Page 28 of The First Gentleman
CHAPTER 24
Providence, Rhode Island
I t’s midafternoon when Garrett Wilson rolls into Providence.
It takes him twenty minutes to track down the nondescript bar where Daryna told him he would find Tony Romero.
The bar is identified only by a sign near the metal door: RAYMOND’S TAVERN .
Maybe the name is in honor of former Providence godfather Raymond L.
S. Patriarca? A Mob bar named after a Mob boss.
Bold choice. Poetic, even.
There are no neon beer signs in the windows because there are no windows.
Only a peephole near a small plaque that reads PRIVATE CLUB .
Garrett walks down a short flight of concrete stairs and pulls on the door handle.
Locked.
He looks around and sees a rusted doorbell partly obscured by a trail of stringy vines.
His fight-or-flight response kicks in, meaning he’s on his toes.
He presses the button.
After a few seconds, he hears the click of a heavy bolt and a gravelly voice saying, “What?” The door opens about six inches, emitting a waft of stale cigarette smoke.
“I need to see Tony Romero,” Garrett tells a looming male figure.
“Who does?”
Garrett assumed that a guy like Romero would be protected by layers of muscle, so he launches into his prepared story.
“I owe him money.”
“Who doesn’t?” says the voice.
“Members only.”
The door slams shut.
Garrett rings the bell again.
A few seconds later, the door reopens, this time a little wider.
“How much money?” Now Garrett can see the doorman more clearly.
He’s a hulk, muscles bulging underneath a polo shirt.
“That’s between me and Tony. C’mon, man. I can’t handle another week’s vig. I just need two minutes with him.”
“Tony’s busy. Come back later.”
The door starts to close again.
Garrett jams his foot in the gap and presses his face into the open space.
He decides to roll the dice.
“I lied just now. I don’t owe Tony any money. Just tell him it’s about Suzanne Bonanno.”
The hulk hesitates.
“Move your foot or I’ll break it,” he mutters.
Garrett slides his shoe out.
The door closes. Longer wait this time.
But when the door opens again, it opens all the way.
Garrett steps into a dark vestibule with a pedestal stand holding a reservation book.
“Follow me,” says the hulk.
He pushes aside a curtain and leads the way to a polished bar in front of a mirror and rows of up-lit bottles.
Club members circulate to the jazz coming from the speaker system.
At one table, two men are talking with a young woman in satin shorts and a halter top; in the corner, a man plays a vintage arcade game.
Cue sticks lie neatly crossed on two green-felted pool tables.
Garrett follows his escort down a narrow cinder-block corridor stacked high with liquor cases to a simple wooden door marked PRIVATE .
The hulk gives two sharp raps on it with his knuckles, then pushes the door open and motions Garrett into a wood-paneled office.
Behind the desk, a well-dressed middle-aged man is sitting in a high-backed leather chair.
The face is a match to the photo Garrett saw online.
It’s Tony Romero.
“Thanks, Donnie,” Romero says.
The hulk backs out and shuts the door.
Romero looks closely at Garrett as if trying to place him.
Garrett senses movement behind him.
He turns and sees that each of the room’s back corners is occupied by a man in a suit.
One is smoking a cigarette.
The other has his arms folded across his thick chest.
“Who the hell are you?” Romero asks, eyes narrowed.
“My name is Garrett Wilson. I’m an investigative reporter. An author. I write books.”
“Bullshit. You’re a cop. You look like a cop.”
Garrett feels his stomach drop.
But he stands his ground.
“No. Like I said, I’m a writer. Garrett Wilson. You can look me up online. I have a website.”
Romero nods to one of his associates, the smoker.
The smoker pulls out his iPhone and starts tapping.
After a few seconds, he walks over to the desk and holds the screen in front of Romero.
Romero glances at it, then looks up.
“Two books. Good for you. They sell?”
“They did all right,” says Garrett.
“How does it pay?”
“Not great.”
Romero looks down again, scrolls for a minute.
“Dartmouth, huh? That your girlfriend in the picture? It says here she’s your researcher. Nice.”
