Finders Keepers Losers Die (3 page)

I picked up the phone and dialed Roberta's
number.

CHAPTER 2

I always dressed for the occasion. For
surveillance, I wore black. Black jeans, black tank top because it
was warm out, and a black baseball cap covering my light brown hair
which I'd tied up in a knot. The shoes had been a problem. The only
black ones I owned were the strappy, cocktail party variety or
knee-length boots.

So after work I headed to the mall and
bought a pair of ass-kicking Doc Martens. They weren't on sale and
they cost a week's wages but they were worth it, completing my
outfit along with a large black leather shoulder bag. It held a
Swiss Army knife I'd never used, a canister of pepper spray my
mother had given me when I first moved out of home, a miniature set
of binoculars, a small flashlight, a bugging device I'd borrowed
from the store room at work, and a notepad and pen. Checking myself
out in the mirror in my bedroom, I thought I looked pretty tough
for a five-foot three-inch woman.

For two hours I tailed Lou Scarletti all
over the city. He left his girlfriend's apartment around eight and
drove his red Camaro at warp speed to various suburban houses in
the northern part of the city, finally ending up at The Grotto, a
bar with a reputation for being a gangster's hangout. The only
reason I knew that was because the year before it had made the news
when an underworld figure had been shot there.

The Grotto wasn't the place for a slightly
built middle-class woman.

I tried to look through the windows with the
binoculars from the front seat of my Honda Civic, but The Grotto's
glass was dirty. I could have followed him inside but I'd be as
obvious as a cat at a dog show. Damn it. Scarletti could be meeting
with a fence and I'd miss it.

The Grotto wasn't the place for a girl like
me, but it was perfect for a woman who knew how to hide her
middle-class roots.

I took off the baseball cap, pulled my hair
out of the knot and fluffed it up. One thing I learned at all my
L.A. auditions was to be prepared. So I always carry backup makeup.
I applied a deep red lipstick and another layer of mascara.

Not only did I carry extra makeup in my
handbag, but the back seat of my Civic was my second wardrobe.
Sometimes after work, Gina and I headed out for a drink and I liked
to be ready for anything. I leaned through the gap between the
front seats and tossed aside cocktail dresses, after-five skirts
and slinky tops until I found something suitable. A pair of
high-heeled strappy red shoes. So much for the Docs.

With my costume on, I felt ready to face The
Grotto. I was a good actress so I could do this potentially dumb
thing and hopefully come out of it looking like I knew what I was
doing.

With a deep breath to steady my galloping
pulse, I sashayed into The Grotto and sat on a stool at the bar
while I got my bearings. When my eyes adjusted to the mood
lighting, I scanned the room for Scarletti but couldn't see him.
The only place he could be was in the men's room or upstairs. A
sign hanging from a chain across the bottom of the stairs said
Private Function and a big, bald black man stood sentinel beside
it.

"What'll it be?" The bartender didn't even
look at me when he asked.

"Beer." He popped the top and handed me the
bottle, no glass. "What's the party upstairs?" I asked.

"Private function."

"Yeah, I can read, but whose?"

"It's private." His gaze finally shifted to
me. I ducked my head and concentrated on my beer and blending in.
No one
seemed
to be taking much notice of me, but I got a
creepy feeling that I was the object of many curious stares. Except
whenever I looked round, everyone was deep in their beers, pool
games or conversations.

The Grotto was the sort of place people came
to because everyone knew their name. Kind of like in the TV show
Cheers
only with a sticky floor and too much atmosphere. The
sort of place where shady deals were being made over the beers and
payments made under the tables.

I was definitely a fish out of water. Not
because of the way I looked—I'd got it right with the shoes and
lipstick—but because I was a new face and on my own.

"So what's a pretty girl like you doing in a
stink hole like this?" the guy next to me said.

I jumped, not because of his voice but
because of his face. A jagged, puckered scar sliced through his
left eye, half closing the lid. He looked like he belonged in one
of the
Godfather
movies. If it hadn't been for the
disfigurement, he could be considered handsome in a rough,
wharf-rat kind of way, with dark shaggy hair and matching stubble
covering a firm jaw. He sat alone, nursing a drink on the rocks and
a lit cigarette. His good eye tunneled through me.

