Killer Kisses (20 page)

“I hate to burst your bubble, but where will we get the money to do all this?” At his age, he wasn’t sure he could afford too many more big gambles like this last one.

Her face flushed and her sapphire blue eyes sparkled. “If we can get her added to the Registry, we’ll qualify for special low interest loans.
And
for a major tax credit.
And
we have a million dollars in equity.”

“Pretty, smart—and you say you can cook? If you can do all that, you
are
a genie.”

She released his hands, pulled her shoulders back, and inadvertently gave him a better glimpse of her beautiful breasts. She gave him a scalding look. “Are you
challenging
my cooking, Mr. Rawlings?”

Uh-oh
. He never dreamed of Genie having a little temper. He couldn’t resist tweaking her. “I’m sure you’re a solid cook.”

She stood, almost knocking her chair over.
“Solid?
What the hell does that mean? Average? Good enough to make the turkey for Thanksgiving dinner for the family—but not good enough to cook for guests? Tell you what, Mr. Critic, you come to my house for dinner tomorrow night.” She threw a business card down on the table. “
My
food makes men go
weak
at the knees.”

Hypnotized by the sway of her voluptuous ass as she stalked out of the nearly empty café, Jim bet it wasn’t just this saucy woman’s cooking that made strong men weak.

~*~

Tony ‘the Wolf’ Aiolfo sat in his black Cadillac Seville across from the stupid little coffee shop, and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. It didn’t add up. How had those two out-gamed him? He could tell the pair wasn’t a
real
couple. Was he supposed to believe that in the blink of an eye the bimbo with the big tits convinced Ichabod Crane to throw in with her? They
had
to be shilling for Heade, trying to drive up the price and pick his pockets.

“Cheap and easy,” Dick Heade had assured him. “My wife’s the realtor. You’ll get the place for a song. Trust me.” Why had he believed a cop, of all people?

He’d been conned out of the one thing he really wanted in life—his very own casino. Being an enforcer for the Newark family had its benefits, but he never would have the kind of respect that his boss, Vinny, had—not until he had his own setup. His boss hadn’t liked the idea at first. Thought Tony was going to cut into his profits. But when he heard it was in a different state, Vinny’s eyes lit up. New turf, new business opportunities. He gave Tony his blessings, but told him he had to do it on his own, prove he was a
real
family member. Then, they’d talk. Well, not a lot of talkin’ now. Not after today’s clusterfuck.

He
really
needed a cigarette right now but that damned cancer scare a few months back had him chewing gum like no tomorrow. He pulled out a pack of Chewy Blewy and crammed three pieces into his mouth, grinding his teeth into the spit covered glob with a venomous crunch.

The coffee shop door flew open and the bimbo bolted out like her fat ass was on fire.
Well, well, well
. Was she running to see Dick Heade? He put the car in gear and decided to sniff out her trail.

He watched the bimbo jump into her Toyota Corolla and pull out of the parking place, driving a little too fast for an innocent person. The woman looked into her rear view mirror and locked gazes with Tony. Her eyes widened and the car veered erratically toward the shoulder, then righted itself.

Inexplicably, the car slowed down to a crawl. He nearly ran up her tailpipe, she was going so slow.
What is she up to?

Driving five miles below the speed limit, she crept along the main roads, passing an organic grocery store and high-end wine shop. Stuck to her bumper like a magnet, Tony made no effort to pretend he was just sightseeing. He grinned at her. “Hope yer enjoying the sight of me, sweetie, ’cause I ain’t goin’ far.”

Without warning, she pulled into the police station, began honking her horn and waving frantically at a cop in the parking lot. The cop jogged over to the side of her car and leaned down to talk to the bimbo who turned and pointed at Tony’s Cadillac.

Gunning the engine, he took off, tires squealing to high heaven.
The bitch.
Chewing relentlessly on the gum, Tony sped onto the highway, slowing down only when he saw an upcoming exit for a nearby town.
Unfriggin’ believable.
The bimbo
was
in cahoots with Dick Heade. First sign of trouble, she ran
straight t
o the SPD.

Clearly they were gaming him.
But what’s the con?
Did they think they could jack the price up so high he’d pay triple what the shit hole was worth? Or did they think he’d come on his knees begging? The only one who belonged on her knees right now was the bitch. He bet she was doing the chief in his office right now, laughing at him and planning her next move. Well, he had a few moves of his own. He couldn’t touch the Chief of Police—but he could go after that bimbo and teach her a few lessons. She’d learn to fear the Wolf.

CHAPTER FOUR

~*~

Jim’s sponsor answered on the second ring. In recovery for over thirty years, Brady was always there for him. His sponsor knew what this disease was and how it burrowed into a person’s brain like an earwig and wouldn’t let go. Jim took a deep breath and poured out his story, ending with the thug’s plans for converting the Summerville Inn into a casino.

“It was like a knife in my heart when he said that, Brady. I couldn’t let him get it. I
had
to take the risk—or lose it forever.”

“Playing a long-shot, my friend? Or is this really a new career opportunity for you?
You
are the only person who can decide if this falls into the same category as poker and ponies.”

“I’m not selling it. I’m staying in Summerville. I see this as an investment in my future.”

“I’m hearing some doubt in your voice, Jim. Why don’t you go to a meeting. Today. Only
you
can decide if this is your disease talking to you—or if it’s the right thing to do.”

Jim’s heart sank. He was hoping Brady would wave his magic sponsor’s wand, tell him the answer to his question and take away his fears. His brain knew Brady was right, but the little whispers of doubts nagged at him, making him worry that his compulsion might be in charge of his life again. He rubbed the scar on his eyebrow. Not this time. Not while he knew how to get help. “There are no meetings in Summerville.”

