Chapter 133
TOMMY WAS WASTING no time in bringing me into an airing of his dirty stories. The trial date was at least four months away, but he and his high-dollar lawyers—courtesy, no doubt, of one Carmine Noccia—were letting me know in no uncertain terms that they planned to put me on the stand.
I almost went inside. But it was all so depressing that I just started walking. I didn’t want to think about my brother, or Carmine, or whoever might have hired the hit man who’d tried to kill me at Justine’s. I didn’t want to rethink the Harlows and how we’d played them. I didn’t even want to think about Del Rio and the fact that he’d be leaving for a more aggressive rehab unit in the morning.
I just wanted to walk until I had a clear mind, and then maybe go look for a little fun, a little peace, a little time away from me. I set off down Sunset Boulevard, a man without a car, a freakish thing in L.A., moving with no particular place to go, hoping for serendipity to—
My phone rang. I stopped, closed my eyes, and prayed it wasn’t someone like Sherman Wilkerson, my client who’d discovered the first bodies in the No Prisoners case, telling me about some emergency I had to attend to, clean up.
But it was a number I didn’t recognize.
I answered, “Jack Morgan.”
“I was thinking again that we’ve had enough dress rehearsals, Jack,” crooned Guin Scott-Evans.
I smiled. “Were you really?”
“I was,” she said. “I am.”
“Where are you?”
“My place,” she said. “I got home yesterday.”
“You have plans tonight?”
“That’s why I called. I was hoping you might have a plan, Jack.”
My smile broadened. I crammed the subpoena into one of my pockets, feeling serendipity swirling my way, and said, “Meet me at my place in an hour. I’ll be showered, changed, and ready. I’ll take you out for a first-class meal, an excellent bottle of wine, and … well.”
“A grand opening night?” she teased.
“I was thinking Masterpiece Theatre.”
“Oooh, I want front-row seats for that performance.”