A Bookie's Odds Read online

  Celeste threw her head back and shrieked. The balding driver in the brown-and-white station wagon in front of them peered into his rearview mirror.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You are.” Celeste rocked back and forth. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Nicky fighting ’cause of me.”

  “I wasn’t joking. Why else would Nick get into a fight?”

  “’Cause that kid insulted you.”

  Georgia would have convulsed with laughter had she not been behind the wheel. Since getting into an accident was not on her agenda, she faced forward and sucked her teeth.

  Yes, she was under the protection of the Santianos. And yes, over the years Nicholas had come to her defense more times than she could count. However, she had no doubts regarding his priorities. Family came first, and the punk was getting his face rearranged because of his insult to Celeste, not her.

  Celeste slumped back in her seat. “If he’s not fighting ’cause of you, what was all that back there?” She deepened her voice. “Take my ride, Georgia.” She switched back to her softer pitch. “Why didn’t he give me the keys?”

  “’Cause you can’t drive.”

  “New York City seems to think otherwise.” Celeste pulled her license out of the side pocket of her red-checkered dress and waved it in the air.

  “You only got that ’cause you cried after your last road test. The instructor felt sorry for you.”

  “Then what about the kiss?”

  “That was all for show.”

  Georgia refused to take Nicholas’s flirting seriously. She did not possess the four B’s he looked for in a woman: blonde hair, blue eyes, and big breasts. Though her shirts did not lie flat against her, the tops worn by the women he dated strained against the overabundance of flesh stuffed underneath the material.

  Georgia smashed the horn to alert the first driver that the light had changed. The man stuck his arm out the window and gave her a one-finger salute.

  After another failed interview that morning with a man who treated her as if she could not add one plus one, and then an afternoon of reviewing books that had been altered, she had little patience for the man. Georgia maneuvered around the other car and hit the gas. He barely had time to yank his arm back before she sped past.

  Taking the side streets, she avoided the rush hour traffic that would have turned the thirty-minute drive from Coney Island into an ordeal. When they arrived at the Fort Greene section of Brooklyn, she parked in front of the brownstone next door to the Santianos’.

  Georgia followed Celeste through the garden entrance of the four-story structure. The aroma of pollo alla cacciatora welcomed her to her second home. As always, Mr. Santiano’s chicken made her mouth water.

  “Papa, we’re home,” Celeste yelled.

  “Who’s we?”

  Georgia strolled into the kitchen. “It’s me, Mr. Santiano.”

  The older man looked up from the stove, where he had been dropping dough into a deep fryer. Strands of gray intermingled with his brown hair, moustache, and goatee. His solid physique, however, had not been affected by time.

  “I didn’t expect to see you ’til this evening.”

  “We had a little trouble,” Celeste volunteered. She swiped a zeppole from a plate on the counter next to the stove. “Nicky sent us home in his car.”

  In the light drifting through the opened window, Georgia watched the man’s warm, brown eyes turn cold. “You had a problem at Joey’s?” His tone promised unpleasant consequences if he did not like the answer.

  Though he employed musclemen to help with debt collection, when it came to his family and friends, Mr. Santiano did not hesitate to get his hands dirty.

  “Some kids insulted Celeste,” Georgia replied. “Nick took care of it.”

  He glanced at Celeste, who was too busy chewing her pastry to elaborate on the events. After a heartbeat, he shook his head. “How did things go otherwise?”

  Satisfied the man would not storm out of the house looking for blood, Georgia leaned against the counter. “Everyone’s fine—” She focused on the black-and-white pattern on the floor.

  “But?” he asked when she did not complete her thought.

  Georgia’s head snapped up. “How did you know there was a ‘but’?”

  He pointed at her with the spoon he had been using for the dough. “You were fiddling with your fingers. You only do that when a ‘but’ is involved.” He rapped the back of Celeste’s hand with the spoon as she reached for another zeppole. “Was it bad?”

  Georgia nodded. “The books had been altered,” she replied as she folded her hands behind her back.

  “You told Joey?”

  “Yes.”

  Georgia recalled the disappointment in the man’s eyes when she showed him the changes in the ledgers that confirmed his son had been stealing from him. Despite the betrayal, he maintained his composure as he paid her fee. He then mumbled his excuse before slipping out of the room.

  A friend of the family for sixteen years, Georgia had known what was to follow. From an early age, every Santiano was taught no matter what side of the law you chose to live on, you did not screw over family. The punishment for doing so was not pleasant. The bloody pipe in Nicholas’s car attested to the severity.

  “Grazie, cara.” Mr. Santiano picked up a plate and held it toward her. “Take one.”

  Like Nicholas had done earlier when he offered to buy her an ice cream cone, Marco Santiano was using her penchant for sweets to sooth her. Of course, Georgia was too fond of the fried dough dripping with honey to say no.

  “Are you staying for dinner?” he asked as she took a zeppole.

  “No, I promised Daddy I’d be home before he went to the bar,” she replied before she licked a drop of honey from her finger.

  “You’ll take some food with you.” Mr. Santiano placed the plate on the counter. As he reached up to a cabinet next to Georgia, the front door slammed open. The boisterous laughter announcing Nicholas’s arrival was tame compared to the racket he used to make when he came home from school.

