As I watched her working her hair, I thought about how completely comfortable I felt in her presence. And that’s when it hit me: in the full hour I’d been home, we hadn’t felt the need to exchange a single word.
By four o’clock we were wheels up in the Lear 45 I’d leased from Sensory Resources, the government agency headed by my facilitator, Darwin. I can usually wrangle free use of the agency jets, even when it’s not agency business, but this flight was taking us to the birthday party of a known criminal, and Darwin wasn’t taking any chances being linked to that.
At around six p.m. we checked into my favorite hotel in Cincinnati, the Cincinnatian. While I hit the mini bar, Kathleen began stripping.
“Again?” I said.
“Relax, Tiger. I’m just taking my real shower.”
“What’s wrong with the shower you took a few hours ago?”
“That was for you. This one’s for the party.”
Chapter 11
“Where are all the G-men?” Kathleen said as our stretch limo passed through the gates and headed up the long entrance to Sal’s mansion.
In the old days, the FBI and local police would have been stationed at the bottom of the hill, writing down license plate numbers and snapping pictures of all the guests.
“These are happier times for organized crime,” I said. “These days the feds are more interested in terrorists. As for local law enforcement, the mayor and police chief are apt to stop by for a celebratory drink.”
Kathleen frowned. “No submachine guns?” she said.
I’d made the mistake of mentioning Sal’s party to Kathleen a week earlier, and she insisted on coming. I had been determined to keep this part of my life a secret from her, but two days of her world-class pouting weakened my resolve. Plus, there was a part of me that wanted to see how she’d react to meeting Sal. Would she be able to handle a gangland social event?
“You might see the occasional weapon brandished,” I said.
Kathleen seemed fascinated by the prospect of meeting an underworld crime boss. Over the past few days she asked a hundred questions about my relationship with Sal. I lied by omission, commission, and every other way a person can lie. In the end I led her to believe that Homeland Security had an unofficial alliance with the mob, and that they helped us identify and locate suspected terrorists. I told her that going to Sal’s birthday party was good business for the government, and asked if she’d be willing to perform with a magician at Sal’s party. After telling her what she’d have to do, Kathleen was delighted to be included. As evidenced by her B-movie mob speak.
“Will there be a lot of guys named Lefty?” she said.
“Don’t know.”
“How come criminals never call anyone Righty?”
“Don’t know.”
We pulled up to the front entrance and came to a stop. The driver climbed out, circled the car, and held the door open for us. Kathleen was wearing a cocktail dress, so I got out first and served as a modesty shield.
As she climbed out behind me she whispered, “Am I allowed to call anyone a dirty rat?”
I tried not to smile, but failed.
“Say it,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“I’m funny too.”
“You are not funny.”
“Am too!”
We climbed the steps and entered the house. I remembered every nook and cranny of the place from two years earlier, when I’d broken into this very same home and set up residency in Sal’s attic for a week.
The party was in full swing. Some of the guests were half plastered, as evidenced by the young, up-and-comer from Dayton, who shouted, “Hey, Creed! Yeah, I’m talking to you. You think you’re hot shit? You ain’t nothin’!”
Beside me, I could feel Kathleen’s body tensing.
I gave him the hard stare and his eyes went wild. He started moving toward me. Lucky for him, his father grabbed him by the collar and passed him off to his bodyguards.
“My son has no manners,” said Sammy “The Blond” Santoro. “Please forgive him, Mr. Creed. It’s the liquor talking. I shouldn’t have brought him.”
I looked at him without speaking. We’d made it maybe ten feet inside Sal’s home and I was already on the verge of being exposed.
Sammy, a well-known killer in his own right, a city boss in Sal’s organization—was visibly nervous, practically cowering. Bringing Kathleen to this party had been a mistake. I could only imagine what she must be thinking. She had to be wondering why these hardened men were terrified of me.
“Mr. Creed, I’m prepared to make this right,” he said.
I moved close to him and whispered something in his ear. He bowed, thanked me profusely, and backed away.
“What on earth did you say to that man?” Kathleen said.
“I told him he and his son gave a great performance.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s all part of the show,” I said. “Sal hires people to maintain the theme. It’s all staged, like when you go to a Wild West town and a gunfight breaks out in the saloon.”
The foyer led to the huge great room, decorated in white. We crossed the foyer and got stuck in guest traffic for a minute.
“You think a phony gunfight might break out tonight?” Kathleen said.
“If it does, just play along,” I said.
