“What the hell is this, Michael? Didn’t you say she was great just a little while ago?”
“No, Dad. You don’t understand. She’s going to lip-sync. She’s going to lip-sync to the classic jazz tunes that you love. She’s not really going to sing. I wouldn’t allow that.”
“Lip-sync? What the hell are you talking about?”
I was furious. My son had clearly lost his motherfucking mind. This new idea was so foreign to me that I really couldn’t wrap my head around it.
“Dad, Dad, Dad. Don’t worry. You worry too much. The lip-sync is just going to be a gimmick to get more people to the club on Tuesdays. You know how Tuesdays are slow. This is going to get a different type of crowd to come in.”
“This is what I’m afraid of,” I said.
Blondie kept singing her heart out, and my ears couldn’t take it anymore.
“Michael, please turn off the track,” I said while pointing at the sound system.
Blondie kept singing without the track, and somehow it was even worse. Then she stopped once she didn’t hear the track anymore. She put the microphone back onto the stool, bending over, and then she looked back at me. I averted my eyes this time.
Blondie came down the stairs of the stage toward us.
“So how did I do?” she asked in a perky voice. And that wasn’t the only thing that was perky showing through her tight white blouse.
“Umm. It’s interesting,” I said.
“Yeah,” Michael added. “Very interesting.”
There was a knock at the door.
“I’ll get that,” Michael said.
While Michael was tending to the door, I kept my conversation going with Blondie.
“So, Blondie. Michael tells me that you’ll be lip-syncing to the jazz classics on Tuesdays. Are you okay with that?”
“Sure, Mr. Bennett. I mean, Cole,” Blondie said as she put her right hand on my left shoulder. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”
That’s what I’m afraid of.
I grabbed her right hand with my right hand and kissed it while looking into her warm blue eyes.
“I like that,” I said. “I’m sure we can work something out.”
She blushed and gave me a wink. I winked back. I couldn’t resist her charm.
Suddenly, I heard loud voices. I looked back toward the front door. Then I saw Michael crashing to the floor after bumping against one of the tables by the front door of the club.
A big brute of a man walked through the door. It was Vito, Moretti’s loan shark debt collector and bouncer at the Moretti nightclub. A person I knew too well.
“You have twenty-four hours to get Mr. Moretti his money, Michael,” he said in a very threatening voice. “Or else,” he continued.
My biggest fears had come true. Michael had become a gambler like my dad.
What did you get yourself into, Michael?
And how am I going to save you from Moretti?
CHAPTER 4
CLARISSA
