One for My Baby (Phoenix Noir Book 4) Read online

“Yeah.”

  “So do I.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “That’s really all I’ve been thinking about the last few days.”

  “Me too,” she said. “I couldn’t wait to identify you, but... I think it was something about you just sitting there, and the cops’ attitudes toward you. Were you afraid?”

  “Sure, but I wasn’t even really letting myself think about what was happening. I was just waiting to see how it would turn out. If I’d let myself think about it, I might have panicked and started babbling. The only thing you should ever say to a cop is that you’re invoking your right to silence and you want a lawyer. Especially if you’re innocent, which, let me say for the benefit of any recording devices, I am.”

  She surprised him by laughing. Then she said, “I don’t think you’re in the clear yet.”

  “I can’t say I haven’t been worrying about that.”

  “That cop, Rankin? He’s into something with the owner of Green Life. And the owner’s scary.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “What, that Rankin’s in with him, or that he’s scary?”

  “Both.”

  “I know both because of what I saw last night.”

  Rankin had mouthed “Hello” to her when they made eye contact, and she nodded in response, but after that he didn’t look at her, and neither did Casci. She occasionally glanced at them as she went about her work, and each time saw them sitting at the bar, drinking and talking.

  There was another man sitting at the bar, on his own, waiting for a table. The host had asked him if he’d like to eat at the bar, since it was so busy and the other customers were in groups, but he insisted that he wanted a table. It had been close to an hour, and he’d started complaining loudly that since he’d had to wait so long then his drinks should be comped. Joel, who was tending bar, said, “That’s not possible, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “If you were important enough to decide what’s not possible, you wouldn’t be slinging drinks,” the man said. “Who’s the manager?”

  “I am, sir,” Joel said.

  Casci got off his stool, and, as Rankin watched, walked toward the man. “Joel, what’s this fat bastard’s bar tab?”

  “Let me check... eighteen dollars and forty cents, Mr. Casci.”

  “It’s on me,” Casci said.

  “I don’t want you to buy my drinks,” the man said. “I want them comped.”

  “That’s what you’re getting,” Casci said. “This is my place.”

  “You mean you own it, or you just drink here?”

  “I own it. Your drinks are on me. Let me get you another.” Casci nodded to Joel, who began pouring the drink. When it was poured, Casci held out his hand for it. Joel gave it to him.

  Casci turned to the customer. “Here.” He offered the glass. When the man reached for it, Casci punched him in the face with his other hand. Before the man had registered the shock of the punch, Casci also threw the contents of the glass in his face, broke the glass against the bar, and pressed the jagged base of it against the man’s throat.

  “Hey, I don’t want to fight!” Casci yelled at the top of his lungs. Quietly, he said to the man, “Do you want me to cut your fucking throat? Then get out of here.”

  Mark looked worried. “That means he’s a pro,” he said. “Those are classic tricks—do something to distract the guy before you attack him, and shout that you don’t want to fight, so people remember it, and it seems like you were only defending yourself even if the guy you hurt didn’t do a thing...”

  “The guy didn’t even try to touch him,” Linda said. “I mean, like I said, he was mouthing off, but he wasn’t being physical, or threatening to.”

  “What happened? What did Rankin do?”

  “Nothing. He just sat there. He didn’t get involved. He didn’t say anything. The guy left—he was shaking and nearly crying—and Casci and Rankin just kept on hanging out together.”

  “Do you know anything about Casci? Even though he’s obviously a pro, he’s obviously crazy too, or he wouldn’t have flipped out on the guy like that right there in the restaurant.”

  “I don’t know anything about him, and I don’t want to. I’m looking for another job.”

  “How long have you worked for him?”

  “Just a few weeks, but he’s hardly talked to me.”

  “From the Italian name, I wonder if he’s retired mafioso.”

  “Like Sammy the Bull?”

  “Kind of. Sammy Gravano wasn’t retired, though. He was moved here by the Witness Protection Program, but he couldn’t keep his mouth shut, and he couldn’t stay legit, which is why he’s back in the joint. But the Valley’s a popular place for mobsters to retire to. I’ve never heard of Casci, but that doesn’t mean anything. They tend to keep a low profile out here.”

  “I get the sense that he’s new around here, and from what I’ve heard him say, he’s definitely new to the restaurant business.”

  “So, I have to ask... Why did you get in touch with me?”

  “I thought you should know about Casci and Rankin. If Rankin thinks you did it, and he told Casci...”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Just wait and see what happens.” He looked at her. “I’d quit the job now, if I were you.”

  “How come?”

  “If Casci believes I did it, then he believes you lied.”

  “Then why hasn’t he said anything to me?”

  “How would I know?”

  “If I quit, won’t that make him more suspicious?”

  “It could. But you could say you’re too freaked out by what happened to keep working there. Say you’re traumatized by being held at gunpoint.”

  “That’s no lie.”

  “Sorry. Like I said.”

  “I can’t quit the job till I find something else. I’m broke off my ass.”

  Mark hesitated. “Can I give you some money?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you’ve helped me out twice now, and all I’ve done so far is mess things up for you. I think it’s fair to say I owe you.”

