EXCLUSIVE CONTENT: New Flash Fiction and a Long Sample from the New Jack "Keeper" Marconi PI Novel, The Slender Man!!!!
Dear Readers,
Here’s some exclusive content for you to enjoy! You’ll get it nowhere else. What do you get? A flash fiction crime story. Plus, a long sample of the upcoming brand new Jack “Keeper” Marconi PI novel, THE SLENDER MAN. It’s not even edited yet, so this is some cool stuff, hot off the typewriter as it were. Enjoy:)
Vin
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Suicide by Cop
by Vincent Zandri
The dark arterial blood runs down her face, down her arm, to her ring finger. It stains the ring I bought her so long ago when she was still the light of my eye.
We had one of our blowouts again. She’d warned me, stop taking the job home with you. It will kill us one day.
She said it with such passion, it shook me to the core. Now, I see that passion splattered all over the wall and pooling on the floor.
But I’m a cop.
I can’t help who I am, the things I’ve seen, the stuff I’ve done.
The cop cars are parked outside my front door, an amplified voice demanding I come out with my hands up. We’ve been battling all night and now the newly risen sun shines bright from out of the east.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper. “For everything.”
I cock one more round in the chamber, open the door, take aim at my brothers and sisters in arms.
I step into the light.
SAMPLE
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The Slender Man
A Jack “Keeper” Marconi PI Thriller
Vincent Zandri
““When you reach round a dark corner to switch on a light, be careful. Slenderman will often run his finger over the back of your hand. This is the first signal of his interest in you.”
― Jack Goldstein
1
I was never one for politics. Maybe when I was young and working as a corrections officer at Attica, I had my ideals. Even then I didn’t like people telling me what to do, much less the government. We lived in a free country, and everyone who obeys the law should be free to live and breathe as they choose. Or so we thought back then. The golden rule? Just be nice to one another and don’t do stupid stuff.
So, when New York State Democratic candidate for governor, Benjamin Lacy, showed up at my Sherman Street office, I had my doubts that I would take the job. I should correct myself here. He didn’t just walk in by himself. Not right away, anyway. He was instead, preceded by two young, very in shape men dressed in black suits.
I’d been standing in front of the big window looking out on the city, a toothbrush glass in hand, partially filled with Jameson Irish Whiskey. The city always looked better to me at night, with the lights from the park reflecting off the night sky, and the even brighter, colorful lights of the downtown making it look like Christmas in August.
I was also admiring the transparent reflection of my rather young looking, weight-trained physique, and the way my pecks filled my light blue button-down. Other than my usual salt and pepper goatee and mustache, I was freshly shaven, and my shaved head glistened in light that came from the desk lamp.
When the two men arrived unannounced, each of them making sure to take a good look at the office, as if they were looking for a masked gunman hiding in the far corner, I didn’t bother to turn around. I just peered at their reflection in the window and waited until they both spoke the same word into the chest-mounted radio transmitters.
“Clear,” each man said.
Eyeing them directly now, I could see how tall the white one was and how much shorter, but stockier the black one was. They both stood by the door, their eyes hidden with sunglasses, their hands folded at their thin waists. I took them for cross trainers. Maybe Orange Theory Fitness members or spin class junkies. The shorter one definitely hit the free weights more than the other one did.
Finally, I turned around to face them.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” I said, as I stole another slow sip of my whiskey.
Tall White Man and Stocky Black Man never said a word. Nor did they recognize my presence. It was like I wasn’t in the room at all. I wasn’t sure if they were being rude, or they were just trained to be assholes when it came to socializing. Or hell, maybe they were cyborgs and they were programmed to be assholes.
That’s when Lacy walked in. He was wearing a gray gaberdine suit that probably cost as much as my entire wardrobe, brown cordovans, a white satin button-down, a brown tie that was knotted perfectly. He was tall and thin, like he was a five times per week, morning-tennis-at-the-country-club kind of guy. His hair was thick and dark, but graying on the sides. I pegged him for maybe fifty. But he could have been five years older or younger.
“You’re Mr. Jack Marconi?” he said, after a long beat.
I looked over one shoulder, then the other, and drank another sip of the whiskey.
“Who me?” I said. “You walking to me?”
He stepped further into the office.
“Mind of I sit down?” he said, nodding at one of the two wood chairs set in front of the desk for potential clients.
“Does it matter what I think?” I said.
He sat himself down and crossed his legs not in a man-spreading, toxic male sort of way, but tightly, like a woman would do if she were wearing a short skirt.
