Reading my lips, Mrs. D’Angelo smiles and turns a page of her People magazine, dated sometime in the last decade.
Hanging up my cotton cover-up, I’m more than ready to end my shift when two huge guys with crooked noses walk into the room.
My aunt, sensing trouble, reaches under her desk for her revolver while I rush to her side and ask, “Can I help youz?”
Two sets of beady eyes narrow and the closest hoodlum, smelling of sweat and cigs, answers. “We’re lookin’ for Joseph. He here?”
“Yeah. He just got a dye and curl. Whadda you t’ink? No, he’s not here.” Uncle Vinny’s sister uses the maximum amount of sarcasm allowed before getting punched in the face and the brute cringes.
“Tell him Stone and Pat waz-askin’ for him.”
The second thug, a bit shorter and thinner than the first, reminds me of a gorilla as he pats Kimmy’s head. “Cute kid. Is she his?”
I click my cell phone, punch a button, and speak to the dial tone. “Hi, Uncle Vinny? We got a little problem. There’s-”
When they scram, I hang-up, and turn to my aunt. Swallowing hard, she hugs the tot to her breast. “You didn’t really call my brother, did you?”
What the fuck has Joey got himself into?“No, of course not.” I can only imagine the bloodbath that would ensue if my favorite mobster thought his family was being threatened.
Thinking the day can’t possibly get any worse, I walk back home. At the foot of my loft stairs, Gem, the barista, opens the adjoining glass door, and the sweet, sweet smells of coffee escape.
She points up at my waiting room door. “I let in a couple of your clients.”
“Thanks.” At the top, half-expecting the two thugs, I crack open the door.
“Mr. and Mrs. Whitbread?” I heave out the breath I was holding, place my revolver back in the holster, and shake hands.
His suit and her handbag cost more than I make in a year. Seeing them sit in second-hand folding chairs under framed printouts of online art is a bit disconcerting.
“I’m Samantha Sutcliff. Please come in.”
The two share an uneasy glance but I shoot them a confident smile, unlock my inner door, and point to my conference-slash-kitchen table. “Can I get you anything?”
My cat curls around my leg and Melissa, the wife, smiles. A classic blond in her forties, she reminds me of Princess Grace. In pearls and a cashmere cardigan, she clasps her hands tightly on the table. “We’ve spent hours with the police, a Mr. Slate, and now, apparently, we’ve been tossed off to you.”
“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” A professional to the core, I ignore the wealth-bias. I’m excellent at what I do and don’t need real estate on Fifth Avenue to prove it.
“Now honey, we agreed we’d give this a try.” Scot, her husband, covers her hands with his.
“Fine. It’s quite simple, really. I’m unable to carry a baby to term. When I explained my problem to my best friend, she offered to be our surrogate. The egg and sperm belong to us. She is the vessel and more importantly, would never, ever, go back on her word. Something is terribly wrong.”
“Have you tried talking to your surrogate?” I reach into my pocket and press record on my cell phone.
“Gillian, that’s her name. She won’t take our calls.”
Thinking of all the reasons I shouldn’t take this case, I sigh. “Maternal instincts can be strong.”
“We talked about that. We spoke about everything. We’ve known each other since pre-school.” With a dab at her eyes, she slides a monogrammed notecard across the table. “Please, just find out what’s going on. This is where she’s staying.”
Catrina eyes her from upstairs, meows, and paws a mouse between the railing where it drops to the floor.
Scot uses the interruption to rise and hand me a check. “This should cover any expenses.”
With three zeros instead of two, I can’t in good conscience accept the money. “Oh, no. You already paid our deposit.”
“I insist.” Hard eyes soften when they rest on his wife and the love written there makes me wish I could do more but I’m afraid it’s a lost cause.
“If something’s amiss, I promise I will find it.” A lone tear slips down my cheek after they leave.