“We’re partners, yes.”
“And where is she this fine day?”
“Working on a different assignment.”
“I see.” Romero flicks his hand at his men.
“We’re okay,” he says.
They leave the room.
Romero gestures toward an empty chair across from his desk.
“Sit, Mr. Writer. Sit.”
Garrett perches on the edge of the chair.
His mouth is dry. His feet tap against the floor.
Romero leans forward and stares at him.
“So. What about Suzanne Bonanno?”
Garrett forces himself to stare right back.
“Mr. Romero—”
“Tony.”
Garrett resets.
“Tony, I’m told that you and Suzanne dated about twenty years ago. Is that true?”
Romero grins, leans back.
“In my mid-twenties, man, I played the field as much as I could. Yeah, Suzanne. The Patriots cheerleader. Nice piece.” He leans forward and his expression turns earnest. “You have any idea what happened to her?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Garrett says.
“After you two broke up—”
Romero puts up a hand.
“Hold on, hold on. It’s not like we were serious. We just hung out here and there, had some fun.”
“Okay,” Garrett says, “after you two stopped hanging out, she started dating Cole Wright. This was when he was still on the team.”
Romero drums his fingers on his desk.
His face is grim. “Yeah. I knew that.”
“So maybe you know she was supposed to be on a date with him the night she disappeared.”
“Right,” Romero snarls.
“And now that prick is living in the White House, screwing the goddamn president. I guess he moved up in the world. Can you believe that shit? Only in America…”
“Did you and Suzanne keep in touch? Did she ever talk to you about Cole Wright? Ever complain about the way he was treating her?”
“Treating her?”
“Like, was he ever rough with her?”
Romero is silent for a few seconds.
Garrett can sense his mind working.
“Jesus Christ! Is that what your book is about? You think Cole Wright offed Suzanne Bonanno?”
“So she never talked to you about him?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“So she did?”
A few more seconds of silence.
Then: “She did call me once. She was crying and sniffling and shit. Said Cole had slapped her around. She wanted me to do something about it.”
“Like what?”
“What do you think, Mr. Writer? She wanted me to find a couple guys to teach him a lesson.”
“And did you?”
“Me? Send mugs after a Patriots player? Like that was ever gonna happen. I told her to break it off with the prick. That was my advice. That was the last time we talked. I swear on my kids.” Romero places both palms flat on his desk.
Garrett senses impatience.
“That it? You get what you want?”
Not by a long shot.
But Garrett decides not to press his luck.
He stands up. “Yes. Thanks, Tony. Appreciate the time.”
“You got balls coming in here,” says Romero, grinning.
“Good way to get ’em cut off.” He stands up too.
The door opens. The two thugs reappear.
Garrett feels sweat dripping under his shirt.
“I can find my way out.” The two thugs move to block him, but a hand squeezes his shoulder from behind.
“No, no,” says Romero.
“I’ll walk him out myself.” The two associates step aside.
Garrett starts to breathe easier.
Romero hooks an arm through his as they walk out of the office and into the dank corridor.
“It’s quicker through the back,” Romero says.
Garrett’s mind is humming.
He’s trying to fix Romero’s quotes in his mind, word for word, in the right order, until he can get to his laptop.
He sees a metal door just ahead, sunlight streaming through its wire-mesh security screen.
Tony pushes the door open, revealing a small concrete platform and two dumpsters.
Garrett takes a breath.
The air smells like garbage.
“Just one thing,” says Tony.
Out of the corner of his eye, Garrett sees the fist coming just before it connects with his temple.
He collapses to his knees.
A kick to his ribs flattens him.
His face is on the concrete now.
Fingers grab his hair and pull his head up.
His brain is spinning with bright light.
“Listen, you Ivy League fuck! If I see one word about me in that book or anyplace else, I’ll find you and burn your house down with your girlfriend inside. Do you understand me?”
Even if Garrett wanted to answer, he couldn’t; his mouth is no longer working.
His head is rammed onto the concrete.
And then everything goes black.