“Jolene Johnson paid us a visit earlier today.” Everett frowns as he says it.
“Oh wow,” I say, pulling the bag of ice off my face momentarily. “How did that go?”
Noah shakes his head as if he witnessed something that challenged his understanding of human behavior. “She showed up at Everett’s office wearing what I can only describe as a pink sports bra and matching pants that appeared to be painted on. I was there when it happened.”
“Don’t forget the spreadsheet,” Everett adds dryly.
“Spreadsheet?” I ask.
Noah sighs. “She had a detailed rotation schedule worked out,” he explains. “Color-coded. With optimal timing calculations and what she called ‘efficiency metrics.’”
“She wanted to implement a point system,” Everett continues with obvious horror. “Based on performance evaluations.”
I stare at them both. “Performance evaluations? You mean?—”
“Not that.” Noah shakes his head. “It’s for genetic contribution quality,” he replies with a flat tone as if he’s given up trying to make sense of the world.
“She also offered to provide costumes,” Everett adds. “Apparently, she has very specific fantasies involving judicial robes and handcuffs.”
A groan evicts from me. “I’m going to need therapy after this conversation.”
“You and me both,” Noah mutters. “She’s also persistent. Very persistent. Prior to that, she called my office six times today asking about scheduling availability.”
Jimmy clears his throat with a look of amusement on his face. “Excuse me, but are you discussing some kind of breeding program?”
“It’s complicated,” Everett replies, which seems to be our family’s standard response to everything these days.
“Most family planning is,” Luke points out with what might be genuine sympathy. “But if the woman insists, I’ve got a few nephews with a little too much time on their hands and not enough offspring.”
“Duly noted,” I tell him. “Anyway,” I say, shifting in my chair, “sincewe’re all here, maybe someone can explain why Luke was at the festival last Sunday, where Duncan Whitmore ended up dead.” I shoot Luke a look, and he averts his eyes.
The mood at the table immediately shifts to something more serious, though Carlotta continues shaking her boobs at both mobsters with the dedication of an ex-girlfriend who’s forgotten that these men could probably make people disappear without breaking a sweat.
“I was there on business,” Luke says with a wink. “Legitimate business.”
The music picks up around us, the lights turn pink, then blue, then a garish shade of red before a whole new crop of topless girls bounce onto the stage.
“What kind of business?” I press before I lose every man’s attention at this table.
“The kind that requires discretion,” he replies, which is basically mobster code formind your own business.
“You ladies look hungry,” Jimmy says, and he seems more inclined to talk. “Let’s get something to fill your bellies.”
As long as he’s not talking about bullets, I’m fine with it.
He signals to a waitress, who brings over a fresh platter of nachos that could feed a small army, quickly replacing the empty platter of nachos that the four of them already wolfed down. Red Satin may be notorious for their girls, but they’re pretty famous for their nachos, too. They’re loaded with enough orange goo, jalapeños, and various toppings to constitute a complete meal, and they smell surprisingly delicious for strip club food.
“I’m shocked you don’t serve Italian food,” Noah says, as he digs right in with me.
“I don’t run the kitchen,” Jimmy says. “But my grandmother did make the best baked ziti in town.”
“You should teach the kitchen staff her recipe,” Carlotta says through a mouthful of chips and cheese.
“Let me cook for you, Carlotta,” Jimmy coos her way, and it sounds an awful lot like a proposition. He wants to cook, all right, most likelyin the bedroom. “What we create together will fuel memories that will follow you straight to Heaven.”
“I can get you reservations at the best restaurant in Tuscany,” Luke counters, not to be outdone. “Private dining room, seven-course tasting menu that will stay with you for eternity.”
These men sure are fixated on the afterlife. It does seem fitting, all things considered.
