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I tell you, I couldn’t buy a break.
Before I could say anything, Eddie turned to Lenny, who had still not left my side. He communicated something nonverbally because Lenny said, “I got orders not to leave her.”
Eddie fished in his back jeans pocket and flashed his badge.
Lenny nodded, looked at me and moved away.
“Eddie…” I said before he started, but he lifted up his hand, Smithie style, and I shut up.
I was getting “the hand” a lot these days and it was beginning to tick me off.
He waited a beat, hooking his badge onto the belt on his jeans. Then he shook his head.
“You know, I don’t even know what to say,” he said.
“Let me explain,” I requested.
“You got an explanation for this? This I have to hear.”
I actually didn’t have an explanation so I fell silent.
“That’s what I thought,” Eddie said.
All right, enough was enough. I mean, what wouldhedo?
“What could I do? He had a knife and was fighting with Dad. I had to jump on his back and try to help!” I yelled.
Okay, so before, it actuallywasan “uh-oh” moment andthiswas a “holy shit” moment.
Eddie’s face changed and he looked at me like I just told him I wanted to go to Pluto for Spring Break.
“I hadn’t heard that part,” Eddie said in his scary, quiet voice.
“Eddie—” I started again.
He didn’t let me finish.
“Have you lost your mind?”
This wasn’t said in a quiet voice. This was shouted and everyone, cops, bouncers, dancers and waitresses, turned to stare.
I opened my mouth to defend myself, as if I had to. I mean, really, itwasmy dad, but didn’t get a word out.
“That’s what I’m talking about.” As if things weren’t bad enough with pissed-off, shouting Eddie, Smithie showed up at ourtête-à-tête.
“It wasn’t like Iaskedto wrestle in the hallway with a guy with a knife,” I said to the both of them, pissed off myself now, hands on hips and everything.
“You see a knife, you run as fast as you fuckin’ can,” Smithie returned.
Now he was repeating himself.
“Yourun in these shoes,” I told him.
“That’s it. You wear tennis shoes on shift from now on,” Smithie declared.
My eyes widened and I stared. None of Smithie’s girls wore tennis shoes. The cocktail waitresses were required to have no less than a three-inch heel (I saw Smithie measure once) and the strippers wore sky-high platforms.
“I can’t wear tennis shoes!” I snapped. “Do you know what that’d do to my tips?”
