Speak Easy (Speak Easy 1)

I shoved my bare feet into shoes and moved quietly down the stairs. As I let myself out the front door into the warm night, I tried to place the voice I’d heard. Daddy’s usual bookmaker was a cock-eyed sleaze called Ralph the Bookie, but he had a distinctive nasally whine. This voice was deep and smooth, with a slight accent. Was it Italian?

My stomach churned. The cops found unidentified bodies in the Detroit River all the time these days. Almost nightly, said the papers. Guys who’d been shot, beaten, drowned. I fought off the nausea by quickening my pace.

As I ran past darkened houses, a memory surfaced without warning—Daddy surprising me with a new Hawthorne bicycle on my ninth birthday and teaching me how to ride it. Running alongside me down this very street shouting encouragement. Clenching my fists, I dug my nails into my palms as I reached the end of the block and stopped to catch my breath.

Then with fear lodged like a hatchet in my chest, I turned the corner and inched through the alley toward the garage, my feet crunching on the gravel. At the back door, I closed my right hand around the handle and twisted—unlocked. I pushed it open and stepped in, hearing nothing but my own quick breaths. Seconds ticked by.

I was beginning to wonder if it was all a joke when I heard a rusty voice behind me. “Glad you could make it.”

The door slammed and a meaty hand clamped over my mouth. An arm snared my waist. Cackling, the man walked me deeper into the garage, pushing my legs with his own. Too terrified to resist, I moved forward like a rag doll in his grip.

When we reached the office door, he kicked out a leg and it creaked open.

I was struggling to make sense of the shadowy shapes in front of me when someone switched on the lamp—I gasped behind the sweaty, smothering palm.

On the chair was my father, slouched and bloody.

At his temple, the barrel of a gun.

Chapter Three

Thick arms like iron chains held me fast when I struggled to get to Daddy. I whimpered against the hand over my mouth.

“Well. No one told me you were so lovely,” said the man holding the weapon. Even in the low light I could tell he hadn’t been the one to deliver the beating. Daddy’s face was a swollen red and purple mess, but not a speck of blood marred this man’s white shirt. Not a black hair was out of place.

He nodded to my captor, who released me. I rushed over to my father and put a hand on his neck. His skin was warm, but I couldn’t find a pulse. “Is he dead?”

“Looks that way, don’t it?” snapped the voice behind me. I glared at him. He was younger and stockier than the well-dressed man, and his jaw was shadowed by whiskers where the older man’s was clean-shaven. His wrinkled blue shirt stained with blood.

“Now, now.” The well-dressed man spoke very gently for someone holding a gun to a person’s head. “He isn’t dead yet. No need to be cruel.”

My fingers finally located a pulse. Thank God. “What do you want?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“Is she armed, Raymond?”

Raymond started to grope me from behind.

“Stop it! I’m not armed!” I shook him off. “Please! Why have you done this?”

The older man put the gun down and picked up his black suit coat from the desk, brushing it off before slipping into it. “Your father has refused to acknowledge my offer of protection.” He adjusted his cuffs. “He’s testing my patience.”

“That’s right,” put in Raymond.

“Raymond, please.” The man tucked the gun inside his coat.

“Protection…protection from what?” I asked.

“From anyone who might wish to harm him or his business, of course. These days it could be anything—bombing, arson, the murder or kidnapping of a family member.” He listed these things as if he were reciting the menu at a roadhouse diner. I shivered, even though I was sweating.

“I don’t understand. Why would anyone want to harm us or the business?”

“It’s nothing personal, piccolina. In fact, it’s a compliment. Your father is a small fish, but he runs such a goo

d operation, he’s caught the attention of bigger fish.”

“Sharks,” said Raymond.

“Exactly,” agreed the man. “And sharks, when they see the fine meal of a small fish, they get greedy. They get hungry. They want a piece of the meal for themselves.”