasis two miles up the road.”

  “We’re not getting off again.”

  She felt her temper stir. “Is stopping to find a telephone too much to ask?”

  He reached into one of his many vest pockets. “Found.” From it he pulled a cell phone and held it out to her. “No gadget cracks.”

  “I promise.”

  Never so thrilled at hearing a dial tone, she quickly punched in the number. Two rings and she had a connection.

  “Desert Deals, where the savings are so hot they sizzle!” came the nasal tones of the receptionist. “How can I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak to Wily.”

  “Who?”

  “Wily…his last name escapes me,” she fibbed. “But I think it starts with another W.”

  “Do you know the name of his sales associate?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He’s here to buy a car, right?”

  “No.” At least, she assumed he hadn’t been a customer. “You have no employee by that name?”

  ‘I’m sorry.” “So am I.” Hanging up, she said, “Maybe I dialed wrong.” She punched in the numbers more carefully the second time.

  “Desert Deals—”

  Angela clicked off. “Great. I dialed right. The number’s wrong.”

  “Who did you get?”

  “A car dealer. Wait a minute. Desert Deals…why does that sound familiar?”

  “Some late-night television commercial with a stiffbacked owner hawking his wares and telling you to ‘come on down for the best deal in town’?”

  “You’re right.” She could visualize the owner, a short man in his mid-fifties, standing in front of a Joshua tree, an identifier of sorts for the dealership. “Ever hear of Frank Gonnella?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “He’s quite the salesman. Expensively dressed. Moderately macho. And definitely connected.”

  Chapter Five

  “So the owner of Desert Deals is a mobster?” Kaminsky asked.

  “Retired. At least, supposedly. Gonnella used to be a small-time hood with an operation in a motel on the outskirts of the city.”

  Because of her father, Angela had learned far more than she’d ever wanted to about underworld figures

  “What kind of operation?”

  “In addition to the legal gambling? Prostitution, which you may know is illegal in Las Vegas and Clark County, though it never has been wiped out. As far as I remember, Gonnella was never indicted, probably because he got out while the going was good.” Not that she made a point of keeping track. “Now he owns one of the biggest car dealerships in Nevada. I have no clue as to what he was doing in between.”

  “Hmm. A lot of money goes through his business—who’s to say it’s all clean? And you’ve been indicted for supposed money laundering.”

  His sounding as though he believed in her innocence surprised Angela. “If Gonnella still works for the organization, a car dealership would be a perfect
cover for a clean-up operation. And if he was doing what I was accused of…that would be quite a coincidence.”

  “A coincidence…or Frank Gonnella is Joey Mariscano’s Las Vegas connection. Wily could work for him personally rather than for the dealership—”

  “Which would explain why the receptionist didn’t recognize the name.” Hope renewed, she was already thumbing through the phone directory. She stopped at G. “Except Frank Gonnella’s not listed.”

  “Which doesn’t automatically eliminate him. We have no way of knowing Mariscano’s record-keeping system. He likes to make his notes in code. For all we know, part of that system could be to keep track of flunkies rather than bosses.”

  “True.” Now she was scanning the black book for other Las Vegas numbers, just in case she’d missed one. “But how to find out if Gonnella’s involved for certain…?”

  Barely aware when they crossed the state line, Angela found herself considering the correlation between Mariscano, Wily, Gonnella and her indictment. Her mind went around and around with the possibilities, drifting further and further away from her task. Therefore, she temporarily gave up on the directory and set it down until she could be more focused. She was stewing over her helplessness in getting more information on either Frank Gonnella or this Wily character.

  Reaching Nevada would probably take a few days of solid, forget-the-speed-limit driving.

  And Kaminsky was barely pushing the speed limit now, Angela noticed. She glanced around. Others were driving likewise, though there wasn’t enough traffic to slow anyone down. Weird. As if the state line was some kind of magical barrier after which everyone obeyed the law.

  State line…law…both reminded Angela her fate lay in someone else’s hands.

  Once Kaminsky turned her over to the authorities, she feared that fate rested in a jail cell. And even if she was free to investigate on her own behalf, the crooks would have plenty of time to regroup and cover their tracks.

  If not set another trap for her.

  They’d tried to shut her up permanently once. What was to stop them from finishing the job? And what more could she do in her situation other than call out the cavalry?

  Her father being the logical choice.

  She’d rather go to jail, Angela thought stubbornly, wanting nothing to do with the man who’d betrayed them all. Besides, she’d taken a position, and once she made up her mind about something really important, she couldn’t be budged. She no longer called Tomas Dragonetti “Father.” As a matter of fact, she no longer voluntarily spoke to him at all. And if forced to by circumstances—mostly so as not to upset her mother more than she had to—she did so coolly and without any form of address.

  He knew how she felt, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of crawling to him for help.

  But she could ask someone else….

  Aware they were pulling off the road, she noted the truck stop ahead. Several transport trucks were parked in front of a restaurant topped by a billboard.

  “Fueling up?” she asked, the giant Cheese sign making her stomach growl.

  “Us and the car. Hungry?”

  “Now that you mention it…” She was so hungry she could eat a snake. Raw. “I thought you meant to drive straight through without so much as a pit stop.”

  “I am human.”

  A human who was nearly running on empty, she guessed. What she said was “I hadn’t noticed.”

  If she were smart, she would find a way to take advantage of his weakness. She’d vowed to use him and lose him, and why should she give up on that plan? Because he seemed to be on her side? She’d lost her naiveté along with her father. Being sympathetic to her plight—not that Kaminsky had even admitted that much—didn’t mean he would be willing to forfeit his reward for bringing her in.