“Do you have even a clue as to who I am, Mr. Marconi?” he asked, smugly.
I set my glass on the desk, then set myself down in my swivel chair. I connected my hands at the knuckles, and brought them back around my head, used them as a head rest while I leaned far back in the chair.
“Let me, guess,” I said, after a long beat. “You’re Steve McQueen. But then, Steve McQueen died a bunch of years ago, which would mean you’d have to be resurrected and that means you’re God. Are you God come to save the cancel culture world?”
He bit down on his bottom lip. I could tell he was so annoyed he wanted to jump over the desk and choke me. His two goons just stood their ground. Maybe it was just me, but I got the feeling they loved the fact that I was giving this fairly famous politician a hard time.
“They said you would be like this,” he said after a long silence.
I drank some more whiskey. I blinked really fast, sat up, and rested my chin on my still clutched hands.
“And who, pray tell, might that be, your Excellency?” I asked.
“The police,” he said. “The State Troopers in particular who provide my security.”
“You mean like the secret agents standing against my wall?”
“Precisely,” Lacy said. “In my business there are an awful lot of crazies who would love to get a shot at me.”
“Your business being politics and all,” I said. “I suppose you’re referring to Antifa or Black Lives Matter and the way they torched a bunch of cities, killed a bunch of innocent people, and destroyed and looted a whole bunch of family businesses while the mainstream media and your party in particular, egged them on. Wonder how that’s gonna work out for everyone when eventually you meet your maker.”
His eyes went wide and he sat up straight.
“My Lord,” he said, “Antifa is just a myth. And as for BLM, they are a saintly crew who would not hurt a fly. It’s time us oppressive white folk come down off our pedestal and recognize precisely who we are.”
“And who is that?”
“White supremacists of course,” he said, like it should be obvious. He then assumed a grin. “I mean, for a man of your reputation, you certainly seem ill informed. Don’t you watch CNN or MSNBC? Don’t you read the Times or the Post?” His grin faded suddenly. “Oh no, don’t tell you voted for that ignoramus, Donald J. Trump.”
“I don’t vote,” I said. “I’m politically agnostic. And even if I did vote, I wouldn’t tell you who I voted for. Capice?”
He shot me a puzzled look,
“Capice,” he said. “That’s Italian, right?”
“How very perceptive,” I said. “By the way, if you wanna talk BLM, you should know that my extended family came up through Sicily, meaning they originated in Sub-Saharan Africa, which makes me at least ten percent Black. How about you, future governor, do you have any Black blood in you?”
I had to admit, even Stocky Black Man cracked a hint of a grin when I said it. Truth is, I actually respected the idea of Black Lives Matter. But what I didn’t respect were those thugs who tried to take it over, causing months of violence in the streets. Funny how most of those thugs turned out to be spoiled white child suburbanites with nothing better to do with their time. But I digress.
I took another drink of my whiskey, set it back down.
“So what can I do you for, Mr. Lacy?”
He smiled. “So, you do know who I am, Mr. Marconi.”
“I’m not as ill-informed as you might think,” I said. “I know you’re trying to get elected to be governor of New York State and that you’ve got the backing of the left wing radicals, and that means you are, at present, the darling of the mainstream media who see this as a stepping stone to a possible presidential run in 2028. So how’m I doin’?”
His smile only grew wider.
“Excellent, I must say,” he said.
Clearly he was a man who not only enjoyed attention, but who craved the spotlight almost as much as he craved power. From what I could see in his television advertisements and on the news was that he was the kind of politician who would change his stripes in an instant, if it suited his chances of winning power. In other words, if the flavor of the day goes from Black Lives Matter to Polka Dot Lives Matter, you’ll see him marching in the streets with all those polka dotted people, should they exist.
“And I assume you require my services for an overly sensitive matter that the traditional police can’t handle, or that you don’t want them to handle.”
He nodded.
“Again, very good,” he said. “It just so happens I do have that kind of job offer for you, if you’re available.”
“Let me check my schedule,” I said.
For a long beat I just looked up at the ceiling, like I was viewing an invisible calendar.
Then, eyes back on him.
“It just so happens I’m available, your worship,” I said. “Whaddaya have in mind?”
Now Tall White Man smiled.
“I need you to take care of a little problem for me,” Lacy said while recrossing his long legs. “It requires the utmost delicacy, if you understand my meaning.”
“In other words,” I said, “we need to keep things hush hush and off the Fox News radar.”
“Exactly,” he said, nodding.
“So who do you want me to rub out?” I said, stealing a drink of my whiskey.
