Criminal Pleasures (9 page)

Leaving his martini, Brendan went to him. Marc leaned over the bar, his face close, and spoke softly. “I want you to turn around. And get the fuck out of here.”

Brendan felt like he’d been punched. “Okay. I’m going. I didn’t come here to bother you.”

Marc smiled coldly. “And it didn’t dawn on you that coming to my place of work and chatting up my fiancée might
bother
me?” he hissed in a harsh whisper. “That it might be awkward that the man I slept with last week is having drinks with the woman I’m going to marry, the woman who’s going to help me gain legal status in this country?”

“I’m sorry,” Brendan said.

“Not as sorry as you’re gonna be if you’re not out of here in thirty seconds. I will climb over this bar and put my fist down your throat.”
               Brendan’s teeth clenched. He picked up his jacket, and left Bibeta’s Garden.

And vowed to never,
ever
go back.

Chapter Eight

“Go
home
!” Brendan ordered.

Terry Ann grinned up at him from her desk. He’d asked her to come in on a Saturday to help him out with some work, but told her she only had to stay until noon, and it was half past.

“I will! Just want to finish this up.”

“You’ve done enough.” He leaned over, his hands on her desk. “Go home, Terry Ann. And do whatever it is young women do on Saturday afternoon. You know, shopping. Watching soap operas. Girl stuff.”

“Right. Girl stuff. Try taking a nap. I’m hung over.”

“Big Friday night?”

She rubbed her temples. “You could say that. I went to The Hot Club with my friends and let’s just say I was
not
the designated driver.”

“I’ve been meaning to check out The Hot Club,” Brendan said. “I need to get out more.”

Since Tuesday night’s fiasco, he’d determined that he would stop pining over things lost and start getting an actual life. He still throbbed with hurt feelings, and truth be told, he still throbbed with longing for Marc. But he wasn’t stupid. Marc had threatened him with physical violence. It was safe to say their brief affair was
done
. He had to move on.

“You should,” Terry Ann said. “We should all go out again soon. Guess we won’t be going to Bibeta’s again though, huh?” She looked up at him and rolled her eyes.

Brendan went very still. Terry Ann couldn’t possibly know his business. Could she? “What do you mean?” he asked.

Her eyes widened. “You didn’t hear? Bibeta’s Garden got
raided
the other night. By the cops! They arrested a bunch of people and as far as I know the place is shut down.”

“
What
?”

He hadn’t meant to shout, but Terry Ann jumped in her seat.

“Yeah.” She nodded. “Pretty freaky, huh? We were just there what, two weeks ago? Must be some mob thing. Hey, you going home?”

He’d already started for the door, but stopped and ran back to his office, grabbed his keys and darted back into the front. He pulled a key off his ring and tossed it at Terry Ann. “Lock the place up when you leave, will you?”

“Sure. Where you going?”

“I’ll see you Monday!” he called out, then ran out the door.

****

Atwell’s Avenue was jam packed on Saturday afternoon, so Brendan had to park up and walk a mile before reaching the restaurant. His heart pounded in his chest as he passed under the pineapple arch, past the Italian flags, his feet slapping the pavement.
Raided
.

His mind was a jumble, and he seemed to be running on pure instinct. He had to get there. He didn’t know what he’d do when he did, if he’d even find anyone there. But he had to know if Marc was all right. Hell, if any of them were all right. Gina, Carmen, even Poppy. Fuck, what the hell had happened? It wasn’t any of his business. Marc certainly wasn’t his business anymore. But he couldn’t help himself. He just needed to know he was safe.

He shook his head, quickening his pace.

Must be some mob thing
. Terry Ann’s voice echoed in his mind.
Pretty freaky, huh?

He finally arrived outside of Bibeta’s Garden. The door was closed, but otherwise all looked pretty normal. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Crime scene tape? A big sign on the door? He tried the door but it was locked. On a whim, he knocked.

He stood waiting, but no one came to the door. A few pedestrians glanced his way as they passed by. He placed his hands on his head, pacing in a circle, trying to decide on his next move. Should he go to Marc’s apartment?
Of course not, you idiot
. Marc obviously didn’t want to see him. He’d made that more than clear.
So why am I even here?

