Page 7 of His Wicked Wants (West Coast Mobsters #6)

CHAPTER 6

NERO

I’m in quite a good mood after my tête-à-tête with Gabriel Carstairs, savoring the memory of his defiance like a fine wine—like the fine wine I poured all over his feet, in fact. So when I walk around to the front of Redwood Manor in the late afternoon and find Jack leaning against that appalling old car of his, I can even take that with grace.

“We can take my Bugatti,” I suggest.

“Better take this old girl,” he replies, patting his car’s hood with affection. “A Bugatti will attract attention, and that’s one thing we don’t want.”

We are off to meet his old crew, and the idea of getting deeper into the Castellani business—mixed with the pleasurable memories of Gabriel’s flush at the sight of me in my underwear—dulls any sharp reply I might have otherwise had.

Jack drives me into the shabbier parts of West Hollywood. He makes casual conversation until we pull up at a bar with a sign out front that reads, The Beartrap . Jack pulls to the curb and nods at the facade, replete with rainbow flyers on the windows, and advertising drink specials that would make any decent sommelier weep.

“This is the first place I thought I’d show you,” he tells me. “I spent a lot of time around this neighborhood when I was in Legs Liggari’s crew—partly because none of the other guys wanted to do it, and partly because they needed a decent amount of protection at the time. These days, since the Family has grown its reputation and size under Sandro, it’s less of a problem.”

“What about rivals?” I ask. “Bernardis? PacSyn?”

“They’ve got less interest in this part of town these days. No, the main trouble here is the kind of clientele not inclined to take no for an answer.” He gives me a closer look. “Word is, you like men. That right?”

“I adore men. Is that an offer?”

He gives a light huff of laughter. “Just wanted to make sure you’d feel comfortable. Beartrap duty is the best of the jobs with Legs Liggari and I’d be happy to recommend you for it—if you want. “

I shrug. “As I said to Sandro at lunch—I will go wherever I am most needed.”

“Then let’s head in. I’ll introduce you.”

The Beartrap is not as much of a dive as the bar the Bernardi Lion took me to, but neither is it what anyone would call a fine establishment. “Most of the people who come here are looking for cheap drinks before they move on to better places for the night,” Jack admits in a low voice as he pushes open the door. At this time of day, with the sun still hovering on the horizon before it gives up for the night, the bar is still quiet, only one or two customers drinking alone in corners.

Jack raises his hand at the man behind the bar, who grins back. “Haven’t seen you for a while, Jack. But even now, all I have to do is mention your name and things quieten down.”

“Good to hear. This is Tim,” Jack says, introducing me to the bartender. “Tim, this is Nero. He’s a friend of mine. He’ll be taking over the Beartrap run. You get any trouble, you let Nero know.”

The bartender nods and picks up a glass. “Thirsty?”

“Soda for me,” Jack says. “I don’t like to drink on the job,” he continues, turning to me, “but frankly, you might need a drink to fortify yourself before meeting Legs.”

“I’ve dealt with many dangerous men,” I say once we have our drinks and have made our way across a slightly sticky floor to settle in a booth. I thought the tests were over, but this feels like yet another. All the same, I took Jack’s advice on board and ordered a tequila shooter. “Is this Legs Liggari so much tougher?”

Jack’s smile carries the same irony that seems to touch him most of the time. “Legs is tough to deal with, but not because he’s dangerous. He’s not the brightest bulb in the box, if you catch my meaning, but he still likes to think he’s doing good work.”

“Ah,” I say. “Yes, I know this kind of man.” I’ve worked with similar men before, though not for long. La Contessa doesn’t countenance laziness. Most of those lazy men met their end with a straight razor. “But if Sandro is aware, why not remove Liggari from his position?”

Jack ignores my question outright and looks around the place fondly. “You know, this is where I met Miller. Fell for him that same night, too, though I wouldn’t admit it at the time.” He grins at me. “Maybe you’ll find the man of your dreams here, too.”

“I’ve already had all the men of my dreams—and my nightmares, too. I don’t plan on settling down any time soon, though congratulations on finding your other half.” I clink my shot glass against his soda glass and drink it down, contemplating my next sentence carefully. “Sandro is another one who seems to enjoy his home life. He’s very happy with this Teddy—lights up whenever I ask about him. How did they meet? In a bar, like this?”

Jack pauses, his eyes meditative as he watches me over the rim of his glass, taking a slow sip. “Sandro and Teddy had a more unconventional first meeting. But they’re very happy now. Teddy has softened him up in a way I never expected.”

“Indeed. I was surprised to hear that the two of you patched up your differences, too. Sandro seemed to have a complete change of heart.”