“Hold on,” Brady said. “I’ll find you one.” A keyboard clicked in the background. “You’re in luck. There are three meetings in Rochester. And a bunch in Utica. Not surprised, now there’s a new casino there. Poor suckers, they’re like moths to the flame.”

“Utica’s over three hours away. I’ll stick with Rochester and stay away from the casino, thank you very much.”

Brady laughed. “Good answer.” His sponsor gave him the list of times and addresses. Luckily, one would begin in an hour at Rochester General Hospital. “You need to talk, call me day or night. You know the drill.”

“I know, I know. It works if I work it—that’s why they’re called steps.” Jim snapped his phone shut and took a deep breath. He had just enough time to get there before the meeting started.

~*~

A man dressed in a dark suit, blue oxford shirt, and red tie called the meeting to order, promptly at seven-thirty. “Hello everyone, I see we have a full house tonight. Welcome to the RGH Gamblers’ Anonymous meeting.” He pointed to the sign on the table in front of him. “By way of reminder, please remember: Whom you see here, what you hear here, when you leave here, let it
stay
here.”

Jim sat next to a rail-thin woman and wondered if she had more than one addiction. He shook his head. He wasn’t supposed to judge others. Whatever her reason to be there, they were both in the fellowship.

The man in the suit continued. “This evening we have a guest speaker. Let’s begin with the Serenity Prayer.”

The stout African American woman to his left smiled.

The group stood and chanted, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

“Please be seated. Now we will go around the room and introduce ourselves by first name only. Tell us if this is your first time at GA or your first time at this meeting. I’ll begin. Hello, everyone. My name is Eric and I’m addicted to online poker.”

The woman to his left said, “My name is Latoya and I’m addicted to playing the numbers.”

They went around the room and at last it was his turn. “Hi, my name is Jim, and I’m addicted to
any
kind of gambling.” A wave of knowing laughter broke across the room. “This is not my first GA meeting, but it is my first meeting in Rochester.”

A chorus of “Welcome, Jim!” rose in the room.

Then it was time for Latoya to tell her story. “When I was a kid, times were rough and jobs were scarce. My dad ran numbers for the local bookie. We ate better than most other families. I never knew what he did was illegal—until the police came to our house and arrested him.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “The bookie got off—but not my dad. My mom worked hard cleaning houses for rich people, but with five kids, she couldn’t make ends meet.”

As if she was about to get to the meat of things, her fingers toyed with the rim of a Styrofoam cup. “I picked up where Dad left off. I became the numbers runner. I was good at it. Too good. No one ever suspected a twelve-year old in pigtails, with big round eyes. I asked about how the operation ran. The bookie thought it was cute, taught me about the game, and told me how it was better for poor neighborhoods because people could place small bets.”

She shook her head and gave a rueful smile. “A real equal opportunity addiction. I started playing the numbers—and didn’t get my wake-up call until the police came for me. I was fourteen, charged with chronic delinquency.” She stopped, tears rolled down her face and her chest hitched. “I wound up in a juvenile facility. Those older girls—let’s just say,
nobody
should have to go through what I experienced.”

The skinny woman next to Jim put her hands over her face and began to sob. He guessed she’d had her share of agony, too.

“After I got out,” Latoya continued, “I told my mother I was
never
going back there. I went to church, prayed for strength. The pastor saw me and asked me why I was so sad. When I told him my story, he brought me to my first GA meeting. I knew about AA—but I’d never heard of GA. It’s been twenty years since I walked out of that juvie hall hellhole. I ain’t never been back.”

Jim thought back to his first GA meeting. He’d gone there pleading for help, too. Brady had taken him under his wing, led him through his step-work and was there for Jim during each temptation.

Latoya raised three fingers. “For those of you who think the twelve steps are a lot to learn, think about it in three simple steps: Trust God: that’s steps one through three. Clean House: steps four through nine. And, Help Others: steps ten through twelve. Thanks for letting me come tonight. And to all of you, keep coming back.”

After a hearty round of applause, members of the group shared, one at a time. Jim knew he was in the right place, at the right time—with the right people. He rubbed the medallion in his pocket and thought about the three steps. He trusted God, he was cleaning house—literally and figuratively, and he was helping others by not allowing the mobster to convert the Inn to a casino. He had taken a risk—but it wasn’t the same as his old habits. There were no bookies involved, no ponies, and no poker. This time,
Jim
was in charge of his life—not his addiction. He
was
going to make good on his promises to Genie, himself—and the Summerville Inn. After all, didn’t the old gal deserve a second chance just like him?

~*~

Genie sat in the back row of a Weight Watchers’ meeting and listened to the other women share. It felt as if she’d been attending these meetings all her life, instead of just three years. Despite being in the food industry, she hadn’t had a weight problem until she hit thirty-nine and her metabolism screeched to a halt. She had added thirty pounds.

Of all the people in the world, she thought a CIA-educated chef would have known everything there was to know about nutrition. While she knew about food, what she learned was that she had almost zero understanding about why people—herself included—ate too much.

After she’d joined Weight Watchers, the first week’s food journal had been an eye-opener. Required to write down not only what she ate but also the time, Genie discovered that she often went too long—almost twelve hours—without eating. Focused on her job and taking care of other people, she often lost track of time. Then she’d be ravenous and eat so fast, she didn’t recognize the satiety signals from her stomach and brain until she was stuffed. The hardest thing she’d had to learn was to set time aside to eat
before
she became crazed with hunger. That meant putting herself and her health first, almost an alien thought until she’d started coming to the meetings.