Assassin P.I. (2 page)

Chapter 2

“
Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence. Fifty buck buy in.”

The gray-haired men assembled around the poker table in varying inebriated states grunted in greeting. Former cops from his father’s day, they were cops who didn’t know how to be retired and still gathered on a weekly basis to regale each other with tired stories about killers who got away and the kingpins who didn’t.

Jack nodded to the gang, hung his hat on a hook on the wall, and slung his trench coat over an empty chair. He took a seat and tossed a few bills into the pot.

“Cut ‘em in, boys.” Little Frankie motioned to the dealer and swirled the pungent amber-colored liquid around in his glass before tossing back the drink. Smoke from a lit stogie wafted up, choking out what little fresh air still remained in the cramped quarters. Why the men insisted on meeting in Little Frankie’s single-car garage when they could be holding their game in Jack’s office was beyond him. But Little Frankie, a foot shorter and a buck fifty fatter, was always in charge, running the show just like he had back in the day. The other men deferred to him to keep the peace.

Bob Moura, or Knuckles as he’d come to be known during his boxing days, handed Jack a stack of poker chips and a scotch.

“Seven card stud, deuces wild,” the dealer, Mo Hardy, said. He pushed his Coke-bottle glasses up on his nose and shuffled the deck. A lock of gray hair flopped over his eye. Mo was all business, all the time. With a flourish, the cards flew as he doled out two cards face down and one face up to each of the six men gathered.

“How’s your ma?” Little Frankie handed Jack a cigar, the tip already cut off, and offered him a light.

The men took a peek at their cards, each weighing their options. Vito Blankovich drew the low card, forcing him to call first, followed by Sal who rose, and Knuckles and Mo who matched the bet. Frankie raised the bet again and tossed in a few chips.

He shrugged. “The same.”

Jack kept the banter light. Being here with the guys was kind of like having his old man around. The men had their opinions, sure, but for the most part, kept them to themselves, unless absolutely necessary. Game play continued for the next half hour while the pot grew and the chips in front of him dwindled.

“How’s business?”

Only Frankie could get away with asking a question like that. The vigilante justice business wasn’t the kind of thing an honest man admitted to condoning, especially a former boy in blue.

Jack counted his chips in silence, debating how to answer. He took a gander at his cards again. It was down to him and Frankie, and Jack was sitting on a royal flush. “Time to retire while I still got a pulse.”

“You? Quit?” The other men scoffed.

“Not quit. Retire. There’s a difference.” Quitters were weak. Retirees were smart.

“So you can do what? Get old and fat like us?” Frankie challenged.

The other men shot Frankie dirty looks, but no one dared dispute the facts. They’d all put on some weight without suspects to chase after.

If the man hadn’t been so dead serious, Jack would have laughed off the question. He drew a deep breath. Why was he retiring?

Truth be told, he’d never figured he’d reach retirement age. Figured he’d die young in the line of duty, like his father.

“Maybe it’s time to settle down, start a family while I still can.” Lord knows he had enough women over the years who’d be more than willing to take him up on that offer. But none of them lasted long in his world. Jack was stingy with his time, doling it out in small increments, enough to keep a flame going for a short tryst, but eventually the fire died and Jack moved on. With Angie back in town, maybe that could change. Maybe not, but it was still worth a shot.

The skeptical scowl on Frankie’s face said he didn’t believe Jack for one minute. “It’s because of that kid. The one who died? Christ, Jack, we’ve been through this already. There was nothing you could do to save him. Let it go.”

Maybe it
was
all about the kid. Watching an innocent boy die in your arms because you’d screwed up? It messes with a man’s head. Jack shook his head to clear away the mental image that had invaded his nightmares of late.

“This town needs you.” This from Mo. Respect lit his eyes.

It was true. The town needed someone. Someone . . . but not him. “It’s time, that’s all.”

Frankie scoffed. “Never happen. Men like you and your daddy, can’t just up and walk away. It’s in your blood. Now us? We’re the smart bastards living it up in retirement heaven. You mark my words, Mr. Jack Gaines, you’ll be tracking killers until the day you die.”