Jack’s gaze sharpens, though he keeps his tone mild. “Word reached Italy about that, eh? Well, I was glad to put that business behind us.”

“Still—is it such a good thing for a man in Sandro’s position to be so forgiving? To have a soft center? In the old country, it would be seen as a weakness.”

“We’re not in the old country,” is all Jack says.

We leave soon after and go back to the car. A few blocks away, with the sun screaming red as it dies in the sky, Jack stops the car outside a takeout joint.

“A drink and now dinner?” I ask. “Are you trying to seduce me, Jack?”

“Wouldn’t take you here for dinner if I was. Word to the wise, the only good thing here are the sandwiches.”

I follow Jack into the shop, which is very busy despite Jack’s warning, and the owner is yelling orders at several employees behind the counter. But Jack doesn’t stop, heading straight through to a back room. It stinks of male body odor, cigars, and salami—an alarming combination.

“Jack!” An overweight man with sweat stains under his arms rises from a poker table. “What an honor. Come, sit down, play a hand for old times’ sake.”

Jack shakes his hand but declines the invitation. “Can’t stop, Legs. Just delivering your new man. This is Nero Andretti. Nero, this here is Legs Liggari.”

This is the man I am expected to work under? I size him up within seconds: lazy attitude, hands that were once effective tools, but no longer, and he has not learned subtlety to replace violence.

“Who’ve you got on the Beartrap these days?” Jack asks.

Legs nods at one of the men sitting at the poker table. “I got Ray here on that run,” he says. “But if you think your boy Nero would be a better choice, I’m all ears. Ray could use a change of scenery—right, Ray?”

Ray gives Jack and me the weary look of a man who has lost all hope. He’s in his fifties, I judge, and his eyes are dragged down by heavy bags. His iron-gray hair is thinning and he has the thick knuckles of someone who has used them often in life. “I go where I’m told, Legs. Happy to mix it up if the new guy prefers that run. Good to see you, Jack.”

“How about you two run it together for a month or so,” Jack suggests casually. “Make sure Nero gets the lay of the land before throwing him in the deep end.”

“Four weeks is a long time,” I say, holding up my hands in mock protest. “I am your humble servant, of course, but I think you’ll find I’m up to the task of moving on a few handsy gentlemen.”

“All the same,” Jack replies, his voice deceptively mild. “I think it’d be a good idea. The Beartrap’s just one stop on the route, right, Ray?” Ray gives a nod, but his interest has returned to his cards. “Now, Nero is an important guest of the Boss, Legs, so I expect you to show him proper hospitality. You get me?”

“I sure do, Jack, I sure do. Real good to see you. You sure you don’t want to play one hand?”

“I never really was a gambling man,” Jack says with a tight smile. He nods to Ray. “Drop Nero back up at the house when you’re done tonight, Ray?”

Ray’s face lights up, a reaction suggesting he doesn’t often get close to Redwood Manor. “Sure thing, Jack. You can count on me.”

“I know I can.”

This exchange is for my benefit, I realize. Ray might not know it, but he has been appointed my babysitter for the next month. The familiar rage and frustration begin to simmer within me once more at this endless string of insults to my proper station. But what can I do? I am here with a mission, and part of that mission is playing nice.

Ray wins the hand of poker just after Jack leaves, and Legs seems annoyed enough to send him out for the night. Ray heaves himself up from the poker table and tests his right leg before putting all his weight on it. I follow him out of the backroom and into the takeout area.

“Raymond Ventura,” he says, stopping by the counter. He offers his hand to me and I shake it. “Call me Ray. You wanna grab a sandwich to take with? We get them free. They’re not bad.”

“What do you suggest?” When in Rome, after all.

“Meatball sub’s my favorite.”

It sounds awful, and I accept with interest. We wait only a few moments while the owner himself prepares two messy, oversized subs.

Ray starts eating his one-handed as soon as we get into his car, steering through the neighborhood with the other hand. “We take care of that laundromat there,” he tells me, gesturing at a neon-lit storefront. “They’re a good little earner, and they like having us there. That Chinese restaurant on the corner? We do them, too. We kicked the Triads out from around here, see, but we need to make sure we keep on top of things. And the nightclub on the second story over there?—”

I listen, trying to absorb the details, but the aroma of the meatballs proves more tempting than I first anticipated. I unwrap my sub when Ray pulls into the curb to park, and take a tentative bite.

“It’s good,” I admit, surprised.

“Hell yeah, it’s good,” Ray chuckles, his own sandwich already half-devoured. “You wanna watch how many you eat, though.” He pats his belly, straining against his shirt. “Don’t wanna pack on the pounds like I have. Not a lot of exercise in this gig, you know what I’m saying?”

