Happy Ending (Fisher Brothers 4)

A wicked grin crept across Nick’s face. “She had no idea.”

“That’s the best,” I said as I kept washing. Glancing at the clock on the wall, I realized we had a little over forty minutes until we reopened to the public.

“Think he’ll show up tomorrow?” Nick reached for a clean glass from my hand and started drying it.

“He’ll definitely show up. Unless he died,” Frank said with a shrug.

“Think he’ll come alone again?” Nick asked, and I realized that it hadn’t even occurred to me that he might come with backup.

Nerves tied my stomach in knots. “Do we have a plan? What if he shows up with the whole damn mob or something.” I had no idea what the hell we were going to do when the guy stormed back into our bar and demanded the keys to it.

Grant’s sarcastic voice broke through our otherwise hushed tones. “What are you girls carrying on about back here?”

“Nothing,” I said, hoping that would be the end of it. But this was Grant we were talking about.

He pounded a fist on the bar top, drawing unwanted attention toward us. “Boys. Get over here right now and tell me what you’re talking about. I might be able to help.”

I exchanged glances with my brothers. Nick’s eyes widened a little and Frank shrugged, so we wandered over to where Grant stood, his expression almost murderous. Frank nodded at me to speak for us.

“Some scary-ass guy came in here,” I told Grant, “saying that he owns the land the bar’s sitting on. He wants to close it and tear it down.”

Grant stayed silent for a beat, working his jaw. “What’s this fellow look like?”

“Scary,” Nick and I said in unison.

“Like mob scary?” Grant asked.

I cocked my head to the side. “What do you know about it, old man?”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Grant shook his head as a sly smile formed. It was the last thing I expected to see at a stressful time like this.

“Why are you smiling?” Frank asked, sounding as irritated as I felt.

“Because I know what the fella wants.”

When Grant didn’t say anything more, I nearly lost my temper. “Are you going to tell us what that is?” If I had to drag the information out of him by force, I would.

He put an aged hand in the air and looked down, that stupid smile still on his face. “In a second. I just can’t believe everything that old geezer said was true.”

The three of us stood there staring at him, our hearts in our throats as we waited impatiently for him to explain.

“If you’re not going to help,” Frank huffed, “I don’t have time for this.” He turned to go.

“Wait a damn minute,” Grant shouted, and a sliver of shock coursed through me as Frank complied.

Grant looked behind his shoulder to make sure no one else could hear, then waved us closer. “I used to come here a lot. Got to know Sam Jr. pretty well, long before you boys bought the place. He used to tell me all kinds of stories, but that’s what I always thought they were . . . stories that he made up. They sounded so farfetched, but I guess they weren’t.”

“I need you to start making sense, Grant, because you’re not making any,” Nick said, clearly as anxious as the rest of us.

The old man glanced over both shoulders again, seeming nervous. “He told me that an old mob boss had asked his father to hold some things for him back in the day. The mobster said he wasn’t sure when he’d come back to collect the items, but that they’d better be waiting for him when he did. Sam Sr. knew the guy was serious, so he hid the stuff for him. And Sam Jr. told me they were still right where his dad left them all those years ago. He was terrified to move them. Told me he only even looked at them once, then never looked again.”

“He didn’t tell you what the guy gave him?” I asked.

Grant shook his head. “He had no idea. He said his dad put it away and they pretended that it never existed. Only talked about it once or twice. I reckon whatever that guy gave Sam’s father is what your guy is after.”

“Wait.” Frank held a finger in the air to stop all conversation, like this was something too insane to be true. “Why would the mob be in Santa Monica? And why would he ask Sam’s father to hold something for him? It makes no sense.” Frank looked about as unconvinced as I was.

An annoyed grunt came from Grant. “Do you not know anything about Santa Monica’s history? The mob used to come here all the time. It was their getaway spot before they turned their sights on Vegas. They hung out a lot at the Georgian Hotel right down the street. There was a speakeasy in the basement that they used during Prohibition. Apparently, this particular guy knew better than to try to keep whatever he wanted hidden there. He told Sam that the Georgian was too obvious a choice, it would be found in a heartbeat, but that no one would suspect Sam’s Bar. He said they’d never even think to look for it here.”