Both Black Suits smiled at the question. I think they were beginning to like me.
“Oh my Lord,” Lacy said. “I would never ask anyone to do such a thing. I am a Catholic after all, just like the great Jack Kennedy and the great Joe Biden.”
“Uncle Joe,” I said. “Does he still not know what day it is?”
Lacy’s face went tight.
“That’s our president, Mr. Marconi,” he said. “Let’s show him and the office a little respect, shall we?”
“What about the president before him?” I asked. “The entire Democratic establishment along with the media, took a collective dump on his orange head.”
He smirked.
“Donald was different,” he said. “He was not deserving of the office. Now can we get back to my matter at hand?”
I might have mentioned Slick Willy Clinton getting a BJ in the Oval, but I decided to let it go.
“Hey,” I said, “it’s your money we’re gonna be dealing with.”
“There’s a certain woman who lives in Albany who needs to be spoken to,” he said.
Opening my desk drawer, I pulled out a yellow legal pad and a pen.
“Name?” I asked.
“Shelby,” he said a little under his breath, like it hurt him to say it. “Shelby…Garret.”
“Two Rs, one T, I assume?”
“That’s correct,” he said.
“What’s her problem?” I said. “She know something about your past that, if it were to be made public, would kill your chances of becoming Der Fuhrer of the United States of America.”
The Men in Black smirked again. Lacy switched his legs again too.
“Would you mind terribly if I had a drink of that?” he said, nodding towards the whiskey.
Without a word, I opened the bottom drawer, pulled out a second glass. I poured him a generous shot, then topped mine off. He drank down the shot in one swift gulp.
“You needed a drink first,” I said in my best imitation Don Corleone. “Now that you’ve had your drink, you can tell me what’s wrong.”
Lacy inhaled and exhaled. “Some years ago, I met Ms. Garret at a Democratic fundraiser that the Schuyler Meadows Country club was putting on. We more or less hit it off and--”
“And even though you’re married with kids, you went home with her, had sex, and she got pregnant with your love child.”
His eyes went wide.
“Amazing,” the future governor said. “However did you know?”
2
I poured him another whiskey and continued to sip mine. He, naturally, downed his shot in a single greedy gulp. How did I know his predicament? If I had a dollar for every Tom, Dick, and Dirty Harry who came into my office looking to hire me to quiet some woman they cheated with and got pregnant, I’d be running a PI office out of Hawaii and driving a fancy sports car, like Magnum PI, only stronger and more dashing.
“You’re in luck, Lacy,” I said. “I just happen to be running a special on shutting up women who’ve born kids with a married man who’s got himself a powerful political position and who draws national if not international attention.”
“Excellent,” he said. “How much?”
“How much?” I repeated.
“What are your rates?” he pressed.
He was slurring his words slightly, telling me he was already a little drunk from just two small shots.
“In your case,” I said, “five hundred per day, plus expenses. I also want two grand upfront, no refunds under any circumstances.”
For the first time since he entered my office, the professional politician showed his anger. His face went red and tight. I knew then that Benjamin Lacey was no stranger to tantrums.
“That’s preposterous,” he said. “My lawyers don’t even get that kind of money. You must be drunk.”
“The booze hardly ever even makes it to my brain, your excellency,” I said. “You don’t like it, go to Steve Jobz. He’s good, and probably half the money. And speaking about getting drunk, you’ll probably find him bellied up to Lanies Bar in North Albany.”
He chewed on his bottom lip again. “I’m told you’re the best, and that you possess the most experience. Most of all, you can be trusted.”
“Don’t stop,” I said, “I love to be made love too.”
The Men in Black openly grinned again. Begrudgingly, Lacy reached into the interior pocket of his jacket, pulled out a good old fashioned checkbook.
“What, no PayPal, your most exalted, honorable, white male?”
This time, the Men in Black actually chuckled at that one. Until Lacy turned and shot them a nasty look over his shoulder. Then, his eyes back on me.
“No, I don’t have PayPal,” he said, acid in his tone. “May I borrow your pen, Mr. Marconi.”
I gave him the one I wrote the name Shelby Garret with from across the desk. He took it and began filling out a check on his narrow lap. When he was done, he tore the check from the book, laid it and the pen on my desk. I grabbed both and stared at the check. It was for two thousand. Folding it neatly, I stored it in my shirt pocket.
“Before you leave, I’ll need some more info on Shelby Garret,” I said.
He looked at his watch, like he had a fund raiser to attend and along with it, maybe another victim to knock up.
