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Apparently not, but I took a big swig of excellent whisky and winked at her. “What are friends for?” I said.

She gave me a huge smile and leaned in to tell me something, when the music suddenly stopped. It was replaced by the sound of a knife tapping on crystal. Oh boy, Thomas Ferramore wanted to make a toast.

Once again he had come between Courtney and me. I guessed I’d better get used to it.

“C’mon up here, sweetheart!” he bellowed, standing up straight and proud on the captain’s deck. He was wearing a faux white naval jacket replete with shoulder boards and a sleeve insignia. Two blond women flanked him, both very pretty, and I figured they were his PR team. Was this guy for real? I couldn’t understand what Courtney saw in him. Not even when I tried extra hard.

As she made her way to join him, Ferramore thanked everyone for coming on such short notice “to this wonderful celebration of love.” That brought a rousing cheer from the entire crowd. Minus me, of course. I had one hand in my pocket and I was wiggling my middle finger at him.

Ferramore took no offense and continued: “Courtney and I wanted to make it very clear this evening that no rumor, no unfounded gossip, no nonsense whatsoever, will ever get the better of us. We can ride out any storm that comes our way!”

Ferramore turned to face Courtney, pulling her tightly into his arms. As the two of them kissed, he thrust his hand high in triumph. An even louder cheer erupted from the crowd of his friends, or whoever these hordes of overdressed people were.

Right on cue the first firework exploded in the night air, a beautiful collage of rainbow colors mixing with a sea of stars. It was an amazing spectacle, actually.

But the real spectacle that night was yet to come, and of course, I would be part of it.

I’D SPENT THE afternoon with Hoodie.

Now here I was with Houdini.

Thomas Ferramore had just pulled off the impossible, a trick for the ages. He had escaped the seemingly inescapable bind he’d been in, and he’d made it look easy.

Deep down, Courtney may have still had some suspicions, but there on his yacht, for all of Manhattan’s glitterati to see, Ferramore still had his prize. That’s all that mattered to him.

And me.

I should’ve stolen a page from Courtney’s playbook and put everything into a box.

Instead, I put it all into a glass … and drank it.

After about an hour at the party, and after the youthful rent-a-bartender decided that my drinking two-thirds of a bottle of whisky was clearly one-third too many, I decided I
would tell Thomas Ferramore exactly what I thought of his marrying Courtney.

Only I couldn’t find him. So I did the next worst thing.

I told Courtney.

Cornering her along the starboard railing, I slurred the truth to her in a voice somewhat louder than it should have been. “You can’t marry him! You’re making a mistake! Don’t you see what a mistake this is? You’re smart — so
act
smart, Courtney.”

Her eyes filled with tears as everyone within earshot turned to gawk at the scene I was making. Courtney was so upset, she could barely get the words out.

“All I see is someone drunk who just broke his promise to me,” she said.

She walked away then, leaving me alone — unless, of course, you count all the lookie-loos still watching. That’s when I really gave them their money’s worth. All that whisky in my otherwise empty stomach churned and sloshed its way up past my heartache and back out through its original port of entry. Right there over the starboard railing, with an ear-wrenching heave-ho, I power-fed the fishes.

I should’ve been embarrassed to death, but that’s the temporary beauty of being drunk: complete lack of self-awareness. Still, I did manage one decent decision — to go find a bathroom to wash up so I could hail a cab home without scaring off the driver.

Parting the deck crowd like Moses with the measles, I babbled while stumbling and bumbling off. “A bathroom … a bathroom … my kingdom for a bathroom.”

No one laughed, and I guess I couldn’t blame them for
that. I had let myself become a complete horse’s ass on Courtney’s special night. I had let my best friend down.

I entered the main galley and immediately began twisting every doorknob in sight down a long hallway. It figured that every room was locked.

Finally one door opened. As I groped for a light switch, all I could think was,
Please, Lord, let this be a bathroom!

But as the room lit up, I couldn’t believe my eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I blurted out. “This can’t be for real!”

IT WAS LIKE the game of Clue, only the sex-addict edition.
Thomas Ferramore … in the supply room … with his pants down around his ankles
.

