“I love you.” Her gorgeous smile doesn’t stop my internal alarms.
“Ms. Magnet, you love trouble way too much, and I say no.” It’s not often I put my foot down but we got the girl a good attorney and I truly believe that sometimes, you got to let the law do their job.
“How about I ask Slate and Andy. If they don’t think it’s a good idea, I won’t say another word. You wait here.” She kisses me and presses against my lower half until all the blood in my brain runs south.
I blame a lack of oxygen for my nod. My agreement seems moot, because a little while later, she waves me inside. “Slate says it’s time to go.”
My pal opens a nautical map on his phone and scrolls to Staten Island. “We’ll take this route and debark here.”
Andy whistles through his teeth. “Seriously? Why there?”
My wife bites her lower lip. “I’ll owe my Uncle Vinny another favor but of all our options, his docks are the safest.”
She’s right and the less I know the better.
The lawyer claps his hands. “It’s decided then. Let’s get this show on the road. Everyone, grab a blanket off a bed.”
Minutes later, Andy, Sam, and Chrissy, walk single file out the door carrying thick bundles in their hands.
Before I exit, I whisper to Slate, “I don’t like this.” Already, a dim line of yellow light brightens the eastern horizon. We could be sitting ducks.
“Me neither, bro, but it’s our best option.” With his right finger resting outside the trigger loop, he lifts his night vision binoculars with his left hand. “Go on, I’ll follow.”
I trot down the steps, slip, and grab the rail before landing on my ass. When I turn at the bottom, he’s right behind me so I ask, “How the hell did they find us?”
“I’m guessing the caretaker saw us, noted we were armed, and called the State Police.”
“Shit.” I race Slate down to the end of the dock where he jumps in the boat with the rest of our entourage and takes the wheel.
“I thought you said he was ninety.” I untether us as he puts the key in the ignition.
“Bad luck. The old man had a heart attack. His son is covering while he recovers.”
The engine sputters, we cough gas fumes, and Andy pokes an oar into the sand. As we’re about to run aground, Slate adjusts the choke, tries again, and we’re off. With the sun not quite risen, we have the channel to ourselves as we make our way past desolate beaches. November on Long Island keeps most folks inside but a few solitary diehards, jog the shoreline.
Beyond the Atlantic Beach Bridge, the surf grows rough and every time the bow crashes down, we’re doused in frigid spray.
Lizard green, Chrissy leans over the boat’s edge and Sam holds her hair. Done puking, the teen makes her way to Andy, sitting at the stern.
My wife joins me behind the windshield and shouts to be heard over the motor. “How much longer?”
Slate checks his watch. “About an hour.”
By the time we reach Staten Island, we’re all shivering. The wind shifted and flakes of snow mixed with sleet pelt us as we drift to a stop at a dock.
A longshoreman in a yellow slicker exits a warehouse and approaches. “Throw me your line.”
Tying us off, he cocks his head and studies the occupants of our small craft. “Is one of youz guyz Sam?”
“That would be me.” My wife raises her hand and when he offers his arm, she takes hold and steps out onto the pier.
After we’re all on land, the red-nosed man points to a long gray building. “There’s a limo waiting out front. Go around and make a right. Make sure to tell your uncle how Rizzle took good care of you.”
Looking forward to heat, we all move quickly. First to arrive, I open the back door to the vehicle and if we weren’t so cold, I would’ve shut it real fast.
“I’ll be damned. If it isn’t Vincent Vitale.” Ducking, I crawl in, followed by Sam, Slate, Chrissy, and Andy.
Knees touching, facing backwards, I meet the mobster’s gaze. “A little early, isn’t it?”
