This Life Isn’t Filled With Certainties, So Why Should Fiction?

I didn’t end “Amateurs Play Elsewhere” on a cliffhanger. It’s the last in the series and I don’t believe in ending series on cliffhangers.

The final chapter is an overall happy note, with the bad guys getting hit where it hurts and the good guys cheering a victory. Ta da!

But I’ll admit I did leave some issues unresolved. And some of my pre-published readers called me out on it. They wanted to know more.

I told them tough luck.

I said this with all love and respect. Really. These are two people who helped me out immensely in making the Dirty Politics series as strong as it is, and I owe them a lot. In fact, I owe the one the equivalent of $4,000 for editorial services rendered.

(Buy my books and I can actually afford to pay that debt! Just kidding. Kind of.)

Yet, I chose to discard their feedback on this particular issue. I didn’t ignore it. I actually thought about it quite carefully. But in the end, I decided to stick to the ending I’d already written. And for a very good reason.

You see, I like fairytales as much as the next girl. All of that happily-ever-after ending stuff? It makes my Disney-bred heart melt. But they’re not very realistic, are they?

This life we get to lead down here on Earth is filled with ups and downs, victories and defeats, and a lot of overall uncertainty. Despite our best-laid plans, we can’t determine the future.

It’s not ours to control. Never was, never will be. So why should our reality-based fiction be any different?

Let Disney keep its fairytales. I’m not trying to mess with them, which I greatly prefer to the original Grimm versions, I gotta say. Cutting off toes and heels? Ew!

But for anything that isn’t meant for little kids (of any age)… Well, those don’t have to wrap up every last detail. Not when I’m trying to make them realistic.

If Hollywood Ever Turned My Dirty Politics Series Into Movies, Here’s My Cast…

I would never want my novels turned into movies. I don’t care how much money I got, I’m way too much of a control freak to let some idiot scriptwriter ply his trade on my beloved books.

Let’s face it: Scriptwriters KILL novels more often than not. Here’s a short list of works they've butchered:

•  “The Other Boleyn Girl” book by Philippa Gregory was awesome. “The Other Boleyn Girl” movie? Horrid.
• “The Lightning Thief” by Rick Riordan was awesome. “The Lightning Thief” movie? Horrid.
• The Dresden Files by Jim Butcher was awesome. The Dresden Files TV show? Horrid.
• “Fifty Shades of Grey” by E.L. James? Horrid. Oh wait… Bad example. I think the scriptwriters actually made it better.

So no, I really don’t want any of my books turned into movies. But if they were, here’s how I would cast my Dirty Politics series characters...

• Kayla – Jennifer Lawrence – She’s one of the few Hollywood hotties who actually has a figure. And because, let’s face it… She’d rock the role.

• Evans – Greg Finley – Just look at that man! Sigh. Swoon. Yes please.

• Rod – Colton Haynes – If you’ve ever seen “Arrow,” then you know he can play a tool just as well as the brooding bad-guy-turned-good-guy. Seriously, he’s perfect for this role.

• Lucy – Blake Lively – They’ve got the right body build, but there’s something about her that makes me think she’s a shoe-in. Call it a je ne sais quoi, but I’d book her in a sec.

• Greyble – Alec Baldwin – Maybe he’s a bit too old for the part, but he does make a smashing bad guy, both on and off the big screen.

• Sarah – Kate Beckinsdale – She’s so beautiful and talented. I mean, why not want her somewhere in my movies? I could totally see her being Evans’ “leggy goddess.”

• Cory – Jesse Usher – I don’t know what his acting is like, but he is just so cute to look at. Does that make me a cougar?

• Rachel – Ellie Kemper – She’s too thin for the part, but she’s still got that girl-next-door thing going on that fits the best-friend role.

• Talia – Scarlett Johansson – The girl can rock dark hair. And an attitude – exactly what every high class hooker with a thing for ex-Navy SEALs needs.

• Wisset – Adam Levine – I know he’s not an actor, but I bet he could play an awesome bad guy, and I swear he looks exactly like I picture Wisset to, just without the tattoos.

And there you have it! The cast of “The Politician’s Pawn,” “Moves and Countermoves” and “Amateurs Need Not Apply.”

I know I left out Audrey, but there are very few short girls featured in Hollywood right now, so the closest I can come up with for her is Emma Stone, who I love… but I don’t think quite fits. Who knows though.

My Brilliant Best Friend of a Muse to the Rescue

I’d like to use this last blog before “Amateurs Play Elsewhere” is officially published (on Friday) to thank one of my favorite muses ever, Ashleigh.

She’s more than a little awesome and completely deserves this shout-out.

You see, one beautiful, almost-Spring morning, I was lounging on a reclining chair up on one of her apartment complex’s top floors, wracking my brain on where to take my story after I’d prematurely reached the plot’s planned climax.

Oops.

Ashleigh, meanwhile, was grading papers for the class she was teaching. Yet she very nicely let me interrupt her multiple times with my whining about how I didn’t know what to do. Moreover, she went above and beyond not telling me to shut up and let her work… She also offered some inspiring suggestions.

To be honest, I don’t think that “Amateurs Play Elsewhere” would have been half so much fun to write or read if not for her input.

You see, my brilliant best friend helped me come up with a new character: one with long, curly red hair and a Texas drawl and an endearing attitude to match those characteristics. I fell in love with her right off the bat.

So it’s no wonder when someone else did too. In fact, I defy anyone to NOT think she’s fabulous. At the risk of sounding biased, if you don’t like her, then you’re crazy.

That’s true of both the character and her inspiration.

3 – Necessary evils

L

ike most sane human beings, alarm clocks were not Rod’s friend. It was actually rather safe to say that he hated them, particularly when he’d gotten an inadequate amount of sleep first. However, that didn’t mean he couldn’t respect their authority. So when the wretched machine started blaring at zero dark thirty, he flipped it off and got right up, even though he would have much rather stayed under the covers for a while longer.

Taking a minute to peer into the still-dark morning, the first thing he took notice of was that Lacey wasn’t there anymore. In her place was what he took to be a Honda Civic, its basic shape utterly predictable and not worth a second glance. The porch lights below him and the ones from the houses across the street cast enough of a glow into the dusk that he could see the car wasn’t an old model or a new one. The vehicle was bland through and through, right down to its light grey color.

