I struggled and I kicked. Correction. I tried to kick, but the tight sequined dress didn’t allow for much movement at the knees. Note to self: Skip the mermaid style in case of future kidnappings.
“Shit,” said my abductor. “I’m not supposed to hurt you.”
Well, that was reassuring. But it didn’t mean I couldn’t hurt him. So I chomped down on his hand.
“OW!” he yelled. “Son of a BITCH! Micky, grab her feet.”
Micky whoever-he-was grabbed my feet, and the next thing I knew I was in the air. They carried me along a small deserted hallway behind the stores. I hate being carried. Almost as much as I was beginning to hate this dress. Sequins scratch, dammit. After all this struggling, my underarms were going to be a mess.
We passed another goon as we maneuvered through an open doorway.
“Aw, Ricky. You couldn’t have done it any other way? Put her down,” said a deep male voice.
Micky and Ricky? I suppressed a giggle. I mean, let’s face it. You can’t be scared of thugs who sound like a boy band from the eighties.
They plunked me down in front of a wooden desk. Micky left the room and closed the door behind him. Ricky stayed. His hand appeared to be permanently glued to my shoulder. The other parts of him were standard-issue Italian Stallion. Brown eyes, high cheekbones, black hair slicked back. He could have walked out of a high school production of Grease.
I turned toward the owner of the deep voice, who sat behind the desk. His face looked a little familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
While he stared at me, I had time to look at him. He had a good-looking face, for an older guy. For some reason I thought of Dean Martin in his middle years. There was intelligence in the eyes, and a touch of humor too.
He sat tall behind the desk. I took in the upmarket gray suit jacket, the crisp white shirt with no tie, the solid set of his shoulders. His hands were busy, playing with a squeeze ball or something.
“Well, well. She’s a looker, Ricky. Should have expected that.”
“Take your hands off me,” I growled at Ricky. He clutched my shoulder harder.
I made my decision. Showtime. To hell with the dress. I didn’t care if it got ruined. No way was I going down without a fight. And these guys? They had no idea what I was capable of.
I swiveled my head back to the man who seemed to be in charge. “You want I should kill him or just hurt him a bit?” I said nonchalantly. “Of course, I can’t be sure to get it right.”
“Ha!” the older man barked.
I waited.
“Take your mitts off her, Ricky,” he said. He looked at me. “You Canadians have a funny way of talking.”
“It’s our winters. The cold makes us friendly.” I was doing my best to follow the family training we all got: Never show fear. Never.
“You sure got a smart mouth. Happens I don’t mind that. Ricky, get her purse.”
My jaw dropped. “You’re going to rob me? Poor schmucks. I didn’t have more than thirty bucks on me.
“Of course not. Ricky, hurry up and get her passport.”
I smiled and watched Ricky search through my purse. Pete had locked our passports in the hotel-room safe.
“Not here, boss,” said the goon.
“Okay, driver’s license.”
This was weird. I decided it was time to bring out the big guns. “Probably at this point I should tell you about my uncle Vince.”
“I know your uncle Vince,” said the man behind the desk.
Crap.
I watched the goon flip through my wallet. He handed it over to the man behind the desk.
“The print is too small. Read that, Ricky.”
“May fifth, 1988,” said Ricky.
The big man looked up. “That your birthday, sweetheart?”
I was baffled. “Yup. You could have just asked me.”
He stared at me now. I wasn’t sure he liked what he saw. “Rita was right. So Marie is your mom. Sure looks like Marie did, I’ll say that. Doesn’t act like her though.”
Marie? This guy knew my mom?
“Who are you?” I blurted out.
“Frank Portobello. Yeah, like the mushroom, but don’t say it.”
I got the impression it might be unhealthy to say it.
“I run this joint.” He swept a big hand through the air.
By joint I assumed he meant the Necropolis, not the back end of the dress store.
There was a commotion out in the hall. A few shouts, and then something big hit the floor. For a few moments we all stood listening, transfixed. Ricky woke up first and rushed to the door. I was right behind him when he opened it.
Two guys lay on the floor. Micky was out cold. The other was holding his crotch and moaning.
“Your thugs need better manners,” said Pete, shaking his right hand.
“And you decided to teach them some.” I shook my head.
“You know this guy, Gina?” said Frank Mushroom.
“Kinda. We’re getting married tomorrow.” Wow, that felt good to say.
“Useless bunch of pansies,” said Frank, shaking his head at his men on the floor. He turned to Pete. “Come in and join the party.” He walked back to his desk and sat down.
“You okay, babe?” said Pete. His sandy hair was somewhat ruffled.
I nodded.
“Nice dress.”
“Thought you’d like it,” I said. “But it ain’t gonna happen. These sequins are like knives under my arms.”
I turned to Mr. Mushroom and made the introductions. “This is my fiancé, Pete Malone. Pete, this is Frank Portobello.”
Pete raised an eyebrow. “Like the—”
“Don’t say it,” I interrupted. “He owns the Necropolis.”
“Pete Malone,” said Frank. He turned to Ricky. “That sounds familiar. Do we know a Pete Malone?”
Ricky thumbed his smartphone. We all waited. “Quarterback,” he said finally. “Retired in 2011 due to he got clobbered.”
Frank nodded. He seemed to approve of the football. Or maybe the clobbering.
“And you snatched Gina and brought her here because…?” Pete still cradled his right hand in his left. I hoped he hadn’t broken anything.
“I wanted to meet her,” said Frank.
It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
He gazed at me long and hard. The next thing he did was surprising. He gave me a wide smile.
“Because I’m your father.”