Private Vegas (Private 9)

“Dexter Lewis had more important things to do than try you for punching him in the nose.”

“So you leaned on Bobby Petino.”

I grinned.

“Good,” Rick sa

id. “Once I’ve had a shower and a shave, order will be restored to the universe.”

“I’ll run you by your house.”

“You were saying something about lunch, Jack? Where are we going?”

“Feel like having lobster with a mobster?”

“If the lobster doesn’t mind, it’s okay with me,” said Rick. “Where’d you park the car?”

Chapter 116

RICK AND I sat at a table on the open deck at the back of the Lobster, a charming old eatery on Ocean Avenue at the head of the Santa Monica Pier.

From where we sat, I could see the Pacific Wheel, the Carousel Building, and the red awnings over a paved walkway that zigzags down toward the pier and water.

Rick was leaning over a bowl of clam chowder, shoveling it in. He hadn’t had a meal worthy of a human being in two days, and I didn’t see why he should wait for Ray Noccia.

I sat back in my seat, tried to enjoy the pretty scene, but the truth was, I was worried.

Last year, despite my wanting nothing to do with organized crime, Ray’s oldest son, Carmine, coerced me into recovering millions in stolen pharmaceuticals belonging to the Noccia family.

We did the job perfectly. The Noccias got screwed without knowing it. Private was kept out of sight and I was sure that we’d left no trace of what we’d done.

Now I was having doubts.

About half a year ago, Carmine Noccia had teamed up with Tommy to blackmail me. Carmine suspected I’d double-crossed the Noccia family with the pharmaceutical case—but I got him off my back easily enough. Ray Noccia was a different story. He had the power that Carmine didn’t.

If Ray Noccia had found me out, he might be looking at me to pick up the ten-million-dollar tab. Actually, people had been killed for much less.

Rick finished his soup, mopped up the remains with his bread. He burped and was going for the last of his wine when a gray-complexioned, gray-haired man in a gray sports jacket came up the stairs with a couple of goons at his heels. They stood in the entrance as a smiling Ray Noccia approached our table.

“Good to see you, Jack,” Noccia said to me. “Don’t get up. You too, Rick. Sit.”

Noccia reached for the back of a chair and at the same time turned his head toward the stairs. Looking past his protection, he said, “Oh, here he comes now. I asked Tommy to join us for lunch.”

My brother, Tommy?

My unease turned to dread when I saw my twin coming into the restaurant. Ray Noccia had more notches in his gun belt than Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western. Tommy lived to take me down and he had history with Ray Noccia through our father. An alliance between these two could not be good for me.

“Hey, Jack,” Tommy said, closing in on our table. “I’m really glad to see you, bro.”

Tom sat down. Noccia sat down. The waiter came over with menus, and the don ordered Pellegrino for the table.

After the waiter walked away, Noccia said to me, “I really didn’t have to be here, Jack. I just wanted to see your face when Tommy said his piece. Tommy?”

Tommy accepted the handoff with a gracious nod, looked as pleased as if he’d won the trifecta at Santa Anita.

“Let me give you the short version,” he said.

“Take all the time you want,” I said.