“Not much action, then?”

Ray shrugs. “Legs’s crew…well, I guess you could say we’re the reject squad. I got moved here a few months back—bad leg, see—and some of the other guys, they’re getting old, or they never were much good in a fight in the first place. I mean,” he adds quickly, “I’m not saying you’re a reject or nothing, and hell, Jack used to run with this crew too, back in the day before he made Underboss.” He glances sidelong at me. “That’s what makes it kind of strange that you got sent out here. I wondered if maybe you were sent to shake things up. Get Legs working harder, you know?”

“I’m like you, Ray. I just do what I’m told. If the Boss wants me in Liggari’s crew, I’m happy to serve.”

Still, I consider his suggestion. Could Sandro and Jack have placed me here to light a fire under this crew? Back home, we had no use for dead wood. We pruned it away entirely.

As I contemplate this, my gaze falls on a garden shop lit up against the dark street. “GreenSpace,” the sign proclaims, the letters made out of stylized vines. A flicker of curiosity stirs as I think of Gabriel Carstairs once more. Think of him rejecting me…

There’s something ugly in me, something that chafes at humiliation, imagined or otherwise. And tonight—eating a greasy meatball sub with some third-rate mobster from a fourth-rate crew—feels like humiliation.

“What about that place?” I nod at the garden shop.

Ray looks puzzled. “Garden place? We never got any orders about them. I think they just sell flowers and dirt, you know? Not much to lean on there. And the other crews around town don’t got much interest in them either.”

“Let’s find out if they have needs that aren’t being met,” I say, getting out of the car. I toss the remains of my sub into a trash can and cross the street. Ray, clearly not expecting this, scrambles to catch up.

“Hold up, Andretti,” he grumbles, huffing as he jogs after me, still holding his sandwich. “Where the hell do you think you’re going? You can’t just take off on your own. There’s a whole route?—”

“You said it yourself, Ray. Perhaps I was sent into this crew to make them pick up the pace. There might be some benefit in it for you, too, if we can establish a new client.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but I’m already pushing open the door to the gardening center. Inside, it’s quiet—no customers in sight, and why would there be on a Friday night in West Hollywood? There are far more entertaining places to be.

Even the woman behind the desk looks surprised to see me. She’s gathering together about a dozen small, flowering plants on the counter, each of them different. The air is thick with moisture and green life. “Oh, hi,” she says. “We’re not actually open…”

She sounds nervous. She should be.

“What a wonderful shop you have here,” I say, leaning over the flowers to smell them. “An oasis in a desert.” I look up into her face, flash her a smile.

That’s when I know something is wrong here. Normally, when I look into someone’s face like this, with this particular expression, they melt a little, no matter what their personal preferences might be. It’s how I soften them up before I sink in the knife…metaphorically.

That’s what makes Gabriel so intriguing to me. He’s the first in a long time to ice over even more.

This woman—Yvonne, according to her nameplate—does not ice over, but she does not melt, either. She just gets more nervous, flicking her long braids back with one hand while the other fidgets with the leaves of a potted plant. She shoves it to the side behind a bag of potting mix when she sees me notice.

But maybe it’s Ray making her anxious, lumbering around behind me, looking at the gardening gloves display on rustic wooden shelving. “Hey, you got these in pink?” he calls over. “My wife needs a new pair, and she likes pink.”

Yvonne tears her eyes away from mine and comes around the counter, her canvas apron rustling as she rushes over. “I think so,” she says. “Um—yeah—here you go?—”

And a moment later, Ray is actually buying a pair of pink women’s gardening gloves. I give him an incredulous look when Yvonne turns to open the cash register, but he just shrugs. “Happy wife, happy life.”

“Yvonne,” I say, determined to get something out of this fiasco, or at the very least, find out what is making her so jumpy. “We do a lot of work around this neighborhood. Insurance.”

She blinks at me as she hands Ray his change. “Insurance?” And then she seems to relax. “Oh, we already have insurance, so?—”

“This is a special kind of insurance.” I give her a smile with an edge this time, the one that suggests she had better shut up and listen. The one that usually has people scrambling to comply.

“You heard her,” says a familiar voice from the side, cutting through the humid air like frost. “She has insurance, and she’s closed. So good evening, gentlemen.”

I turn in what feels like slow motion to face the speaker. Am I never to be rid of this man? He haunts my thoughts, and now he appears as an apparition! But he’s no apparition. Those eyes are unmistakable.

A few feet away, Gabriel Carstairs is glaring at me with his hands on his hips.