If Cooks Could Kill Part 4

"Who says I trust her? I want this job. That b.i.t.c.h owes me."

"And then?" Julius asked.

Fernandez smirked. "That's for me to know. So, she out?"

Julius sighed. "She got out today. I took care of everything for her. She's ours now."

Fernandez sat back and shut his eyes. "Bueno."

After a few more blocks of silence, Julius said, "Why don't we go find ourselves some chicks? I'm tired of just sitting."

Without moving, Fernandez ordered, "Get out."

Julius stared at his boss. "You joking?"

"You're tired of sitting, and I'm tired of listening to you complain." Fernandez struggled to sit up. "Raymondo! Stop here!" The car stopped in the center of Nineteenth Avenue, one of the major thoroughfares through the western side of the city. Brakes shrieked and horns blared outside.

"Come on, boss. I didn't mean nothing," Julius said.

"Me neither. No hard feelings."

"But-"

Fernandez pulled out a .357 Ruger. Julius leaped out the door and dashed down the sidewalk. Laughing, Fernandez gave Raymondo the signal to take off.

As the limo rolled through Golden Gate Park, Fernandez once again stretched his flabby bulk across the back seat. "Drive along the ocean. I got to relax. The sound of waves, they relax me."

"You got it, boss."

"This is gonna be big, Raymondo."

"I know, boss."

Fernandez rested his bulbous head and shut his eyes. He wanted to think of her, of the way it used to be between them, and could be again, without Julius's constant nagging and worry. He'd been the one to come through for her, to help when she needed it most, and she owed him big time. Also, she knew what he'd do if she tried to get away without paying. She'd help; no doubt about it.

"It's gonna be the biggest job of my life," Fernandez said to his driver. "After this, I may even think about retiring. What'll you do, then, without El Toro to drive around?"

"I'll be very sad, boss."

"I'm sure you will, Raymondo. I'm very sure you will be."

"So what that it's a corny old song?" Angie sat across the table from Paavo at Wings of an Angel and listened to him describe the tenor's serenade. "The sentiment is beautiful-that there's the sun in the sky, but my own sun, sole mio, is your face, sta 'nfronte a te. It moves me to tears just to think about it!" She sighed dreamily, her gaze slowly moving over Paavo's face. It was handsome, and to her eyes, the stuff of songs. Some people might think that it was too angular and hard, with his high cheekbones and intense blue eyes. Not her.

His hair was dark brown and wavy, and he wore it short and brushed conservatively back from his face. He was trim and fit, and about a foot taller than Angie's five-foot-two, which meant she usually wore fun shoes with wondrously high heels around him.

"Well, maybe it's not such a bad song," he murmured, then cleared his throat, as if to hide the way her words had touched him. "Anyway, the cops with me sure enjoyed it."

She grinned at his discomfort. He hated showing any iota of sentimentality, yet hidden under a brusque exterior, he was one of the most loving people she'd ever met. "I'm sure they thought the singer was wonderful. They just didn't know how to tell you."

"Angie." He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. "It was thoughtful, unexpected, loving-but no more singers. Please."

She smiled ruefully. "All I wanted was for you to know how happy I am."

"I know, believe me. By now, the entire police force of the City and County knows as well."

"Good." She laughed. Even Paavo chuckled, proving he wasn't nearly as upset as he pretended to be.

Earl White scurried from one table to the next, serving desserts and coffee, collecting checks, and clearing dirty dishes, while continuing to provide for a steady stream of take-out customers. Angie hadn't realized Wings had started such a service. It appeared to be successful, amazingly so. Who would have thought so many people would have a yen for cash-and-carry spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s?

Angie leaned toward Paavo, and in a lowered voice said, "As soon as Earl is free, I'll ask him what happened here last night between Connie and her date."

"So eating here wasn't due to a sudden l.u.s.t for Butch's cooking," he said.

"If I was taking care of my l.u.s.ts, we wouldn't be here now, believe me." She and Paavo had finished their green salad and small bowls of minestrone, and were working on the entrees-polenta and Italian sausage for Paavo, and Butch's spaghetti and meatball special for Angie-when she saw that Earl was free, and used her engagement-ring-laden hand to wave him over.

"How're you guys doin' now?" Earl asked as he bustled closer. "Wait! I almost forgot." He filled his lungs, spread his arms wide, and in an ear-splitting voice that grated like a flat bugle, erupted into "'O soo-o-le mi-i-o!"

