Wiseguys In Love by C. Clark Criscuolo Page A

paperwork, right?” Tony asked.
    Michael nodded and they both looked up at the third-floor window of a large loft on Grand Street in SoHo.
    Michael’s stomach began to gurgle and Tony shot him a glance.
    â€œI’m hungry.”
    â€œYou shoulda had some of my Ring-Dings.”
    â€œWell, I didn’t think we were going to be out all night,” Michael said, and they listened to his stomach gurgle again.
    â€œI saw a deli around the corner on West Broadway,” Michael insisted.
    Tony shook his head.
    â€œI can’t go all night without anything in my stomach.”
    â€œAll right already! So go get a sandwich. I’ll grab the guy as he comes out.”
    Michael opened the door and the bell-like door warning went off, sounding like a department-store sale.
    â€œYou have the picture of him from the office?”
    Tony held up the fuzzy photo they’d ripped out of the newspaper after Michigan pointed it out to them.
    â€œGood. I’ll be back in a minute,” Michael said, and walked toward West Broadway.
    â€œEh, get me some Cheez Doodles?” Tony’s voice echoed back to him.
    *   *   *
    Seventy-seven.
    Seventy-eight.
    Seventy-nine.
    Lisa spit out the wad of paper towels in her mouth. She froze and looked at the door.… Oh God, she’d lost count!
    She sat still for two minutes, shaking.
    One.
    Two.
    Three.
    This is ridiculous.
    She stopped.
    The fact of the matter was that Henry, thanks to her, was going to die tonight. All right. He was not a nice man. She certainly didn’t merit the abuse she took from this spoiled, illiterate brat. But did he really deserve to die for it? Did any human being deserve to die for cutting off a sixty-four-year-old’s pension? There was a snap, and she felt the tape holding her hands together break apart.
    It was close but … no. No one deserved that, even if it was obvious that Mrs. Morelli was hardly the sweet little old lady Lisa’d thought she was. What could she do, though?
    She put her hands up to her chin and rested her head on them. Her eyes focused on her right thumb and a chill went through her.
    That was it. She was going to call the police.
    She put her hand on the phone and Michael’s words came into her head. They had the appointment book. Her fingerprints were all over it. They were going to tell them that she had organized this whole thing. Would they believe two thugs over her?
    She picked up the phone and dialed 911.
    â€œNine-one-one,” a voice responded.
    â€œI—I need to report a crime.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œUm…” she stammered. Well, now what was she going to say?
    â€œMa’am?” the voice prompted.
    â€œUm, SoHo. Grand Street.”
    â€œWhere on Grand?”
    â€œNineteen Grand, off West Broadway.”
    â€œCan you see what’s going on?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIs the crime still in progress?”
    â€œNo. It hasn’t happened yet.”
    â€œWhat?” The voice sounded annoyed.
    â€œLook, there are two men who are going to kidnap Henry Foster Morgan, the editor-in-chief of Smug Magazine, and kill him.”
    â€œThe head of Smug? That stupid magazine that’s always getting sued?”
    â€œEr, yes.”
    â€œWe was wondering when someone was going to have the brains to do that—come on, lady! Look, this line is for emergencies. This is not some kind of party line for your Friday night!”
    Click.
    Lisa felt her mouth drop open. Good God, the police weren’t interested? Who the heck else did they expect you to call in this city?
    This is nuts.
    A human being was going to die. Her stomach went queasy. All right, she had to get a grip on herself. She breathed deeply.
    Maybe she could handle this by herself. No, she had to handle this herself. She could not just sit up in Connecticut knowing her boss was going to get killed or go thumbless. She swallowed as the odd image of Henry