“Okay, but make it quick,” he said. “I’m already late for a fund raiser downtown at the Fort Orange Club.”
I had to smile on the inside.
“I love it when I’m right,” I said silently to myself.
3
By the time Lacy left my office along with the Men in Black, I not only had Shelby Garret’s phone number, I had her email address, and her Facebook page account. Naturally, I went directly there. Sipping my whiskey, I sat before my laptop, clicked onto her Facebook page, and stared at her attractive, young face. She had kind blue eyes, an almost sad smile, and strawberry blonde hair that was parted neatly over her left eyebrow.
I glanced at the posts. A few of them showed her dressed in a black and white uniform while she served food and drinks to party guests. When I looked up her information it said she worked as a server for a local caterer.
That’s when it became clear to me how she must have met Lacy. She had to be working one of his fundraisers and naturally, he took a liking to her and started hitting on her. After all, how could the young lady resist his charm, his boyish good looks, his dry politically correct wit, his empathy towards the downtrodden and the people of color. Then there was his fame and his potential presidential run.
I glanced at a few more pictures. In one she was outdoors, pushing a little boy of maybe three or four on a swing. The caption she wrote along with it said, “My joy, my love.” There were other pictures with the little boy in it. One with him opening up Christmas presents, the smile on his face infectious. Another of him asleep on the couch, with a blanket pulled up to his chin. And yet one more of his riding in a car seat, that big smile plastered on his round smooth face.
I had to admit, you couldn’t deny that Benjamin Lacy was his father. But the boy also had his mother’s eyes, and full head of sandy blond hair. That was his good luck.
Closing the laptop lid, I grabbed hold of my drink, and once more stood before the big picture window and looked out onto the city. The lights were still on in the park and still lighting up the downtown. I sipped my whiskey and I felt the weight of the two thousand dollar check in my shirt pocket. I glanced at my wristwatch. It was only eight thirty on a late summer night. Too early to turn in, and too late to process anymore paperwork. Not that I had any to process.
Maybe I’d cash Lacy’s check just to make sure it wasn’t made of rubber, and then I’d do something that the really good, truly experienced, $500 per day gumshoes should always do before they begin on the job assigned to them. I decided that I’d surveil my employer for a little while.
4
Making my way downstairs, I exited my former garment shop building, locking the big metal door behind me, and made my way across Sherman Street where I parked my more then twenty year old red Toyota 4-Runner. Sherman Street was located in Albany’s Arbor Hill district which used to be one of the premier areas to reside back in the Victorian Days when the lumber and steel barons had bought up some of the most precious stone and brick townhouses you ever saw this side of San Francisco.
But then came the 1960s, and then President Johnson’s Great Society plan that was intended to eliminate racial injustice and poverty. Not a bad idea, in theory that is. But all it managed to do was make things worse, at least in a Democratic Machine run city like Albany. Remember those beautiful townhouses I just spoke of? Well, city leaders decided to procure much of the Arbor Hill property under the premise of eminent domain. They raised entire neighborhoods and replaced them with what become to be known as “the projects.”
These were low-income housing for the impoverished and the downtrodden. Again, a nice idea, in concept. But what the projects became was anything but nice. They became a breeding ground for gangs, drug dealers, and addicts.
A crime wave consumed the city, and pretty much all the former residents of Arbor Hill had no choice but to move out and sell their townhouses at a discount to the absentee landlords who rented them for cheap to the gangsters. In a word, the Great Society became the Doomed Society and has remained as such ever since.
Now, a new generation of left leaning leaders like Benjamin Lacy were promising a second Great Society. I’ll say it again. It’s a nice idea. But dollars to donuts, it will all turn out in the end to be a crime ridden tragedy of Biblical proportions. Give people money for nothing, and not only will they find zero incentive to find employment, they will spend a heck of a lot of it on drugs. Enter the drug cartels and their gangs.
I pulled up outside the downtown branch of the Key Bank on the corner of Lark Street and Central Avenue. It was a no parking zone, so I made sure to put my flashers on. I got out and made my way across the concrete sidewalk to the bank’s front glass door. Pulling out my wallet, I slid out my debit card from my wallet, and swiped it through the entry device. The door unlocked and I opened it.
I chose the closest of the two machines to the road, and slipped my card into the slot. When it asked me for if I wanted to make a withdrawal or deposit, I pressed deposit. I then pulled the check out of my pocket, slipped it into the portal when prompted, then took my receipt and my card from the machine. I guess I would find out in the morning if the check was good or not. I could only guess that it would be good since it would be bad form for a future governor/president to be passing bad checks around town.