The other customers gawked in stunned silence, then burst into applause and laughter.

Paavo cringed as Angie beamed. "How did you know?" she asked.

"Da last take-out guy was a cop. Tol' us all about it. What a hoot! Miss Angie, you're too much."

Since Paavo looked ready to chew the table, Angie quickly changed the conversation to Connie's date. Earl told them all about the stranger Connie had dined with after Dennis had stood her up.

"Did they leave together?" she asked.

Paavo studied Angie's expression. "You don't think she'd take some stranger home with her, do you? She's smarter than that."

"Why, then, didn't she tell me about him?" Angie wondered aloud.

Earl had an answer. "Maybe 'cause dis stranger looked like a b.u.m."

"Well, something kept her home from work, and me out of..."

The door opened and two men walked into the restaurant. The one in the lead dripped magnetism, money, and s.e.xy good looks. Angie stopped talking and eyeballed him. Rarely did she see a man she'd call a hunk-other than Paavo-but this guy definitely fit the category.

He was at least six-three or-four, with shoulders that stretched from one wall to the other, and thick, jet black hair with an evocative lock carefully draped to touch his forehead lightly. His eyes were hazel, framed by long, black lashes, and his face chiseled. His clothes reminded Angie of a recent Saks Fifth Avenue ad, from his chestnut brown leather sport coat to the gold chains against a cream pullover, dark brown slacks, and Italian brown leather loafers. On his pinky rested an eye-popping diamond in a chunky twenty-four-carat gold setting.

She scarcely noticed the older, thinner, and smaller man in a dated off-the-rack pinstripe suit with wide lapels. He seemed to fade into the woodwork, while the first one lit up the room.

"Oh, my! Who's that?" Angie whispered to Earl as he rose from his seat.

"Not'in' like a day late an' a dollar short," he murmured. "It's Pagozzi."

It took all Angie's willpower not to swivel around and stare at the man and his cohort as Earl led them to a back table. Pagozzi looked like part of the high-rolling world of celebrity sports stars, the kind of man who'd have starlets and showgirls throwing themselves at him, while Connie-despite her love of loud, too-tight clothing-was really a down-home kind of girl.

On the other hand, Angie thought with a thrill, it might be time for Pagozzi to settle down with a real woman. Why should he bother with young, s.e.xy play-girls when he could have Connie? A question better left unanswered.

Nevertheless, his own uncle Butch seemed to think Connie was exactly what he needed, and Butch obviously had Dennis's best interests at heart. Connie's, too.

"Very interesting," Angie murmured, mental wheels churning and spinning.

Paavo c.o.c.ked an eyebrow and glanced at the man who'd caused such a reaction in Angie. "He looks like a lot of jocks who've hit the big time," was his only comment, until, "Uh-oh."

Angie didn't like the way Paavo was frowning. "Why did you say-"

The question lodged in her throat as Dennis Pagozzi cast a huge shadow across the table. She had to lean way back to look him in the eye. "h.e.l.lo."

He held out a large, strong hand. "I'm Dennis Pagozzi," his deep voice rumbled. "I understand you're Angie Amalfi, and you been a big help to my Uncle Butch and his friends getting this restaurant off the ground."

"Thank you," she said, her hand still swallowed up in his. "This is my fiance, Paavo Smith. We've just become engaged." She freed her right hand and lifted her left toward him, ring finger extended.

"Very nice," Dennis said, then offered congratulations to Paavo as they shook hands. "Care if I join you?" he asked as he sat down in the chair Earl had occupied. "I feel terrible I missed meeting your friend last night. Man, my Uncle Butch is really p.i.s.s-I mean, angry at me about it. See, what happened was, I nearly got knocked out during a pick-up game with some friends-we never get tired of playing, even during the off-season-and I spent my dinner in the infirmary. Do you think she hates me so much if I call her she'd hang up? I been told she's a great gal."

He looked so hangdog as he relayed his tale of woe that Angie couldn't help but laugh. "If you tell her what happened, I'm sure she'll listen."

"Cool!" His face lit up with a big smile. "This restaurant's great, isn't it?" He looked around, eying everything much like a little boy in an ice cream parlor. "I been suggesting to Butch that they expand it so they can fit in lots more customers. I could help out, take part in it myself."

"Expand it?" Angie was shocked. "Don't you think that'd ruin the place? It's a small, romantic eight-table restaurant."

