Page 11 of Confession
The bartender, hair bleached to within an inch of its life, pushes her tits forward as she asks for my order. At first I take it as ordinary tip-seeking behavior, but then she makes a very obvious show of checking me out. I really don’t get why women are interested in me. Do they see me as “safe” because I don’t leer at them? I got three phone numbers last night. It makes no fucking sense.
I check out the whiskeys. Maker’s Mark is top shelf here, so I order two doubles with an uncomfortable awareness that the change in my standards reflects my past as much as my present. It’s hard to ignore that in a place like this.
I used to sit in a dark corner of The Pony with nothing to do but peel apart a coaster layer by layer while I waited for my father to get drunk enough that we could go home. I didn’t really mind. The drunker he got, the more likely it was that he’d pass out on the couch rather than come after me or my mother.
I grit my teeth and force the memory away. The man is dead and so is she, and this place has nothing to do with me. I have a goddamn job to do.
I reach into my black tactical jacket for my wallet, careful not to flash my gun in its shoulder holster. I pay, tipping high because I know the kind of shithole she’ll probably be returning to after work.
While I wait for the drinks, I pretend to watch the dancers. I’m actually scanning the room for red flags. One of the disadvantages of a place like Neon Paradise is that it’s full of red flags. Half the patrons look shady because half of them are.
But my life has spanned the spectrum of shady from the lowest to the highest, so I study a few particular men. When Vitali and I entered the strip club, I clocked four as potential problems. Better dressed, less drunk. Only one of them is watching Vitali. It might mean something or it might not.
I check on Vitali. Across from him, Mickey is nodding vigorously. I don’t like that. Mickey is always awkward, always nervous, but he’s not usually enthusiastic. It’s always a head shake, always,I don’t know, Mr. Constantine, I can try, even when he’s perfectly capable. I used to think it was a way of angling for more money, but he never bargains. He’s just insecure.
When I get the drinks, I leave the bar and wander toward the farther stage as though for a better view of the pole dance—and that’s when I spot him.
No wonder he’s over here in the shadows because I recognize him instantly. Leo Pedano, one of Alesso DiMaggios’ men, Alesso being the son of family head Gavino DiMaggio.
Fuck. On so many levels.
I keep my body language casual like I haven’t noticed him, but he for sure has noticed me. He probably marked me and Vitali the second we walked in.
This is a setup.
Adrenaline is flooding my body, but I linger for a second, running my gaze over the men clustered by the stage. There’s nopoint now in hiding that I’m looking. Leo already knows that’s what I’m doing. I just have to get back to Vitali without Leo realizing I’ve clocked him.
I sip my whiskey and start working my way back to Vitali, hyperalert for movement since I can’t hear much over the music.
The rule is no going after family heads, but there’s no other reason for this setup. But Alesso DiMaggio has plenty of motivation to break this particular rule.
I set Vitali’s whiskey in front of him and take a seat like nothing’s wrong. Under the table, I nudge Vitali’s foot with mine. His eyes flick to me.
We might not have another chance to talk to Mickey, so before shit hits the fan, I ask, “You wearing a wire, Mickey, or are you just here as bait?”
It takes Mickey a second to process my question. If the situation weren’t so damn serious, it would be comical, the way he freezes, glitching like a computer program, before he jolts in delayed reaction.
“I-I swear I didn’t—”
“Stay calm.” Mickey stills at my order, but I wouldn’t call him calm. “Are you wearing a wire?” I ask. When he shakes his head no, I believe him. Mickey isn’t a good liar. And if he’s not here to gather evidence, that means he’s here simply as bait.“So how did the DiMaggios know you’re connected to us?”
“I swear I didn’t want—”
“Just answer the question.”
Mickey swallows hard. “Somehow, they had evidence that I’d hacked the FBI system, looking for information on the Constantines. They were gonna turn me in—”
“The DiMaggiosgotthat evidence from the FBI,” Vitali cuts in. “The feds already have you if they want you.”
Mickey practically melts. His hands cover his pale face. “Oh my god.”
We’re out of time. Mickey’s reactions have alerted Pedano, who’s emerged from the shadows and is moving our way.
“Back door,” I snap. Moments like these are the rare ones where I give the orders.
As Vitali springs from his seat, I flip the table. The strip club instantly erupts with shouts and people scrambling from their chairs. Vitali bolts for the back door, trusting me to be behind him.
But I’m not behind him—because I’m more effective if I take Pedano by surprise and hold his crew to buy Vitali time.