His chest tightened. That’s what he was afraid of. Death was such a permanent state.

Jack clamped his mouth shut. Arguing with Frankie was like fighting a brick wall. Pointless and painful. Jack took another peek at his cards, weighing the odds. He finished off his drink and studied the man’s face, searching for the telltale signs of bluffing. A tiny scratch behind the ear, a dodgy glance at his cards, any crack in his poker face would do.

Little Frankie blew out a breath and slammed his cards down on the table. “Christ, kid. You’re killing me. Make a decision already. Even your father, God rest his soul, didn’t have this much trouble.”

Vito piped up, “Piss or get off the pot, kid. What’ll it be? You in or you out?”

“All in,” Jack said and shoved all his chips into the pot.

“Cocky son of a bitch, ain’t he?” Frankie chuckled. “Read ‘em and weep, boys. Full house.” He turned his cards over and reached for the chips in the middle of the table.

Jack clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Not so fast.” Revealing his hand with a flourish, he let the royal flush speak for itself.

“How the hell does he always do that?” Mo shook his head in disbelief.

“Thank you, boys. It’s always a pleasure taking your money.” Jack scooped up the bounty. “Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a certain golden-eyed vixen waiting for me at the Naughty Dolls nightclub. Don’t want to disappoint such a lovely lady.”

Frankie leaned back in his seat, arms crossed against his wide chest. “Go on and enjoy the good life while you can, Jackie-boy. I’d bet my pension you’ll be back on the hunt by nightfall tomorrow.”

Jack followed Angie through the red oak doo
r of the nightclub where she worked and down a hallway lit by a single flickering bulb. Photographs of performers lined the walls. Searching for Angie’s headshot amongst the seductive smiles, music pulsated from a hidden stage, intermittently interrupted by applause and catcalls.

“Thanks for meeting me here. And Jack?” She paused. “Thanks for taking my case.”

Amused, he snorted. Damn, she was awfully sure of herself. “What makes you think I am? I’m just here for the backstage tour.”

Her laughter sent a ripple through his body. Seeing her in his office, asking him for help, spun his world upside down. But the rush of adrenaline he got from seeing her again after years apart, paled in comparison to the thought of rekindling their romance.

The corridor emptied out into another less-dingy one marked by dressing rooms and a muttering man pacing the worn carpet. The man faltered as his eyes locked on Angie. Relief flooded his face and he tackled her with a bear hug, his head coming to rest between her breasts. He peered up at her. “Where’ve you been? You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

Jack hung back, leaning against the wall. He guessed the man to be Angie’s manager. Too scrawny to be a bouncer, not female enough to be a dancer.

Angie tried to untangle herself from her manager’s embrace. “Well, I’m here now.” She moved to open her dressing room but the man blocked her way.

“Don’t you go gettin’ all diva on me.” The man poked his finger in Angie’s shoulder. “You had me worried sick!”

Angie smiled, a saccharine-sweet smile intended to mask her true feelings and turn a man to mush.

Jack chuckled. He’d seen that smile, fallen prey to it more than once before he’d caught on.

“Marco, you know I wouldn’t go cutting out on you like that.” Angie leaned over and kissed the man on the cheek. “Now go on, scram. I’ve got to get ready.” She bumped Marco aside with her hip and opened the door.

“Who’s this schmuck?” Marco eyed Jack. “He your new boy-toy? No boyfriends allowed at the club, you know the rules.”

Angie batted her eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of breaking one of your rules, Marco.”

Jack pushed off the wall and joined Angie in her dressing room. The door shut behind him and the lock engaged. A couple seconds later, he heard Marco’s footsteps retreat down the hallway.

Jack glanced around the dressing room. The room itself wasn’t palatial but the décor was nice, lavish even. Satin robes hung over the corner of a dressing screen and a lamp, complete with black shade edged with crystals, added a bit of ambiance to the room. Sheer stockings and satin gloves lay where they had been strewn. Glittery dresses and sequined frocks hung on a rack tucked in the corner. A variety of stilettos lined the floor. Angie sat ensconced in a red velvet chair, brush in hand, in front of a large Hollywood mirror.

