Free Hate is Thicker Than Blood by Brad Latham Page A

the living room where it’s cooler.” And she led him into a small
     area, just big enough to hold a couch, two chairs and a desk. It had the air of a room rarely used.
    “It’s a hot night,” she continued. “Would you like something to drink? I have some Pepsi in the icebox.”
    “Thanks, no,” he told her. He took out a pack of Camels. “Would you like a cigarette?”
    “Thank you, yes,” she said, real gratitude in her voice “Since my husband died, there hasn’t been much money for—this kind
     of thing.” He lit her cigarette, then his own. “Keep the pack,” he said.
    “No.”
    “It’s all right,” he told her. “My company will pay for it.”
    His smile seemed to reassure her, and she nodded, and smiled in return. “Thanks.”
    “Has your husband been dead long?”
    “A year,” she answered, simply. “The Depression. He lost his job. Couldn’t find any other. Killed himself.” She took another
     puff on the cigarette. “I’m about over it now, though,” she told him. “It was never too good, anyway. It was the wrong time
     to get married. We were the wrong people.” She looked at him. “You know how it can be.”
    He nodded. “They say things will be getting better.”
    “Probably. A little too late for me.”
    “No, not for you. You’re a handsome woman.”
    She looked at him and flushed, then tried to shrug it off. “People like me, we’re not meant to win. Anyway, that’s neither
     here nor there. How can I help you?”
    “I was at the funeral today.”
    She looked at him, saying nothing.
    “Maria Nuzzo’s funeral.”
    “I see.”
    “I heard you talking to a friend.”
    She started, then collected herself. “Oh?”
    “I’m investigating Maria Nuzzo’s murder for my company. I’d like to hear more about what you know.”
    He saw the fright flash into her eyes. “I don’t know anything.”
    “I heard you. Remember? At the funeral. When you talked to your friend.”
    She looked at him for a long time. Finally, she said, “You’re not one of them, are you? You don’t look like one of them.”
    “One of Nuzzo’s men? Or Lomenzo’s? No.” She nodded as he said it, relief in her face. “I’m legitimate,” he told her.
    “I guess this teaches me to keep my big mouth shut.” She smiled a warm smile, framed by full, generous lips.
    “On the contrary. What you said today could lead to the arrest of Maria Nuzzo’s killer.”
    She studied him. “I’m thirsty. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a Pepsi? You look warm.”
    She was right. “Okay, thanks.”
    “Just a minute.” She turned toward the kitchen.
    “That’s all right. I’ll come with you.”
    “Suit yourself.”
    The kitchen was small, too. He could hear the drip, drip of the ice as it melted into the pan at the bottom of the box. It
     was easily ninety degrees tonight, a little more inside the house.
    She chipped a couple of slivers off the ice, put them into two jelly glasses, opened a bottle of soda, and poured it equally
     into two glasses. Her eyes were big when she looked at him. “Skoal.”
    “Skoal.”
    They stood in the kitchen, eyes on one another as they drank.
    She put her glass down first. “It’s been a year,” she said.
    “A year?”
    “A year since Harry—died. And it wasn’t that good to begin with.
    She moved toward him, and her arms opened, and then closed around him. “People like me, we’re losers,” she said. “But not
     all the time. Not always. Sometimes we know when to take.”
    Her lips neared his. “I’ll tell you what you want to know. After,” she told him.
    Her eyes were soft as he left her. It had been good. He got into the car and flicked the ignition. Maria Nuzzo’s lover lived
     less than a mile away.
    When he got there, a woman answered the door.
    “I’m looking for your husband,” he told her. “Red Agitino.”
    “Who is it?” a male voice shouted.
    Agitino’s wife looked back over her shoulder. “A man. Says he wants to see