Scarsdale, New YorkChase and Misty stood at the bar and watched Don Regetti make his way to the stage. Jake Wexler stood beside them with a drink in his hand. The mafia boss had bought a round for the three of them before he headed to the stage. Wexler pulled a stuffed envelope from his jacket and passed it to Chase. He kept his eyes fixed on the stag as he spoke to them.
“Since Angelo is no longer in a position to pay his legal bills, Mr. Regetti is offering to pay for your services.”
“We don’t need his money,” Misty said after a sip from her beer.
“Especially since the US government is picking up the tab,” said Chase, passing the envelope back. “It’s proforma to pay legal fees for anybody entering witness protection.”
Chase saw Wexler’s eyes flash in something that looked like anger. Misty saw it as well and spoke up.
“Settle down,” said Misty. “He’s testifying about that whole mess with that FBI agent. Chase says that all the information he gave the feds about Regetti is now inadmissible.”
“They tampered with the evidence and framed Angelo for murder, Jake. You know what we lawyers call that?”
“Fruit of the poisonous tree,” said Wexler.
Chase winked and took a long sip from his fruity cocktail, careful not to poke himself in the eye with the drink’s umbrella as he did so.
“Be that as it may,” Wexler continued. “Mr. Regetti wishes to show his appreciation for your discreet resolution.”
“Actually, I have an idea.”
Chase took the stuffed envelope from Wexler’s hands and opened it. He rooted through the cash until he plucked out a single ten dollar bill from the envelope and passed it to Misty.
“The man owed you a tenner, right? He missed that pool shit.”
“Right,” Misty said with a smirk. She slipped the bill into her jacket pocket and reached for her drink.
“Now we’re square, Jake,” said Chase.
On stage, music came from the karaoke machine and Don Regetti grabbed the microphone. When he sang, a pitch perfect impression of Frankie Valli came from the big man’s lips.
“Sheeerry, Sherry baby! Sheeeeeeeeeeerry baaaaaaaaaaby! Sherry, can you come out tonight?”
“Mr. Regetti loves the Four Seasons,” said Wexler. “Big Frankie Valli fan.”
“I can tell,” said Misty.
---
HarlemMisty and Chase sat in her car just outside her apartment building. Chase had his jacket off and his tie wrapped around his forehead like a bandanna. He’d had more than a few of the tropical drinks as the night went on, especially when he found out Regetti and Wexler were buying. At one point in the night he sang harmony with Don Regetti on “Big Girls Don’t Cry.”
“Heck of a day,” said Chase. “We got paid, we got Angelo off the board, we got some justice, and we got paid. Did I say that already?”
“Yeah,” said Misty. “You did.”
Chase nodded and closed his eyes as he leaned his head back against the seat. “Mmm… Job well done.”
“Chase?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you gonna be able to make it home?”
“I don’t have a home,” mumbled Chase. “I’ve been putting all my money back into the business, not paying rent on my place. I got kicked out of my apartment two months ago and been sleeping at the office ever since.”
Misty sighed and leaned back in her seat. Chase was snoring softly. She cursed and got out the car.
“C’mon,” she said as she opened the passenger side of the door. “Let’s go.”
“Where we going?”
“You’re gonna crash on my couch tonight. Tomorrow you find an apartment.”
She helped Chase up on his feet and guided him towards the sidewalk and stoop.
“I’m sorry,” Chase said as they started up the steps. “Sorry for all of this. I fucked our lives up, Misty.”
“You had help, remember?” Misty stopped on the top step to unlock the front lobby door of the building. “And don’t apologize for what’s happened. Just do better in the future.”
“You’re just saying that because I’m drunk.”
“Pretty much,” said Misty. “And I’m almost entirely sure you won’t remember this conversation in the morning. Which is why I can tell you that I’m getting closer. I found the name of the man who set me up. He’s called--”
Chase laughed as they entered the apartment building and he started to sing.
“Sheeeeerry, Sherry baby!”
Misty resisted the urge to smile, instead she said, “That's not his name. But you keep singing that Frankie Valli shit and you can sleep in the car tonight.”
---
Epilogue
Yonkers“What exactly did she say?”
Turk Barrett raised an eyebrow at the little drug dealer standing in front of him. He was leaning against the hood of his car parked just a block away from the corner the boy ran for him. Turk resisted the urge to shake his head at the boy’s attire. Skinny jeans and shit. Not like the baggy pants, gold chains, and puffy Starter jackets Turk wore back when he was a clocker. The boy had a bandage on his nose and a sling on his left arm.
“Bitch wanted to know who I was working for.”
“Bitch?” snapped Turk. “You the bitch that got his ass kicked, boy.”
The kid looked down at his feet and stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. It was a childish move that reminded Turk just how young he was. If he had to guess, he’d be fifteen at the most. Not much older than Turk had been when he started running his own corner crew in Harlem.
“What did you tell her?”
“I ain’t tell her shit. Why the fuck you think I look like this?”
“Because you don’t know how to fight?” Turk asked with a laugh.
“Because I kept my fucking mouth shut,” said the boy. “Just like you told me. Besides, I don’t know no shit about fishes?”
“What?”
Turk stood up from the hood of the car and quickly crossed the short distance between him and the boy.
“What the fuck did you just say?” he yelled.
“Chill!” shouted the boy. “She asked some shit about a whale. I don’t know what the fuck she was talking about!”
Turk stepped back and rubbed his hands against his shaved scalp.
“Alright,” he finally said. “Get the fuck outta here. Text me when you need a re-up.”
The boy hurried off. He sighed as he watched him disappear around the corner. That was when he pulled out his burner phone and dialed his boss’s number.
“It’s me…. Yeah. Nah, he didn’t say shit because he didn’t know shit….. Yeah. But, sir, she knows about you. At least your name. Yeah… but what about?... No. I get it. Okay. I’ll take care of it, sir.”
Turk ended the call and stared at the phone for a long moment. He tucked it back into his jacket, pulling out his gun instead. He started off in the direction the boy had gone just a few moments earlier.
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