Jack took a seat on the chaise lounge. “So tell me about this husband of yours.” He scrutinized Angie’s reflection. As a barely legal girl, she’d been cute, pretty even, with her pert nose and feisty attitude, despite all the heartache that came from the abuse at her stepfather’s hands. As a woman, she was beautiful, even without all the makeup. But there was something else there, just beyond the surface. The innocence was gone. In its place was a hard-earned wariness tinged with a subtle sense of distrust. He supposed he could be partly to blame for that.

She swiped the blush across her cheeks, then paused, brush midair as she appraised him in the mirror. “Does the name Trevor Santino ring any bells for you?”

The cogs of his memory turned as he tried to place the name. He’d never been good with names. Faces, though, he couldn’t forget. “Should it?”

From the way her eyebrow arched, something told him she’d been expecting a different answer. She blew out an exasperated breath and continued applying her makeup as if annoyed with his response. “Trevor was an assistant D.A. for Ellington Bay. Handsome and sweet, a real do-gooder.”

“How’d you two meet?” Picturing her in another man’s arms would be torture, but it came with the job.

Angie caught his eye in the mirror and held his gaze.

There it was again. A fleeting glimpse of sadness, of longing, and something more. But it was gone before he could put his finger on it.

“In college,” she finally said.

Even as the words left her mouth, he knew they were a lie. “You didn’t go to college.”

“Well, I could’ve,” she snapped back.

There she was. His Angie. Full of vim and vigor, snappy replies and flashing eyes. His gut knotted in response.

Replacing the brush on the counter, she grabbed a tube of lipstick, parted her lips, and leaned close to the mirror. Warm breath fogged up the glass as she applied the burgundy stain to her lips. “We met at a party back when Trevor was in college.”

“And what? You were the entertainment?” Antagonizing her was a childish stunt, but he didn’t care. Seeing her come alive was worth every biting retort she threw at him.

Angie whipped her head around to glare at Jack. “How dare you insinuate such a thing!”

“Oh that’s right. You’re a burlesque performer, not a stripper.” His lips twitched, but he couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

“Not back then I wasn’t.” She stood and walked behind the dressing screen. The rasp of a zipper echoed through the room. Seconds later a skirt, followed by a slip were hung over the screen. “My friend dragged me to some party so she could see her boyfriend. In those days I was just a lonely girl, needing a fix, and Trevor was your typical frat boy: cute, ambitious, drunk. We were married before either one of us had time to sober up. He split when his parents freaked out.”

A bra flicked through the air, landing at Jack’s feet. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly parched. Christ Almighty, was she trying to give him a heart attack or something?

“Can you grab a dress from the rack? Marco’ll have my hide if I’m late to the stage.”

“Sure thing, doll.”

Jack tore his gaze away from the bra and went to the rack to search through the costumes, appraising each garment for pure sex appeal. Lace was nice, but satin was better. He slid the garment off the hanger, took it to the dressing screen, and held it out for her.

Angie took it and rolled her eyes. “You would grab the one that laces up the back.”

“I can do it up for you,” he offered, wiggling his fingers for her to see.

“Nice try. Hand me a pair of gloves and heels. Anything will do.”

He retrieved a pair of long satin gloves and stilettos and handed them to her when she emerged from behind the screen. Jack watched as she slid each glove up and adorned a cloaked finger with an oversized fake diamond ring. An image of Angie naked, wearing only the heels and gloves, flooded his brain. Shaking his head like an Etch A Sketch only made the Angie in his mind’s eye jiggle and bounce in a quite provocative way
. It’s only a case. Think about the case.

“So, who do you think killed this husband of yours?” He turned away so he couldn’t watch her fasten the straps around her ankles, wouldn’t envision her ankle resting atop his shoulder.

It didn’t work.

“One of his cases got him killed, I’m sure of it. If you come by my place, I can give you some of Trevor’s stuff he left me. Might help with the case.”