Back inside the 4-Runner, I killed the flashers, and pulled back out onto Central Avenue. Passing by the many brick, steel, and glass buildings I came to another brick building that had to be a century and a half old. In fact, it bore no relation to the buildings that surrounded it, since it looked more like a home or even an old hotel and attached tavern than it did a commercial property.
It was the Fort Orange Club, christened on behalf of Albany original name. It was the most exclusive club around for Albany professional elite, including lawyers, doctors, accountants, bankers, financial traders, and the like. It wasn’t a place you’d find a gumshoe or a Black man for that matter. But in recent years, they had allowed women to join their ranks. Or so I’d been told.
The lot was packed with all sorts of cars, most of them worth more than my two-story Sherman Street building. Included in the collection of cars was a black Chevy Suburban with black tinted windows. It was parked illegally, in a handicap access space.
I recognized the two men standing four-square beside the three SUVs as the same Men in Black who’d been inside my office mere moments ago. I might have honked my horn at them or flicked my headlamps, but I didn’t think it was a good idea to get their attention while I was trying to spy on their boss. Instead I hung back, parking on the street, and slightly behind a row of thick shrubs. Keeper the concealed.
I waited for up to an hour, with the 4-Runner off and the lights killed, for a glimpse of Lacy. He must have downed a few drinks by now and knowing how affected he was by the two small shots he had in my office, I was guessing he’d be pretty well rocked. When finally, he showed up, stumbling out of the Fort Orange Club’s back door, a young brunette in hand, I knew it was worth the wait.
Digging into my pocket for my smartphone, I pressed the camera icon. Aiming it at Lacy and his new friend, I zoomed in, making sure to get a clear picture of his face. When he pressed the brunette up against the wall, and stuck his hand up her skirt, I also made sure to get that in the shot. One more glancing at the Men in Black, they were no doubt fully aware that the man they were responsible for protecting was in their presence. They were also no doubt fully aware that he was having his way with a young woman but they were indifferent to it. Maybe doing something about their boss’s appetite for groping women didn’t fall under their purview. Or perhaps, they were just used to it by now.
I kept snapping photos. When the brunette, who was by now struggling to get away from Lacy, slapped him hard across the face, I couldn’t help but smile. The two Men in Black glanced at their boss and decided enough was enough. They made their way to him. While Stocky Black Man took the would-be governor by the arm and dragged him towards the awaiting Suburban, Tall White Man did something very interesting. He dug into his pocket, pulled out some greenbacks, shaved a few off and handed them to the brunette.
She took the cash in one hand, while straightening out her hair with the fingers on her other hand. She glanced wide-eyed at the money and shook her head. Tall White Man opened the back door on the Suburban, shoved Lacy inside and closed the door. Then the two Men in Black got in—Tall White Man behind the wheel, and Short Stocky Black Man riding shotgun. Firing up the engine, they backed out of the handicap parking space, sped across the Fort Orange Club parking lot, and made a right-hand turn onto Central towards the city’s business district and Broadway.
It had been a hell of a show by a future New York State Governor and a possible President of the United States of America. And I got it all on digital film.
5
Making a U-turn, I drove back in the direction of my Sherman Street office and home. I was thinking about maybe making a small snack of a spaghetti simplici while opening up a nice bottle of Chianti to go along with it. I was also thinking about something else while I drove through the brightly lamp lit downtown. Were all politicians sleazebags when it came down to it? Were they all so power hungry they’d sell their mother and their souls to get what they wanted? Did any of them really care about the poor? Care about the downtrodden minorities? Why were they all rich when they never had a real job in their life? Why did many support open borders while living behind gated communities? Did they actually believe their lives?
It got me to thinking. Pulling over to the side of the road, I pulled out my phone and looked up the name Benjamin Lacy on Google’s White Pages and found his home address. It was a North Albany address. The Hamlet of Loudonville to be precise. The most posh place to live in New York’s Capital Region. But then, somehow I didn’t take Lacy for a man who lived humbly in a two room apartment over a laundromat. It took deep pockets to run a campaign like he was waging for Governor. It would take even deeper pockets when it came time for him to run for President.
I copied the address and pasted it into Google Maps. I went to photographic view. Sure enough, Lacy’s home was located behind a secure gate. No doubt there were security cameras mounted in all sorts of places. The house itself was three-stories high, made of red brick, with big white pillars out front holding up the portico. It reminded me of Gone With the Wind, or Southfork, only in the north.
