Page 50 of Working for the Mob

“You go along, George. I’ll be there in a moment,” Virginia said, and practically pushed her confused husband toward the door. She was wearing her usual conservative skirt and a pale pink blouse. More feminine than usual.

When she turned back to me, she was practically beaming. She waited until he was fully out of earshot before she leaned across the counter and whispered across the counter.

“I read that book you gave me a couple weeks back,” she said, and lowered her voice to a whisper. “And Idid it.”

“Did what?” I asked, although I had a pretty good idea.

“I got off,” she whispered, and smiled wide enough for me to count every one of her teeth.

When we were in the city, I picked upBetter Lovers Under Coversby Madeline Heart, a sex therapy book about how women could have better sex.

“I actually had an orgasm from”––Mrs. Brighton looked around her shoulder to make sure that no one could hear her. Luckily, no one was currently in line––“penetration.”

She let out an uncharacteristic giggle and hugged me across the counter. “George thought I was having a seizure and almost ruined it. Then I did it again on Sunday! That’s the first time we’ve had sex more than once a week since we were in our twenties.”

I allowed myself to feel accomplished, but couldn’t help a little jealousy slip in. I knew exactly who I wanted to givemea sex seizure.

“Madeline Heart knows her way around the vagina,” I said.

“She deserves a Nobel prize,” Mrs. Brighton said. Her eyes flicked to her husband, waiting outside. “I’ve got to go. George took some time off this morning to go shopping in Turnersville.”

She followed her husband outside, and I shook my head. A large number of orders had stacked up next to Lucy’s register, and the coffee pot I held was almost empty. I needed to make a fresh batch.

“Hey doll face, are you in charge here?” a gruff voice called to me, while I poured water into the coffee pot.

“Can’t you see there’s a line?” I asked him, not wanting to take my eyes off the water. If I looked away for a second, it would spill it all over.

“I’m not here for the coffee,” the voice said.

I finished pouring until the pot became full, and then faced the voice, which turned out to be another bald man in a navy jumpsuit. His eyebrows were as thick as a toothbrush, which matched his full mustache.

“How can I help you?” I asked.

He held out a clipboard to me.

“I just need a signature, and I need to know where to put them,” he said. A patch sewed into his jumpsuit said ‘Bert’ in red letters.

“Put what?”

“It says here,” Bert lifted the clipboard up to his face and squinted. “You’ve got one Bearington Oven, gas-powered, and one Arborito espresso machine.”

“I’m sorry. What?” I asked, positive I heard him wrong.

“One Bearington––”

“I know, I heard that one.”

“––And one Arborito espresso machine.”

I didn’t order an espresso machine, and as far as I knew, neither had Jamie.

“I don’t think we ordered that one.”

“Nope. It says right here: deliver to 1213 Café on Main Street.

Did Art buy an espresso machine behind my back? My mouth dropped open and I stared at him dumbly.

“Do you want the machines or not?” Bert asked, roughly. He smacked the clipboard against the counter and held out a pen to me.

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