  Eating would give him a temporary boost, but it wouldn’t replace sleep. He’d have to get some shut-eye soon. And when he did, she needed to be ready….

  Heartened by the thought, she realized her mouth was already watering as delicious odors drifted from the restaurant. Food certainly would fuel her. And truckers knew all the best places to eat.

  “The car can wait,” Kaminsky said, parking between two trucks, the Thunderbird a dwarf among the giants. “You look like you can’t.”

  “Am I drooling?”

  “Lusting might be a better word.”

  The flesh along her neck got goose bumped, but Angela refused to be baited. Getting out of the car with difficulty equal to that she’d had the last time, she noticed several pairs of curious eyes turn her way.

  The wedding gown.

  A wandering bride might be an odd sight in the city, but out here on the road, she had to be some kind of spectacle. That would have to change if she ever wanted to get away from Kaminsky. Unfortunately, she had neither ther cash nor a single credit card on her to buy new clothes. Not knowing she’d be kidnapped, she’d trusted that all her valuables would be safe in the fashion show’s dressing room.

  And even if she could get her hands on Kaminsky’s things—assuming he’d brought a change of clothing—they certainly wouldn’t fit her.

  She’d have to deal with the gown. Tone it down. Make it work to her advantage. The garment was ruined, anyway. Considering how the material around her legs and feet constricted her movement, she’d start with the skirt.

  Inside, they passed the counter filled with nut-covered cheese logs and a display of cakes and pies and big wedges of watermelon. Angela’s stomach rumbled insistently. She hurried to catch up to Kaminsky as everyone in the room turned to gawk at her.

  “Is this all right?” he asked.

  The Formica-topped table and vinyl booth he indicated were identical to all the others in the room.

  “It’s clean.” She took a seat. “I’d buy, but I don’t happen to have my wallet on me.”

  “I can afford anything you can put away.”

  She considered that a challenge. “You’re on.”

  As he slid onto the bench opposite her, he said, “One thing before we order. You’ll have to promise that when we’re done here, you’ll leave with me of your own free will.” Emphatically, he added, “No fuss.”

  She couldn’t help herself. “Don’t you know a starving woman would promise anything for food?” When he scowled at her, she rolled her eyes. “Oh, lighten up, Kaminsky. You think I want to be stuck in Nowhere, Wisconsin, without a plugged nickel to my name? Besides, we have a deal. I already promised that if you took me to Mariscano’s, I’d go with you voluntarily.”

  Only, she hadn’t said how far.

  The lack of money was a kink in any plan she might make, however, even if she intended to hitch a ride to civilization. And knowing what she’d have to do to get her hands on some cash didn’t sit well. Ethics was one of her strong suits. She respected the law.

  She wondered how many more laws she would have to break before she got herself out of this mess.

  Two glasses slid onto the table, water sloshing over their rims. A gum-chewing, bleached-blond waitress of indeterminate age arched her penciled-in eyebrows as she thoroughly inspected the wedding gown.

  “What can I get ya, honey?”

  “Four eggs, basted,” Angela began. “Hash browns and a pecan roll. Make that two. Orange juice. A piece of watermelon.” Aware that the man footing the bill was pulling a face, she added, “And a side order of pancakes.”

  “Breakfast meat?” the waitress asked. “Bacon, sausage, ham?”

  She met Kaminsky’s piercing gaze with one of her own. “Yes.”

  “Which?”

  “All. I’ll decide on dessert later.”

  “You got it, honey.” The other woman’s tone was more than a tad disbelieving. She snapped her gum as she turned the page on her order pad. “The two of you sharing everything?”

  Angela wasn’t thinking of food when she said, “A whole lot more than I’d like.”

  Micah added, “Double the order—only scramble my eggs. And don’t
forget the coffee. Bring the whole pot and leave it”

  “All rightie.”

  Snapping her gum several times in succession, the waitress left to place their order.

  Angela rose. “I need to use the facilities.”

  She covertly picked up a knife, but Kaminsky’s hand quickly covered hers. Jolted by the unexpected contact, she plopped back down.

  “What’s that for?” he demanded. “Plan to skewer me when I turn my back?”

  “Don’t tempt me.” For some reason, she suddenly had trouble breathing. “The knife is to minimize my eye-catching ensemble and therefore our visibility…unless you expect me to rip this dress apart with my teeth.”

  Reluctantly he let go of her hand; she was able to breathe normally again.

  “Don’t try anything,” he warned her. “I’ll be watching the door. And if you’re not back in five minutes, I’ll come in after you.”

  Seriously thinking about staying inside for six minutes just to see what he would do, she asked, “Did you forget about the window?”

  “I checked it on the way in. Glass block.”

  He had the audacity to smirk at her.

  Head high, Angela rose and made her way across the room, the knife concealed in the folds of her skirt so she wouldn’t draw even more attention to herself. For once she wished she could blend into the wallpaper. Or in this case the landlord-green paint. Curious stares followed her every step of the way. She’d never been so glad to get inside a ladies’ room, even though this one probably hadn’t seen a renovation since the war. World War I, she decided.

  At least the facilities were clean, in addition to functional.

  Once refreshed, Angela faced herself in the mirror, saluted the dress and began the desecration. Shucking the full underslip was the easy part—rolled tight, it even fit in the recently emptied garbage can. Using a butter knife to rip through the outer layers of the skirt was another proposition, especially since she was still wearing the gown. Getting out of it herself would be too much trouble under these conditions—particularly since her lifelong dream of becoming a contortionist had never panned out.

  In the middle of her struggle with the back of the skirt, the door opened. Thinking the bounty hunter really had followed her, she started. When she saw the teenager dragging a toddler by the hand, she relaxed.