Page 72 of Bad Blood
That wipes the smile off my face.
“Juice, please,” I say sliding onto one of the stools at the bar.I may as well throw in a mixer with all the Añejo tequila lining my stomach.
He places a clean coaster and a glass in front of me, and then glances up again.
“Mr. Spader,” he says, not sounding nearly as enthusiastic withthatgreeting.
“Andrew,” comes a thin, reedy voice. “The usual, if you will.”
The stool next to me gets pulled out and “unwanted company” parks his slight frame with a grunt.
“Mrs. Carrera,” he says, bowing his thinning head.
“That’s the second time I’ve been called that in the last sixty seconds,” I muse, taking in his blue suit, thick, black-rimmed glasses, and drawn appearance.
The rat in the suit.
“New names can take a little time to get used to,” he says, patting my hand.
His touch is cold and clammy, like a lizard deprived of sunlight.
“New names can also be reversed.” I withdraw my hand, resisting the temptation to wipe it on my jeans.
“You’re looking very well.” His beady gaze lasers in on my chest. “Married life must be agreeing with you.”
Who the hell is this guy?He’s giving me serious Marco Bardi sleaze vibes.
“I take it Santi hasn’t mentioned me?” He frowns as I fold my arms on purpose to nix his view. “How remiss of him when I was invited to your wedding.”
“Santi and I have a language barrier,” I state bluntly. “He speaks in threats, and I ignore him.”
The sarcasm is strong in me today.I’m blaming the Añejo.
The man laughs. At least I think it’s a laugh. It sounds more like a hyena on speed.
“How amusing… I’m Monroe Spader,” he says, as the bartender places a Bloody Mary in front of him. “I’m the gambling commission in this state.”
“Ah, so you’re one of Santi Carrera’s minions?”
“I prefer the term ‘business associate’.”
“I get the impression you do more than just issue gambling licenses to my husband, Mr. Spader.”
He pushes his glasses back up his nose. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
I follow his eyes to my crotch, and then back to my face. It’s creepy and evasive, but it’s also oddly methodical, like he’s committing my vital statistics to memory.
“I take it you’ve heard the news?”
“What news?”
“Senator Sanders passed his bill through the State Senate yesterday. Next stop is the Assembly and then it lands on the good Governor’s desk.” He leans in close. “She won’t be a problem. Soon, gambling will be legal in New York again. It’s going to open up the gates to all sorts of exciting new business ventures.”
“Ventures like Carrera-owned casinos, you mean,” I say, catching on fast.
The King of Loco strikes again.
It’s madness for Santi to even consider this. Edier would raze any establishment of his to the ground before the doors opened.
