CHAPTER 11

Extenuating Circumstances

AND that was when I knew I was going to be a lawyer,” finished Deluca.

Sailor furrowed her brow. “But, that was just a television show. How could you base your whole life on a television show?”

“Hey, I was seven. What the hell did I know? So, tell me something about you? How did you get to be so beautiful?’ Deluca popped the cork on another bottle of Dom Perignon. 

It had been his idea to come here, with a little coaxing from Sailor and the dress. And here they were in a million dollar condo sipping hundred-dollar champagne and pretending neither one of them knew what they were really doing. Sailor watched Deluca as he refilled her glass, wondered how long it was going to take for the capsule to work. She must have slipped it in Deluca’s second glass, and weren’t they on their fourth? Reilly assured her he’d never know what hit him. 

Deluca sat beside her on his suede couch, an arm draped casually over the back. He said, “I bet your Mom’s a real knockout, isn’t she?”

My Mom? God, I can’t believe I’m doing this. “Oh, Eddie. Let’s not talk about me anymore. Let’s talk about you.” She watched Deluca struggle with his bow tie. Jesus, he’s pathetic. “Here.” 

Sailor set her glass on the table and pulled herself into his lap. “Let me.” She slowly untied the knot and began unbuttoning his shirt. She could hear his breath quickening, feel his pulse in his neck. It wasn’t what she was here for she reminded herself. But, damn he really did smell nice. 

Sipping his Dom, Deluca regaled his female companion with tales from his youth. Boarding school in England, his years at Harvard Law, the trip around the world. Sailor nodded at all the right times, but her mind wandered. She needed to keep him talking, but she was also dying to snoop. Here she was, an arm’s length from a home office crammed with files and papers and probably a state of the art computer system. 

Sailor had to agree with Reilly. There was more to the Bentley case. And that more had something to do with Deluca. On the way to the party, Reilly had filled her in on Deluca’s past. It seemed her “ideal” attorney figure had a few skeletons in his closet. According to Reilly, in the seventies when most people were concerned about war and peace, Deluca’s focus never left the city. He made cleaning up the streets his priority. As one of Philly’s Assistant District Attorneys, Deluca had a hand in everything, legal and not, and he worked it. Cops respected him. Judges ruled for him. The public loved him. Deluca was on his way up. He seemed to have it all. 

Then something happened. In a matter of months, Deluca took a nose dive. He lost three consecutive cases, all mob-related. There were rumors of jury tampering. Then, a co-worker filed sexual harassment charges and photographs of Deluca in compromising situations with women named Candy and Starr started appearing in the paper. His marriage fell apart and his high-school-sweetheart-wife filed for divorce. It was public and messy and expensive, forcing him to sell his family house and sell out his inheritance. Fast Eddie was living a quicksand life. Some said his father’s sudden death was the final straw. 

But somebody did Deluca a favor. Montgomery and Scott offered him a job on the other side of the courtroom and he began again—defending the same people he had worked for years to put away. Publicly, it was said to be a political move, but behind closed doors, folks said he sold out. Some thought the mob owned him, others couldn’t care less. They were just happy to not have to work with him anymore. He could be a real pain in the ass. And now Sailor, in the pleasure of his company, had to agree. 

“May I?” she pointed to the stereo system.

“Be my guest.” Deluca kicked off his shoes and leaned back on the couch, hands behind his head.

Pulling out all the stops, Sailor arched her back and sashayed over to the entertainment wall. She flipped her hair back, bent over a stack of CD’s, ass to the ceiling. Deluca watched appreciatively from the couch, eyes at half-mast. She loaded the music in the carousel, adjusted the volume. Soft strains of an alto sax filled the room. She dimmed the lights, posing by the wall of glass facing the marina. Soft moonlight cast her in silhouette. The effect was not lost on her audience.

“Oh yeah.”

The sax wailed, Sailor began to dance a sexy strip tease, slowly first, drawing her hands over her hips and thighs then back up again into her hair, then faster, gyrating her hips, throwing her head back and exposing her throat. Her high, firm breasts were barely contained by the low-cut gown. She turned away from Deluca, reached behind her neck, loosened the halter-top knot and let the top fall. Bare to the navel, she turned around and approached the couch, her long pendant swaying from breast to breast. 

