James Grippando - Born to Run

The bells on the door tinkled as he entered Angelo’s Bakery. Four P.M. was the end of another eleven-hour day for a baker. Sofia was behind the counter cleaning when she looked up and saw him.

“ Ciao , Sofia,” he said softly.

She froze with recognition. Or maybe it was disbelief. She averted her eyes, staring down at the bread crumbs she’d swept into a neat pile on the floor, as if afraid to look at him.

“It can’t be,” she said.

“You know it is.”

She still wouldn’t look at him. He stepped toward the counter. She was just three feet away, and even in the twilight of her life, her beauty pulled him closer, triggering the memories. For a very brief moment, Sofia was nineteen again, his body was strong, and they could wrestle till dawn bringing each other pleasure.

“You are such a beautiful woman,” he said.

Sofia nervously brushed back a wisp of hair from her face.

“Why have you come here?” she said.

“I need you.”

“You lie.”

“It’s true,” he said. “Right now, I need you more than ever.”

“For what?”

He leaned forward, getting as close to her as he could without crawling over the counter. “Sofia, this time they are going to kill me.”

She was silent for a moment, then slowly raised her eyes to meet his. “You should have been dead a long time ago.”

“That’s true. But I’m still here.”

“Who is it this time? The Sicilians again?”

“The Russians.”

“Why are they going to kill you?”

“Does it matter?”

She put the broom aside. “I suppose not.”

“I need money,” he said.

“How much?”

“Half a million dollars.”

She laughed without heart. “Good luck.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” he said. “I have a plan.”

Sofia didn’t answer.

The Greek fell silent, too, but it was calculated. Even after all these years, he knew that if he just shut his mouth long enough, she would eventually look at him, their gaze would meet, and then he would have her.

Finally, he caught her eye, and before she could speak, the Greek made his plea.

“Sofia, only you can help me.”

“I don’t want to help you.”

“You can’t mean that.”

“I’ve lived a simple life all these years. I’m not the girl you married.”

“Yes, you are,” he said. “Please. I’ll be dead in a week if you don’t help me. You’re the only person in the world I can count on.”

Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment he thought she was angry at him. But the anger seemed directed toward herself, perhaps for not being stronger.

“What kind of plan are you talking about?” she said.

“Very simple,” he said. “I pulled this off once before, and it worked like a charm. Just follow my instructions.”

“Why not do it all over again yourself?”

“Sofia, what did I always say about parties?”

She seemed confused for a moment, but then it came to her, and the memory almost made her smile. “Never throw the same one twice.”

“Exactly. I’ve already thrown this party. It was a beauty, but now I need a new host.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Take a dirty little secret,” he said, “and sell it.”

“What secret?”

The Greek smiled thinly, then pulled up a chair at one of the little round breakfast tables. “It’s a long story, amore mio. Come sit down. And listen.”

Jack was glad to be back in Miami. Sort of.

His old boss from the Freedom Institute had stepped in to keep Jack from committing malpractice while he was in Washington, but day one was payback. Jack’s secretary was out sick, the landlord was hounding him for last month’s rent, and Jack was walking into arraignment with a screwball for a new client. The man was a frustrated understudy in a local production of The Full Monty , and the charge was reckless endangerment for slipping his rival a near-fatal dose of ED medication before curtain time. The courthouse jokesters immediately dubbed it the “standing ovation case.” Jack thought of Vice President Grayson and the cause of his heart attack, and he took it as a sign: on anyone’s list of locos , Miami was still Numero Uno .

How could I ever leave this place?

Luckily, at the end of the day, there was Key Biscayne. Paradise found.

The scenic drive across the causeway in his fastback Mustang was positively therapeutic. The office towers and high-rise condominiums of downtown Miami were behind him. Pelicans soared above the palm trees. Windsurfers and kite surfers enjoyed one last run before sunset, gliding across the blue-green waters that separated the mainland from the key. It was the same group of guys every day. They lived in bathing suits, drove open-air jeeps, drank beer out of coolers, and hung with bikini-clad women on the beach. Jack wondered what they did for a living. He wanted their job.

Jack went straight to the refrigerator and cracked open a cold one. He was about the plop himself into the armchair when the doorbell rang.

“Who is it?”

“Dr. Ruth,” said Andie. “Here to give you tips on sex after forty.”

Jack opened the door. She was wearing an FBI trench coat, but it wasn’t raining, and it wasn’t even a particularly cool evening.

“Do these tips come with an instructional video?”

“No,” said Andie, her eyebrow arching in a seductive curve. “But we could make one.”

She slowly opened her coat, and Jack’s pulse quickened. Then it dropped.

“You’re not naked,” he said.

“What?”

“For a second there, I thought you were naked under your coat.”

She smiled. “Sorry, you’re not in the White House anymore.”

“No,” he said. “Not even close. That’s over.”

She laughed, then turned serious. “Seriously?”

“My dad thought it was…not working out.”

“He fired you?”

“Well, he didn’t really fire-”

She laughed again.

“Why is that funny?”

She tried to stop but couldn’t.

“What are you laughing at?”

“It’s just so… you. ”

Jack turned and walked toward the kitchen. Andie followed. He started to pace, then stopped, giving her an assessing look as he planted his palms firmly on the countertop.

“What is that supposed to mean-it’s so me ?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry. Tell me what happened.”

Andie removed her coat and took a seat on the bar stool. Jack got another beer from the refrigerator and poured it for her.

“I’m not exactly sure,” said Jack. “I’m really worried that my dad is getting too caught up in this Washington bullshit.”

“In what way?”

“Paulette Sparks thinks Grayson was murdered,” he said.

Andie coughed on her beer. “Why does she think that?”

Jack paused. Sometimes he needed to be careful what he said to Andie, given her job. But he had to believe that the FBI already knew about Grayson’s affair with Chloe Sparks, and the FBI definitely had the full e-mail- I can bring down Keyes- that Chloe received from her source. So Jack told her.

“Wow,” she said. “You’ve been a busy boy.”

“But when I tried to tell my father, he didn’t want to hear any of it. That’s when he fired me.”

Andie took a moment to process that one. “Why would he react that way?”

“Honestly, I think he just doesn’t want to be around anyone who is going to force him to dissect the night of Phil Grayson’s death.”

“Because Grayson was a friend, and it’s a bad memory?”

“Possibly.”

“Or because he knows what really happened?”