I sat in the back of the car wishing I had had dinner. Firstly, because I was hungry. Secondly, because I was now a lot more drunk than I normally would have been if I had only had four cranberry juice and vodkas. Thirdly, because if I was going to die, I wished I had had a last meal that consisted of more than noodles and veggies.
We drove down Broadway toward Englewood and I wondered when the gang was going to notice I was gone. They’d probably call Luke and Luke would probably get pissed, at me.
Fuckity, f**k, f**k, f**k.
“Mr. Zano wants to see you,” the big guy in the passenger seat turned to tell me.
“Okay,” I said, deciding to be cooperative in order not to get beaten up, shot at, chained to a sink, car bombed or the like.
“You know Mr. Zano?” he asked.
“No,” I told him. I mean, I knew several Zanos, including Uncle Vito and Dom’s shit-hot cousin Ren Zano, but I could call both of them friends and neither of them would kidnap me.
He looked at his friend then back at me. “Mr. Zano knows you.”
“Okay,” I agreed, even though I knew no kidnapping, having beefy-henchmen “Mr. Zano”.
“Mr. Zano also knows you were at Dominic’s house last night with Stark. Are you like The Law?” he asked.
“Law” was Jules’s street name. Jules was a social worker and months ago she’d started a (rather successful) one-woman vigilante operation against the drug dealers in the city. This was part of why she was shot. She also worked with Lee’s boys for a few days and did what she did with them so well it significantly enhanced her street cred. She didn’t do that anymore but apparently she hadn’t been forgotten.
“No,” I repeated.
“What were you two doin’ there?” he went on.
“Sissy Vincetti is my friend. She left Dom and she wanted some of her stuff. We went to get it for her,” I lied.
He looked at his partner as if his partner could confirm my story. His partner shrugged. The guy talking to me lost interest in our conversation and turned back to the front.
I looked out the window trying not to hyperventilate as we pulled up to red light and my eyes moved across the street. Brightly lit and totally still open was a Walgreen’s.
I looked to my door. It was unlocked.
I looked to my kidnappers. They weren’t paying any attention to me.
I didn’t know Mr. Zano but I knew anyone who sent two big goons after a woman was someone I didn’t really want to talk to. I’d also heard on a TV show once that it was actually hard to shoot someone considering bullets were little tiny things, targets were usually moving and most people were bad shots.
I sighed, said a little prayer, promised myself that tomorrow I was drawing up a will, opened my door and took off like a shot.
“What the f**k!” One of the guys shouted.
I zigzagged across Broadway, throwing my arms out as I got from the southbound lane (where the traffic was stopped), to the northbound lane (where traffic was flowing). Cars honked and swerved and I ran in my high-heeled sandals as best as I could.
I hit the sidewalk and heard him pounding behind me, more cars honking and I was worried he was close.
Damn, damn, damn it!
I kept going, not looking back, the automatic door swooping open and I ran directly to the cash register.
I stopped, bent over, breathing heavily as the cashier said to me, “Are you all right?”
I looked at the doors.
The Passenger Seat Guy was stopped outside the door and glaring. He pointed at me, moving his mouth saying something I couldn’t hear and then turned and jogged away.
I watched him go, memorizing as much as I could about what he was wearing and how he looked. When he disappeared, I turned to the cashier and said, “I’ve just been kidnapped. I need you to phone the police.”
* * * * *