Frannie on her hip while she warmed a bottle of baby formula. AudreyAnn, in white slacks and a T-shirt under stress, greeted us with a curt nod and kept on arranging an antipasto platter. And Chip, a Coffee, Tea or Me apron over his chef’s clothes, was busy dividing a bowl of chilled shrimp into ten individual appetizer dishes.
“Fresh, never frozen,” he declared, stopping for a moment to check the oven. “From Biloxi. Best shrimp in the world. And my spicy salsa.” He came back to the prep table and ladled a generous spoonful of salsa over each individual shrimp glass.
“You missed one, Chip,” I said.
“No, that’s Francesco’s. He’s got a delicate stomach. Anything spicy gives him heartburn.” Chip shook his head regretfully. “Too bad, my salsa’s famous. Right, AudreyAnn?”
Without looking up, she gave him a grudging, “Yeah.”
Lovely . The woman has all the charm of weeds in a driveway .
“We’ll be ready whenever Francesco is,” Chip said, putting the rest of the salsa back in the fridge. “He wants us all to eat together. Imagine. The chef, the salad girl...” he shot a quick, alarmed glance AudreyAnn’s way, but she didn’t bristle, “...Donny. Bonita. Can you believe that? What a guy!”
“Sounds good to me.” Rossi swiped one of the shrimp from the big bowl, and we strolled out to the patio where “Nessun Dorma” blasted the peace out of the evening.
Tears running down his cheeks, Francesco basted the ribs yet again. “Hear that aria?” he called to us. “Makes me cry every time.”
“Ten more minutes till a cruiser visit,” Rossi said to me, enjoying himself enormously. “Care for another drink?”
I shook my head. “I’m good for a while. We’ve lost our bartender anyway.”
At a beckoning finger from Francesco, Donny had replaced him at the grill and was turning the ribs with barbeque tongs. His boss disappeared somewhere, probably back to the kitchen.
“I’ll help myself,” Rossi said, striding toward the bar.
Figuring this was a good time to tour the house and see what Tom’s painting crew had accomplished, I opened a patio door and stepped into the living room. I didn’t get too far before voices coming from the foyer stopped me in my tracks.
Francesco and another man. Something agitated in Francesco’s tone told me I should leave, but before I could make a move I heard, “This is the last time I’m telling you, Norm. No excuses. I want my money.”
Norm murmured something. Whatever he said, Francesco wasn’t buying. “It wasn’t a goddamn Christmas present. It was a loan. For six months only. Maybe you got trouble recalling that, since it was over a year ago.”
Another murmur. I really needed to beat a retreat, but curiosity had me rooted to the floor.
“It don’t mean a thing. Stockbroker be damned. You’re nothing but a hustler. Worse. Your pool table’s got no pockets. And I don’t care if you got pockets or not. I’m giving you till Monday.”
“You won’t pull any rough stuff, will you?” Terror must have caused Norm to speak up. His question, quavery but clear, echoed in the empty rooms.
“Rough stuff? Don’t make me laugh. What we got going is a gentleman’s agreement. But I got my ways of collecting. No action by Monday, Cookie finds out.”
“No, please...”
No more hesitating, I had to make myself scarce and get out of there before they spotted me. The patio door seemed a mile away. The quickest way out was through the dining room and back to the kitchen. I tiptoed across the living room floor, quiet as the proverbial mouse, rounded the archway into the dining room—and almost smacked into Bonita. Equally stunned, we both gasped, two silent, shocked intakes of breath.
Bonita didn’t look as if she were on an errand. Nothing in her hands, no hurrying to get from point A to point B. No, like me she’d simply been listening to Francesco and Norm’s conversation. Snooping, in plain English.
“ Perdóneme ,”
“Fresh, never frozen,” he declared, stopping for a moment to check the oven. “From Biloxi. Best shrimp in the world. And my spicy salsa.” He came back to the prep table and ladled a generous spoonful of salsa over each individual shrimp glass.
“You missed one, Chip,” I said.
“No, that’s Francesco’s. He’s got a delicate stomach. Anything spicy gives him heartburn.” Chip shook his head regretfully. “Too bad, my salsa’s famous. Right, AudreyAnn?”
Without looking up, she gave him a grudging, “Yeah.”
Lovely . The woman has all the charm of weeds in a driveway .
“We’ll be ready whenever Francesco is,” Chip said, putting the rest of the salsa back in the fridge. “He wants us all to eat together. Imagine. The chef, the salad girl...” he shot a quick, alarmed glance AudreyAnn’s way, but she didn’t bristle, “...Donny. Bonita. Can you believe that? What a guy!”
“Sounds good to me.” Rossi swiped one of the shrimp from the big bowl, and we strolled out to the patio where “Nessun Dorma” blasted the peace out of the evening.
Tears running down his cheeks, Francesco basted the ribs yet again. “Hear that aria?” he called to us. “Makes me cry every time.”
“Ten more minutes till a cruiser visit,” Rossi said to me, enjoying himself enormously. “Care for another drink?”
I shook my head. “I’m good for a while. We’ve lost our bartender anyway.”
At a beckoning finger from Francesco, Donny had replaced him at the grill and was turning the ribs with barbeque tongs. His boss disappeared somewhere, probably back to the kitchen.
“I’ll help myself,” Rossi said, striding toward the bar.
Figuring this was a good time to tour the house and see what Tom’s painting crew had accomplished, I opened a patio door and stepped into the living room. I didn’t get too far before voices coming from the foyer stopped me in my tracks.
Francesco and another man. Something agitated in Francesco’s tone told me I should leave, but before I could make a move I heard, “This is the last time I’m telling you, Norm. No excuses. I want my money.”
Norm murmured something. Whatever he said, Francesco wasn’t buying. “It wasn’t a goddamn Christmas present. It was a loan. For six months only. Maybe you got trouble recalling that, since it was over a year ago.”
Another murmur. I really needed to beat a retreat, but curiosity had me rooted to the floor.
“It don’t mean a thing. Stockbroker be damned. You’re nothing but a hustler. Worse. Your pool table’s got no pockets. And I don’t care if you got pockets or not. I’m giving you till Monday.”
“You won’t pull any rough stuff, will you?” Terror must have caused Norm to speak up. His question, quavery but clear, echoed in the empty rooms.
“Rough stuff? Don’t make me laugh. What we got going is a gentleman’s agreement. But I got my ways of collecting. No action by Monday, Cookie finds out.”
“No, please...”
No more hesitating, I had to make myself scarce and get out of there before they spotted me. The patio door seemed a mile away. The quickest way out was through the dining room and back to the kitchen. I tiptoed across the living room floor, quiet as the proverbial mouse, rounded the archway into the dining room—and almost smacked into Bonita. Equally stunned, we both gasped, two silent, shocked intakes of breath.
Bonita didn’t look as if she were on an errand. Nothing in her hands, no hurrying to get from point A to point B. No, like me she’d simply been listening to Francesco and Norm’s conversation. Snooping, in plain English.
“ Perdóneme ,”
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