Spin Ruin: (A Mafia Romance Two-Book Bundle) (27 page)

I laughed a little to let him know what I thought of his warning.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re protecting me?”

“Yes, I am.”

“They’re not going to forget Catholic Charities. The press might have brushed it off as an interesting photo op of nothing, but if my stuff is on that property, dots get connected. How would it look if it comes out that you sat on your hands for almost a month while a war started? It’s going to look like you swept it under the rug because I was involved.”

He set his face in a look he’d never given me before. It lacked any compassion or grace. It was the look that scared witnesses. “I want to be clear, so I’m only saying this once. This is the last time I will speak to you as an insider. This is your last concession. If I need to subpoena you, I will. If you have a shred of DNA over there, remove it, because once I walk out of here, I won’t hesitate to drag you down with him.”

I stood and held out my hand. “Thank you for your consideration, Mister Brower.”

Instead of shaking it, he held my face and kissed my right cheek then my left. Though Daniel was as American as apple pie, it felt like a final good-bye.

id I have hours? Days? Was the time between now and Daniel’s warrant measured in minutes? And what did I want to do about it?

I put the top down on my dented car as I drove home, as if the extra smog intake would clear my head. But the 10 freeway at rush hour was no place to get my head together.

Antonio had dumped me in no uncertain terms. I owed him nothing. If he got dragged into a black and white tomorrow, it would have nothing at all to do with me. But that image of him in cuffs, for anything, made me pull off onto Crenshaw.

I still had his phone. I swallowed my pride and dialed, heart pounding from the first ring, then the second, then the voicemail announcement. I hung up. I didn’t know if I was being ignored or if some smaller insult was being hurled, and I didn’t want to think about it.

I plugged the phone into my stereo and listened to Puccini. Could I call East Side Motors? Should I just go? It was about five fifteen. The drive would take me a good forty minutes.

I headed east. When I passed downtown, I’d decide.

***

I saw smoke on the horizon as I went east on the 10. Wildfires were a fact of Southern California life, especially at points north and east of Los Angeles, so I thought nothing of it. Then the traffic on Figueroa was diverted to Marmion, and I heard sirens and saw flashing lights on the flats, not the wooded hills. I parked and walked a block south and two east, smoke choking me. A crowd had gathered at the curb, and the police were hard-pressed to keep them safe from their own curiosity.

“There are underground gas tanks,” one cop said to a guy who wanted to cross the street. “They blow, and you’re gonna be grease. So get back.”

The man got back, and I stepped in his place for half a second to confirm what I knew to be true. East Side Motors was up in flames.

I walked to my car. I knew where Antonio’s house was, more or less, but it was very close to the shop, and the fire trucks had blocked off that street. He wasn’t getting out without being seen, and neither was I.

I scrolled through my phone, the one without Puccini and Verdi. Did I have Paulie’s number? Zo’s? Would any of them listen to me or would they just be relieved I was gone? I needed someone I could trust. Someone who had an emotional enough connection to Antonio that I could count on their loyalty.

I felt fit to burst. I needed to tell Antonio what Daniel had told me. I didn’t need to make sure I didn’t have any tissues at his house. I didn’t need to clear myself of malfeasance. I needed to make sure I’d done everything to get him out of Daniel's way.

It occurred to me late, almost too late. Too late for me to claim innocence.

I was bait. I was doing exactly what I was supposed to do: going to Antonio and leading the authorities right to him.

“Daniel, you fucking bastard.”

I’d never felt so used, so whored in my life. I drove away as fast as I could with the top down, west on Marmion. Was my phone tracked? Who knew what Daniel had done while we were together. If he felt no compunction in tracking my credit card purchases, why wouldn’t he track my phone?

At a red light, I wrote down a number from my call history then tossed the thing in a bus stop garbage can. It smacked against the back of the wire mesh and dropped onto a pile of ketchup-covered fast food bags.

I unplugged Antonio’s phone and called the number at the next light. If his phone wasn’t secure, I didn’t know what would be.

“Hello?”

“Marina? This is Theresa Drazen. I’d like to meet with you.”

She barked a laugh. “About what? I told you he’d never be with you.”

My heart jumped into my throat, as if deciding it needed to be eaten rather than tolerate this. I swallowed hard. “It’s business.”

“I’m not in the business.”

“That’s why I want to talk to you.”

She didn’t answer right away. “What then?”

“It’s not what you think. Where is good for you?”

“Dunno. Things are a little crazy with the men right now.”

“I know. I’m on Marmion, if that helps.”

“Yeah,” she said sharply, as if coming to a decision. “Sure, yeah. Come by Yes Café, off La Carna. Ten minutes.”

“Thank you.”

