Full Tilt (Rock Star Chronicles) by Creston Mapes

colder than it had in the suburbs.
    “Don’t forget, you’ve got to take me to my car after this.” Eddie’s teeth clacked.
    “Why’s it down here? I thought you were taking the subway?”
    “I usually do, but I had errands. Wanted to have my car.”
    “I can’t believe all the people down here.”
    “It’s always like this.” Eddie nodded toward the crosswalk. “That’s Pappano’s over there.”
    The Italian eatery was small and informal looking from the outside, with a dark wood facade. Red and white checkered curtains hung on gold rods in the lower half of the large window. Above it, “Pappano’s” was lit up in red script.
    Bells on the heavy front door jingled as Eddie entered first. The place smelled like oregano and freshly-baked bread, and Everett let the warmth soak in. A short, gray-haired woman hustled toward them, wearing a white blouse and black pants. Her olive skin was wrinkled, and she had a hooked nose.
    “Two of you.” She grabbed several large plastic-coated menus.
    “Actually,” Eddie said, “we need to see Mike. Is he around?”
    Her eyes shifted from Eddie to Everett and back to Eddie. She examined the bandages on his face. “Wait here.” Returning the menus to their holder, she headed to the back of the room and through a set of red curtains.
    So much for his nerves calming.
    “Is Mike the bookie?” Everett whispered.
    “Yeah.”
    As Everett’s eyes adjusted to the restaurant, he noticed that four tables around the room were occupied by patrons, who didn’t pay much attention as the Lester brothers stood by the old-fashioned cash register.
    “You won’t need to say anything,” Eddie said.
    We’ll see about that. Everett had been in his share of nasty situations before, but he hadn’t fought sober since he was a boy. And he’d never had to deal with the mob. So he was gearing up for anything, taking deep breaths, getting psyched to be tough, if necessary.
    The little Italian waitress exited the curtained room and headed for a four-top she was serving in the far corner of the dining room. Before Eddie could get her attention, a hand parted the curtains. A large, clean-shaven white man wearing a gray suit and white shirt peered out at them. Then the curtains closed.
    It wasn’t the first time Everett chastised himself for getting involved. Lord, protect us.
    The curtains parted again and the same man stepped through, waved them back, and disappeared into the mystery room.
    “That’s Paulie,” Eddie whispered, putting his shoulders back and leading the way. When they got to the curtains, he stuck his head in. “Mike?” He entered and Everett followed.
    It was dark and smoky. A TV glowed with college football from the upper corner of the room. Below it sat four suited men with stone faces, playing poker amid ashtrays, drinks, and several dirty entrée dishes. Beyond them was a sink and a black Formica countertop, stocked with ten or twelve bottles of liquor.
    The tension ratcheted up several notches. The place looked like a mob hangout from The Godfather, where someone could get whacked while eating a bowl of spaghetti.
    At the far end of the room was an old wooden desk. On it sat a hunched man. His face was badly pockmarked, and he had thick black eyebrows and a curved scar on his forehead. “Hello, Eddie.” He dangled his legs and glossy wingtips. “Glad you could make it.”
    “Sal.” Eddie nodded toward him.
    Next to the desk sat Paulie. Adjacent to him—leaning back on two legs of a chair—was a skinny, balding man with a long thin nose and dark, sunken eyes. “Eddie,” he said, his voice low and thick. “Come over here. You brought a friend, how nice.”
    Eddie approached the men, and Everett followed several steps behind.
    “This is a buddy, Mike. He helped me with this.” Eddie reached inside his heavy coat and produced a thick white envelope. He handed it to the skinny man, who opened it, removed the stack of bills, and fanned them with his