  “I’m not asking you for anything. But I don’t have the luxury of being able to refuse.”

  “I don’t have a lot of money, but I could give you a grand in cash.”

  “Maybe that’s not a lot to you.”

  “What I mean is, I think I owe you a lot more, but I don’t have it to give.”

  “That’s nearly two months rent for me.”

  “Well, I can give it to you today. I don’t keep it in the bank—it’s at my apartment. Do you want to wait here while I go get it, or meet me someplace else? Or you can come home with me...”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Van Buren and 12th Street.”

  They took her car. “Aren’t you worried about me knowing where you live?” she asked as she drove.

  “No. Should I be?”

  “What if what I told you about Casci is bullshit, and I’m working with the cops? Well, I guess they already know where you live.”

  “They don’t, actually, though they think they do.”

  “And you trust me not to tell them?”

  “Yeah, actually. It wouldn’t make any sense for you to work with them, after lying to them for me.”

  “Unless my conscience got the better of me.” She smiled. “I can tell that didn’t even occur to you.”

  “True.”

  “Does that mean you don’t have a conscience?”

  “I’ve never thought about it.”

  “What’s the cat’s name?” Linda said as Mark handed her a glass of Lagavulin.

  “Pangur Ban,” he said.

  “What kind of name is that?” She petted the cat, who was sitting on her lap as she sat on the couch. Mark sat down beside her.

  “Old Irish. It’s from a poem written by a monk in the 9th Century.”

&
nbsp; “Why would you name your cat after that?”

  He took a sip of his own drink, then began to recite:

  “I and Pangur Bán, my cat,

  'Tis a like task we are at;

  Hunting mice is his delight.

  Hunting words I sit all night.

  Better far than praise of men

  'Tis to sit with book and pen;

  Pangur bears me no ill will,

  He too plies his simple skill.

  'Tis a merry thing to see

  At our tasks how glad are we,

  When at home we sit and find

  Entertainment to our mind.

  Oftentimes a mouse will stray

  In the hero Pangur's way:

  Oftentimes my keen thought set

  Takes a meaning in its net.

  'Gainst the wall he sets his eye

  Full and fierce and sharp and sly;

  'Gainst the wall of knowledge I

  All my little wisdom try.

  When a mouse darts from its den,

  O how glad is Pangur then!

  O what gladness do I prove

  When I solve the doubts I love!

  So in peace our tasks we ply,

  Pangur Bán, my cat, and I;

  In our arts we find our bliss,

  I have mine and he has his.

  Practice every day has made

  Pangur perfect in his trade;

  I get wisdom day and night

  Turning darkness into light.”

  “Wow.” Linda laughed. “Just my luck that when a guy serves me good Scotch and recites poetry to me, it’s about a cat.” She looked at the piano. “Do I get to hear you play that too?”

  “Sure. Let me drink my drink first, so it doesn’t feel like practice.”

  “How often do you practice?”

  “Every day, more or less. Less if I have a lot of gigs, since that keeps me in practice.”

  She stood up, walked over to his bookshelf. “Adam Smith? The Wealth of Nations?”

  “You know his stuff?”

  “For my sins, I have a doctorate in philosophy, which is why I’m waiting tables.”

  “Seriously? You do?”

  “I do. You can call me Doctor if you like. And that’s why I’ve read this. Why did you?”

  “Actually, it’s because of that book that we met.”

  “Huh?”

  “I started robbing after I read it. It was that book that gave me the idea.”

  “It’s been a while since I read it, but I don’t recall Smith exhorting people to rob restaurants with a gun.”

  “When I read it, I had an eviction notice and a handgun, but I didn’t make any connection between them. Then I read about the invisible hand of the market, and it totally made sense. I wasn’t getting enough work as a musician, and I wasn’t getting hired at different jobs I applied for, so it was time to diversify. I’m reading the book, and I’m seeing that a lot of people are losing their homes, but some people are doing well. So I thought about who was doing well—thieves—and decided to let the invisible hand guide me. There was plenty of money, it was just that none of it was in my pocket. So...”

  Linda was looking at him. She opened her mouth, closed it.

  “What?” he said.

  “Nothing. Just... nothing.”

  Mark swallowed the rest of his drink, then poured another. She drank hers in two mouthfuls and held out her glass. He poured again. Then he said, “Okay, if you want to hear me play, I’d better get to it before I drink much more of this...”

  He went and sat at the piano. She stayed on the couch, lounged back and sipped her drink. He played and sang “One for My Baby (And One More for the Road).”

  “Nice,” she said when he’d finished. “Did you write that?”

  “God, no. It’s an old song. I do the Sinatra version.”

  “I don’t know much of that old stuff, but I like that one. You have a nice voice. I bet it gets you chicks.”

  “It’s been known to happen.”

  “You know, the only thing that could make this any weirder would be if I fucked you.”

  He smiled, got up from the piano stool, came back to the couch, picked up his drink. “Yeah? Do you want to?”

  “I do, actually,” she said.

