“Hey!”
I pause and turn back to the crazy bitch who’s yelling at me like she’s suicidal. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” I raise my voice enough that she can hear me, but the few smokers milling around won’t.
She steps up to me, gets in my space. “You’re the capo supremo, are you not? The big guy behind the protection racket you got running in Sagebrush?”
Capo supremo? Does she think she’s in Italy? I assess her from her toes to the top of her head – it doesn’t take long. She’s too fucking short and curvy to be a cop. “I’m a legitimate club owner.” I motion toward Hook’s with my hand.
Apparently, this holds no water. “From what I’ve heard, you’re a Jack-of-all-trades.”
What the fuck is she going on about? “You’re wasting my time. What d’you want?”
“My pop pays you protection. I need some.”
I laugh sardonically. “You don’t get to your point real quick, you’re gonna need protection all right.”
“My pop is Paul Belmonte. He runs the Italian Bakery in Sagebrush.”
Italian Bakery? “Which one?”
“How many Paul Belmontes are paying you protection?” Not really a question. Her smart mouth is grating on my nerves.
“Which one?” I add a razor-sharp edge to my words.
“Belmonte’s, like my pop’s name.” She says it slowly like I’m an idiot.
I know it. “Not a bakery.” It’s splitting hairs, but Belmonte’s has the best calzones I’ve ever eaten.
“It’s a bakery,” she insists. “I should know.”
“Serves coffee and calzones.” I pause. Sandwiches too. Muffuletta’s like you get in New Orleans. I’m right. Still, by the set to her chin, she’s not gonna admit it.
She swipes at her nose like she’s getting fed up with me. “Where do you think calzones come from? The Mario Brothers?”
“I did think that,” I reply in a dead voice.
She opens her mouth, closes it, then narrows her eyes. “Funny man. Doesn’t change the fact that my pops pays you protection and I need some.”
Paul Belmonte has his act together, always pays on time, understands the ways. Unlike his daughter who’s eyeing me like I’m shit on her shoe.
“Paulie send you down here?” I add a threatening growl to my voice.
She shakes her head but doesn’t back off. “He doesn’t know I’m here and I don’t want him to. His ticker’s not so great these days and he’s got enough to worry about what with making a go of the bakery.”
“He need to borrow money?” I’m toying with her. Her pop knows better than to borrow money from the Jury. Smarter than average.
“No,” she says stamping her right foot. “I already said, he doesn’t know I’m here.”
Two middle-aged women dressed and made-up like they’re trying to pass for 20-somethings step out the side door and give me an appreciative glance. One smiles at me as she lights a cigarette. I don’t smile back.
I return my attention to the annoying little Latina. Or maybe she’s Italian. Must be Italian because her dad is. “How about we go inside, get a drink. I’ll even buy.” It’s more to avoid the women who are taking more than a passing interest in me than my desire to spend any more time with short stuff.
She checks out the women I’m looking at. “You own the place. You don’t gotta buy.” Her eyes narrow and I have this sense she doesn’t like them, or maybe anyone.
“Sure, I do. Everything costs, even protection.”