So Brendan was a fool, but damn it, he needed to know. He cared about the guy, whether he wanted to or not. He just needed to know where he was. If he was safe.

You’re an idiot, Brendan. The guy doesn’t give a shit about
you.

He’d just determined to leave when the door to Bibeta’s creaked open. Brendan whirled around. Gina’s head peeked out, eyes looking around warily. She was pale, her curly hair disheveled. Then she spotted him, and her eyes widened. “Brendan!”

“Gina, I heard what happened.” He moved to the door. “I wanted to see if you guys were all right.”

Her face crumbled and tears fell. She patted her chest, and opened the door. “Come inside.”

The dining room was dimly lit, and Carmen looked up from the floor, where she was sweeping some debris into a dustpan. Another young man vacuumed near the bar. Gina closed and locked the door behind them.

She began to weep, and Brendan took her in his arms. “It was Tuesday night, after you left. They took us all to the police station,” she whimpered. “They’ve still got Poppy. I don’t think they’re gonna let him go.”

“Of course they’re not gonna let him go!” Carmen snapped as she emptied her dustpan into a trash bin. “Don’t be fucking stupid, Gina. And he shouldn’t be here!” She pointed her sweeping brush at Brendan. “Tell him to leave.”

Gina unwrapped herself from Brendan and looked up at him, wiping her eyes. “We’re not supposed to talk to anyone about it,” she said. “Brendan, it’s just so awful. I don’t know what we’re gonna do.”

“What about Marcello?” he asked. “Is he all right?”

Gina’s lower lip quivered.

“Oh great,” Carmen said as she wiped down a table. “Here come the waterworks again.”

“Shut up, Carmen!” Gina screeched so loud Brendan’s ears popped. Gina looked up at Brendan. “Marcello’s a good kid, I don’t think he was involved in any of the other stuff.”

Brendan shook his head. “What...other stuff?”

“Gina!” Carmen shouted. “Shut your mouth, are you fucking thick?”

“You shut your fucking mouth!” Gina screamed, and Brendan took a step back, wincing. “Brendan came to see me, not you, and I’ll talk to him if I want to!
Vaffanculo
!”

Carmen muttered under her breath, then disappeared behind the door to the kitchen.

Brendan placed his hands on Gina’s shoulders, leaning over. “Gina, take it easy. Where’s Marcello?”

“Oh, Brendan. They took him in, too. He’s being deported.”

The floor seemed to shift under Brendan’s feet. “Deported?” he whispered.

She nodded, dabbing her eyes with her knuckles. “I think they only busted him for working illegally. Like I said, I don’t think he was involved in the other stuff, but they won’t tell us anything.” She shrugged. “For all I know, Marcello’s already gone.”

Chapter Nine

Brendan tried for days to find out something about Marc’s fate, had even called the police station, but kept hitting a brick wall. He called his father to seek advice, but the old man wasn’t much help, and was more curious about why Brendan gave a crap about what happened to some busboy he’d only just met. Then he lectured Brendan about how he should seek to meet ‘the right kind of people’ in Providence, and told him tales of his experiences with the criminal element during his years of dealing with them as an attorney.

It was useless.

He made a weak effort to try and locate Danielle, the fiancée, but didn’t know her last name or anything about her. And he repeatedly ordered himself to just let it go. He had no right to know what happened. Marc was nothing but a hook up, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t gotten closure. Meeting his love interest’s fiancée and being told in no uncertain terms to fuck off had taken care of that.

But each morning he scanned the newspaper, looking for anything he could find about the raid on Bibeta’s Garden. But since the initial report, a short blurb from Wednesday that he found on the Internet, there was nothing. And that only mentioned Vincent ‘Poppy’ DiPietro being taken in for questioning. The details were scant.

He was distracted at work, and had to constantly field questions from his staff, who expressed concern about his silence and moodiness. He drank too much at night, and consumed too much coffee in the morning to fight off the hangovers, which only made him crankier.

Let it go.
There was nothing he could do. He had to forget about Marc.

But he couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried. He imagined Marc in Italy, serving red wine in some outdoor bistro, dressed in black with a red and white checkered apron, his golden eyes glinting in the sun. He relived their last kiss like some mooning school girl. And he drove by the apartment house where he’d slept with him, and wondered if the rainforest was still in there, dying from neglect.