She didn’t hear me apparently, because she’d hung up.

es Café had plastic-wrapped sandwiches and lousy coffee. The half and half came in little plastic cups with peel tops. I sat in the wooden chair and looked out the window playing with Antonio’s phone. It felt like reminiscing about Antonio, even though the thing was clean of anything but music and a short call history. He’d given it to me, he’d left me, and now it was all I had.

I read the local paper, which reported the same things as the bigger papers: The spate of violence in the city. Bruno Uvoli’s nasty history which may or may not have included having a hand in the death of his cousin, Domenico Uvoli. Vito Oliveri’s penchant for young girls. Nothing new but the insinuation that they had it coming.

Marina was twenty minutes late. She came in from the parking lot in the back, all heels and tight jeans, makeup and shiny hair. I hadn’t realized how young she was, maybe her early twenties. Dew hung on her like the morning, and I felt a twist of jealousy for the fact that she was so fresh and pretty.

“Hi,” she said, clutching her purse strap over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry to bother you.”

She shrugged and sat. “It’s fine.”

“Did you tell Antonio you were coming to meet me?”

She looked at me sheepishly.

“It’s fine either way,” I said.

“I gotta go soon, so if you want to say something?”

I took a deep breath. “I trust you to bring this to Antonio because you care about him.”

“He won’t like me getting involved.”

“I know. He can take it out on me if he wants.” I leaned forward, hands folded. “I happen to know that the district attorney is getting a warrant to search
l'uovo.
”

She looked down, shifting her mouth to one side.

I continued. “I don’t know when he’s serving it. Tonight, tomorrow, next week. So if you could tell Antonio personally as soon as you can.”

“Well, the shop is kinda burning down. And uh, I hear things got hot with some of the other guys. The other, um, group.”

She was so unpracticed, so raw in her immaturity, I didn’t know whether to feel threatened or sorry for her naiveté.

“You seem different than you were on the phone the other night,” I said.

She turned pink. “You’re intimidating in person.”

“Well, in the interest of not making you any more uncomfortable, I have nothing else.” I picked up my bag.

“Wait,” she said. “You need to tell him what you told me. I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Do you have a little time?”

Did I? Was I looking to get involved even more deeply? By a woman who perceived me as a threat? Did I want to go home to my empty loft? Or start the round of calls to friends and family to ensure I had things to do and places to go for the next few days? Or did I want to exist in Antonio’s sphere for another hour?

“Sure,” I said.

***

She drove up the hill in her Range Rover. I followed her lights on the unlit roads. We were a few miles west of the car shop. She stopped on the top of a hill. The concrete ditch of the L.A. River was beneath us.

“This it?” I said.

Below were makeshift shacks occupied by the homeless, some more complex than others. Across the river was Frogtown, but no one would walk across the muck of a dry river bed for that.

“Marina?” I turned to ask her where we were going but stopped short.

She was holding a little silver gun.

“Jesus Christ.” I held up my hands.

“What did you do?” she asked. “Tell me. What did you do to make him love you?”

“He doesn’t—”

“You’re
lying.
He does. You made him crazy. He’s still crazy.”

“I didn’t do anything Marina, I—”

“He’s destroyed everything because of you. First, he dumped me, then he threw Vito Oliveri under the bus. And Bruno? Bruno was a good guy. But he saw what was happening, and he tried to get you so he could put some sense into Antonio. It was just going to be an example.”

“He let Bruno live, Marina. I was there. He could have killed him. He had his wits about him.”

“Bruno was
made
, you dumb Irish bitch. He can’t kill him without warning every other family in Los Angeles he’s gonna do it. They’re coming from the old country to kill Antonio, and now I’m going to save him by killing you. The cause of it all.”

I didn’t know if it actually worked like that. I wasn’t in her world. Maybe if she brought my head to Donna Maria Carloni and whoever was coming from the old country, that would be helpful to Antonio. Maybe the spell I’d woven around him would be broken and he’d start making coherent decisions again.

I stepped back, hands still raised. “You understand if you murder me, you’ll go to jail. Is that what you want?”

“For him, I’d go.” She straightened her arms and aimed for my heart.

Smart girl, unfortunately. It was a safer shot than the head. Her hands tightened. I would be dead in a second. I wasn’t sure my arm would reach when I extended it for the gun. She moved, bending her elbows, and it went off with a flash and a pop.

he pain came first, as if someone had put a sharp clamp on the side of my head. The sounds came afterward. People shuffling, metallic clacking noises, short laughs, all men. The acoustics indicated I was in a small space. And the smell was wet, sticky earth.

My mouth was dry, and I moved my tongue.

“What’s the date?” said a voice.
That
voice.

I didn’t know the answer, but I opened my eyes. Lights and colors were blurred as if thrown into a blender.

“What’s your name?”

“Contessa,” I croaked.

“Good.”