A Bookie's Odds (2 page)

Chapter 1

September 1957

He was short. He was scrawny. And his body odor would offend a dog. Yet with all he did not have going for him, he had the nerve to call someone ugly. As Marco Santiano would say
, che coglioni
…the kid was an idiot.

The punk sneered as if he were staring at a slug on the bottom of his grimy sneaker. His friend stood behind him, neighing and snorting at behavior unacceptable from someone old enough to ride the train alone. In fact, out of the four people standing in front of the diner, the young men were the only ones laughing.

Georgia Mae Collins was not amused by the off-colored comment directed at her friend. And she knew she would find no humor in the consequences of his words.

“You need to leave her alone.”

She hoped he would heed her warning and leave while he was capable of doing so on his own. No one messed with Celeste Santiano and walked away. Crawled away, maybe. Dragged away, possibly. Carried away, in a lot of cases. But never walked away.

Squaring his shoulders, the punk slowly turned and faced her. Pockmarks decorated his sallow cheeks and nose. Pus-filled pimples covered his chin. His dried, cracked lips curled back, revealing brownish-yellow teeth. Greasy bangs dangled in front of sunken, bloodshot eyes.

He took a drag off his cigarette, then blew the smoke in her face. Her eyes watered from his rancid breath.

“Ain’t no one talkin’ to yah, nig—”

“I wouldn’t complete that sentence if I were you,” Celeste warned.

“Why? Yah friends with the coon?” He pointed to the birthmark that stretched from his first victim’s left brow to her cheekbone. “Too ugly for real friends?”

Celeste crossed her arms over her chest. Her blue eyes narrowed behind medium brown strands that danced in front of her face. Before she could repeat her warning, a voice announced, “It’s time for you girls to go home.”

Georgia cringed. She glanced past their tormentors at the two men who joined the group. What she had been hoping to avoid was about to take place. All hell was going to break loose.

“He called Georgia—”

“I heard what he said.” Nicholas Santiano interrupted before Celeste could repeat the vile word. He held up a set of keys in his left hand. “Take my ride, Georgia.”

Her gaze dropped from his icy blue eyes to the tick in his square jaw, and then to the lead pipe in his right hand. Her aversion to blood had ruled out a career in medicine. It also inspired her to try to prevent bloodshed, even when young men demonstrated a desire to never eat solid foods again.

“Nick—”

“Now.” His tone said he would not listen to reason. The chocolate ice cream she had been enjoying moments earlier lost its appeal, and she dropped her cone in the trash can in front of the diner before stepping around the tormenter.

Though the punk maintained his scowl, he was not standing as tall as he had been a minute ago. Likewise, his friend was no longer laughing; he looked as if he was about to soil his pants. Not that she blamed him. Most men did not fare well against someone who stood six feet tall, weighed a hundred eighty-five pounds, and worked out three times week.

Georgia dragged her feet until she was six inches in front of Nicholas. She reached up for the keys. He wrapped his fingers around hers, pulled her hand to his lips and kissed the back.

“Smile.” His tone softened as he pressed the pipe into her free hand. “Everything’ll be all right.”

Georgia shook her head. She knew it wouldn’t. Nicholas may have given her the weapon, but he was still capable of inflicting damage with his bare hands.

Georgia pulled from his grip and followed Celeste to the red convertible parked across the street. She opened the driver’s door, then glanced back as Nicholas draped an arm over the punk’s shoulders. He steered the tormentor toward the vacant lot next to the diner. Gianni Acardis, his longtime friend, lifted the tail of his shirt. The piece tucked in his pants convinced the other boy to follow.

With a sigh, Georgia shoved the pipe underneath the driver’s seat, climbed behind the wheel, and started the car.

“It’s a shame some people have to learn the hard way.” Celeste slid into the passenger seat. “He should’ve listened to me.”

Georgia pulled away from the curb. “What do you mean, listen to you? You didn’t say anything when that punk came over.”

“But I spoke up before he called you out of your name.” She bit into her sugar cone. “Now he’s gonna be gumming his food.”

Georgia stopped at a red light and turned toward her friend. “You should’ve told him no one messes with Celeste Santiano. Not unless he wants to deal with Nicholas Santiano.”