Rod supposed he was looking at his new ride, courtesy of Piccarello. He turned away from the window, feeling like he needed a hat on his head just so he could take it off in mournful respect for wherever Lacey had been taken. Hopefully, it was just a temporary separation.

As far as he could tell when he opened his door and peered out, his grandparents on the second floor were still asleep. At least they weren’t out of their room yet. He couldn’t detect a single sound from downstairs.

There was also no indication that anyone else was up either. But just in case, he threw on one of the t-shirts he’d tossed into his bag the night before. It seemed a waste of time to get dressed when he was just going across the hall to shower, though it also didn’t seem worth the risk of running into anyone and offending their delicate sensibilities. Which was why he performed the needless task, grousing in his head while he did.

The crankiest thoughts, he reserved for Cory.

Yet it was him who ended up feeling uncomfortable when he fully acknowledged that the only bathroom on the floor was right next to where the girls were sleeping. They were even connected by a second door. When that realization, along with its uncomfortable implications and possibilities hit him, Rod stood in the hallway in his shirt and boxers, contemplating his options.

The first floor had a bathroom that didn’t feature a shower or tub, and the single way to access the one on the second floor was through his grandparents’ room, which ruled it out.

He supposed he could skip the shower altogether, just brushing his teeth instead, running a razor over his face and putting on half a stick of deodorant. Tempting as that thought was though, he ultimately discarded it. He was going to a lawyer’s office after all, and a swanky one at that. Still, when he locked the door into Kayla’s room, he checked it three times to make sure it was secure.

Rod tried to be as quiet as he possibly could. Rushing through everything the way he did, however, he failed several times over, dropping a bottle of shampoo on the bathtub floor and somehow managing to knock his head against the tiled wall when he stooped to pick the thing up.

It didn’t help that he hit the exact spot on his forehead where the puckered scar stood out.

The one bright spot was how he managed to swallow back the swear words. Steadying himself against the side of the shower, he attempted to listen past the pounding of his head for any noises from the other room. But since the running water made it hard to hear much of anything, he could only hope for the best.

Too much time later, Rod wrapped a towel around his waist and stood in front of the fogged-up bathroom mirror. With the morning he was already experiencing, he fully expected to cut himself shaving at least once. That would have added a nice touch to his criminal aura, what with the scar and bruise and all. Thinking about it, he had to wonder how Kayla had covered up the bruises Greyble had given her before. With makeup, he would assume; there was no way she could have healed so fast. Just like there was no way he was going to wear any himself, no matter how much he wanted to come across as an upstanding citizen.

Yet it appeared that he couldn’t pull off an intelligent look any more than a law-abiding one. After he finished with the razor, brushed his teeth and slapped some aftershave on, he realized he hadn’t brought a change of clothing with him into the bathroom. Hence making the shirt he’d grabbed before even more pointless.

His reflection in the mirror rolled its eyes back at him.

Safely back in his room, Rod went digging through the closet, which was stocked with three dress pants, ten dress shirts, a row of ties and even a black jacket. It was all courtesy of his grandmother, who insisted he go to mass whenever he stayed over. He grabbed the basics, a pair of black slacks and a bright blue shirt, hoping they would make him look professional instead of like someone a few shades away from an orange jumpsuit.

Breakfast down in the kitchen was leftover baked ziti and two glasses of orange juice. Then he headed outside to the front porch while he waited for his grandfather, who he figured would be along soon enough.

It was a cold morning. Nothing out of the ordinary for that time of year, but he watched his breath hit the air over and over again while he took in the scene in front of him.

The porch was situated up on a small hill that sloped steeply from most angles. Like a house at the shore, it was set up on stilts that were covered up by a white picket enclosure to keep larger rodents and stray animals out. Overall, it took obvious wealth to maintain the property just so, but it never looked snotty to him. No matter what view of the neat and orderly grounds he took, it was always home.

His grandfather joined him out there while Rod was still reminiscing. Dressed in pressed pants, wingtip shoes and a heavy winter coat, he nodding in greeting, his expression largely unreadable.

“You ready?”

“Whenever you are.”

“Then let’s take care of this.” The confidence he spoke with was that of a man used to getting his own way, maybe not instantly, but through one means or another. Once he set his mind to something, it was rare he didn’t achieve that goal, whatever it was.

His grandfather cast him a sideways glance. “What happened to your head?”

Rod grimaced. He’d almost forgotten about his little shower mishap in the chill air and warmer memories. “Just me being clumsy is all.”

The older Andiluigi clicked his fob to the shiny car out on the street, a spotless, burgundy Audi. His grandfather, usually a Mercedes man, had taken a shine to it only a few months ago. He knew that because his grandmother had told him about it when he called for her birthday. She’d been annoyed about the purchase at the time, reasoning that it was “too fancy” for a senior citizen. And did Rod think he was “going through a mid-life crisis?”

Since Rod couldn’t imagine his grandfather having any kind of crisis, he’d assured his nonna that everything was fine. Lamborghinis and Jaguars: Those were what aging people purchased when they started getting antsy about their looming mortality. Not Audis.

Now, looking at the car and then taking a seat in it, he understood the attraction. It wasn’t his type of vehicle per se, but it was still a thing of beauty.

His grandfather turned on the radio, which was already set to some XM station that featured crooners like Frank Sinatra and classy dames like Ella Fitzgerald. It wasn’t Rod’s first choice of music styles, but he didn’t mind it either. If anything, the old-school tunes reminded him of growing up. Which in turn got him contemplating the particular family he’d grown up in.

Sinatra wasn’t the only one with possible illegal connections.

Sitting in the passenger’s seat, with the heat on and his fingers tapping out beats on the door, he pondered actually asking the question he already knew the answer to. It wasn’t a matter of yes or no, but how far in he was.

Even so, it seemed disrespectful to bring up, somehow, so he chose a different approach altogether. “How much trouble have I gotten you into, Nonno. Be honest.”

“No trouble at all,” he insisted. “This is what family is for. Helping each other out.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t seem right to make you clean up my mess.”

