The butterfly suture protecting the stitches over his eyebrow couldn’t hide the swelling. Jack’s eye had gone from a yellowish green to a dark purple. The new stiches in the side of his head were itching, but his head had survived the trauma of the fistfight. All and all, Jack thought, he looked, and felt, like hell.
He walked carefully down the stairs and slid into the comfort of his favorite booth with its unobstructed view of the entire room.
Arsinio, the sage waiter he was, placed a Stoli on the rocks in front of his friend, and Jack nodded in approval. His bruised knuckles hurt as he picked up the glass, and the vodka burned some going down, but the burn turned to warmth, and the warmth would jack up the Vicodin and stanch some of his physical pain.
Jack had placed a call to Chris, wanting to give him a heads-up before his son witnessed the carnage on the local news. Jack told him not to worry, and Chris told him to find a new line of work. He also shared how proud he was that his dad had put away the killers. Jack got a bit sloppy on the phone. His son’s stamp of approval meant the world to him.
Jeannine and Jeremy had arrived at Stanford acting like teenage lovers, but they were working very hard not to impose on Chris’s personal life. Jack wondered how long that would last. At least Jeremy’s claiming back his woman meant that the trip to Palo Alto was only a visit.
Jack promised to drive up north when the dust had settled.
He had an early date with Susan, but was anticipating some kind of emotional fallout. Jack wasn’t too adept at reading women, but he felt it in his bones. And his bones were sensitive after the abuse they’d suffered the past few weeks.
As if on cue, Susan Blake walked through the front door. She waved to the bartenders, making their nights, and turned heads as she glided through the room. She buzzed Jack’s cheek and slid into the booth sitting opposite. Arsinio arrived on the spot and placed a glass of Benziger in front of his favorite client.
“Why, thank you, Arsinio. That’s very thoughtful.”
“We’re all just glad you’re okay, Susan.”
“We both know who we have to thank for that.”
Arsinio looked at Jack, his eyes a little moist, and made himself scarce.
“Hah, you’re on the heavy sauce?” Susan took a hearty drink of her red wine.
“It’s been that kind of week.”
“You look better than expected.”
“Huh. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Susan smiled. “How’s Nick doing?”
“He lost a lot of blood. The bullet splintered his clavicle and tore up his muscle. The Doc says three to six months of physical therapy and he should be back on his game. Real violence . . . very different from Hollywood’s version.”
Susan, caught in a rare loss for words, clinked her glass against Jack’s, took a controlled sip, and nailed him with her gray-blue eyes. His heart skipped a beat somewhere in that sequence of events, and when she finger-combed her chestnut hair behind one ear, she looked ravishing to Jack. And he didn’t know if he’d ever used the word.
“So,” Susan said, “I had a conversation with Tommy about getting me out of my contract for Blond Cargo.”
“You’re going back to New York?” A statement, not a question.
Susan smiled, nodded knowingly. “After the shoot. After we wrap Done Deal. I’d never leave George high and dry. But it’s all been . . . way too much, Jack. I realized that I couldn’t move forward without letting go of my past. And that’s going to take some honest, intensive work.”
Jack nodded in agreement. “It’s time to take care of you now,” he said thoughtfully. “You’ve had all these bastards exploiting you. I like what I’m hearing, Susan. It’s time to do some healing. What did Tommy have to say?”
“He recused himself.” Susan’s eyes crinkled into a smile. “Said it might cost you your back end money, and he’d never do that to a friend.”
Jack wasn’t engaged in a one-up contest, but had to admit it felt good his old friend had his back. “What did you say?”
“I fired him.” Susan scrunched up her face like a child. “It’s nothing personal, Jack, but I didn’t get where I am playing second banana. I’ll save that for my fifties, thank you very much.”
“I don’t think second banana is in your DNA.”
“You’re a lover, Jack.” Susan took another sip of wine. “So, what do you think? You want to go home and get crazy tonight?”
Jack gave that question the thought it deserved, but already knew the answer. “You’re putting it on me?” he said wryly.
Susan raised her eyebrows and smiled, cutting him to the quick.
Jack matched her, smile for smile. “You knew I wouldn’t say yes.”
“I did, Jack. No hard feelings. I owe you my life. I literally owe you my life. And I will be your friend forever.” Her eyes got wet, and she dabbed them with the cloth napkin.
Jack finished his cocktail and said, “That’s good enough for me.”
“You are the man, Jack Bertolino.”
Susan Blake slid out of the booth, walked slowly through the dining room and out the front door without ever looking back.
Arsinio arrived at the table and dropped off a fresh Stoli rocks and a dish of fried calamari with spicy tartar sauce, then made himself scarce.
Jack thought about show business, and the capricious nature of Hollywood. The jury was still out. His mind drifted to Leslie Sager and he felt some melancholy, but wasn’t sure what that was all about. Suddenly, Jack smiled and raised his Stoli in a silent toast.
Through Hal’s front windows, Jack watched as George Litton’s stretch limo pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the night.
Acknowledgments
I want to thank Karen Hunter for opening the door to this great adventure, and Brigitte Smith and the entire team at Simon & Schuster for all of their support. Editor extraordinaire, John Paine, you did it again. Many thanks to Leslie Abell, my friend and lawyer. And heartfelt thanks to Gordon Dawson, Bob Marinaccio, Diane Lansing, Deb Schwab, and Annie George, for taking the time out of their busy schedules to read my work and share their thoughts. I’m grateful.
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JOHN LANSING has spent the past two decades writing and producing network television. He was a writer and producer on Walker, Texas Ranger and he co-executive produced the ABC series Scoundrels. John’s first book was Good Cop, Bad Money, a true-crime tome with former NYPD Inspector Glen Morisano. His novels include Devil’s Necktie and Blond Cargo. A native of Long Island, John now resides in Los Angeles. Find out more on JohnLansing.net and follow him on Twitter @JELansing.
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Pocket Star Books
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Karen Hunter Publishing,
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by John Lansing
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First Karen Hunter Publishing/Pocket Star Books ebook edition May 2016
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Cover design by Richard Yoo
Cover photography of Palm tree skyline by iStock / Getty Images Plus and man by EyeEm / Gettyimages
ISBN 978-1-5011-4356-4
Contents
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author