I shivered and gulped down my beer in my
haste to leave. I'd never been so freaked out by someone's
appearance before. The man had
shady character
written all
over him. "Sorry, gotta run." I glanced at the guarded stairs.
"Party to go to."

Scarface half turned, took in the sign,
looked back at me, and chuckled quietly. "Mad Max has invited you
to join his poker game?"

"
Mad
Max?"

"Yeah, he went crazy after spending six
weeks in solitary in Renford prison. Gets the shakes, loses his
temper for no reason and talks to himself all the time. But he's a
good poker player. Probably because no one can tell when he's
bluffing."

For a scary dude, Scarface was quite chatty.
Guess I shouldn't judge people by the way they look. Lesson
learned. "Really? What does he say when he talks to himself?"

He took a drag on his cigarette and blew out
a smoke ring, his lips forming a sexy oh. "Nothing much. Far as I
can tell, he thinks everyone's out to get him. Then again, from
what I know, half of Renford is."

It seemed my barfly knew a lot about
Renford's undesirables. "He and Lou Scarletti are buddies?"

He hesitated and sized me up. "Who wants to
know?"

I thrust out my hand while I still had some
courage. "Gina Formica." Hopefully Gina wouldn't mind me using her
name. Since I didn't want to land her in anything messy, I took a
different last name. Formica was the first Italian-sounding word
that had popped into my head other than ravioli or pizza. "Lou's
girl." The lie rolled easily off my tongue.

The barfly took my hand but instead of
shaking it, he put it to his lips and kissed the knuckles. "Nice to
meet you,
Gina
." He emphasized the name and I couldn't work
out if he suspected it was made up or he was coming on to me. But
wow, he had a sexy voice. Sort of like melted chocolate—warm, gooey
and lickable.

"And you are?" I prompted, not taking my
hand out of his.

He held the cigarette loosely between index
and forefinger in a too cool, James Dean way that I couldn't take
my eyes off. "You can call me Scarface."

"No, really."

He smiled crookedly. "Since you won't tell
me your real name, I won't tell you mine."

Touché.

"So are you still going upstairs, Gina?" It
sounded like a challenge.

"Sure. I need to ask my boyfriend
something." I never could back down from a challenge. Besides, I
had to catch Lou in the act of fencing the jewels, or my case was
dust. And my fledgling career.

He swirled his drink. "Maybe I'll stick
around. See how your conversation goes."

I stood, slung my handbag over my shoulder
and marched up to the security guy at the stairs. Even with my
three-inch heels, he towered over me.

"Let me up," I said, sounding braver than I
felt.

He raised one brow. "Who are you?"

"The entertainment."

He checked me out, paying particular
attention to my chest. Unfortunately the tank top did nothing for
my size B boobs even when I thrust my shoulders back.

I'd taken a chance that Mad Max was the type
to employ a girly show. The gamble paid off because the guy
unlatched the chain and I walked up the stairs. I couldn't resist a
triumphant glance at Scarface.

He raised his glass to me.

I paused at the closed door at the top of
the stairs and reminded myself why I was about to do something most
people would think stupid.

It was the injustice. Roberta's husband had
screwed around
and
gotten the jewels. Where was the fairness
in that? The least I could do was take some of the wind out of his
sails and stop him before he sold off her family assets. If I
didn't do it, who would?

Proving to Will that I could be more than a
secretary was a bonus. And I could handle a few hardened
criminals—at least, Gina Formica could.

I knocked on the door and let myself in. I
nearly choked on the stale, smoky air. Through the curtain of haze,
four men stared at me. They sat at a round table, fat cigars
dangling from fingers or lips, cards and gambling chips piled on
the table. I recognized Lou immediately. Roberta had given me a
photo and I'd already got a good look at him outside his
girlfriend's. He had thick black wavy hair, saggy eyes and a
down-turned mouth with loose flab hanging from his jowls. He looked
a lot like Hooch, Tom Hanks' four-legged sidekick in the movie
Turner and Hooch
, and drooled about as much too. His paunch
hung over his belt, stretching his dark grey shirt so tight I could
see his belly button. He had an outie.