“Everyone gets into a mess at some point or another. It’s practically inevitable.”

Rod followed that up by making a joke that wasn’t entirely a joke. “Even you?”

His grandfather let out a wry chuckle of amusement. “Nah. Not me.” Then, “Come on. What do you think I keep Laurence around for? His taste in cigars? I mean, don’t get me wrong: The man has excellent taste in cigars. But he brings a hell of a lot more to the table than that. He’d better for what I’m paying him.”

Whatever that retainer was, it had to be a sizable chunk judging by the law offices of Ronkard, Whittaker & Louis. It was a stately building five stories high and significantly wider, made out of white brick and tall panes of glass. The business’ name was stretched out above the jutted entranceway in thick, imposing letters that heralded a few very important facts.

Number one: The firm had money and knew how to use it.

Number two: It was there to win.

Number three: It would make you pay through the nose for that determination.

Combined, it made him wonder whether he should have worn that suit jacket after all. It was too late for that though, so when he followed his grandfather through a smudge-free set of doublewide doors, he made sure to look less than impressed. Not unimpressed either, just like he interacted with high-priced intellectuals all the time.

Men and women hurried by him with their tailored outfits and important airs, some of them harried, some of them not. Most barely spared him a glance as he crossed the spacious expanse of polished lobby to the security desk.

The guard recognized his grandfather right away. “Mr. Andiluigi. You can go right up.”

“Thanks, Al.”

The significance of the exchange didn’t escape Rod’s notice, and he also noted the casual ease his grandfather exuded in the building. Like the lawyers milling around, he seemed to know his way around like it was second nature.

They took the elevators up to the top floor, the doors opening to a pristine hallway done up in light-browns and golden shades. Up on the wall right in front of him were a series of chunky letters once again spelling out the firm’s moniker. That was by far the most attention-grabbing aspect of the immediate scene he stepped out to. Whether it was supposed to be meant as an assurance or a scare tactic doubtlessly depended on a visitor’s purpose there.

For his part, Rod found it a bit intimidating, though not necessarily in a bad way. He was, after all, on their good side thanks to all of those billable hours his family necessitated. So he even felt a bit of pride when they made their way past the prominent logo and around the corner to another desk, where another person knew his grandfather on sight.

“Mr. Andiluigi.” The slender brunette with the mocha skin nodded behind her paneled receptionist area. “Mr. Whittaker is expecting you. You can go right back to his office if you’d like.”

Again a thanks and again they were moving onward, this time past the expensive décor of the waiting area, down another hall to a corner office marked with a name plaque: Laurence A. Whittaker, Esq.

The door was open, and they walked in like they had a right to.

“Anthony.” The lawyer in question stood up from the full-length leather couch he’d been sitting on, setting down a manila folder and smiling warmly. “It’s good to see you, even if just for business.”

His client took the proffered hand, and then Rod did the same.

The attorney had an expert grip that matched the rest of his persona. With his jacket slung across the back of his desk chair close to the window, he wore a dark purple button-down, a lilac tie and tan slacks pristinely pressed. The softer colors didn’t detract at all from his sharp brown eyes.

Whittaker’s grey hair was receding up his forehead and balding in the middle. But combined with his well-trimmed beard and mustache, which grew all around his mouth, it lent him a scholarly air, like a brilliant but congenial college professor. The same went for the thin-frame glasses he wore on his nose.

Despite working for the Mafia, he looked trustworthy. And if Rod had learned anything during his employment in D.C., it was that looks mattered. A lot.

He could only hope that Greyble would find himself outfoxed in that department.

“Sit. Sit.” Whittaker gestured at the sectional, waiting to take his own seat until his clients did. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Water?”

Some skinny assistant brought them their beverages, then closed the door behind her, leaving them to move past the pleasantries and get to the dirt.

Whittaker didn’t waste time after that. With a pen in one hand and the legal pad balanced on his knee, he looked from one client to the next. “Alright, gentlemen. Let’s hear it.”

“How much of the story do you want?” Rod began cautiously after his grandfather waved at him to speak.

He understood enough about the law to get the whole attorney-client privilege thing, but it still made him uneasy. Telling everything felt like it would be the equivalent of self-incrimination, regardless of whether it was or wasn’t.

Whittaker was quick to assure him that his professional discretion was a legally binding agreement though, the exact opposite of the Miranda Rights. Anything Rod said or did while the clock was running could not be held accountable in a court of law, with one exception. Any mention of crimes still to be committed were admissible.  But if he’d already committed a crime, no matter how bad, he could admit it without fear of reprisal.

“Besides,” the lawyer added, his eyes sympathetic and everything else about him all-around professional. “The more I know, the more I can protect you and your Mr. Evans down in D.C.

With that, Rod found himself explaining everything that had happened. Some parts were easier to detail than others, of course, and he had to work hard not to squirm like a fifteen-year old caught peeking up a classmate’s skirt.

If Whittaker judged him at any point, he didn’t show it. He didn’t even look particularly surprised, whether because he’d heard a lot worse before; because he’d trained himself to have an impressive poker face; or because he’d already been told there was a politician involved, and everyone knew that was a gateway drug to other horrible things.

Rod would have liked it to be the first or the third, as it took some of the moral pressure off of him. But he still didn’t think it’d be a good idea to ever play Texas Hold ‘Em with the guy. Not if any real money was at stake.

Nodding every so often, the lawyer took what looked like copious notes, not saying anything significant until after Rod concluded with “The four of us arrived up here last night, and none of us has heard anything from Evans since.”

Right after he said it, he had to wonder if maybe Evans had been in touch with anyone else in the group. He had never bothered to ask, assuming his team leader would contact him first. But perhaps he hadn’t for some reason.

The question was: If Evans had reached out to one of the others, would they have told him? Kayla, he thought, would since it was the intelligent thing to do and she did seem to be levelheaded overall. Though she was still female and he was still him, so she might not tell him to his face. She’d call or text, maintaining what distance she could while dealing with the unpleasant necessity.

