Part 8 (2/2)
Alex stopped at the curb, even though Maggie was pulling on his arm now. ”Are you nuts? Don't listen to her. You want Salvatore Campiano to see us? After what we did to Nikki? Or are you anxious to see if you can tread water in the East River-with an anchor tied to your ankle? Alex? What are you doing? Don't just stand there.”
”I'm remembering a quote about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer,” Alex told her as a large man in a camel colored wool topcoat with a real fur collar and wearing a fedora approached, two smaller men following behind him, in the way pilot fish follow a whale. ”Ah, sir, a pleasure,” he then said, extending his right hand to the man.
Salvatore Campiano looked at Alex's hand for a long moment, and then clasped it between both his huge paws. ”I understand you put in a few good words with the coppers over in England. For my loopy niece here. Stupido. My arms are long, capisca, but not so long they reach all the way across the sea. What you want for your help, huh? I give you something. Fruit, yes. Much fruit I send you, fresh.” He kissed the tips of his fingers. ”Molto buon, grapefruit the size of the cantaloupe, I swear it. And,” he ended in a near whisper, stepping closer to Alex, as he took his hand once more, ”if you ever were to find a need for my services-you take my meaning here?-you call this number, capisca, and I take care of everything for you. Anything you need.”
”Hardly necessary, Mr. Campiano, but I accept with grat.i.tude,” Alex said as Maggie half cowered and half peeked at the powerful mob boss, fascinated.
”Yes, yes, now thank the man, Nikki, and we'll be about our business.”
Maggie's upper lip curled as Nikki Campion grinned at her, then sashayed-she really did; she sashayed-up to Alex and planted a big wet one square on his mouth. ”Anything you need,” she purred, repeating her uncle's words.
”I don't believe it. I don't freaking believe it-and I'm not talking about that kiss, because I know you didn't have any real choice there,” Maggie grumbled a few minutes later as she and Alex made their way back to the condo building. ”One, I don't believe you put in a good word for Nikki with the locals and got her off. And two, I can't believe you gave your address to that wiseguy. With a guy like that, that was as good as giving him a key. Oh, and three? Three is, why the heck didn't you ask for a lifetime of free transmission service, huh? Boffo Transmissions, remember? But you didn't think of me, huh, did you? Oh, G.o.d, listen to me! I'm angry because you didn't ask some scary mobster-type to check my transmission. What's happening to me? I need to seriously rethink my life, Alex. I really do.”
”Maggie, you're overreacting,” Alex said, slipping the mobster's business card into his pocket. ”Mr. Campiano seems a very nice man, a gentleman.”
”Uh-huh, sure. A gentleman. Right up until you wake up to a horse head in your bed, you betcha he's a gentleman. Socks,” she called out as they neared the condo building just as the doorman was closing the door on a taxicab, ”guess who Alex's new best friend is. Oh, come on, guess. No, never mind that, because you'd never guess. Salvatore Campiano. Can you believe it?”
Socks gave a low whistle as he held open the door to the building. ”Way to go, Alex!” he said, following them into the building. ”That's better than knowing the mayor. Oh, hey, Maggie, someone came by to see you a while ago, but I knew you were out. He didn't leave his name.”
Maggie paused in the act of pus.h.i.+ng the elevator b.u.t.ton. ”For me? I don't know any men. Well, I know some men,” she added, rolling her eyes. ”What did he look like?”
”Yes, Socks, what did he look like?” Alex asked.
”Down boy, you're not in charge, remember?” Maggie told him quietly. ”We figured that out at breakfast.”
Socks took off his billed cap and scratched his head. ”What did he look like? Okay. Tall, black-blacker than me. I mean, the brother was dark. Seriously buffed. And good-looking, in a young James Earl Jones way, you know?”
Maggie shook her head. ”Nope. I don't know him. Oh, wait, maybe it's ... no, he wouldn't come here. Why would he come here?”
”Fascinating as it is, listening to you converse with yourself, who wouldn't visit you here?” Alex asked silkily.
”A writer I know. He lives about two blocks from here, actually. Bruce McCrae. He works with Bernie, too. Gee, I haven't seen him since last year's Toland Books Christmas party. Maybe he wants to know why there isn't a party this year? Oh, wait. Maybe it has something to do with Francis Oakes. You know, like maybe he wants to know about the funeral or something-he knows Bernie and I are friends.” She shrugged. ”Yeah well, he'll come back, if that was him. You coming, Alex?”
They were silent in the elevator, all the way to the ninth floor, Maggie suddenly feeling very alone with him again, so that she stepped out into the hall even as the doors were still opening.
”I'd like to speak to you, Maggie,” Alex said as they walked down the hallway. ”There's something we need to discuss.”