  He took a large swallow of his drink, then kissed her. She was ready for the kiss, mouth open, tongue reaching for his. He realized he wasn’t kissing her any more than she was kissing him, they were just kissing, both of them smiling whenever they paused for breath, smile rubbing wetly against smile. He sat back and drank the rest of his drink, and she drank the rest of hers. Then they moved back into the kiss.

  In his bed he told her, “Lie on your stomach and stick your fingers in your cunt.”

  As she pushed two fingers inside herself, he spread her cheeks and started licking her ass. She said, “Jesus.” As his tongue probed her asshole, she pulled her fingers out of her cunt and started rubbing her clit. She came as he pushed his tongue into her ass, and as she came again he slowly withdrew his tongue.

  “Nobody’s done that to me before,” she said.

  “Do you like it?”

  “What do you think?”

  She rolled onto her back as he lay beside her. He moved to get on top of her, but she sat up, pushed him onto his back and straddled him. She took his cock in her hand, stroked it, put it in her. She rubbed her clit as she rode him, and, looking at his face, she felt herself get angry, and then she came again.

  “I want to piss on you,” she said.

  “You can. Let’s go get in the tub.”

  “No. I want to do it here.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  Looking in his eyes, she slid off his cock and, continuing to straddle him, raised herself until she was squatting over him. He put his hands on her ass.

  “Slap me,” she said.

  He slapped her ass, then again, harder, and then he felt the heat of her piss spraying his cock, stomach and thighs. They didn’t break eye contact until she had finished pissing, when she got up, stood beside the bed and used the sheet to wipe herself. He was still lying on his back, glistening with her piss. He had his hand on his cock.

  “Stroke it for me,” she said.

  He did, and he came in seconds, so hard and so much that there was some of it on his neck.

  “Good,” she said. She picked her clothes up off the floor and walked out of the bedroom.

  He heard her go into the bathroom. He stayed there on the soaking bed, his softening cock in his hand. He heard her come out of the bathroom, and then he heard the front door open and close.

  It took him a few seconds to register that she’d left.

  When she got in her car, Linda texted Joel and asked what he was doing.

  Mark was sleeping so heavily that the knocking on the door didn’t wake him at first. It was only when it got loud enough to be a cop-knock that he came fully awake. He considered staying there in bed, in the dark, keeping still, hoping whoever it was went away. If it was the cops, or someone worse, there was only one way they could have found him, because there was only one person who knew where he lived. Then he thought about who that person was, and he got up and went to the door.

  “Have you dried the mattress?” Linda said when he let her in.

  “Turned it over, and changed the sheets,” he said, and then her tongue was in his mouth.

  In bed, as he was about to lick her cunt, she said, “I just fucked somebody else and had him come in me.”

  “Good,” he said.

  In the morning, they didn’t say much. They had spent most of the night drinking and fucking, sleeping only a couple hours, so they were exhausted and somewhere between being hungover and still drunk. He asked if she wanted any breakfast and she said no, just coffee. He made some and, as they drank it, she asked if he’d like a ride back to where he’d left his car. He said yes, and she drove him back to the parking lot at Lux.

  As he was about to get out of her
car, she took out her phone and said, “Tell me your number.” He did, and she typed into her directory. Then she texted him, “Now you have mine.” When he heard the alert on his phone and read her text, he smiled, kissed her, and got out.

  SIX

  Suzanne sat on the living room couch, sobbing. Ryan stood a few feet away, staring at her.

  “Please,” she said.

  “Either you do it, right now, or I walk out that door and I don’t come back. Is that what you want?”

  “No. No.”

  “Then you either give me the douche-bag’s address...”

  “I swear I don’t know where he lives...”

  “Or you send him a text.”

  She sat there and cried.

  “Okay,” he said. “Fuck you. Fuck you. I’m out of here. You better keep your ass on that couch while I pack, don’t say anything to me, don’t get in my way while I’m leaving, or I might just fucking...”

  “I’ll text him.”

  “You sure? Don’t fuck me around.”

  “Yes. Just don’t leave. I’m sorry. I made a mistake. But...”

  “You’ll text him?”

  “Yes. Okay.”

  He sat down next to her.

  “What do you want me to say?”

  Mark sat in a booth at the Duck and Swallow, waiting for Suzanne. When she walked in, her face was so puffy from crying that he almost didn’t recognize her. He waved to her, and instead of waving back she pointed Mark out to the guy who walked in behind her. Then she walked out of the bar, and the guy walked toward Mark, and then Mark knew what was going on.

  “Want to tell me to grow up now, asshole?” Ryan said as he reached Mark’s seat.

  “Have you learned to spell yet?” Mark said. “Education turns women on. She might not wander...”

  Ryan hit him in the face, and he slid off his seat onto the floor. He wasn’t hurt; he’d wanted to find out if Ryan knew anything about fighting, and he obviously didn’t. The punch was more like a swinging shove. Pretending to be shaken, Mark started to get to his feet, and Ryan grabbed him in a clumsy head-lock. “I’ll break your fucking neck...”

  Then English Tony appeared, holding a baseball bat like it was a broadsword. “Let go of him, right now, or you’re in the hospital,” he said. Ryan complied, and stood facing Tony, raising his hands as though he was at gunpoint.

  “You all right, Mark?” Tony said.