Rachel he’d met just once at Kayla’s apartment during what turned out to be a pointless debugging sweep; and she hadn’t said anything at all to him, watching him the whole time he worked to make sure he didn’t do anything he wasn’t supposed to do. What exactly that was, he still wasn’t sure, only that it had been a thoroughly uncomfortable experience from start to finish. That general lack of contact meant he had no idea whether she would keep him in the loop or not.

Then there was Cory, who would leave him out to dry in a heartbeat if he could.

“Before we continue any further,” Whittaker broke into his erratic thoughts, “let me make sure I understand the role I’m assuming here. Correct me if I’m wrong, but Mr. Evans and Rodney here could be brought up on multiple counts of murder.”

That would be the thugs they’d killed in D.C. to protect Kayla.

He turned to Rod then. “And there’s at least aiding and abetting in aggravated kidnapping, extortion of a sitting U.S. senator, and a slew of breaking and entering, theft and assault charges over the course of your employment with Senator Aaron Greyble. Am I leaving anything out?”

“No. That sounds about right.” Though, come to think of it, the word, “right,” probably wasn’t the best choice.

“Separately, Mr. Evans could be charged with battery of Ms. –” He stopped to consult his notes. “– Jeateski, and aggravated assault against you, while you assaulted her with a deadly weapon as well.”

“Correct.”

Rod was relieved to hear that, from a legal standpoint, he hadn’t come close to a permanent placement on the sex-offenders list. That was because he hadn’t said or done anything lewd at the time in question, and intention was a hell of a lot more difficult to prove otherwise.

“But she’s not likely to pursue her legal options against either of you any more than you are against Mr. Evans.”

“Yes.”

“Because the three of you have formed some sort of unwritten pact?”

“Yes.” That was one way of describing it, Rod supposed.

Evans, he knew, had sat down one on one with Kayla to discuss her options the morning after she got back to Baltimore. And then the two of them, Cory and Rachel had all gotten together to talk over further details, including what they still needed to figure out in order to take Greyble on and win.

Rod hadn’t been invited to either meeting, though he had declared his own allegiance well before Kayla got back to her apartment. His own taxi ride from the shadier parts of N Street to Greyble’s office had been an opportunity to think about a lot of things. Including how he had just shot two people dead, something he’d never done before.

When he began his career in the Army, he’d known he might end up killing someone. But that was supposed to be terrorists’ lives he ended, not Americans’. And back during his one real gunfight in Afghanistan, he’d been picked off too fast to do any damage to the other side. So D.C. was his first experience cutting someone’s timeline short.

Kayla was worth it in the end. She wouldn’t have made it out alive if he hadn’t aimed and fired the way he had. The same went for himself and Evans, for that matter. Yet those very valid justifications only helped so much right after the fact, especially on top of actual crimes that remained unforgiven.

Riding out of the ghetto that night, with Evans sitting beside him, he tried to process all of that. Rod knew his team leader had taken lives before; it was almost a job requirement of being a SEAL. He was also certain that Evans had quoted a low kill count to Kayla when she asked. Which meant it made sense the man wasn’t shell-shocked by what had happened, only seething mad about what could have gone down.

What was supposed to go down according to their boss.

Unfortunately for Rod, that still left Evans in an altogether non-chatty mood, so he couldn’t ask for tips on how to handle the thoughts and feelings racing through his head. All he could do was follow behind him when the cab stopped at the Dirksen Senate Office Building. At the time, it felt like he didn’t have much choice. It was either that or dwell even more heavily on Kayla and the corpses he’d left behind.

It turned out he’d made the right choice, at least in the near-term. Thanks to Evans, Greyble and their shouting match, he got a twenty-three minute-long distraction. And when both men were finished venting at each other, Rod felt clear about two solid points. First off, his team leader wanted to exact some serious revenge on their boss. The other was that Rod himself was willing and ready to help him do just that. As he reasoned to Evans on their way out of the building, it “wouldn’t be the dumbest decision I made this week.”

Evans had given in and said yes.

That was the pact they had formed. He couldn’t say with all certainty what it meant to the other members of the agreement, but he knew he was willing to stand by it at all costs.

Across from him, Whittaker made one last note. “At this point, there are a number of cases we can make against your Senator Greyble if you want, though that would complicate any defense of you or your supervisor. Without further information, I see few plausible means of effectively prosecuting him without risking the same type of damage to yourselves. Not unless the FBI is in an extremely generous mood after hearing Mr. Evans out.”

Rod fought the urge to shift his gaze somewhere less intense.

“And even then, there would be a good chance we’d be able to strike a single plea deal, either for you or your friend. So I need to know right from the beginning what or who my first priority is.”

“Evans,” Rod replied without hesitation.

The lawyer nodded in understanding. “Since there are no warrants out for your arrest as of an hour ago, I’d advise that you wait here in town while I get as much sorted out as possible. Depending on how this goes, we might be able to resolve it sooner than later.”

There were no guarantees about how enjoyable the resolution would be, Rod noticed.

Whittaker coughed once into his fist. “I’m assuming your previous employer isn’t aware you have access to any significant legal representation?”

“Not that I know of.”

For all of his paranoia, paid sources, and willingness to hire mercenaries like Wisset, Greyble was still too confident by far. Like a sheltered brat, he had some understanding that something bad could happen to him but didn’t ever expect it to actually occur. Wisset would doubtlessly know, but why he’d share that information with the senator was beyond Rod. The guy was being paid to keep people in line, not operate Greyble’s entire criminal plot.

He took the last sip of his coffee, which was little better than lukewarm by that point.

The conversation didn’t last much longer than that, totaling less than forty-five minutes in all. So it was still early enough when they arrived back at the house. He figured his nonna would be awake, sitting at the kitchen table with her favorite cup of coffee and a crossword puzzle. She’d also have her Eggos, toasted on low and then covered in butter and syrup. It was anything but a stereotypical Italian breakfast for a stereotypical Italian grandmother, but it was her standard, go-to morning meal nonetheless.

His grandfather dropped him off and then left again, saying that he had “some business to attend to.” He didn’t offer details, and Rod didn’t ask for any. Though he did wonder if he could come along. Mafia dealings, or whatever his nonno was up to, would probably be preferable to being in an enclosed space with three antagonistic individuals.

