Page 19 of His Wicked Wants (West Coast Mobsters #6)
CHAPTER 17
NERO
“Guess Legs told you there was a fire in our turf?” Ray asks as he drives us away from Redwood. I give a curt nod, my mind still on Gabriel and those butterflies. “Seems like you and me might have opened old wounds at the Chateau, if you get my meaning.”
“Some wounds need to be cleaned out before they’ll heal,” I tell him. “If one little bar fight is enough to start a war, then you and I are not to blame.”
“Yeah? Well it sure felt like Legs was blaming me after you and Jack drove off the other night.”
“Jacopo told him to go easy on you. If Liggari has disobeyed his orders, I will be happy to remind him of the importance of following the instructions of the Underboss.”
“Hey, knock it off,” Ray says, alarmed. “I don’t need you reminding Legs I fucking exist, okay?”
“ He needs to be reminded where he sits in the hierarchy,” I sniff, but I give in as Ray shoots me a desperate look. “Alright. Control your blood pressure, my friend. I’ll keep quiet.” We drive in silence for a minute, until I say softly, “But you have to admit, it was a fun night.”
He gives an unwilling chuckle. “Yeah, I guess it was. Linda wasn’t happy when I came back with a fat lip, though.”
We mercifully do not head to the sandwich shop, but straight to the Chinese restaurant, where they offer us food that Ray looks inclined to accept, but I turn down for both of us. “Please,” I say, “we have not done our jobs for you, and you owe us nothing until we do.”
The fire was out the back in the dumpster, but the dumpster was pushed up against the wall of the restaurant, so that the flames have shattered one of the high windows and singed the roof. The LAFD got there soon enough to put out the fire before any real damage occurred.
And if there is one thing I understand, it’s fire.
“This was not intended as a serious blaze,” I say in an undertone to Ray. “If they wanted to do real damage, they would have used an accelerant and made sure the fire began inside. This is merely a warning. A message to us, rather than the business.”
Ray nods. “We got a problem here, ’cause this looks like a Bernardi job to me. This is the way they like to send their messages. The Triads don’t fuck around with this kind of thing—when they leave a message, it’s loud and clear and written in blood.”
“If the Bernardis are bold enough to do this, the Don needs to stamp them out once and for all. You don’t tap a cockroach on its back and give it a warning. You grind it underfoot and obliterate it.”
Inside, we reassure the business owner that we will take care of the people who did this, and will have men watching over his shop and throughout the neighborhood, 24 hours a day.
“Legs won’t be happy about that,” Ray warns as we head back to the car.
“Then Legs needs to understand the protection business better. It only works if you actually protect your clients. Otherwise, they’ll be quite happy to pay someone else protection money against us . It is a quid pro quo situation, not a grift.”
“You want to check the Beartrap?” he asks. “Seems like they’d be another one the Bernardis might have hit, given that Jack’s put it about that the place is under protection.”
“I see you have a strategic mind, Ray,” I tell him with a grin. “By all means, let’s go to the Beartrap. And perhaps we can get a drink for you to wash down your early dinner.” I gesture at the cardboard carton the owners pushed into Ray’s hands as we left. Normally I might have protested once more, but I saw the smile the owner gave to Ray, and it seemed genuinely grateful. Ray Ventura, for all that he’s a little heavy in his approach, is well-liked in this neighborhood.
And that’s an important part of his job, being liked. Something that Legs Liggari would never consider himself.
Ray gives a sheepish smile. “Well, I felt like it would be insulting the guy to refuse,” he tells me. “They would’ve put in an extra eggroll if you wanted.”
“Of course you had to take it when it was offered a second time. I wouldn’t dream of insulting our clients.” I push open the door of the Beartrap. It’s late afternoon and once again, there aren’t many people around. Tim the bartender is there just as though he lives his whole life in that one place, waiting for people to walk in. He gives us a nod as we enter, and pulls out a glass for Ray. “Usual?” Tim asks.
“Yeah, hit me,” Ray says.
Tim turns to me. “Tequila shooter?”
“Not today.” And then I see that he is pouring out a soda water for Ray. “I’ll have one of those as well.” Ray inches up another notch in my estimation. Like Jack, he prefers not to drink on the job.
“You had any trouble around here last night?” Ray asks in a low voice as Tim serves up our drinks there at the bar. Ray has heaved himself onto one of the stools and is digging around in his food with chopsticks.
“No trouble,” Tim says.
“Good to hear. Because down the road, at the Chinese place, they did.”
“Yeah, I heard. Bad business.”
“And bad for business,” I point. “Have you seen anyone around who shouldn’t be here?”
“No one comes in here who shouldn’t,” Tim says firmly. “They know enough not to fuck with this place, thanks to Jack. He takes it personal, if you know what I mean.”
His confidence in Johnny Jacopo is touching, but privately I think that it seems as though that would be a primary reason for the Bernardis to target the Beartrap Bar. If it is under Jack’s protection it would send an even stronger message to burn it down.
“We’ll be posting extra eyes around the neighborhood,” I say. “And you would do well to keep a lookout. Jack is a powerful man in this city—but that makes him a target, along with your business.”
Tim looks troubled but nods, and I leave it at that. Once Ray has finished his drink and his food, we spend the rest of the afternoon and the early evening calling on our clients around the neighborhood. All of them say that they’ve received a visit from two men in suits who made vaguely threatening suggestions.
So these people will make trouble for other businesses in our territory, but steer clear of rousing the ire of the Castellani Underboss. Interesting.
We return to the car. But across the street from where we parked is the shopfront of GreenSpace, people milling around in front of it, the shop interior busy and bright.
Ray sees me looking at it. “They got a community event sometimes, I guess,” he says. “You want to go check them out again? See if they need our help after all? Bernardis might’ve done us a favor if they went in there roughing them up. New customer.”
Anger threads through me at the idea of Bernardis encroaching on GreenSpace. That woman who runs the place, Yvonne, seemed sweet and kind and therefore vulnerable to threats of violence. How dare they take advantage of the powerless, especially when they know that the Castellanis are operating in this area?
That’s what I’m angry about.
Not the idea of someone threatening Gabriel Carstairs.
“Andretti?” Ray prompts. “Should we?—”
“No,” I say shortly. “We will not bother them tonight while they are having an event. Tomorrow, perhaps, we’ll come back and ask.”
I don’t want to bring darkness into that bright, laughter-filled place. And as I stare across the street, I see the man himself, Gabriel, appear in the window, as he places some decorative potted plants back in the display.
I see him smiling over his shoulder at a customer, and another twinge bites at my heart. He’s never smiled at me like that, happy and relaxed. Even his smiles earlier today were directed at the butterflies. Not at me.
How would it feel to have Gabriel Carstairs smile at me that way?
“Let’s go,” I tell Ray. “We need to report back to Liggari and get those men situated around the place.”
“Good luck with that,” he mumbles.
“I don’t need luck.”