  “Hey, Pops, you in the kitchen?”

  “Who else do you think’s cooking? It’s definitely not one of my lazy children.”

  Nicholas stepped into the kitchen. Neither he nor Celeste appeared to take offense at Mr. Santiano’s comment.

  Celeste gasped when Gianni walked into the room. “What happened to your face?”

  “The prick took a swing at me.” He rubbed his bruised jaw. “He hits like a girl.”

  Georgia rolled her eyes. Gianni had the dark hair and bluish-gray eyes of a leading man and the build of a middleweight boxer. He also had an attitude that straddled the line between respect and insolence.

  The chair scraped against the linoleum as he dragged it from underneath the table.

  “Watch the floor,” Mr. Santiano scolded.

  “Yeah, sure,” Gianni mumbled as he slouched in the chair.

  Shaking his head, Mr. Santiano turned back to the stove.

  Nicholas leaned against the counter.

  His lips twisted in a smirk and his eyes danced with mischief. Before she could contemplate the reason for his glee, he leaned in and took a bite from her zeppole.

  “Get your own.” She pulled her hand away, too late to save half her pastry.

  “Feed me,” he said around the food in the mouth.

  “Feed yourself.”

  “Gotta clean up first.” He held out his battered knuckles. “That puke’s jaw was as hard as granite.”

  Aside from his bruised hands, he showed no signs of the fight. Every strand of his brown, wavy hair was in place. His gray pants and blue button-down shirt had no wrinkles, dust, or blood. And, instead of sweat, he smelled of cigarette smoke and the remnants of the aftershave he’d applied that morning.

  “No one told you to fight.”

  “What was I supposed to do? Stand there while some punk calls you out of your name?”

  “You could’ve tried talking, or wa
lked away.”

  “I did.” He caught a dishtowel his father tossed to him. “My fists told him I didn’t appreciate his comment, and I walked away when they were finished.”

  Nicholas was a diehard member of the black-eye, loose-tooth, broken-bone club. He gave no warnings before he let his fists convey his emotions. And, while his methods had always convinced bullies to find someone else to torment, she sometimes wished he’d find a less violent means of expressing himself.

  Georgia watched as he dabbed the blood from his tender knuckles. Despite her beliefs, she was a member of the cold compress, antiseptic, bandage league and had never been able to turn her back on him when he was hurt.

  With a sigh, she popped the remainder of her zeppole in her mouth before grabbing Nicholas’s arm and pulling him to the sink. She turned on the faucet and shoved his hands underneath tepid water.

  He chuckled. “I knew you cared…ow, fuck…”

  ****

  The expletive slipped out when Georgia not so gently pressed the dishtowel to a cut. The subsequent sting to the back of his head was not unexpected.

  “Watch your language,” his father scolded as he passed by to answer the telephone in the hall. “There’s a lady present.”

  Nicholas uttered another expletive under his breath. He pulled a hand from under the faucet, reached up, and rubbed the spot his father had slapped on the back of his head.

  “Don’t look so smug,” he grumbled, glancing at the woman by his side.

  The smile Georgia had not bothered hiding grew wider. He flicked water on her. As he expected, she splashed water back at him.

  At times Georgia could be as annoying as his sister. Of course, what else could he expect from two women who spent so much time together? From first grade through twelfth, they’d attended the same schools. And, even if they weren’t in the same classes, they always met for lunch and hung out together every day after school.

  Aside from their tendency to act silly, the women were different as night and day. Celeste had cared less about academics. She fussed over her wardrobe, and her reading list included Glamour, Mademoiselle, and Vogue. While Georgia had traded in her shapeless pinafores for dresses with fitted bodices and full skirts, she preferred textbooks over fashion magazines. She did not spend hours fussing over her hair and face. Instead, she wore her dark brown hair in a ponytail that gave the world an unobstructed view of her flawless cocoa complexion.

  “That was Joey,” his father announced, returning to the kitchen.

  “I already took care of it,” Nicholas replied.

  Georgia tensed, yet she remained silent. He knew she was not a fan of his method of solving problems, but in this case she would not argue with him. She understood the Santianos’ code. His cousin stole from family. There was no talking and no second chances. Only the painful reminder that one did not screw over family.

  “Joey told me.” His father returned to spooning food into a bowl. “His kid should count his blessings. If I’d handled it, he’d have walked away with two busted hands, not one.” He looked at Georgia. “Joey would like you to take care of the books for the diner.”

  “No,” Nicholas said at the same time Georgia asked, “Are you serious?”

  His father raised an eyebrow. “No one asked you,” he said to his son before addressing Georgia. “Yes, I am.”

  “Why can’t Uncle Joey find another bookkeeper?” Nicholas asked, despite his father’s comment. He pulled his hands from under the faucet.

  “He trusts Georgia.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Then it’s a good thing it’s not your decision to make.” She tossed the towel at him and turned off the water.

  His father laughed.

  Nicholas bit back the retort that would start an argument. With his father on her side, it would be an argument he’d lose. Not that Georgia needed someone to back her up. She was more than capable of holding her own against him. Her earlier work at the diner was a testament to that.

