James Patterson - Don’t Blink

That’s when I decided to try to cut through the bullshit and just ask him. “Mr. Pinero, exactly why am I here?”

The man they called “The Prince” took another long drag off his cigarette, his eyes never leaving mine. I don’t even think he blinked. Then he calmly explained.

He didn’t want to kill me. He wanted to help me.

Or at least warn me.

“Nick, I’ve been set up,” he said. “And that means you’ve been set up, too. I would like you to help me figure out who screwed us both. Let’s help each other, Nick.”

MY FIRST LOGICAL assumption was that slick Eddie Pinero was full of good old-fashioned Grade A bullshit. He was, after all, the high-profile head of an organized crime family, not exactly a poster boy for the straight and narrow. Clearly he was appealing to my journalistic instincts, hoping that he might pique my interest so I’d dig a whole lot deeper into what had happened at Lombardo’s. If he couldn’t prove his own innocence, maybe I could.

All in all it was incredibly transparent. The problem was, it worked on me. Or, at the very least, it got me thinking. The guy had his goons basically kidnap me, but I wasn’t heading straight to the police. What was I going to do, press charges?

Instead, like metal to a magnet, I found myself right back at Lombardo’s Steakhouse later that same day.

I still hadn’t eaten, but a nice porterhouse was the last thing on my mind.

No, the rumbling in my gut was the feeling that something wasn’t quite right about my originally being there to interview Dwayne Robinson. Or, I should say, everything was too right.

Too convenient.

That’s why I’d come back to see my new good friend – Tiffany.

As it happened, I caught her with one foot out the door. It was half past three; lunch was over. The dining room was all but empty.

“You got a second?” I asked. “I’m really sorry to bother you again. I’m relentless, I know.

“Sure, what is it?”

Only there was nothing “sure” about her response. She seemed anxious at the sight of me, even glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone was looking at us.

“Hey, are you okay?” I asked her.

“Huh?” she said, turning back to me. “Oh… um, yeah, I’m fine.”

I wasn’t exactly sold on that. But I pressed on.

“I was hoping you could check something for me,” I said. “You mentioned that the day before Vincent Marcozza was murdered, Dwayne Robinson came in but never sat down. I was wondering – did Marcozza eat lunch here that day?”

“Probably,” she answered quickly. “He practically ate lunch here every day. Sometimes dinner, too. Mr. Marcozza was a big customer.”

“Is there a way you can check for sure? About the day before the shootings? Maybe in your reservation book?”

Again, she seemed distracted. It was as if the question had caught her off guard. What gives, Tiffany? After another glance over her shoulder, she motioned for me to follow her.

We walked over to the reservation book. “That was Thursday, right?” she asked.

I nodded and watched as she flipped back a few pages, the ruby-red nail polish on her index finger scrolling down the list of reservations for that day. Putting my upside-down reading skills to use, I kept looking for Marcozza’s name.

But I didn’t see it. Neither did Tiffany.

“Hmmm. I guess he wasn’t here that day,” she said. “That’s unusual for him.”

“Who wasn’t here what day?” came a sharp voice over Tiffany’s shoulder.

IT WAS THE manager of Lombardo’s. Jack, was it? No, Jason, I thought. Given his tone, though, his name might as well have been Mr. Royally Pissed Off. Tiffany froze at the reservation stand, like a deer in xenon headlights.

I took that as my cue to help out. “My fault. I was just checking to see if Vincent Marcozza had eaten here the day before he was murdered. That’s all. Nothing sinister.”

I was expecting the guy to ask me why I wanted to know that. He didn’t. Instead, he said, “Reservations made by our guests are considered private. It’s restaurant policy, Mr. Daniels.”

Jason knew my name. That was a little strange. We hadn’t officially met. Or exchanged business cards.

“Then my apologies,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

“Yes, but Tiffany did,” he said, turning to her.

She raised her palms apologetically. “Jason, I know you told me -”

He cut her off. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“But -”

“Shut up!” he barked at the poor girl. “You’re fired.” Fired? You’ve got to be kidding.

“What are you doing? She was only trying to help me,” I said, dumbfounded. “I was a customer here, too. Actually, I am a customer. I was about to have a steak.”

My new best friend, Jason, gave me a drop-dead stare. “Was I talking to you?”

“You are now,” I said.

He took two steps forward, getting right smack in my face. He was so close I could tell what flavor gum he was chewing. Wintergreen.

“In that case,” he said, pushing the words through his clenched teeth, “I want you to listen to me real closely, okay? Get the fuck out of my restaurant. Don’t come back.”

So much for the customer always being right… or even tolerated.

“What are you going to do?” I asked. “Call the cops?”

“I won’t if you won’t,” he fired back at me.

I wasn’t exactly the technical adviser on the movie Fight Club, but I’d been in enough scuffles to more than catch his drift. This prick was challenging me.

Keep your cool, Nick. Diplomacy first.

“Listen, there’s no reason this thing needs to get out of hand,” I said.

No sooner had I said it, though, than he suddenly grabbed the lapels of my jacket, pushing me backwards. “I don’t think you heard me,” he said.

Oh, I heard you all right…

Screw diplomacy!

I dug my heels hard into the floor and gave Jason the shove back he so richly deserved. Then he raised his fists. Suddenly, this might as well have been a Rangers hockey game down at Madison Square Garden.

The gloves were coming off, whether I wanted this to happen or not.

Smack!

He threw a right-handed jab, tagging my cheek. It was a sucker punch, completely uncalled for. So I let fly with one of my own – only to catch nothing but air. Jason wasn’t big but he was quick. Too quick to go toe-to-toe.

Time to improvise.

“Nick, be careful,” Tiffany called from the sidelines. Well, that was my plan for sure.

Dropping my head, I charged him straight on and wrapped my arms around his waist. We went hurtling into the dining room, his feet barely skimming the floor as I kept pushing and pushing him like a football tackling sled.

Then, crash!

Table for two, please!

Make that two tables. We upended the first and kept right on going, landing squarely on the table behind it. Plates and silverware went flying above our heads as we hit the floor, barrel-rolling back and forth while trading punches.

I gave a whole lot better than I got now, too. A good right to Jason’s jaw. Another right on the cleft of his chin. “You asked for this,” I yelled in his face. “You wouldn’t let it go.”

Hey, this was even better than a hockey fight. If we were on the ice, the refs would’ve broken it up by now.

But no.

Jason and I were just getting warmed up.

“BOY, YOU’RE HAVING some kind of week,” said Courtney, gently dabbing at the dried blood below my nose with a damp paper towel. “Keep this up and they’ll have to name an action figure after you.”

We were sitting together on the couch in my office at CitiZen magazine. Me, the patient. Courtney, the concerned, and quite beautiful, nurse. With a surprisingly soft touch, too. And she was wearing Chanel.