No Such Thing as a Lost Cause by Shelly Fredman Page A

ignored my admonishments and waddled off, returning a few moments later with an
     expensive-looking Italian loafer with the toe chewed out of it.
    “Bad dog!” I threw the loafer into the back of Nick’s bedroom closet and took Adrian
     and his cohort in culinary crime for a walk.
    When I got back, I still had over an hour until Nick was expected home. I debated
     whether to pass the time obsessing over who the woman in his office was or worrying
     about where the next attempt on my life would come from. Both good choices, but in
     the end I opted for a nap.
    Here it comes again, the dream that haunts me every night. It follows me to Nick’s
     place, my safe haven. Mario Lewis holding a gun against my temple, eyes spinning like
     twin roulette wheels, his drug-induced laughter echoing inside my head. Officer down,
     tortured wails, blood everywhere flowing like lava, why won’t it stop? Something is
     different this time. But what? This time the blood is mine.
    I feel a weight around my arms; someone pulls me to an upright position. I scream
     and struggle against him and feel soft lips and a soothing voice in my ear. “You’re
     okay, Angel. It’s just a nightmare.” My heart rate slows as I breathe in the subtle,
     yet irresistible essence that is Nick. I stop struggling and open my eyes.
    I blinked and looked around. Nick’s gun rested on the coffee table. The front door
     was open, a bag of Chinese take-out strewn across the entryway. Nick picked up his
     gun and checked the safety and returned it to the table.
    A neighbor poked his head in the door. He was in his late fifties, with a large, muscular
     build and a South Philly accent that was so pronounced it couldn’t possibly be for
     real. The guy looked beyond Nick to me.
    “I heard some yelling. Everything all right?” Only it came out as “err’thing a’ite?”
    I flushed with embarrassment. “Yes. Thank you. Everything’s fine. Just a bad dream,
     that’s all.”
    “A’ite.” If he saw Santiago’s gun it didn’t faze him. “My name’s Ed,” he told me.
     “I’m just down the hall if you need me.” He pointed a warning finger at Nick who,
     thankfully, looked more amused than annoyed, and retreated from the doorway.
    “Seems you have a protector,” Nick observed.
    “Oh my god, how loud was I?” I stretched and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
    “You may have broken the sound barrier. Must’ve been one hell of a dream.”
    “I’ve had better.”
    “Mario Lewis?” I nodded, happy not to have to spell it out.
    Nick picked up the groceries he had abandoned on his way in and set them on the counter.
     He put plates down and opened two Xinjiang Black Beers. Paul had told me they’re difficult
     to find in America. I was impressed but not surprised.
    Over steamed rice and Moo Shu Vegetable I filled Nick in on what I’d learned about
     Mario Lewis’ death. “DiCarlo thinks he may be able to convince the D.A.’s office to
     redo Lewis’ autopsy. But what if Donte gets wind of it and takes off? The cops aren’t
     going to waste man power doing surveillance on the guy before it’s even proven that
     his cousin was murdered.”
    “I can arrange some private surveillance until the results come in.”
    Nick believed in me, no questions asked. “Thank you,” I said, choking up. Guess a
     noodle went down the wrong pipe.
    Santiago finished his meal and took his beer over to the couch. I started to clean
     up the dishes, but he asked me to sit down with him instead. “If I recall, we have
     some things to talk over.”
    His tone was so serious I broke out in a sweat. “Talking is overrated, Nick. Except
     for the fact that people are trying to kill me, everything’s cool. Let’s talk about
     you for a change. So, what’s with the army fatigues? Have you gone “military?” Y’know,
     you’ve never really explained just what it is you do during those mysterious trips
     you take. That would be a good topic of conversation…feel