Chapter 2
Joe stared at him for a hard minute, long enough for the hair on the back of Carlo’s neck to stand on end. This was where things went south. Joe was going to finger him, so the meeting would never happen, and Carlo would have one very angry Mr. Stout to deal with when it all fell apart.
“East 67th.” He sat back, his face falling into shadow. “Just keep on heading for the river. I’ll tell you when to stop.”
Though he’d been expecting a full address, Carlo edged into the street without complaint. His pulse pounded through his palms, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Maybe this could be salvaged. After all, he was nobody. He’d never even spoken to Joe directly. Recognizing Joe didn’t have to be the end of the world. All he had to do was fulfill his end of the deal, and Mr. Stout would be happy.
“This rain’s going to slow us down,” Joe commented.
“No worries,” Carlo said. “Nobody’s nuts enough to be out at this time of night to get in our way.”
“Nobody but us, anyway.”
Carlo laughed, mostly because he was meant to. “You warm enough back there?”
“I don’t think I’ll be warm again ’til June.”
He’d always liked the sound of Joe’s voice. The first time he’d heard it, Joe was coming out of the backroom of the bookstore he owned with a comforting arm around an elderly woman whose face had been swollen from tears. Carlo had been on his knees, thumbing through some play collections on the bottom shelf in search of a monologue to memorize for an audition. At the unfamiliar deep rumble, he’d glanced up, then stared at the man for the several seconds he was in view before he and the woman disappeared into the stacks.
Eavesdropping told him the guy was the owner, not a regular employee. Returning a couple of times a month when he got matinee shifts at the theater filled in a few more details, but Carlo never forgot the swift heat that had consumed him that first time he’d heard and seen Joe Donnelly.
Joe wore his auburn hair short, like he’d been in the military, which, considering he had to be in his thirties, was probably a given, but his dark blue eyes couldn’t hide whatever painful history he was trying to forget. The melancholy was etched at the corners of his mouth, and though he had a smile to rival Van Johnson’s, Carlo had only ever seen it once. From what he could tell, Joe buried himself in the store. He always worked in the same white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose his powerful forearms, the cotton straining across his wide shoulders.
Carlo couldn’t resist sneaking a peek into the rearview mirror. Now that he was out of the rain, Joe had opened the top button of his trenchcoat and pushed its collar out of the way. The shirt beneath was black.
“Eyes on the road,” Joe said.
The wheel jerked in Carlo’s startled hands, his foot automatically tapping the brake, but he obeyed without question. A sigh came from the backseat.
“How long you been driving, kid?”
His face flamed, and his petulant chin tilted up. He hated being called a kid. “I have my license.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
He couldn’t make trouble or draw attention to himself, no matter what Joe provoked in him. His shoulders slumped. “Six years.”
“Bullshit.”
His gaze snapped back to the mirror, but Joe hadn’t even moved. “What?”
“You heard me. I call bullshit. You’re twenty, tops.”
“I’m twenty-two.”
“Which is still bullshit. You haven’t been behind that wheel since you were sixteen.”
“Oh. No. That’s when I got my driver’s license.”
“I wasn’t talking about that.”
“I kind of figured that out,” Carlo grumbled. A light was turning yellow ahead. He started slowing before Joe tried giving him driving lessons again.
“So? How long?”
“Two years.”
“You like it?”
What was with the twenty questions? “It’s all right.”
“Not as good as acting, though.”
The car leapt forward as his foot slipped off the brake, but by the time he’d regained control and come to a stop at the now-red light, the cold muzzle of a gun was pressed to the back of his head.
* * *
On tonight of all nights, this was the last thing Joe needed.
Something about the driver had seemed familiar when he’d slid into the car, but he’d been so relieved to be out of the icy rain, he hadn’t given it a second thought until the driver uttered the passcode about the address. The accent was straight out of Little Italy. The girl’s family worked out of Hoboken. Rudyard Kipling might not have been referring to Joe’s home turf, but he’d had it right with his, “East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet.”
That was the reason he’d held back on the exact address. He’d watched the young man splash through puddles, then struggle to control the wheel. When Joe caught the glance in the rearview mirror, though, the sense of knowing he’d seen this kid before had clawed its way deeper into his gut.