It was a big house, however, he consoled himself. If worse came to worse, he could even go out to the back and see if his old tree fort was still intact.

His eyes drifted to the window of Cory’s room. But between the drawn curtains and the sun, he couldn’t tell if there were any lights on up there or not. There was no way to know in advance whether he’d be entering a peaceful zone or no-man’s land.

There was a saying in the Army: Suck it up and move on. Standing there, Rod knew he needed to put it into practice; to get over the many emotions involved and get back to work.

In other words, the question of who was up and how they’d react to his presence was irrelevant. He was simply going to have to find out the hard way.

“Hooah,” he muttered under his breath. And then he went for it.

I Know Nothing About the Mafia

Writing about subject matter you’re not familiar with doesn’t always require a lot of research. Sometimes, all it takes is the art of being vague.

For example…

Despite my Scottish mother’s conjecture about why her Italian husband’s father doesn’t speak to a single member of his family, I don’t have any Mafia connections. At least none that I can use if I want to off someone. Which is probably a good thing considering how many people might otherwise end up taking long walks off of short piers wearing dried cement around their feet.

If you’ve read “The Politician’s Pawn,” then you know that Lord Acton once said, “Power corrupts and ultimate power corrupts absolutely.” I imagine that’s true, ‘cause boy, if I had that kind of power, I can’t tell you how fast I’d be misusing it.

But I digress.

I don’t know anything about the Mafia outside of what I’ve seen on TV shows and read about in “WITSEC: Inside the Federal Witness Protection Program,” a book I bought to research a completely different story (though it came in handy for this one in a completely different way). Yet that criminal enterprise is mentioned more than once throughout “Amateurs Play Elsewhere,” since Rod’s grandfather is a mob boss.

At least he’s pretty sure he is. Despite his own shady background, Rod has never seen any proof of his grandfather’s criminal activities. He only has his well-founded suspicions.

Thing is, because the story is told through Rod’s eyes and not his grandfather’s, I didn’t have to do any real research on the Mafia. Readers only have to know what he knows and not a shred of information more.

That’s the beauty of third-person limited narration. It’s about as realistic as fiction gets… and about as kind a method as a writer can expect.

2 – Jersey Boy

T

he next call he made was to a friend of his, a mechanic, who would be able to help him jack up his car and fit it with new tires in the least amount of time possible. Jacob wasn’t exactly thrilled with the request and demanded some serious payment for the favor, but he agreed in the end, grousing that he’d be over in half an hour.

Half an hour was more than enough time to complete the rest of his checklist, starting with texting Kayla her destination address. Then he reached for his low-tech and less traceable phone to dial his grandfather.

“Hello?” The Jersey accent down the line was strong, the voice itself stronger.

It commanded a respect Rod had no problem giving. “Nonno, it’s me.”

“Rodney? Why you callin’ with this number?” The older man demanded.

“I’m in some trouble and got a new phone. This is the one to reach me at now.”

“What happened?”

It was good to hear his voice; to speak with someone who genuinely cared about him no matter what stupid things he’d done. “It’s a long story.”

“So make it short.”

Despite everything, he had to smile. It was so like his grandfather. “I got mixed up with some dirty politicians, then welched on our deal. It’s gone pretty sour since.”

“You down in D.C.?”

“Baltimore.”

“Get on up here.”

Rod already knew that was going to be the answer. Technically, he knew what to expect of his next question too, but he asked it anyway. “I’d have to bring some guests with me. Is that okay?”

“How many?”

“Three. Two women. One guy. All around my age.”

He was packing his clothes now, grabbing items out of his drawer and throwing them into his sports bag with the Pittsburgh Steelers logo.

“We got room. I’ll tell your nonna to put on some pasta for you and your friends.”

The thought of sitting around a table, eating baked ziti with his grandparents and three people who practically had a patent on loathing him wasn’t the most optimal picture he could envision. “Don’t bother. We’re not going to get there until like two in the morning. Maybe later.”

“You think that’s going to stop her?”

It was a valid point, and Rod sighed in resignation. “These people aren’t exactly my friends, Nonno.”

“Who are they?”

It was such a simple thing to ask, yet it stopped him in his tracks, one hand closed around a pair of blue boxers. “They’re collateral damage, I suppose.” There was the Jersey accent again. “They got mixed up in this mess through no fault of their own, and they’re working with me out of necessity, not ‘cause they like me or what I’ve done.”

The understatement of the century.

“You’re a good man for helping them out anyway.”

And that made for the least accurate statement of the century. Rod forced his arm to resume its route from drawer to bag.

“Bring them on up,” his grandfather went on. “We’ll keep ‘em safe.”

“Thanks, Nonno. I appreciate it.”

He hung up, knowing life was about to get a lot more interesting in ways he didn’t care to contemplate.

It took Jacob less time to make it to Rod’s than either of them expected, but it was still plenty of time to finish throwing stuff together and stand around moping some more. Just for something to do, he broke another bottle of beer in the kitchen.

He was still cleaning up the glass when Jacob called from the parking lot.

Rod locked everything up, certain it wouldn’t make any difference. If Wisset wanted to get inside, the man would most definitely find a way. But just to be on the safe and pointless side, he left his regular phone behind. Wisset had tapped into Evans’ before, and he could have done the same to his other captive’s last night.

Jacob took him down Route 295 to pick up tires first. The purchase wasn’t precisely cheap, but Rod still had enough money left over from his shady employment history to cover the expense. And it was well worth it to be back in his car again an hour later, speeding like a madman away from the warehouse and its horrific memories. He barely had enough space to compose himself before his phone rang.

Considering the number showing on his screen, Rod already knew the conversation wasn’t going to go well.

“Everything okay?” Rod did try to sound moderately non-offensive. He really did. Even though the guy seriously bothered him.

“No. They’re not okay.” Kayla’s boyfriend sounded aggressive, not scared. Which meant he wasn’t in any danger. “Where the hell are you sending us?”

He choked back his own antagonistic attitude. “New Jersey. I gave Kayla the address. Didn’t she tell you?”

Maybe he could have tried harder. That last line hadn’t been necessary.