Maggie stopped in front of her door, her keys already in her hand. He looked serious, and she wasn't ready for him to be serious. ”No, Alex, we don't. Let's just play it by ear, okay? J.P. is coming at one, and I want to think a little more about what I'm going to say to her. That gives me what, two hours?”
”Shall I casually drop by a little after one, or are you able to handle her disappointment on your own?”
”She's a lawyer. A professional. She won't go ballistic on me, or anything. I mean-okay, stop over. Casually. Give me a half hour or so first.”
”Until then,” he said, stepping closer even as he put his hand under her chin, lifted her face for his kiss. ”Ah, delightful,” he then breathed against her lips before kissing her again.
By the time she'd recovered enough to ask him just what the h.e.l.l he thought he was doing, he was gone, and she was standing alone in the hallway.
Chapter Eleven.
Saint Just was angry with himself, on many levels. Most obvious was the feeling that he should be presented with a white feather for cowardice, as he had been more than happy to find all sorts of diversions rather than speak to Maggie about what was really important: their evening together, and Francis Oakes's murder.
He was not the sort who would ever wish to engage in a mutual retrospective on an evening spent in a woman's arms; the idea smacked too much of a critique, a plea for rea.s.surance that the night had gone well. He was intelligent enough to know how the evening had gone, and it had gone very well. He would much rather move on to the next evening, and the next.
In the past, his past, that would have meant another evening, another woman. Maggie knew that; she had created him, guided him through more than a half-dozen years of amorous evenings with a wide a.s.sortment of comely creatures.
She knew this was different, what they'd shared was different.
Didn't she?
Well, perhaps he'd think about something else.
He'd only just sat down in front of his laptop computer, planning to recheck Maggie's conclusions on Santas for Silver, when there was a quick, loud rapping on his door.
”Alex, you in there?”
”Left-tenant Wendell,” Saint Just muttered under his breath. ”Perhaps I have left it all too late.” He got to his feet, but by the time he'd opened the door, Wendell was knocking on Maggie's door. ”Are we having a party, left-tenant?”
Wendell turned around quickly and punched a finger in Saint Just's direction. ”You we'll talk about later, okay? And don't tell me it wasn't you, because who else is a handsome as sin Englishman, huh? You've got an admirer, Blakely, and you know just who I mean, don't you?”
Saint Just smiled. ”Ah, Jeremy, yes? You two have spoken?”
”No, Alex, me and Jeremy haven't spoken.”
”Jeremy and I haven't-”
”Shut up. Jeremy and I haven't spoken-my captain and I have spoken. Not that I did much of the talking. You're famous, Alex, freaking famous. And if you get any more famous, you might just find yourself being charged with trespa.s.sing, impeding a police investigation, and anything else I can think of to stick on you, and we would have, except that the scene wasn't an official crime scene when you did your little B and E and you'll probably say the door was open when you got there and I don't have time for you anyway. What in h.e.l.l were you doing at Oakes's apartment?”
”As you said, left-tenant, we'll save that for later, shall we? Or are you here with more information for me?”
”For you? Yeah, that's happening. I'm here to figure out why you wanted to know about Oakes, okay? So just shut up and let me talk to Maggie.”
”Of course,” Saint Just said silkily. ”And how is Miss Christine today?”
Wendell gave Saint Just a look that would have had a lesser man ducking for cover, but Saint Just only kept a politely interested expression on his face. ”You're a piece of work, Blakely. All right, all right. I'll tell you this much. It definitely wasn't suicide. Oakes was-hey, hiya, Maggie.”
Saint Just watched as Wendell attempted a kiss and Maggie turned her head just as the good lieutenant turned his, so that they ended up b.u.t.ting noses instead. Ah, the falling off of what had never been a great romantic bond in the first place. How delicious to watch. He cleared his throat politely, which earned him a searing glance from Maggie before she invited them both inside the condo.
”I'm glad you're back, Maggie. So, what's up? Anything new going on I should know about?”
Saint Just bit his bottom lip as he watched sheer panic leap into Maggie's eyes. Sterling, it would appear, wasn't the only one who could be very literal minded. She was fl.u.s.tered, obviously, and didn't quite know what to do with a question like that, or with her supposed boyfriend and her lover together in the same room, so Saint Just-gentleman that he was-came to her a.s.sistance by pulling out the desk chair and indicating that Wendell should seat himself while he-still playing the gentleman-searched the kitchen for liquid refreshments.
When he returned to the living room, three soda cans and three ice-filled gla.s.ses on a tray bearing the likeness of Crusader Rabbit, Maggie was telling Wendell about their recent trip to England.
”So I want to thank you again, Steve, for all your help with background checks,” she said, then looked to Saint Just. ”Don't we, Alex?”
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