The Good Kind of Bad (27 page)

It was time to forget.

It was Sunday again when I braved the still kitchen on South Evergreen. When Evan discovered what I’d been doing, he warned against my repeated visits, but I didn’t care. I needed the closure. The echoes of a life, painted in blood; the laughter, tears, violence . . . the life I was happy to forget.

I’d closed the door before rattling the handle and locking it tight, back to the solitude of my suite. Evan was on a date with Brandi, in some gastro-experimental pop-up restaurant where you cooked your own food. It had been Brandi’s idea, apparently. Evan had pandered to me for most of the last week, though once he’d secured my trust, namely that I wouldn’t blab to the cops, his calls became sporadic at best.

I should have been in hijinks over Joe’s death, planning the celebratory cortege announcing the demise of the man who’d ruined my life. I was safe, Joe was gone, but nothing about it felt right.

Maybe acting as Evan’s consort to murder had something to do with it, coming face to face with the macabre, and maybe it was Evan himself that failed to fill me with glee. Like Nina said, I was a
nice
girl. Murder wasn’t part of my repertoire. However much I’d thought I wanted Joe dead, the reality, and hiding that reality, wasn’t something I was equipped to deal with.

At least Nina was back. She turned up one day at work, back from Missouri and tending to a cancer-stricken mother. I’d spied her one morning in the lobby, a dinner date then arranged through a muddle of half-told stories.

Tonight marked our long-awaited catch up at Bemo’s, and tomorrow I’d scheduled in a spot of apartment hunting. With Joe truly gone, I could stay in Chicago. I could make a life here, and a real one this time.

The apartment address? 413 Redemption Square.

Crossing Harvelle Street that evening, through the front windows of Bemo’s I saw George entertaining a laughing Nina with some story that involved the wild flailing of arms.

As I entered and headed for the booth, Nina had already risen from her seat, greeting me with a hug as George moved over to tend a table of empty dishes.

Nina was in a leopard print jump suit and cropped denim jacket. No wonder George had been tending her table so closely. ‘I’m so glad you came!’ she said, while sliding into our replacement booth and dropping her head to the far side of the diner. ‘Look what happens. We skip our dinner reservation for a couple of weeks and our usual booth’s been taken by a bunch of soccer moms.’

‘Bitches,’ I hissed, laughing while I slid in opposite. ‘Don’t they know that’s
our
spot?’

Then she reached her hand across the table, her face softer. ‘Hey, let me start off by apologising.’

‘For what?’

‘You know what, not calling. It was a weird time. My mom’s responding well to the chemo, but the doctors say it’s a matter of time.’

I smiled warmly, squeezing her hand. ‘Don’t apologise, and I’m sorry about your mum. Though you had me worried for a minute.’

Her eyebrows met in the middle. ‘Worried?’

‘You know, with all the Victor stuff you’d told me about?’

‘Hey, not buried in a shallow grave, definitely alive and kicking,’ Nina announced with a mocking fist pump.

My heart jumped a little at the
grave
part. All week I’d been counting on the denial while languishing in my freedom from Joe. It felt good to breathe easy, but when I remembered the truth, the part about Joe being a corpse buried in only the shallowest of holes? Denial wasn’t worth the paper it was written on.

From Shannon we ordered the
molto grande
platter and a bottle of Verdiccio to share. We could both afford to dine higher up the food chain than Bemo’s, quaffing notably better than house wine while we were at it, though Bemo’s did have its upsides. There was no bending over backwards to impress the staff, or to ensure our fellow diners deemed us worthy of their company. Not like K2.

I’d never dream of returning to the French eatery now, not when there was good, hearty, family-style grub right here. I was pained to admit it, but maybe Joe
had
rubbed off on me. And as for the Verdiccio? When in Rome, I suppose.

When Shannon approached, precariously balancing too many dishes in front of her, I knew it would end in disaster. Upon reaching the booth, our bottle of wine slipped from her hand, touching down on the tiles with a smash.

‘Girls, I am
so
sorry,’ Shannon muttered, kneeling under the table for the broken shards. The spillage was met by a raucous cheer from most male occupants of the diner, save steely eyed George.

‘Here, let me help you with that.’ Nina slid out from her seat, her jumpsuit marked with sticky traces of alcohol.

‘No!’ Shannon warned, stopping her with her raised palm. ‘I mean, I don’t want you cutting yourself on the glass, honey. It’s not worth the insurance claim.’

Nina retook her seat like a scolded child, folding her arms with a huff. ‘That’s what you get for trying to help people,’ she snorted.

Shannon’s head sunk as she hurried past a less-than-impressed George, who was already limping over to our booth.

‘Angry restaurant owner at six o’clock. Quick, get into grovelling mode, girl. We could score a free meal out of this,’ Nina exclaimed, trying miserably for discreet.

‘Like we need anything gratis, Nina.’

Then George arrived, with a flurry of a bow. ‘Ladies, please accept my apologies, she is useless. I should never have hired from outside the family.’ Following George’s glare over to Shannon, we saw she’d already removed her apron and released her blond ponytail. ‘Anton, tell her to get her things,’ George shouted over.

Behind the counter Shannon was engaged in a heated argument, with who I guessed was George’s son, the infamous Anton, and looked ready to cry.

‘No, George, don’t fire her,’ I suggested. ‘It was a mistake.’

‘Such a silly girl, she’s only been here a couple of months. I’ll take your cheque out of her tips. All on the house, what do you say?’

‘I’d rather she paid my dry cleaning bill,’ Nina murmured.

I shook my head. ‘You don’t have to do that, George.’

‘It’s already done,’ he confirmed, slapping his palm on the table top. ‘Now, how is Joe doing? Anton said he was supposed to come by last week, with the . . . about some fish,’ he hastily corrected.