The other three looked older, from about
mid-forties to sixty. One was completely bald and he scratched his
head with the fingers that cradled his cigar. The third was a
weasely looking man dressed in army khakis, and the fourth had a
pale, swollen face and coughed sporadically without covering his
mouth.

"You're early," growled the khaki man. He
seemed to be in charge so I figured he was Mad Max.

"She don't look like a stripper," said
Baldy, squinting at me. "Show us your tits."

Yeah, right. I wouldn't show 'em on the
casting couch and I wasn't about to do it in a seedy bar for seedy
men.

"Cash up front," I said, hoping to hold him
off until I got something useful.

"I've got a tab with Lulu," said Mad Max. He
stood and came toward me. He was tall and skinny and his jerky
strides reminded me of a stork. He stopped in front of me and
crossed his arms, but not before I saw his hands shaking. "She
would have told you that," he said. "She would've. She's very
thorough, very thorough." I could see what Scarface meant by the
rambling. "Show me Lulu's ID."

I glanced at the table again—no jewelry.
Maybe I should get out while I still had my cover. "Lulu? There
must be some mistake." I held up my hands and backed away. "I work
for Mona. Isn't this The Paradiso?"

"The Grotto," said Lou.

Mad Max kept coming toward me muttering,
"Wrong girl, wrong place, wrong place, wrong time."

I backed into the door and fumbled for the
handle. "Ah, well there you go, like you said, wrong bar." The
goddamn door wouldn't open and Mad Max kept coming and coming. I
pulled harder but it wouldn't budge.

Fuck
!

Mad Max leaned over me and I gagged at his
whisky breath. His shaking fist descended. I turned my face away,
bracing myself and preparing to scream, hoping the muscle
downstairs would hear. Hoping he would care.

But Max didn't touch me. He reached past me
and opened the door. I raced down the stairs, nearly falling over
my own feet in my hurry to get away. My heart beat so loudly I
couldn't hear what the security guy said to me as I rushed
past.

Clutching my bag close to my chest I headed
toward the front door.

"Hey, Gina!"

I kept walking.

"Gina Formica!"

I turned to see Scarface still sitting on
his bar stool. He had company. A pouty, top-heavy blonde woman
tapped long nails against her cocktail glass. She wore a
knee-length, red leather jacket, red high heels and a portable
stereo system sat at her feet. The stripper. He'd delayed her for
me. I nodded thanks and left.

Outside, I breathed in the clean night air
and jumped into my Civic. I drove off but only got a block away
when I stopped.

What the hell was I doing? The night wasn't
over. I could still tail Lou. Neither he nor his friends knew what
sort of car I drove or what I was really doing at The Grotto. My
cover was intact. And I'd be in the car. Safe.

I headed back to The Grotto and parked where
I could see the front door. I turned off the engine and swapped the
high heels for the comfortable Docs. Then I waited.

And waited.

***

Bang bang bang.
"Hey, you!"

My eyes sprang open and I jumped in my seat,
hitting my head on the car roof and my knee on the steering wheel.
"Fuck." In the moonlight, I could just make out the face of the man
peering through my window. Lou Scarletti!

Fuck!

"Hey, you're that stripper. Mona's girl," he
yelled through the glass. "Hey, how about a show." He laughed and a
splash of spit hit my window.
Eeewww
.

No way was I hanging around for a friendly
chat with my drunk target. I turned the key in the ignition.

Nothing happened. I tried again. Nothing.
Don't fail me now, Hondie.

"Missing something?" Lou held up a wire and
grinned.

He'd stolen my…thingamy! While I was
sleeping, he must have popped the hood and pulled out a wire so my
car wouldn't start. And he thought I was a stripper for hire. No
need to bust a brain cell figuring out what he wanted.

A moment before, I'd felt panicked. Now I
was pissed. What kind of pervert was he? Just because I was
supposed to be a stripper, he had no right to hold me captive.
Okay, so I
could
have run off if I wanted to, but there was
a principle involved, damn it. I hated bullies.