“Yes.” The single word was something very close to a snarl. “She told me the details you did give, which were so little they were practically useless.”

Rod supposed that was true, but he didn’t admit it. “You’re going to my grandparents’ house in Newark.”

The other end was quiet for the space of several breaths that were rife with scorn. “Your grandparents? For real? We have the U.S. government on our tails, and you have us visiting an old folks’ home?”

Cory’s skepticism rang out across the distance, though not as much as his continuing hostility.

Rod gripped the steering wheel harder. “They have connections.” He deliberately accentuated the statement.

“Connections?”

Cory wasn’t stupid. He was sure of it. From what Evans had explained, the dude was a computer expert with some serious security clearance, indicating that he was about as far from stupid as possible.

That left Rod to assume he was being dense for the simple purpose of being obnoxious.

“They’re a special order of Italian. Capisce?” He snapped. “So yeah, they have connections.”

At least, he was fairly sure that was true. Right then, he really hoped it was.

“You mean you’re sending us to the mob?”

Under the onslaught of that intentional and repeated disrespect, Rod lost his temper, snapping back with an insolence of his own. “Which way do you want it? You want safe or you want legal? Because you can’t have both right now.”

He refrained from adding the more colorful language he wanted to use. It took a lot of effort to curb his tongue.

If mere silence could be sullen, Cory managed it quite well.

With a concerted effort, Rod took a deep breath and moderated his tone. “You want to keep Kayla safe?”

“Yeah, from people like you.” No profanity was flat-out stated, but it was heavily implied.

In the background, Rod could hear a female – Kayla herself, he guessed – say something indistinct. His own voice faded like he was covering the mouthpiece, Cory replied that he could handle it.

Never very good at keeping his cool without some major incentives in play, Rod focused on a mental image of Evans glowering at him. Even then, his knuckles were white around the steering wheel.

“You wanna go there?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Let’s go there. I tried to hurt her. I was wrong, and I’m sorry. Feel free to punch me in the face when this is all over. But for now, with Evans behind bars for all we know, I’m the best ticket you got to keeping her alive.”

Cory didn’t say a single word, quite possibly choking on the facts.

Rod rather wished he would.

“So do you want my help or not?” He pressed.

“I swear, if you so much as look at her funny.” Cory trailed off, probably not for lack of description.

Rod wasn’t intimidated. Not when Kayla’s boyfriend was pretty much the poster boy for nerdhood, complete with glasses and a slender build. His darker skin was the only thing that saved him from entirely blending in with the Dungeons and Dragons crowd.

The dude was also only a few inches taller than his woman, an all-around picture of someone who could be taken out with one well-placed blow. Two at the most.

He kept those thoughts to himself since they wouldn’t do a single bit of good to say out loud. Though they would be pretty fun to point out. In a sick, twisted sort of way, but fun nonetheless.

For that reason, his actual response wasn’t nearly as reassuring as it should have been. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Keep it that way.”

The phone changed hands before he could throw any more sarcasm across the line. Whether it did so by force, trickery or consent wasn’t clear.

“It’s Kayla,” the object of contention said. She went on without giving him a chance to say anything, rushing through her words awkwardly rather than rudely. “Your grandparents know we’re coming, right? I mean, they’re not going to be confused when we show up on their doorstep?”

Despite the rapid rate she fired off the questions, she sounded more than tired. She sounded downright weary, which made Rod lose most of his ire. It didn’t make him like Cory, but it did give him a bigger incentive to play nice, if just for her sake.

“Yeah, they’re expecting you. Don’t worry. And don’t bother trying to tell my grandmother you’re not hungry. It won’t work.”

Kayla let out a short, surprised laugh: a remarkably cute sound. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Maybe it was the way she sounded so normal for that moment instead of scared and confused and exhausted that made him put his foot in his mouth. Or maybe he was dumber than he thought.

If he had to pick one, he’d have to say the latter reason was closer to the mark.

“She’s not like me. You’ll get along with her.” The assurance came out of his mouth before he stopped to think about it, and he instantly wished he could take it back.

It took a moment, but she responded with, “I’m sure I will,” politely ignoring the first part of his statement.

Giving further proof that he lacked a few key elements inside his stupid skull, he kept blathering. “Look, I won’t be getting there until at least an hour after you do. I’m assuming you’re in Delaware now? So you don’t have to worry about seeing me tonight.” He really wished he could shut up already, yet the words kept pouring out. “I’ll make myself scarce after that. You won’t have to see too much of me at all. Promise.”

“I’m sorry.” Her tone was right back to unsure.

Rod decided the conversation needed to end. Right away, if not sooner. “I should go. Call me if you get lost. And tell Cory I’m sorry.” He still had to force that last part out despite the picture of Kayla looking bewildered burning into his brain.

He didn’t wait for an actual reply from her. Hanging up, he slumped in his seat, suddenly exhausted beyond all description.

It would have been better if he had let her get a word in edgewise when he asked where they were. As it was, he couldn’t be certain they’d be in bed when he pulled up to his grandparents’ place. If they weren’t, he could far too easily see himself getting into a huge, blowout fight with Cory. It was just a matter of who would start it.

One way or the other, he’d hear it from his nonna then. She didn’t condone that kind of behavior, which had to be why she chose to ignore the non-liquor related side of her husband’s business dealings. According to her, the mob really didn’t exist.

In her defense, Rod himself had no actual proof that his family was a real-life, less catastrophic version of the Sopranos. But even if they weren’t, he was still positive the Mafia was a real and present entity. No offense to his nonna, who he loved dearly, but it was difficult to live in North Jersey without having some basic understanding of the local crime lords.

Especially when you were married to one.

Probably.

Hopefully.

Except for a quick stop for some black coffee, Rod didn’t do much more than contemplate pulling over to rest. Yes, he was fatigued in every sense of the word; and yes, stopping would have put more distance between him and a group of people he didn’t care to see. Yet he kept the pedal to the metal, glancing down at his phone every so often and thinking about the various players in the game he was in.

Greyble.

Wisset.

Evans, his wife and kids.

Kayla and her friends.

And now his grandparents.

