9

Jack was sitting in his favorite booth, at his favorite restaurant, across from his favorite woman, who had just pushed her uneaten duck breast to the center of the table, choked the life out of her cloth napkin, and laid it carefully down beside her plate.

Arsinio approached Jack’s booth with a smile on his face, but the chill stopped him in his tracks. He turned on his heel and moved back to the bar area. Smart man. The uneaten plate of food in front of Leslie and the one large bite out of Jack’s burger said it all to the sage waiter.

Hal’s Bar and Grill was buzzing with the west-side after-work crowd. The New York feel, lively bar, and consistent food made it Jack’s go-to place. As long as he didn’t have the interview until ten o’clock, he figured he might as well enjoy dinner. The large metal sculptures that separated the bar from the restaurant, the museum-quality photographs and first-class art, provided by local Venice artists, set the place apart from the pack. The volume was up in the large open room, and so was the growing tension at Jack’s booth with a view overlooking the entire room and the front door. Old cop’s habit that Rebecca, the maître d’, respected and accommodated.

“So, are we having our first argument?” Jack asked, and then flexed his jaw. He stared straight into Leslie’s angry eyes, trying and failing to lighten the mood.

“I’m a DDA, Jack. I work for the district attorney. My boyfriend works for the mob.”

“It’s not mob business. Angelica isn’t in the mob.”

“It’s all mob business with them, Jack. Who are you kidding?”

“I thought we discussed not bringing politics into the bedroom.”

“Good luck on that score.”

“Now you’re starting to piss me off.”

“Great rejoinder, Jack. Next you’re going to tell me it’s a matter of honor.”

“It is a matter of honor. Cardona may have saved my son’s life.”

But Leslie was buying none of it.

“So you’re telling me that you turned down a hundred and twenty K a year from the mayor because you felt too constricted, and you’re going to accept a job with a mobster where you won’t accept a salary, because you’d feel too constricted.”

“Well, if you couch it like that . . .”

“Jack.” Leslie threw up her hands, her voice rising in volume. “Remind me not to call you when I make my next deal. You and Tony Soprano?”

Jack shushed her with his hands. People were starting to glance in their direction and Jack was getting hot under the collar.

“He was there for my boy. It’s his daughter. I don’t care what his history is.”

Leslie was giving him no love, just the flinty eyes of a prosecutor. “Jack, I mean, I usually have all the answers, and I’m dumbstruck.”

Jack emptied his wineglass, trying to regroup.

“Are you still going to San Francisco?” she asked.

“Tomorrow, for the arraignment.”

“Let’s talk when you get back. No worries, Jack. I just have to process what’s really going on here.”

“Yeah, good, take some time,” he said, wanting to end the conversation.

And then Leslie threw a changeup: “We’ve been moving so fast.”

Huh. Wrong answer, Jack thought. “It feels right to me.”

“And to me,” she added quickly. “We want many of the same things, but clearly not all of the same things.”

Jack wasn’t fast on his verbal feet when his emotions started roiling. And so he chose to say nothing.

“Just to clarify, you’re taking on Cardona’s case?” she asked, but it was more a statement of fact.

“I don’t think his daughter is vacationing. I think she needs help.”

“Give it to the cops.”

“It may come to that. I’m open to it if need be.”

But that was as much as he was willing to concede. Jack picked up the bottle of wine and replenished their two glasses, fighting to keep his anger in check and his mouth shut. Jack had learned through the years that words had power and couldn’t always be taken back. And he didn’t want to lose the woman sitting across from him.

Leslie took a sip of cabernet and then put the glass down.

“You’re not the kind of man who can be told what to do. I understand that, Jack. It’s what attracted me to you. It’s what I love about you. Your integrity. But that noble sword can cut both ways.”

“The last thing I want to do is hurt you,” Jack said, sounding oddly hollow to himself.

“I have to make sure that I’m up for the ride. It took a long time to get to where I am in my career, politically. I know politics is a dirty word, but it’s part of my life and I’m not finished yet. I don’t want to be. I’d resent it, and then I’d resent you.”

Jack was going to give her as much rope as she needed.

“I have to assess the risk.”

And with that she hung herself.

“You do your risk assessment, and I’ll go up north and take care of business,” he snapped.

“Jack,” she said, trying to defuse the tension.

Jack knew he’d crossed that line, and he found himself shutting down. He’d been there before. The divorce had taken a damaging toll, and he didn’t want to relive it. Simple as that. His head was swimming and his heart started to pound.

“I’d better go,” Leslie said quietly.

No argument from Jack. He tried to control his breathing as she slid out of the booth and walked across the floor of the restaurant. He started losing the battle as the front door of Hal’s closed behind her.

Jack took a big pull on his wineglass as his cell phone rang. He was going to let it go to voice mail but picked up when he saw who was calling.

Narcotics detective Nick Aprea, Jack’s close friend and only confidant in the Los Angeles Police Department.

“So, Jack,” Nick said by way of hello.

“Nick.”

“Good news, bad news.”

“Yeah?” Jack hated this game.

“You answered the phone.”

“And?”

“There’s a contract out on your life.”

“Oh shit,” Jack said, sounding relieved. “I thought something happened to Carmen, you sounded so . . . weird.”

Carmen was Nick’s beautiful Filipina wife.

“La Eme,” Nick stated with gravitas. “Mexican Mafia. Retribution. They blame you for Mando, Mexican Mafia Mando, getting cut down by the Zetas’ commando. Go figure. I’ll keep my ear to the ground; you grow eyes in the back of your head.”

Nick was referencing the drug case he’d worked with Jack a month ago.

Jack had been instrumental in dismantling the 18th Street Angels, a multigenerational street gang that had controlled the drug trade out of Ontario for the past fifty years. Mando was La Eme, but he also ran the Angels. An important asset, from the Mexican Mafia’s standpoint.

Jack wasn’t surprised there was blowback. Not happy, but not surprised. It went with the territory. After twenty-five years in narcotics, Jack had made some good friends in his career but more than his share of enemies.

“Thanks, Nick.”

“Vaya con Dios, my brother.”

“Let’s hope I’m bueno con Dios.”

Jack clicked off, glancing at the empty booth opposite him, and then checked the front door of the restaurant. Leslie hadn’t miraculously changed her mind and come back. Jack let out a long sigh. It was going to be a long night.