Celeste threw her head back and shrieked. The balding driver in the brown-and-white station wagon in front of them peered into his rearview mirror.

“What’s so funny?”

“You are.” Celeste rocked back and forth. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Nicky fighting ’cause of me.”

“I wasn’t joking. Why else would Nick get into a fight?”

“’Cause that kid insulted you.”

Georgia would have convulsed with laughter had she not been behind the wheel. Since getting into an accident was not on her agenda, she faced forward and sucked her teeth.

Yes, she was under the protection of the Santianos. And yes, over the years Nicholas had come to her defense more times than she could count. However, she had no doubts regarding his priorities. Family came first, and the punk was getting his face rearranged because of his insult to Celeste, not her.

Celeste slumped back in her seat. “If he’s not fighting ’cause of you, what was all that back there?” She deepened her voice. “Take my ride, Georgia.” She switched back to her softer pitch. “Why didn’t he give me the keys?”

“’Cause you can’t drive.”

“New York City seems to think otherwise.” Celeste pulled her license out of the side pocket of her red-checkered dress and waved it in the air.

“You only got that ’cause you cried after your last road test. The instructor felt sorry for you.”

“Then what about the kiss?”

“That was all for show.”

Georgia refused to take Nicholas’s flirting seriously. She did not possess the four B’s he looked for in a woman: blonde hair, blue eyes, and big breasts. Though her shirts did not lie flat against her, the tops worn by the women he dated strained against the overabundance of flesh stuffed underneath the material.

Georgia smashed the horn to alert the first driver that the light had changed. The man stuck his arm out the window and gave her a one-finger salute.

After another failed interview that morning with a man who treated her as if she could not add one plus one, and then an afternoon of reviewing books that had been altered, she had little patience for the man. Georgia maneuvered around the other car and hit the gas. He barely had time to yank his arm back before she sped past.

Taking the side streets, she avoided the rush hour traffic that would have turned the thirty-minute drive from Coney Island into an ordeal. When they arrived at the Fort Greene section of Brooklyn, she parked in front of the brownstone next door to the Santianos’.

Georgia followed Celeste through the garden entrance of the four-story structure. The aroma of
pollo alla cacciatora
welcomed her to her second home. As always, Mr. Santiano’s chicken made her mouth water.

“Papa, we’re home,” Celeste yelled.

“Who’s we?”

Georgia strolled into the kitchen. “It’s me, Mr. Santiano.”

The older man looked up from the stove, where he had been dropping dough into a deep fryer. Strands of gray intermingled with his brown hair, moustache, and goatee. His solid physique, however, had not been affected by time.

“I didn’t expect to see you ’til this evening.”

“We had a little trouble,” Celeste volunteered. She swiped a
zeppole
from a plate on the counter next to the stove. “Nicky sent us home in his car.”

In the light drifting through the opened window, Georgia watched the man’s warm, brown eyes turn cold. “You had a problem at Joey’s?” His tone promised unpleasant consequences if he did not like the answer.

Though he employed musclemen to help with debt collection, when it came to his family and friends, Mr. Santiano did not hesitate to get his hands dirty.

“Some kids insulted Celeste,” Georgia replied. “Nick took care of it.”

He glanced at Celeste, who was too busy chewing her pastry to elaborate on the events. After a heartbeat, he shook his head. “How did things go otherwise?”

Satisfied the man would not storm out of the house looking for blood, Georgia leaned against the counter. “Everyone’s fine—” She focused on the black-and-white pattern on the floor.

“But?” he asked when she did not complete her thought.

Georgia’s head snapped up. “How did you know there was a ‘but’?”

He pointed at her with the spoon he had been using for the dough. “You were fiddling with your fingers. You only do that when a ‘but’ is involved.” He rapped the back of Celeste’s hand with the spoon as she reached for another
zeppole
. “Was it bad?”

Georgia nodded. “The books had been altered,” she replied as she folded her hands behind her back.

“You told Joey?”

“Yes.”

Georgia recalled the disappointment in the man’s eyes when she showed him the changes in the ledgers that confirmed his son had been stealing from him. Despite the betrayal, he maintained his composure as he paid her fee. He then mumbled his excuse before slipping out of the room.