“Eddie,” Sailor said watching Deluca. He was almost out, fighting to stay awake. “You like what you see, don’t you?”

Deluca smiled, then slumped into himself. Sailor waited a few seconds then stretched him out on the couch, pulling up his legs. She leaned over, skimming her breasts over his chest and kissed his cheek, smiled at his goofy grin and the rather impressive tent in his trousers. 

“Maybe another time, Fast Eddie.”

Retying her dress, Sailor headed for Deluca’s office.

Maria walked into Vault tavern, looking out of place among the burly men. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea. She made her way past the crowded bar and the smoking room to the walk-in humidor. The door opened easily, a whoosh of regulated air. It was still, quiet and smelled of more than tobacco. There was a hint of men’s cologne, bourbon and cedar. She closed her eyes and saw Puerto Rico—stony streets and dirty alleys, yelling mamas, a man with a belt. She blinked, had to remind herself she was in The Ritz-Carlton in Philadelphia, and no longer a naive young girl.

Berger pushed on the door too hard, smacking it into a rack of Havana imports.

“Fuck. Smells like my old man in here!” He was drunk, swaying. He looked around, stopped on Maria.

“Congratulations on your retirement, Detective.”

“Well thank you, sugar. Now come over here and give an old cop some love.” 

He grabbed at his crotch, missed the first time. “Whaddya say?’ 

Berger stepped closer to Maria, squinting. “I know you.” He tried to snap his fingers. “Little Maria Conchetta. I’ll be damned.”

Maria muttered, “Yes, you will.”

“Well, well, aren’t you all grown up.” He ran his eyes over her. “Did fine for yourself, didn’t you, Maria? Got yourself another Sugar Daddy? What’s he into? Gambling? Money laundering? Not drugs. No, no, no.”

Berger waggled his finger in Maria’s general direction, fumbled a fat cigar off the shelf and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. “Well, pleased as I am to see you, you’d better get out of here. I’m meeting someone, and you don’t want to be anywhere around when he gets here.”

“Lou isn’t coming, Detective.”

“What do you mean, he isn’t coming?”

“He sent me.” Maria crossed the small space. She reached up and tugged the cigar from his mouth. Spit shined on the back end. She held it gingerly. “Listen. You’re working for Gallo now. Meet him at Pier 12. Tomorrow night at ten. Look for a Chinese crate marked C445. You know the drill. Pier 12, C445, 10 p.m. Can you remember that, Detective?’ He nodded, still staring at her. She pushed the cigar back between his slack lips and left.

Berger stared after her, didn’t notice the waitress in the doorway until she said, “Need anything, Mister?”

He blinked. “Yeah.” 

The waitress stepped halfway in, holding the heavy door with her hip. 

Berger took the soggy cigar from his mouth and laid it in the nearest box. Arturo Fuente Grand Reserve, $11.75.

The girl grimaced. Berger belched loudly, blowing beer-scented air to the ceiling. As he looked up, his body made circles of its own, defying the stillness of the environmentally perfect room. The girl looked over her shoulder at the bar and wished she hadn’t stopped here. She had a napkin full of orders already. 

“Let me use your pen.” Berger grabbed a pack of matches from her tray and motioned for her pen. She hesitated, then handed it over. Berger scribbled something on the matchbook, shoved it into his pocket and dropped the pen on the girl’s tray. He stumbled out of the humidor and made his way to the exit, one hand on the wall, the other on his stomach.

The waitress called after him. “You okay, Mister?” 

Berger kept going. Double doors were propped open with two silver ash cans at the end of the hallway. Berger focused on the space between the cans. Air. Door. Outside. Air. Door. Outside. He stepped into the Philly night and fell onto his knees between the perfectly trimmed hedges. He puked up three pitchers of beer, four shots of tequila and seventy-five bucks worth of spicy Maryland crab.

A few minutes later, a janitor pushed a gray cleaning cart up the path toward the open doors. He saw Berger’s feet before he heard the guy heaving in the bushes. 

“Must have been some party, man. Some party.” He snapped his headphones over his ears, cranked the volume and sang, “Welcome to the jungle.”