Joe. My husband. The dead guy.

‘
Fish
?’ I repeated.

‘Joe said Peter could get us some
great
trout.’

I gave George a blank stare, pretty sure I wasn’t the only one hiding something. ‘Who?’

‘
Who
? Peter Petrozzi! His cousin? He works the lake boats. You don’t know him? Joe never came by. Can you tell him we’re still waiting? He won’t answer his phone. Just goes to a mumbled answering machine message.’

‘Of course. I’ll tell him. To come by, I mean.’ My voice was trembling. Now enveloped by full-on panic, I registered where we were. Joe could have connections to every guy in Bemo’s for all I knew. What had I been thinking? After Nina suggested we meet here, it never crossed my mind how dangerously unsuitable this place was.

Once the commotion settled and George had left our table to have a stern word with Shannon, it was obvious Nina wanted to ask me something, and make that insanely desperate to ask me something.

‘What was that about?’ she asked.

‘What?’

‘You practically having a heart attack when George asked about Joe. Enough avoiding already.’

‘I’m not avoiding anything.’ I dabbed my mouth on the napkin, leaving behind a bright stain of crimson lipstick. ‘Actually, Nina, maybe we should leave.’
Yeah, that was going to work.

‘Leave? You know they brought us this new bottle for free, right? It’s house wine, but who cares? What’s with you?’

I glanced down at the table. ‘Nothing’s with me.’

‘Nothing meaning something?’

She sure liked to press. ‘Nina . . . look, I can’t tell you, even if I wanted to.’ People could be listening. People
including
Anton.

Nina poured herself an extremely large glass of the free wine, smirking as she did. ‘Ooh, are you going for, like, a James Bond thing here? Because I
love
the intrigue.’ Nina chuckled until realising how far from joking I was. ‘You don’t want to tell me? Fine. But whatever this is, it’s killing you. You can’t hold that glass without it shaking. Keep quiet if that makes you happy, but . . .’ Nina paused as I let the tears swell. ‘Girl, what is it?’

‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Even I don’t believe it.’

She gasped. ‘You really are pregnant this time.’

‘No, I’m not pregnant!’ I lowered to a whisper. ‘God, no way. It’s just . . . it’s . . . not important.’

She leant back, lowered her eyebrows and crossed her arms. ‘I think it is. How much have I told you about Mickey? How much have I risked? I trusted you, you know things no one else does. Now I’m here for
you
, and it’s not important?’

‘Nina, you don’t understand.’

‘No, I don’t understand. Why don’t you tell me? Maybe I can help.’

I wiped my perspiring hands on the napkin, as though the blood were there for everyone to see. ‘You want to know? You want to know what I can’t tell you?’

She thumped the table with the butt of her fist. ‘Yes, goddamn it!’

‘All right. He’s dead. Joe, Joe is dead.’

There was more than an awkward pause before Nina’s cackle began as a grin. ‘Petrocelli’s dead? Girl, you almost had me there.’

‘Do I look like I’m joking?’ Judging by Nina’s expression, I didn’t want to know what I looked like. Scary banshee woman, maybe.

‘Then what the hell happened?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know or you don’t want to tell me?’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘Innocence or downright deception for starters.’

My eyes widened. Nina’s if-only-I-had-a-brain stares were a front after all.

Returning to toying with my wine glass, I knew the answer, or at least an escape from the drama was at the bottom of ten of those glasses.

‘Why don’t you start at the beginning?’ Nina offered helpfully.

‘No offence, but I just want to forget and move on.’ I didn’t know how true that was, but I still wasn’t thrilled at myself for letting the secret slip already, and in Bemo’s of all places. The conversation needed to end, and immediately.

‘Let me get this straight, because I’m confused here. The husband that used to treat you like crap dies in an accident and you’re
not
celebrating? It’s like the universe giving back to you, karma and all. Let’s throw this dollar ninety-nine pissy wine and get the champagne flowing. You like Bollinger? They do Bollinger here, right? Hey, stop pouting. That man is better off dead. What was it? Freak toaster-in-the-bath accident?’

‘Who said anything about an accident?’

‘Then how did he . . .’

‘He was shot.’

‘Like, with a gun?’

‘Yes, with a gun!’

‘Wow.’ She thought for a moment, then opened with, ‘Mafia hit? Heist job?
Ex-ex
lover?’

‘It was Evan, all right? It was Evan.’
Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it
?

‘And who the hell is Evan?’ Nina replied, a little too loudly for my liking.

‘Evan is . . . Evan’s the cop,’ I whispered, glancing around for eavesdroppers.

Nina placed her palms flat down on the table, smiling in disbelief. ‘The cop from Faith? You cannot be serious.’

‘Oh, I’m deadly serious.’

‘Girl, what are you messed up in? Or did you get messed up in him?’

‘No! Nina, he has a girlfriend.’

‘And?’

‘Brandi, the
bimbo
,’ I muttered, looking down at the table.

‘All right, so he arrested Joe? All it takes is a little too
much
interrogation. Mickey said he did that once and it didn’t end well, for the other guy I mean. Look, I’ve been in Nowheresville, Missouri while this played out. You can’t leave me hanging with half a story.’

Nina wasn’t close to backing down. I’d managed to keep the
secret
for a total of eight days, and now that I’d breached Evan’s trust, filling in the blanks wasn’t going to make much difference.

‘Joe left for Atlantic City, I guess to lose himself at the bottom of a bottle. He changed, Nina. Try raging alcoholic, wife-beater, knife-wielder and . . .’

‘And what?’

‘And I almost died. I almost fell from the apartment window, no thanks to Joe. Oh yeah, that was after he kicked me in the face. It was Evan who found me and patched me up.’