A friend of the family for sixteen years, Georgia had known what was to follow. From an early age, every Santiano was taught no matter what side of the law you chose to live on, you did not screw over family. The punishment for doing so was not pleasant. The bloody pipe in Nicholas’s car attested to the severity.

“
Grazie, cara
.” Mr. Santiano picked up a plate and held it toward her. “Take one.”

Like Nicholas had done earlier when he offered to buy her an ice cream cone, Marco Santiano was using her penchant for sweets to sooth her. Of course, Georgia was too fond of the fried dough dripping with honey to say no.

“Are you staying for dinner?” he asked as she took a
zeppole
.

“No, I promised Daddy I’d be home before he went to the bar,” she replied before she licked a drop of honey from her finger.

“You’ll take some food with you.” Mr. Santiano placed the plate on the counter. As he reached up to a cabinet next to Georgia, the front door slammed open. The boisterous laughter announcing Nicholas’s arrival was tame compared to the racket he used to make when he came home from school.

“Hey, Pops, you in the kitchen?”

“Who else do you think’s cooking? It’s definitely not one of my lazy children.”

Nicholas stepped into the kitchen. Neither he nor Celeste appeared to take offense at Mr. Santiano’s comment.

Celeste gasped when Gianni walked into the room. “What happened to your face?”

“The prick took a swing at me.” He rubbed his bruised jaw. “He hits like a girl.”

Georgia rolled her eyes. Gianni had the dark hair and bluish-gray eyes of a leading man and the build of a middleweight boxer. He also had an attitude that straddled the line between respect and insolence.

The chair scraped against the linoleum as he dragged it from underneath the table.

“Watch the floor,” Mr. Santiano scolded.

“Yeah, sure,” Gianni mumbled as he slouched in the chair.

Shaking his head, Mr. Santiano turned back to the stove.

Nicholas leaned against the counter.

His lips twisted in a smirk and his eyes danced with mischief. Before she could contemplate the reason for his glee, he leaned in and took a bite from her
zeppole
.

“Get your own.” She pulled her hand away, too late to save half her pastry.

“Feed me,” he said around the food in the mouth.

“Feed yourself.”

“Gotta clean up first.” He held out his battered knuckles. “That puke’s jaw was as hard as granite.”

Aside from his bruised hands, he showed no signs of the fight. Every strand of his brown, wavy hair was in place. His gray pants and blue button-down shirt had no wrinkles, dust, or blood. And, instead of sweat, he smelled of cigarette smoke and the remnants of the aftershave he’d applied that morning.

“No one told you to fight.”

“What was I supposed to do? Stand there while some punk calls you out of your name?”

“You could’ve tried talking, or walked away.”

“I did.” He caught a dishtowel his father tossed to him. “My fists told him I didn’t appreciate his comment, and I walked away when they were finished.”

Nicholas was a diehard member of the black-eye, loose-tooth, broken-bone club. He gave no warnings before he let his fists convey his emotions. And, while his methods had always convinced bullies to find someone else to torment, she sometimes wished he’d find a less violent means of expressing himself.

Georgia watched as he dabbed the blood from his tender knuckles. Despite her beliefs, she was a member of the cold compress, antiseptic, bandage league and had never been able to turn her back on him when he was hurt.

With a sigh, she popped the remainder of her
zeppole
in her mouth before grabbing Nicholas’s arm and pulling him to the sink. She turned on the faucet and shoved his hands underneath tepid water.

He chuckled. “I knew you cared…ow, fuck…”

****

The expletive slipped out when Georgia not so gently pressed the dishtowel to a cut. The subsequent sting to the back of his head was not unexpected.

“Watch your language,” his father scolded as he passed by to answer the telephone in the hall. “There’s a lady present.”

Nicholas uttered another expletive under his breath. He pulled a hand from under the faucet, reached up, and rubbed the spot his father had slapped on the back of his head.

“Don’t look so smug,” he grumbled, glancing at the woman by his side.

The smile Georgia had not bothered hiding grew wider. He flicked water on her. As he expected, she splashed water back at him.

At times Georgia could be as annoying as his sister. Of course, what else could he expect from two women who spent so much time together? From first grade through twelfth, they’d attended the same schools. And, even if they weren’t in the same classes, they always met for lunch and hung out together every day after school.