“Oh, yeah, I’m sure the Alessis were happy to hire any random Hamptonite for this wedding. The guy isclearlyassociated with the Alessi Family.”
“Yeah, well, no surprise there. The Alessis run a lot of shit around here, a lot of legit businesses. Just because he was at the wedding doesn’t mean—”
“I’ve got afeelingabout this kid.” The discussion between Dellacroce and the skinny guy seems like it’s coming to a close. “I mean it,” Carlo insists. “We should question the bartender. It’s too much of a coincidence that he’s there at the wedding and now here at the restaurant.”
“You’re telling me that scrawny little pipsqueak had the balls to try to blackmailme?No way, Harvard. Don’t believe it.”
“Desperate people do desperate things.”
“He don’t look so desperate to me.”
The kid stands back from the car, obviously unhappy about whatever response he’s been given, and from where we’re sitting it looks like Dellacroce throws something at him through the car window. I crack our window just a tiny bit and we can hear someone yelling indistinctly.
“We should stay and question him,” Carlo says in my other ear, belligerent.
“We need to find out where Dellacroce lives.” The thing is, I’m a believer in gut instinct. It’s served me well over the years. Maybe Carlo has some strong feeling about this, but I don’t.
“I’m getting out and I’m going over to—”
“No you are fuckingnot.” I whack an arm across his chest without even looking at him. The kid is leaning down again to the car window, cautious and pleading.
“Nicky, Iswear, that bartender has something to do with it. He saw me texting you. He knew my room, I told him exactly where it was.” Carlo’s pleading now. “No one will recognizeme. I’ll just go in, order something, watch to see what he’s doing.”
I have to make my decision. “If you know him, he’ll know you. And if youreallythink this is the guy who’s blackmailing meandsending some other hitman to take you out, it’d be beyond dumb to go walking right up to him.” There’s something not right about this whole situation, but I don’t have the luxury of time right now to sit here philosophizing.
The Mercedes pulls out, takes off down the road.
I pull out after it, Carlo cursing like I’ve never heard him before. “We can come back,” I tell him.
“No we can’t—we’re out of time. You said it yourself, we need to get back to the Citytonight.” He slams a fist down on the dashboard.
“You do that again the fucking airbag might punch you back, right in the damn face,” I snarl at him. The Merc is a few cars ahead at the lights at the end of the block.
“Fuck you, Fontana. You’re blowing it. It doesn’t matter who Dellacroce is or where he lives—he’s a dead guy walking, is my guess, because if it’s notyouwho takes him out, it’ll be someone else. It’s more important that we find outwhowants him dead, not why. That kid knew right where my room was—”
The lights have changed and I inch forward with the traffic, but when I hit the intersection I make a sudden left, swing around the block and pull into a small parking lot that has an alley leading down to the front of the strip. I put on the brake, turn off the car, and turn to look at Carlo. He seems stunned, his mouth still ajar, but no sounds coming out for once.
“You better be fucking right, Harvard,” I growl at him. “Because we just lost our chance with Dellacroce.”
His mouth closes and turns up, his usual smug smile. “Oh, I’m right.”
Chapter Forty-One
Carlo
We get out of the car and head down the alleyway that will take us out to the street that the restaurant is on, and the whole way I half expect Nick to change his mind and pull me back to the car. I reallydidn’tthink he was going to listen to me. I’m glad he did, for sure, but now if I’m wrong, if my gut feeling is actually just that fish taco I had for lunch, then Nick will never trust me again.
But Iknowthis feeling. I get it in those moments I really need it when I’m defending a client, when I’m advising them whether or not to answer a question, when I’m cross-examining a witness. It’s never let me down before.
“How are we playing this?” I murmur. Nick half-turns his head to glance at me. He’s walking in front, soft and stealthy, and I wonder that I ever doubted how quiet he could be when he needed. He’s like a lion; loud and raging when the situation calls for it, but he knows how to slink and stalk as well.
“Not much choice but straight in the front.”
We’re walking past the dumpsters out the back of the establishments along the strip. “This is the back entrance to the restaurant,” I tell him, pointing to a door that says NO ENTRANCE STAFF ONLY.
“How do you know?”
“I have a nose.” The garbagestinks. “Rotting seafood. None of the other stores that open out on this alley are eateries.”
