Page 8 of Forgotten Sacrifice
“Will do. Put me down for a dollar on Philly.”
“Got you down,” I say, making the notation for the hundred dollar bet. “See you next week.”
“Still hustling boomers,” my brother, Aldo, razzes me from behind the bar when my bettor leaves.
I shrug. Most of my clients are older, blue collar guys who like to throw a little money at the games. “Still serving up poison to boomers.”
It’s his turn to shrug, polishing a glass. “I’m a vice facilitator.”
“That your new slogan?”
“Nah, ‘cold beer and sports’ sells itself.” He leans over the bar, telling me quietly, “Don’t look now, but you have a secret admirer in the corner booth. Came in about five minutes after you did.”
“Think he’s a cop?” I ask quietly.
“If he is, I don’t know him,” Aldo whispers. “And I know every cop around here.”
“A fed?”
“Don’t know.”
“Gentlemen.” Fabio Mazza takes a seat at the bar, passing my brother a brown paper bag. “Cannoli from Nonna.”
“Hey, what about me?” I grumble.
Fabio holds up his hands. “Sorry, take it up with Nonna.”
“Vince has a secret admirer, two o’clock,” Aldo whispers.
Fabio and I glance up at the mirror behind the bar, checking out a man who’s trying a bit too hard to appear inconspicuous. “Never seen him before,” I whisper.
Reaching in his suit pocket, Fabio slides over a small vial wrapped in a dollar bill. “Fix up his drink so we can get to know our new friend.”
Aldo accepts the bill and disappears to the back. Returning with a beer, he delivers it to the older man. My brother returns to his position behind the bar, and it’s not long before the man slumps over in the booth.
Fabio and I waste no time, dragging out the man’s unconscious body.
“Some men can’t handle their liquor,” Aldo calls after us, and the few patrons either snicker or pretend they don’t see anything.
We drag the man through the kitchen, and the cook manning the fryer nods at us. Stopping at the utility closet, we toss the man inside, closing the door behind us. I squat down and grab his wallet, checking out his license, but hit pay dirt when I find his business card. “Private Investigator.”
“Why is a P.I. tailing you?” Fabio asks.
“Don’t know,” I say, not liking this one fucking bit.
Fabio pats down the man, finding his cell phone. “Give me his license,” he says, and I fish it out of the wallet and hand it over. He glances at the New York license before typing on the man’s phone. “Fucker really shouldn’t use his birth date as the passcode.” Scrolling through the messages, Fabio pauses. “‘My daughter, Aspen, is very unhappy that a new student has taken the top spot on her chess team. I needyou to look into this newcomer’s background. Luna Barone. Bring me dirt.”
He holds up the phone: it’s a picture of Luna in her school uniform.
“How you wanna handle this?” Fabio asks, wiping the phone on a cleaning rag to remove his prints.
“Help me load him in my trunk. I’m going to take my new buddy for a ride. Aldo can get the boys at the chop shop to get rid of his vehicle.”
“And his phone? We don’t want the last ping to be from this location,” Fabio warns.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Bag your phone,” he reminds me, and I nod.
