I started walking toward Michael again.
“Look, Michael. Blondie is a sweet girl, sexy even. But I don’t know about this whole lip-sync business you’ve got going on for the club tonight. It just seems so off-brand.”
“Don’t worry, Dad. It’ll be okay.”
“I’ll tell you who won’t be okay, and that’s Moretti. I’ll have to talk to him and somehow get an extension for you. I don’t assume you have twenty thousand dollars lying around somewhere, do you?”
Michael stood there, thinking.
“Well, I could sell my car. I could get twenty-five thousand dollars for it, easily.”
“Really? Your birthday gift. Are you going to sell it to pay off the loan shark? I don’t believe you. You love that car.”
Michael shook his head. He looked down at the floor and then looked up.
“Maybe, just maybe, Mom can help me with this one.”
He shrugged as if there weren’t any other choices. It wasn’t a bad idea. I just didn’t know if Clarissa would be willing to cooperate. She’d probably think it was a scheme to get some of the money back she got from the divorce.
“I don’t know, son. Your mom loves you and all, but I don’t know if she’d be willing to part with twenty thousand dollars. Do you?”
“Dad, she needs to help me. No, she must help me. Just because you two are divorced doesn’t mean she stopped being my mom. Besides, I’m her only son.”
I don’t know about that, Michael. You may have a brother.
CHAPTER 6
COLE
25 YEARS AGO
It was a Tuesday evening around 6:00 p.m., my favorite time of the day and my favorite day of the week. My father, Adrian Bennett, and I were inside Moretti’s nightclub conducting business. My father had taken ill and needed to have a few things arranged. My mother had passed away a few years earlier, so I had to take over the running of the businesses.
“Good to see you, Vincent,” my father said.
They embraced and gave each other a kiss on the cheek.
Vincent was a young guy, roughly about my age, between 20 and 23, maybe.
“Good to see you, Mr. Bennett,” he said. “But please, everyone here calls me ‘Moretti,’ just like they call my father. It’s just tradition. You understand?”
“How will anyone know the difference between you and your father if you’re both called Moretti?” I chimed in.
My father got tense. I spoke out of turn, and he didn’t like that, especially in front of Moretti.
“That’s an interesting question, actually. I don’t mind it. See, I run things here in New York, and my father runs things in Jersey. We don’t have the same clientele, if you get my drift.”
“We sure do,” my father said. “Don’t we, son?”
I nodded.
“Please take a seat. How rude of me. May I offer you anything to drink?”
We all sat down.
The club looked very elegant. The walls were painted a nice blue. The poles for the dancers looked nice and shiny. A big neon sign inside said Moretti’s Nightclub. The cubicles for the private dances looked very comfortable.
“I’ll take a bottle of Diet Dr. Spencer,” I said. “This looks like a very profitable business. How much do you rake in a week?” I asked innocently.
