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“I thought you said you were married,” Samson interjected.
“Fuck,” Johnny guffawed. “Don’t mean I can’t stick my dick in some hot pussy every once in a while.” Johnny smacked his lips. “I’ll bet you got some real fresh meat at Wicked.”
“I guess the big question is, why’d you move from California?” The last thing Nick wanted to hear about was Johnny’s dick.
“I got the three jazz clubs in and around L.A. and I thought it was time to branch out to another market.”
Nick and Samson exchanged a look, then Nick said, “In other words, Frank told you to make the move.”
Johnny glared at Nick for a long minute.
“C’mon Johnny, everybody knows you don’t take a shit unless you ask Frank. Everybody also knows the only reason hegave you those clubs was a front. Make you look respectable while he’s funneling all his dirty money on the west coast through the books.”
Johnny’s upper lip curled. “If you know so fuckin’ much than why’d you ask?”
“Cause I wanted to see you face to face, hear what you had to say, then tell you not to get any ideas about sticking your dirty fingers anywhere near our business or our associates. You wanna come to Wicked and drink, fine. You start any shit and you’ll be sorry.”
Johnny threw up his palms. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, you do.” Nick leveled him with an evil glare. “We broke away from Frank and we don’t need or want him or any of his flunkies fuckin’ shit up.”
“Flunky? I’m way the fuck more than a?—”
“Save it.” Nick stabbed his forefinger into Johnny’s chest. “Just remember you’ve been warned.”
Samson took one last drag on his smoke, then ground the butt into Johnny’s expensive flagstone patio.
“I think you made your point,” Samson said as they headed back to the house.
“Stupid fucker thinks he can mess with—” Nick stopped inches from the sliding glass door.
“What’s the matter?”
Nick yanked the slider open, entered the living room and craned his neck over the crowd, then bolted through the room.
Samson caught up with him. “What the fuck is the matter with you?”
“Nothing.” Nick scrubbed his hand over his face sure his mind was playing tricks on him. He grabbed the arm of a passing waiter almost upending his tray. “There was a woman here a minute ago with a light pink dress on. Do you know who it was?”
“You mean Mrs. Russo?”
“What’s her first name?”
“Marie? Marie Russo, Mr. Russo’s wife. They’re hosting this party.”
“Her name’s Marie?” Nick leaned in. “Are you sure?” The edge in his voice made the waiter take a half step back, then inch away from him, disappearing into the crowd.
Samson flanked him on the other side. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
“Sure, sure.” Samson angled them to the front door. “You want me to drive?”
While they waited for the valet, Nick’s brain processed the impossible. Marie Russo? Where had he heard that name? He scanned through the last few days and it finally came to him. It was the name the escort used when he asked about the other woman at Josh Turner’s table. Coincidence? Or did Cheryl have a double with blond hair?
When the valet brought the car around Nick settled into the passenger seat of the Maserati and played the last few minutes over in his mind. Sure, he was a good thirty feet away in a crowded room. He only saw her profile, and it had been over ten years, but for a split second he could’ve sworn it was her. Her hair was different but women dyed their hair all the time. He couldn’t be positive but the way she moved, the tilt of her head, the shape of her body—Cheryl—hisCheryl.
After kissing a sleeping Portia goodnight, Cheryl escaped to her room for a relaxing warm soak in her oversized jacuzzi tub.