The more he thought about everyone involved, the more he realized how his family should be the least of his concerns. Washington D.C. didn’t seem like it had a sporting chance against his grandfather. Not when they had been at odds ever since Rod could remember, with no real points scored for Uncle Sam. It was a constant stalemate, and that appeared to be just because his nonno didn’t care about trouncing that particular opponent.

As a former soldier, Rod understood full well that he should be rooting for his government over the criminal element plaguing the country. But considering how his government was filled with men like Aaron Greyble, any guilt he might feel for his associations and loyalties just didn’t feel all that pressing in the moment.

Besides, the suits down there in the capitol couldn’t make homemade raviolis like his grandmother prepared, stuffed with five kinds of cheese and garlic and lamb and basil and who knew what else. That kind of cooking trumped American pie any day.

What he had told Kayla was true. He really did think she would get along with his nonna. Maybe a little too well.

The idea made him fidget in his seat.

He didn’t actually think Kayla would say anything incriminating to her. But there was the small possibility he might be met with a severe talking to and possible disownment instead of the plate of ziti he couldn’t help but look forward to. Going the rest of his life without that kind of cooking wasn’t a punishment he found very palatable, despite the fairly obvious answer on whether it was justified or not.

Pulling up to the old, three-story Victorian home was therefore a somewhat nerve-wracking experience. It held a lot of great memories for him, and he hoped he hadn’t seen the last of those. With its wraparound porch and single turret stretching above the rest of the house, he had played pretend in it more than once as a kid, certain that it was a castle with dangerous dragons to be slayed.

Forget the fair maidens, of course. Back then, there were far more important things to think about than girls, who everyone knew had contagious diseases. They liked stupid colors too. His younger self could forgive his grandmother for the pink and white azaleas she kept carefully pruned around the property, but that was because she was Nonna. Other females didn’t get that pass.

Life could have been so much easier if he had managed to retain that mentality.

Rod stayed inside his car for a few minutes longer, refusing to so much as shut off Lacey’s motor. While he knew he would have to get out and go in at some point, he liked the illusion of freedom he maintained with the engine running. Like he could leave without a second’s thought.

It was a nice enough notion even if it was completely unattainable.

As a general rule, he wasn’t the kind of guy who spent too much time hesitating. As a general rule, he was a go-getter. But on the possibility that Kayla and crew hadn’t gone to bed quite yet, he remained where he was, even cranking on the radio and listening to two and a half songs first. The last one would have been unbearable on any other evening, since it was by some boyband he regretted so much as knowing the name of.

Pretty-boy singers who could hit notes some girls couldn’t were not his thing. Yet he let the tune play out from start to finish.

Finally turning his key and sliding it out of the ignition, Rod squared his shoulders and got out. He took his time slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder. The same went for walking up the first five brick steps to the walkway above. By the time he hit the second set of stairs onto the porch, his legs still felt unnaturally heavy. His stomach was even more weighted, and he was pretty sure he was developing a tick in his left eye.

The lights were on up there, gently illuminating the light yellow paint of the house. And the front door was open well before he reached it.

“Rodney! Caro!” His grandmother appeared, hands on her hips, somehow both scowling and beaming at the same time. “Come. Come. Why are you dawdling when your pasta is getting cold on the table?”

It seemed clear enough that Kayla hadn’t breathed a word. Rod smiled back, his whole body relaxing, and bent his six-foot frame to give her a proper hug and kiss on the cheek. She smelled like she usually did: of tomato sauce and parmesan cheese.

She kissed him back, exclaimed over his bruised face without asking any questions about it, then hurried him inside, insisting he go straight into the kitchen to have a seat. He did as instructed, passing through the enormous and stately living room into the equally austere dining room. For the most part, the place resembled something out of an Agatha Christie play with its expensive antique furniture, polished wooden floors and ornate oriental rugs. The walls held more than a few pieces of priceless art, and the very high ceilings they pointed to added to the almost intimidating aura.

But the kitchen was something else altogether, by far the most cheerful spot inside. The granite countertops and polished cabinets were just as costly as everything else in the house, but they managed to look welcoming and cheerful. Maybe it was the cream-colored walls, whereas the rest of the house was done up in browns and burgundies. Or maybe it was due to the wonderful things that came out of the room.

Rod took a seat on one of the custom-made barstools at the counter. Sure enough, there sat a plate heaped high with pasta that oozed with melted cheese, tomato sauce and chunks of chicken. Just the way he liked it.

His stomach growled, but he still paused to say grace before digging in. He knew the rules when he was there.

“What can I get you to drink, cucciolo?”

He also knew better than to tell his grandmother that she didn’t need to wait on him. She was going to do it regardless, just like she would insist he have a second helping.

Which he wouldn’t object to.

She bustled around the kitchen, fetching him one thing one moment, wiping a rag over an already clean counter the next and happily chatting all the while. Did he have a girlfriend yet? Anyone special he had his eye on? He wasn’t getting any younger, she reminded him, and he really did need to settle for a nice young woman who could cook a decent manicotti.

Rod shoved another bite into his mouth while his grandmother went on, not seeming to care that he didn’t have any responses. But he found himself regretting that avoidance tactic when she went on to note how Kayla was a very pretty girl. Even if she wasn’t Italian.

If she thought it odd how he started choking before she could finish the thought, she didn’t say so.

“Are you alright, caro?” Was all she asked, picking up right where she’d left off when he managed to assure her he was fine. Kayla already had a boyfriend anyway, she noted, so how about Rachel? She seemed nice.

Rod hastily sought to divert her attention to something else before he really did asphyxiate on pasta. If he had to go, he supposed it wouldn’t be the worst way to die, and altogether better than death by Wisset. But he’d prefer to live a while longer if at all possible.

“How are your hands doing,” he pressed, seizing onto the first thing that popped into his head.

His nonna had gone to the doctor’s last month complaining about pain in her fingers, only to find out she had arthritis. Rod had always thought that was something tiny, frail people got. It appeared that wasn’t the case though, since his grandmother was pleasantly plump and vivacious, even with her grey, thinning hair and the lines around her face.

She waved a dismissive hand. “I’m fine. And we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you and how you need to think about settling down.”