"Isn't that the problem?" He shrugged, then rose. "Well, I won't keep you. I wanted to say h.e.l.lo. What if sometime we get together and, you know, toss around ideas about how to make this place bigger and better? I been told you're real creative."

"Why...that would be most interesting," Angie said, pleased that someone, somewhere, appreciated her creativity. She tried to be creative, not that she often succeeded, but she always tried.

"Before I forget," Dennis said, "one more question. What was your friend's name again?"

A short while later, Angie was getting into the pa.s.senger seat of her car-Paavo preferred to drive-when she realized she'd never gotten an answer to her question. Had Connie left with the stranger last night or not?

Dennis Pagozzi was almost asleep when he heard the doorbell ring. He lived in a mansion in Sea Cliff, one of San Francisco's most exclusive neighborhoods. Most of his friends and teammates lived with family and kids south of the city in big suburban sprawlers with land and swimming pools. Dennis enjoyed city life, so the thirty-five hundred square feet of high-tech luxury he called home suited him just fine.

Few people knew this was his home, however. And those who did had better sense than to come to call at two A.M.

He went to the security video in one corner of his bedroom and looked to see who stood at the door.

He couldn't say his visitor was unexpected. He walked back to the bed, took out the Beretta he kept in his nightstand, and put on a black silk robe.

Holding the gun, he padded downstairs. The bell rang once more as he reached the door.

"Who is it?" he called. No sense letting on that he knew.

"Veronica."

Hearing her voice was like a knife through the belly. "Are you alone?"

"Of course!"

He opened the door a crack, giving her a quick once-over, then pulled it wider. Her gaze fell to the gun.

"Are you serious?" she said. "Is that any way to greet me?"

"Since when weren't you dangerous?" He slid the gun into the robe's pocket and held open the door as she entered. She looked good, d.a.m.ned good for a woman who'd done time, in a tight silver dress and gray stiletto heels. Her blond hair appeared freshly trimmed and feathered long and s.e.xy. He remembered how silky it used to feel-how silky she used to feel-against his hands.

She perused the living room, slowly walking around over the white carpet, eying the two black sofas with a couple of black and gray checked throw pillows on one of them, the gray loveseat. She lightly fingered the big screen HDTV, the audio and video entertainment systems, and the entire wall filled with a variety of video game systems and monitors, the usual Nintendos and Playstations, plus more sophisticated arcade equipment. "Still into toys, I see," she said, her voice curling around him, as husky as he remembered it.

His chin tilted upward. He was glad she could see how far he'd come, but smarted at her criticism. "So? No harm done."

"You've done well," she said abruptly. "Extremely well. Almost...suspiciously well, I might add."

"Don't worry-it's all legit. From football. Not everyone's like you, Veronica."

"You had me worried there for a minute, but I should have known better." She laughed aloud as she sat down on the sofa and opened up the onyx cigarette box on the chrome and gla.s.s coffee table. "Cigarettes? That's all?" The mocking tone in her voice grated. Lifting out a Benson and Hedges, she held it between long red nails. "You aren't the man I used to know." She put the cigarette in her mouth and waited for him to pick up the lighter.

"I don't even use nicotine now. That's all I keep in the house, and they're for company." He held the flame steady as she drew on the cigarette, then sat down across from her. "I'm a respectable member of the community, in case you didn't know."

Her deep, throaty laughter rumbled inside him, made him want her in his bed. In the past, it had nearly cost him his career.

"Of course you are, lover." Her head dropped back and she slowly blew smoke high into the air. He eyed her long, smooth neck, the lightly throbbing pulse at the base of her throat.

"How did you find this house?" His words turned clipped and dry. "I figured you'd phone when you got out."

"We have a few mutual friends," she said coyly, "whether you want to remember that little fact or not."

"I remember," he said with a frown. "So, when did you get out?"

"Today. Or, considering the hour, yesterday." She took a deep drag and let the smoke billow around her.

He inhaled it, remembering. "You didn't waste any time getting here."

"Why should I? I've waited for this a long time."

He smirked. "For me? I should have known."

Her red lips slanted into a look that was half-grin, half-derision. "You're such a sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You know what I'm here for. It's time to hand it over."

He raked his fingers through his hair and wished he were dreaming. She was more than he could bear. "It's not that easy, Veronica."

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

"I got bills. Lots of them. My career...things...aren't quite as good as they were earlier."

"I sat in jail three years-"

"I know, but it's been tough. The economy is going south. My contract isn't getting renewed."

Her face hardened. "What are you saying?"

"I need the money a lot more than you do."