In front of him was a young and very pretty blonde on her knees. Needless to say, she wasn’t praying. I wasn’t sure, but I thought she was one of the PR ladies who had been with him on the deck.

Panic flashed across Ferramore’s face, but amazingly, it vanished almost as fast as it had arrived. Apparently you don’t get to be a billionaire without being able to think quickly on your feet, even with your dick hanging out.

“Get up, honey,” he said calmly to the young blonde. “Go enjoy the rest of the party.”

She quickly buttoned her white blouse, dabbed at her lips, and hurried out the door. I suppose I couldn’t blame her, but not once did she look at me.

Meanwhile, that’s all Ferramore could do. His dark eyes bored straight into mine. He was staring, unblinking. And of all goddamn things, he started to smile.

“So, you caught me,” he said, the second we were alone. “Now what are you going to do about it? You have a plan of action yet?”

The son of a bitch hadn’t even bothered to pull up his pants.

“What do you
think
I’m going to do about it?” I shot back. “At your own engagement party? After what you said to Courtney up there?”

He shook his head and laughed some more. “It’s your word against mine and your word is pretty drunk, isn’t it?”

“Not so drunk that I’m blind, pal. I saw what I saw.”

In fact, I suddenly felt as if I’d downed a dozen cups of coffee. Not quite sober as a judge, but the thoughts and words were forming just fine.

“Do you even love Courtney?” I asked.

“Does that even matter?”

“It does to me.”

He laughed again. “Yes, I know it does,” he said. “You love her madly, right? That’s probably why you felt it was okay to fuck her when you knew she was engaged to me.”

That stopped me cold. How did he know that?

“She told you?” I asked in disbelief.

His laugh grew louder, a booming cackle now, and it dawned on me that there was another explanation.

“Christ, you had her followed.”

“I always look after my investments, Nick — force of habit. In a way, all it proves is that Courtney and I are meant for
each other. In fact, for your sake, you should feel lucky I was okay with it.”

“Tell you what, then,” I said. “Since you know about Courtney and me, why don’t we go tell her about what I just walked in on and she can decide for herself.”

“You do that and you can kiss your sweet job at
Citizen
magazine good-bye.”

“Yeah, but I’d sure be going out with a bang.”

“Yes, you sure would. Too bad about Courtney, though. She’d be out of a job, too. You understand that, of course.”

Checkmate!
And he knew it, too.
Citizen
was Courtney’s baby, the joy of her life.

Ferramore finally reached down and pulled up his trousers. “To show you there are no hard feelings, though, how about I cut you a check and we forget this whole thing ever happened.”

Was this prick really trying to buy me off? That was the worst insult yet.

“That depends,” I said. “What does your being caught getting a blow job go for these days?”

“That’s a very good question,” came a trembling voice over my shoulder. “What
does
it go for, Tom?”

I SPUN AROUND to see Courtney leaning against the doorway, her arms folded tightly, as if she was hugging herself for comfort. Her eyes were shooting so many sharpened daggers at Ferramore, I practically had to duck.

No one had to ask how long she’d been standing there or how much she’d heard.

She’d obviously heard enough.

But there were no tears like she had had with me out on the deck. She wasn’t sad now, she was angry — mad as hell at Ferramore and even more pissed off at herself. I thought I knew what she was thinking:
How could I have been so stupid?

“So tell me, Tom, what did you have to pay your little French supermodel to change her story? How much was
that
check?” she demanded to know.

I expected Ferramore to show at least a little remorse here. Maybe even a little class.

Boy, was I ever wrong. The rich have such incredibly high opinions of themselves.

The prick smirked. “Hell, she was cheap compared with that CEO of ParisJet. I actually had to buy his company.”

All at once, Courtney yanked off her ten-carat diamond ring and threw a fastball at Ferramore’s chest.

“C’mon, Nick, let’s go,” she said.

It was the four most beautiful words she, or anybody, had ever said to me.

“I hope you two are extremely happy together,” chirped Ferramore as he buckled his trousers. “Oh, and by the way, you’re both fired! Good luck finding new jobs.”

“Don’t worry, we will,” Courtney shot back. “You see, I get to start over. But you? You’ll always be a scumbag!”