His grandfather chose that moment to walk in, proving that God didn’t all-around hate him.

At seventy-two, the man still came across as a rather imposing figure. It was his side of the family that Rod got his own height from, and that still showed on the elder Andiluigi. He might be thicker around the middle than when he was in his prime, but there was still some power evident in his arms, and his shoulders were unbowed.

“Maria,” he chided, throwing his hands into the air. “Stop badgering the boy. He’ll find someone when he finds someone.”

She snorted her opinion of that but didn’t actually say anything in return, and not out of wifely submission. She didn’t need to speak when her expression conveyed her thoughts so perfectly all by itself.

Rod stood up to give him a hug. “Nonno, it’s good to see you. Thanks for letting us come.”

Of course.” He pronounced the second word like it had no R in it, replaced instead by some sort of W sound. “You know you’re welcome here anytime and for any reason.”

“Still, thank you.” He held off on discussing the details in front of his grandmother.

She was already giving one last cleaning swipe to one last counter. “Eat your ziti, Rodney. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Pressing a final kiss to his cheek, she went over to exchange a peck with her husband before sweeping out of the kitchen. That left the men alone to talk, but Rod kept waiting until he was sure she was well out of hearing range.

“What did you tell her?”

Taking a seat on one of the barstools next to him, his grandfather snorted, a noise that sounded a whole lot like the one his wife had emitted a minute ago. “That you had some guests coming over, and she shouldn’t ask how they knew you.”

Rod nodded gratefully. “So she knows something’s off but not exactly what?”

He waved a hand again, reminding his grandson of the joke about how to make an Italian shut up: by tying his hands behind his back.

“She doesn’t want to know. It makes her happy that way.”

It made Rod happy too, so he didn’t object.

“She asked them about their families, and fed them and put them to bed. She likes that mothering sort of thing, so you made her week.”

Rod felt a tired but genuine smile creep over his face. It disappeared with his grandfather’s next words.

“So you gave me the short story before. What’s the long one?”

“You sure you want me to tell you now? It’s late and all.”

“Stop stalling, Rodney, and spit it out.”

So he did. Every single unflattering bit of it, though even then he couldn’t bring himself to use the R-word. His grandfather listened without a single syllable or even an expression of interruption, letting him say his piece plus some. And even after it was all out there between them, he stayed quiet for a short while, thinking it over. Then he pulled out his phone.

“Who are you calling?” Rod was sure it wasn’t the cops, but other than that, he had no clue.

“Joe Piccarello to come get your car. It shouldn’t be out on the street right now. You need a new one.”

Rod had considered that before. And as much as he didn’t want to be a mooch, he had also figured that his grandfather could take care of it.

“After that, I’m getting ahold of Laurence Whittaker.” He angled his chin slightly to start speaking into the phone. “Joe. I need you to come over here and pick something up for me. It’s a vehicle. I need it to sit in Lonnie’s shop for a while. Tell him I’ll pay him for the space.” A pause, then, “Yeah, right away.”

Rod stared at his plate, wiped clean except for a few smears of pasta sauce. He knew all the men mentioned. Joe was the son of a close family friend, the Piccarellos and Andiluigis going way back. As far as he knew, they’d come off the same boat way back in the nineteen twenties.

Lonnie, meanwhile, owned a car dealership a five-minute drive away, and a chop shop several miles further down the road. While he couldn’t prove anything, Rod had his significant suspicions that the place did both legitimate and illegitimate business.

Last but very far from least, there was Laurence Whittaker, the well-paid and worthwhile attorney who had been on his grandfather’s retainer for decades.

As soon as the elder Andiluigi hung up with Joe, he started pressing more buttons. “You respect this team leader of yours, right?” He asked. “This Thomas Evans character?”

Rod answered without hesitation. “Yeah. He’s a good guy. He deserves better than this.”

“Then he’s going to get ‘better,’” he stated. “The same for you. We’re going to make this right.”

A minute later, he was instructing his lawyer to first figure out where Evans was being held and then sign on as his official legal representative. That development meant the long-term picture was starting to look a little brighter. Rod had never taken too much interest in Whittaker’s business, but he knew enough to understand that it was flush with cash from a string of successfully handled cases. Plus, the firm had a very competent, very thorough, and not exactly ethical private investigator it kept on the team.

She was kind of hot too. A little too thin for his taste, but with a take-no-prisoners attitude that made her appealing anyway. From all reports, the woman was a genius at digging up dirt on the opposition.

Possibly with that kind of thing in mind, Whittaker insisted on meeting up early in the morning. That was fine by Rod, since it meant he could avoid certain houseguests for at least a few more hours.

With that all taken care of, he went to sleep in his old bedroom on the third floor. It had long since lost its nursery décor, but he could still envision it the way it used to be with dinosaurs painted along the walls. There hadn’t been a smidgen of “girly” colors back then, from the dark green shag of the carpet to the bright blankets and the white of the ceiling.

His sentimental grandmother still insisted on calling it his room, despite how he was sure plenty of other people stayed there when he wasn’t around, and even though it now sported brief splotches of some shade of pink he couldn’t identify. It wasn’t particularly intrusive or even all that noticeable mixed in with the blues and greens and whites everywhere else, but it was still there.

Kayla would doubtlessly know what to call the color. Girls always did, correcting men on the differences between aqua and teal, and other pointless variances. He supposed that, in some strange way, it was part of their charm.

Sometimes.

Sometimes it was just annoying.

Sometimes life was just annoying.

Rod glanced at the bedroom across the hall, the door shut tight. Case in point.

He figured Kayla and Rachel were sharing that one, while Cory was situated in the room directly beside him. There was no way his grandmother and her Catholic sensibilities would allow an unmarried couple to sleep in the same room together. For all he knew, she still thought he was an altar boy. If so, she was entirely wrong, but he rather liked her having such a good opinion of him, considering how she was one of the few people out there who did.

With one last look through the bay windows that jutted out from his circular room inside the turret, he stripped down to his boxers and climbed into bed. Setting the alarm beside him to zero six hundred, his lips twisted in a grimace at the realization that he’d be waking up again in less than three hours.

Tomorrow was going to be an interesting day, and it was coming all too soon.