  Nicholas had objected when his father first asked her to review the books at the diner that also hosted a gambling den in the basement. Instead of taking his concerns into consideration, she firmly, but sweetly, told him to mind his own damn business.

  “Don’t pay attention to him,” his father said now. “You think about what’s best for you.”

  “How could you condone her working there? You wouldn’t recommend Celeste for the job.”

  “That’s ’cause Celeste adds as well as she cooks.”

  “Papa,” Celeste whined.

  “I’m sorry, darling, but numbers aren’t your thing.” The older man placed a kiss on his daughter’s forehead before turning to the other woman. “Give this to your father, and tell him I send my best.”

  “Thank you.” Georgia’s features softened as she accepted the shopping bag full of food. Her eyes narrowed when she turned back to Nicholas.

  With a sigh, he tossed the towel on top of a basket sitting on the floor by the entrance to the kitchen. “I’ll give you a ride.”

  “I’m not sure if I want a ride from you.”

  “How do you expect to get home?” He took the bag from her. “Walk?”

  “I could take the bus.”

  “And you could stop being a pain in my rear.” He placed a hand on the small of her back. “I’ll be back in a few,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Take your time,” Gianni said.

  “I’ll keep him company,” Celeste added as she slid into the seat next to his friend.

  “Or he can drive himself home,” his father suggested.

  Before the older man volunteered to show him to the door, Gianni stood and followed the couple out of the house.

  Nicholas led Georgia to the passenger side of the convertible and opened the door. Though his father did not conduct business in the house, everyone in the neighborhood knew he would not hesitate to draw blood if his family or property was disturbed. The fear insured no one messed with Nicholas’s car when he left it unlocked with the top down.

  Gianni continued to the red coupe parked in front of the convertible and drove off. Nicholas was not offended by his friend’s abrupt departure. They never believed in saying goodbye only to have to say hello when they met up again.

  Georgia slid into the passenger seat while Nicholas placed the bag on the floor in the back. Once she was settled, he closed her door, then jogged around to the driver’s side.

  They rode in silence, and Nicholas knew Georgia was contemplating his uncle’s offer. A week earlier, she had confided in him the trouble she was having in finding a job. Before reviewing her applications, interviewers would point her in the direction of the secretarial pool. And those were the ones who had been able to look beyond her complexion. One potential employer presented her with a mop and told her to empty the trash when she was finished with the floor.

  The job at the diner was the opportunity Georgia had been hoping for. Yet Nicholas’s protective instincts kept him from supporting her. There were some places she should not frequent, just like there were some men she should not get involved with.

  Realizing his objections would start an argument, Nicholas decided to drop the subject for the time being.

  “I’m wearing a navy blue suit tonight,” he announced.

  Georgia turned to him and raised her eyebrows. “Why should I give a hoot about what you wear?”

  “Figured you’d want to know so we don’t clash.”

  “And why would we?”

  “I’m taking you to the club.”

  She rolled her eyes so hard he was surprised she did not sprain her eyeballs. “You’re full of yourself. You don’t even know if I’m going.”

  Nicholas chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You’d never miss Nonna’s birthday.”

  “Then who said I’d let you take me? Maybe I’m going with someone else.”

  Red flashed before his eyes. Nicholas’s laughter abruptly sto
pped. He clenched his teeth to keep his objections from escaping.

  His reaction was ridiculous. Georgia was his sister’s best friend. There was no reason he should care whether or not she went with someone else. However, the realization that his behavior was inappropriate did not stop him from insisting, “You’re going with me.”

  “You couldn’t find anyone else?”

  He had not considered asking anyone else. It would not be the same, attending a family gathering with anyone but her.

  Instead of telling her the truth, he grumbled, “Why do you have to make things so difficult?”

  “Someone needs to put you in your place. It’s presumptuous to expect people to jump at your command.”

  “Just be ready at seven,” he announced as he turned the corner.

  “Humph,” was her only response.

  He drove to the other end of the block and parked in front of a three-story building. Cardboard covered one of the windows to Sugar, the bar her father operated from the space on the ground floor.

  “What happened?”

  “Someone broke in last week.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  She shook her head. “It happened after closing. They were gone by the time Daddy got downstairs.”

  Nicholas noticed the stubborn glint in her eyes.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Georgia sighed. “When I came downstairs, Daddy was reading something. I asked him about it, but he shoved the paper in his pocket and told me it was nothing.”

  “Don’t you trust your father?”

  “I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Stop worrying.” He brushed his hand across her cheek. “If it was serious, I’m sure your father would tell you.” Despite his statement, he made a mental note to speak to his father. Over the years, the two men had become good friends, and his father watched the other man’s back just as he did Georgia’s.

  Nicholas climbed out of the car, strolled to the passenger side, and opened the door. “Don’t forget, I’ll be back at seven.” He reached into the back and grabbed the shopping bag.

  Georgia sucked her teeth. “You’re so full of yourself.” She climbed out of the car.

  “Confidence is a virtue.”

  “Or a sign of arrogance.” Georgia took the bag from him and sauntered toward the stoop.