Brava, Courtney!

She turned and walked off, and I was about to follow in her steps, but I just couldn’t help myself. The moment was too good; I wasn’t quite ready to leave yet.

“By the way, Ferramore,” I said, glancing down at his ridiculous white jacket, “Captain Stubing from
The Love Boat
called. He wants his uniform back.”

IN THE MOVIES, Courtney and I would have made mad, passionate love all night long to the tune of a saxophone sound track. Then we would’ve blissfully woken up in each other’s arms without a single hair out of place.

So much for the movies, which don’t seem to get it right very often anyway.

I didn’t have Courtney in my arms or anywhere else in my apartment the next morning. What I did have, however, was a terrific hangover and a severe case of bed head that would’ve scared Lyle Lovett.

As upset as Courtney had been as she’d stormed off Ferramore’s yacht, she’d known better than to engage in any “Sweet Revenge” scenarios with me. And as drunk as I had been, I really hadn’t been looking for anything more than a kiss on the cheek.
Maybe
. After all, I had been beyond obnoxious at the party, and I’d broken my promise to her.

“We’ll be making two stops,” Courtney had told the cab driver. “First his apartment, and then mine.” But she held my hand for the entire ride and indeed gave me that kiss on the cheek when we rolled up to my place. And that’s how the night ended.

At least, I’m fairly sure that’s how it ended. It was all still fuzzy in the a.m. In fact, it wasn’t until I’d taken in some hot, über-strong coffee and a cold shower that I managed my first lucid thought.

According to Thomas Ferramore I was no longer employed by
Citizen
magazine. Just like that, I was suddenly out of a great job, probably the best one I’d ever had. Pink-slipped. Canned for doing the right thing.

But I still had work to do. I had my mission impossible to try to accomplish.

Armed with an address and some ugly mug shot photos courtesy of Hoodie Brown, I headed out to the South Bronx in search of Sam Tagaletto. Ironically, he lived less than six blocks from Yankee Stadium. Was that how he’d first met Dwayne?

Tagaletto’s home was on the second floor of a decrepit corner brownstone, the bricks of which looked to be literally crumbling when not outright missing. This guy apparently didn’t care much about curb appeal.

Or, for that matter, who wandered into his building off the street.

Not only was there no buzzer system, the front door was actually propped open with — what else? — one of the bricks from the building’s façade.

My plan once inside was fairly simple. So simple, in fact,
any eight-year-old could have done it and probably had.
Ring and run!

After climbing the stairs, I rapped my knuckles hard against the door of apartment 2-B before dashing up to the third floor. I needed a glimpse of Tagaletto to make sure it was really him — assuming he was home.

He was.

After the sharp
snap!
of a turning dead bolt, the door to his apartment opened as wide as its chain lock would let it. That’s when I saw him — tall, skinny, and with a narrow, mottled face not even a mother could love. Hell, this guy looked
worse
in real life than in his terrible mug shots.

I stole another peek down through the third-floor railing as Tagaletto glanced left and right with his dark, deep-set eyes. Then, like a turtle, he retreated back into his apartment.

I settled in for the wait.

Hopefully, the guy would soon have places to go and people to see, any one of which could be the break I was looking for. I needed to get lucky. Then again, with my luck the guy would turn out to be a hermit. Sam Tagaletto, the agoraphobic bookie of the South Bronx …

Great, just great
.

Less than half an hour later, though, I heard it once again — the sound of a turning dead bolt.

Yes!
Sam Tagaletto was leaving his apartment. Now, where was he going? And could I follow him without being spotted and getting the shit kicked out of me?

I COULD COUNT on one hand how many times in my life I’d ever “tailed” someone. And I’d still have five fingers left over.

This was a new feeling, all right, including the relentless pounding of my heart as I fell in line behind Tagaletto out on the street.
How close is too close?

Best not to find out, I decided. I kept a safe distance for the first few blocks, nearly losing him once when he turned a corner at a busy intersection. In fact, were it not for Tagaletto’s nicotine habit I would’ve lost him for sure along the crowded sidewalk. All I had to do was keep my eye on the gray cloud hovering over his head. The guy smoked more than a chimney in the wintertime.