“Ex-cop.”
“Surprised your old man is happy to get into the sty with pigs.”
I roll my eyes at his determination to ignore the “ex” part of ex-cop. “Bianchi and Associates never does anything underhanded. But actually,” I admit, “this particular guy still owed me a favor from before he retired.”
“How did he come to owe you a favor?”
I take my time ripping off another piece of the injera bread, weighing up how much I want to tell Nick. Both of us have secrets we are bound to keep. “Long story.”
Nick gives a nod. He gets it.
The truth is, wedon’tdo anything illegal at Bianchi and Associates. We work inside the law andwiththe law. Sometimes that means we spill a little information here and there that might help a tired, overworked cop close a case. Never anything about the Morellis, obviously. But if we happen to have heard something about a Rossi, say, or a Clemenza, or one of the many other syndicates in this city, and it won’t hurt the Morelli Family…well. A word here and there in the right ear earns a grudging gratitude. And soon enough they discover that if they want useful information—if they want our help—they have to give a little too, sometimes.
And they do.
It’s how the system works, and we all know it at Bianchi and Associates. I think Angelo Messina knew it, too; he always had a fluid sort of relationship with the NYPD, right up until it went south, and he went west.
I watch Nick shoveling food into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten in days. A guy his size must have to pack away an awful lot of calories, I think fondly.
Shit.
Fondness was not something I expected from this whatever-it-is we’re doing. Hot sex, yes. Interesting pillow talk, even. Fondness? There’s no place for fondness between us. And yet I feel a big, dopey smirk spread across my face as he feels me staring and pauses to ask, with his mouth full, “What?”
“You got a little something.” I gesture to my cheek, and he smears a palm across his.
“I get it?”
“Yeah,” I say, although he didn’t. “So what’s with the big black painting, Nicky?”
“Huh?”
I nod at the Reinhardt on the wall. The deep blacks are more muted tonight in the soft downlight ambience of the apartment, but by day they seem like a stain, a disease eating away at the light airiness of the rest of the apartment. Nick glances over his shoulder at it.
“I guess I liked it when I saw it.”
“You were just strolling past an auction house and happened to pop in to buy a Reinhardt?”
He chuckles at the idea. “I heard art could be a good investment. I looked at some things online. Bought a few pieces that appealed to me at the time.” He turns back again to look at the painting, really seeing it this time. “I don’t like it so much anymore. Might get rid of it.”
“Your other dates ever ask you about it?” Talk about awkward segues.
Nick turns back to me, mild confusion in the set of his brow.
I clear my throat. “Your other, uh. The guys you bring back for a night or two. They ever comment on your art choices?”
Nick is looking at me like he’s starting to understand what I’m fishing for, and I wish again that I’d been more subtle. Being out of the courtroom for a week has really dulled my questioning technique.
“Never had any other guys in here,” he says. At least he doesn’t smirk at me.
“Oh.”
“Never had that kind of relationship before.” He grabs the goat meat stew and spoons some straight into his mouth from the container before continuing, while chewing, “How about you, you ever lived with someone?”
I take a few gulps of my beer before I reply. “Nah, man. I’m not that kind of guy.”
Around another huge mouthful, he asks, “What kind?”
I slap my bread around my plate to clean up some gravy before I say, “You know. The settling down kind. Besides, I work way too much to have a relationship. Anyway,” I add, to change the subject, “this Sophia Vicente. What’s the play with her? You think she could be our blackmailer?”