I wondered how many special interests Lacy represented for him to have banked the cash needed for such a lavish crib. No doubt he had homes elsewhere also. Maybe an apartment on Park Avenue in Manhattan. Maybe a monstrous log cabin on Lake George, or a seaside home near the Obama’s on Martha’s Vinyard or a couple of mansions in the Green Hills of Vermont like Bernie Sanders.
He would be even richer when he won the governorship, since he would get a multi-million book deal to go along with it. Even more special interests would be nipping at his heels so long as he represented them and catered to their business needs. Or maybe it would be the unions that would give him cash, so that they could gain more power and influence. Maybe the Chinese would give him money.
I put my phone away and exhaled. Pulling back out onto the road, I restarted my journey back to Sherman Street. I was hungry as hell. But at the same time, I felt like I needed to take a shower, now that I had cashed a nice check from a politician like Benjamin Lacy.
Back home I decided to forgo the shower and poured some cold water into a stainless steel pot along with a dash of salt and a tablespoon of the greenest olive oil I could find (Roma’s Italian Market in the nearby suburb of Latham) this side of Italy, and set it on the gas stove to boil. Then, I went into the living area of the loft and pulled out a piece of old vinyl I hadn’t spun in ages. Clifford Brown’s Tiny Capers from the early 1960s. A classic piece of trumpet led jazz that I’d been listening to since I was a kid.
The music that spun on my old stereo filled my first floor Sherman Street loft with great vibes. For a brief moment, I nearly forgot that I was working for a politician who couldn’t keep his hands to himself much less his dick in his pants. He was also a man who had to not only be protected by his secret service, but babysat also.
I was back in the kitchen area, chopping lettuce for a salad on the big wood block counter when my front metal door opened and in walked a Black man who was as big as a house, only stronger and more sturdier.
“I haven’t even put the spaghetti in yet, Blood,” I said, “and you’re already sniffing out my cooking.”
“I got me a six sense about these thing, Keep,” said my brother from another mother, as he made his way across the living area and entered into the kitchen. “Little late for cooking. Even for an Italian like you.”
I chopped more lettuce, but then put the knife down, wiped my hands with a clean dish towel, and grabbed an extra wine glass and an extra dinner plate. I positioned up the place setting on the butcher block counter directly across from mine.
“You gonna pour, Blood?” I asked.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said.
He was wearing his usual uniform of tight black t-shirt and tight black jeans and combat boots. His head was shaved like mine but his tight face was also clean shaven. His body wasn’t just toned. It was as hard as granite from a two hour per day regimen of free weights and jogging. I was lucky enough to be Blood’s gym partner because he liked to push you beyond your boundaries.
To him, age meant nothing. It was how felt inside and out that counted. That meant constant exercise combined with eating well and living well. He was also the don of Sherman Street, and he overlooked everything that went down here. Nothing got passed him without his approval or disapproval, and that was just fine by me.
“So I got a job,” I said. “Came to me tonight as I was about to close up. You wouldn’t believe who the client is.”
The water was boiling now, so I added a pound of DeCecco “always al dante” spaghetti no. 13. I then grabbed a can of tomato sauce and opened it with a can opener. Pulling down one of my frying pans, I set it on a burner and added some more green olive oil. Grabbing an onion, a couple cloves of garlic, and a ripe tomato out of basket set on the counter, I placed them on the butcher block in the space between the settings and started cutting them up with a sharp French knife.
“You gonna keep me waiting on that new client of yours, Keep?” Blood asked, while stealing a sip of wine.
I told him, while I too, stole a sip of wine. I also told him why the politician was hiring me.
“How much he paying you to keep his rep clean?” Blood asked.
“A lot,” I said.
“How much is a lot?”
I told him. He laughed, which was something Blood didn’t do very often. In fact, he rarely showed any emotion at all. He was the king of stoicism, a poker face that could melt the paint off the walls. Scooping up the chopped vegetables in my hands, I added them to the frying pan, and added the sauce. Now the loft not only sounded good, it smelled great.
Draining the pasta into a colander, I then rinsed it with some cold water to remove the starch and to stop the cooking process. I added several fistfuls of the pasta to the simplici sauce, gave it couple of stirs with a wood spoon and then killed the gas. Dinner was officially ready.
After I served Blood, I served myself. I sat down across from him, lifted my wine glass to make a toast.
“So what shall we drink to, Blood?” I asked.
“How about your new partner on your new job,” he said, clinking my glass. “I wouldn’t miss this one for the world.”
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