Chapter Two
The sun hadn’t yet risen as Slade entered the Ladue area of St. Louis, where Tony DiLuca had set up residence long ago. The wealth lining the streets of the affluent neighborhood could clearly been seen by the large houses and pristine lawns. He’d grown up the complete opposite of Normandy DiLuca— an unwanted kid who’d learned early on how to use his fists when the need arose, while she’d been the pampered princess of a mafia boss. It had been that reputation that had attracted Tony DiLuca, who’d recruited him to work for the family business. Mostly drugs, but some gun running as well. Moving up through the ranks fairly quickly, Normandy had been a little girl who sailed under his radar. It wasn’t until she’d finished school in Italy and had come home that he’d been punched in the stomach. The old cliché of falling in love instantly hadn’t meant much until she’d walked back into his life, a goddess in a summer dress and combat boots.
He drove by the DiLuca house and saw yellow crime scene tape all around the property, with several cops standing guard. A few news crew vans were parked around the streets, no doubt waiting for a juicy tidbit. The fact that it was still an active crime scene punched him in the heart because there was no way the cops would’ve had access to the place unless Tony DiLuca was gone.
The word gone knocked about in his head until it began to drown everything else out. Pain sluiced through him and he knew had to get somewhere before the dam broke. He wasn’t usually an emotional man, but then again, he’d never lost his wife before. Slade left the roped-off property behind and headed toward the only place he knew he could drown the emptiness. It didn’t take long to cross the Eads Bridge and drive over to East St. Louis. The area was a shithole and if one wanted to disappear, this was the place to do it. He pulled up to his old stomping ground, a low-key bar with the horrible moniker of Puddin’s. Although he’d not been there in years, the place hadn’t changed. Black exterior with the name of the bar painted on the door. On either side were closed-up failed businesses. Several homeless people made their bed on the cracked pavement, cardboard signs begging for help and cups placed to catch any change a drunken customer might toss their way.
Slade parked his bike and entered the dingy bar, immediately blasted with the smell of old cigarettes and soured beer. The dark interior hid a good portion of the customers who sat scattered around wobbly tables on cracked vinyl seats. The bar was the only lit portion of the whole place, but even that light was dimmed to set the right mood. As a teenager, it had been the only place that hadn’t carded him, probably because nobody cared who walked through the door. As an adult, it wasn’t owned by Tony DiLuca so it became the perfect spot for him and Normandy to meet since it was away from any watching eyes that would report back to her father.
The bartender stopped in his tracks when Slade sat down at the bar.
“Well, hell! Look what the wind blew in.”
“Hello, Whiskey,” Slade said. “Long time no see.”
“Years, I’m thinking,” Whiskey said. “Want your usual? Are you waiting for your girl?”
Pain sliced through Slade. It was too soon. It would always be too soon. “Bring me a double and keep ’em coming. Actually, just bring the bottle over. I’m going to live here for a while.”
Whiskey frowned, but did as he asked, grabbing a tumbler to place it in front of him. Then he grabbed a bottle of scotch, poured him a hefty dose, and set the bottle next to it. Slade took out some cash and set it down on the bar top.
“My girl was a DiLuca,” Slade whispered.
“Oh, shit,” Whiskey murmured. “Sorry, my friend.”
Slade downed the entire shot in one swallow. For the next few minutes, he took shot after shot, until the alcohol hit his bloodstream and began to numb his mind. He’d not been drunk in a long time, but now he needed the forgetfulness only alcohol could induce.
With every drink, it became easier and easier to think about Normandy. How the sunlight made the red highlights in her hair blaze like fire. How her brown eyes regarded him with a mixture of love and lust. How soft her skin felt under his calloused fingertips. They would spend all day and night in bed, making love. The images were seared into his brain, as was the feeling of her body wrapped around his.
Even when he’d left, knowing she might become involved with another man, at least he’d known she was alive somewhere in the world. Now, however, he had nothing to fall back on. Nothing he could tell himself why leaving her had been the right decision to make. His so-called noble gesture was now just as empty and worthless as the hollow pit in his heart.
Eventually, the bottle came up empty, leaving the world whirling around. He laid his head upon the bar and closed his eyes, and before he realized what was happening, tears leaked from under the lashes. How long he stayed like that he didn’t know, but Whiskey didn’t bother him and eventually he dozed off.
****
He woke up some point later, desperate to take a piss. The world still spun a little as he made his way to the back where the bathroom was located. The stench of urine was so powerful it turned his stomach, threatening to upchuck whatever was left in it. He peed and washed his hands before heading back to his seat at the bar. A cup of black coffee waited for him, instead of a full bottle of scotch.
He pushed the cup away. “I want another bottle,” he told Whiskey.
Whiskey pushed the cup back toward him. “No, you really want the coffee.”
Slade frowned. “Not open for negotiation.”
Whiskey leaned over the bar top to whisper, “You’re going to get a phone call so you need to be sober.”
“What the fuck do you mean?”
The bar phone rang, the piercing sound striking pain through his head. Jesus! How long was I out? Whiskey came back over and held out the wireless phone. Confused, he took it before his brain caught up with his actions.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
Normandy’s voice whispered through the line and he almost fell off the chair. “Normandy?”
“Shh! Don’t say my name out loud.”
Immediately, he looked around the bar, trying to detect if anyone was listening to his one-sided conversation. “What the fuck happened? I thought you were dead. Where are you?”
“I’m in hiding. Puddin’s was the only place I could think of to go.”
Again, he looked around, this time trying to see her. “Where? Tell me and I’ll come right away.”
“I’m upstairs.”
Slade glanced at Whiskey, and the sly old man glanced up toward the ceiling. For the first time since the nightmare had begun, Slade felt the heavy agony lift from his heart.
“I’m coming now.”
The line went dead.
“Do you think you could do me a favor?” Whiskey asked, startling Slade. “There’s a stack of beer in the storage room that I can’t seem to move. Do you think you could restack it for me, closer to the door?”
Whiskey tilted his head toward the back room.
“Sure.” With his heart beating wildly in his chest, Slade wasted no time. He downed the black coffee to sober up and then hurried into the back room where a set of stairs led up to the second floor where his resurrected wife waited.