By the time Friday rolled around again, and he still couldn’t stop obsessing about it, he decided to go see Cal Whitehead. If he couldn’t get help from his father, maybe he’d have better luck with his adopted uncle.

Cal sat behind his big desk, his temple propped on his index finger, and he frowned as Brendan explained his wishes. When Brendan finished speaking, Cal rolled up his sleeves, pushed his glasses up on his nose, and rested his arms on the desk, sighing.

“I’m sorry your friend got caught up in all that, Brendan,” he said. “But I’m not sure what it is you think I can do. I have no authority over the cops or immigration.”

“I know,” Brendan said. “But you do have access to files, don’t you? I mean, I just want to know if he’s gone or not.”

Cal groaned, stretching his back. He took his glasses off and set them on the desk. “Maybe you should just let it go, kid. If the cousin said he’s being deported, and you haven’t seen or heard from him, then he’s probably back in Italy by now.”

“Cal, please. You’re a judge. There must be a way to find out.”

“Does your father know about your friendship with these...people?”

Brendan rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Are you going to give me the same speech he did, about hanging out with the wrong element? I just want to know what happened to a friend, Cal. That’s it.”

Cal put his glasses back on and stared at Brendan for several moments, tapping a pen on his desk. Finally he sighed and turned to his computer. “What’s his name?”

“Marcello DiPietro.”

Cal rolled his eyes as he tapped the keys. “Not a very fortunate last name. You say he’s Poppy DiPietro’s nephew?”

“Something like that,” Brendan said. “I can’t keep all the connections straight in that family.”

“How long was he in the United States?”

“I’m not sure.”

Cal glanced up at him. “What is the name of his fiancée? I might be able to look up the visa application.”

“I’m not sure.”

Cal looked at him again, raising his eyebrows.

“Danielle something.”

Cal went back to the keyboard, shaking his head. “To be this concerned about someone, you sure don’t seem to know much about him.”

“Well we only just met, as I said. But he’s a good guy.”

“All right. Give me a minute here.”

Brendan waited impatiently, his foot tapping the floor.

“Ah. Got him,” Cal said.

Brendan straightened up. “What does it say? Has he been deported? Is he gone?”

Cal held up a hand to silence him. “Hang on. I’ve got his visa application, but the status is still pending. And part of his file is blocked.”

Brendan frowned. “Blocked?”

“There’s been a recent addendum to his file but I can’t open it. I might be able to get access.” He glanced up at Brendan. “If I get fired for this I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“Thanks, Cal. I really do appreciate this.”

Brendan sat for what seemed like hours, but was actually only about ten minutes, as Cal tapped away at the keys. When he finally stopped typing, Brendan looked at him expectantly.

Cal’s forehead creased with a frown. He went very still, staring at the screen for a long time, until Brendan cleared his throat. “Cal? You find something?”

Cal looked up at Brendan, then abruptly closed his laptop. He leaned back in the chair, hands resting on his stomach. “Bad news.”

Brendan’s heart sank. “He’s gone?”

Cal’s lips tightened and he sighed through his nose. “I can’t tell you what’s in his file, Brendan.”

Brendan stood. “What? Why not?”

Grimacing, Cal looked up at Brendan. “I can’t give you the information. I could get into trouble. I’m sorry.”

Brendan scowled, frustration tapping at his temples. “Why? Because of the raid on Bibeta’s?”

“I’m sorry, kid. I can’t answer that. It isn’t my place. It’s a police matter now.”

“Cal! Come on. It’s me!”

“Brendan, you’re very trusting. That’s not a bad thing. But this friend of yours, he’s not as innocent as you think. Please don’t ask me any more questions. I can’t tell you details. Just let it go.”

Brendan’s shoulders slumped. “Shit.”

“Why don’t you let me take you to dinner? We can have a couple drinks. Have some fun.”

Brendan leaned over, placing his palms on Cal’s desk. “Cal, what did Marc do? How bad is it? I
need
to know.”

“Why?” Cal shrugged. “Why is this so urgent to you?”

Brendan stared at Cal, then sighed. Slowly, he lowered himself back into the chair.