Free Cold Moon Dead by J. M. Griffin Page B

collect my scattered wits. Tony Jabroni stepped into view. My heart thumped a wild beat as I gawked at both men.
    When the doctor swung the door open, I entered like a puppet on strings—with no will of my own, no mind to tell me what to do. I was simply stunned. So much for a good day without any trouble or problems. With a couple of deep breaths, I tried a smile before I spoke a word.
    “You the painter?” Tony asked in his husky voice. He frowned down at me.
    “I’m just filling in for the guy you hired. He’s sick.” The salivary glands in my mouth began to work again. I swallowed in a loud gulp.
    “You know the way downstairs?” he asked, without offering to show me.
    “Uh huh, I do.” I moved away from the two men, in the direction of the staircase. Louie-the-Lug hadn’t uttered a sound. He continued to stare at me as though I were an alien.
    “You didn’t mention our incident to the cops yesterday, did you?” Jabroni asked with narrowed eyes.
    “I didn’t bring it up at all.” It was a half-truth. I hadn’t brought it up. It had been brought up to me. So I hadn’t really lied, right? It was a rocky road to hell. I was well on my way there with all these half-truths and outright lies.
    “You done good, kid. You done good,” he said with a smarmy leer.
    The term “dirtball” came to mind, but I knew enough to keep my trap shut. Instead, I waved my hand and practically fell down the stairs in my effort to get away. Leave it to me to end up at Tony Jabroni’s house. Thanks to Lanky Larry, I was stuck working for a mobster, the very same one who I had been warned to stay away from. The only defense I had was that I wasn’t on Federal Hill. That had to count for something, right?
    My day was headed down the toilet . . . into the crapper . . . no doubt about it. Geez, I hate when that happens. Without any further thoughts on the route my life had taken, I stuffed the paint palette, bottles of colors, brushes, and water bin onto the ladder. Once settled on the next-to-the-top rung of the ladder I had dragged to the French doors, I started to paint the final leaves on the wall.
    In my angst, I slopped color down the front of my jeans. Thankfully, it didn’t matter since they were clothes I only used when I painted. A towel hung over the edge of the top step on the ladder. I wiped the paint away and slapped the towel back in place. Would it be too much to expect that, for one day, nothing catastrophic would happen? I considered this while I continued to add detail to the design.
    Not that being in Jabroni’s house was catastrophic in itself, but one never knew what could happen next. I finished the leaves and vines over the top of the door before I added a few more flowers to it.
    Angry words, a man’s and a woman’s, filtered down the stairs from the kitchen above. Voices rose, though I couldn’t make out the words. It must be Mr. and Mrs. Wonderful, I thought, as I heard a door slam shut and a car drive away.
    Within minutes Jabroni came downstairs with a tray that held a cup of coffee and a pastry on a plate. He set it on the coffee table and pointed to it.
    “I brought this sfogliatelle and some fresh coffee for you. My wife just left for her bridge game, and I’ll be leaving soon. How much longer you gonna be?”
    “Not that much longer. About two hours, maybe less.” I eyeballed the clamshell-shaped pastry and my mouth watered. Among Italian pastry, this was my all-time favorite. It had a thin crust ridged in layers similar to that of a clamshell. I knew there’d be a dry filling of ricotta cheese inside, delicately flavored with vanilla. The outside shell would be crispy and crunchy. Powdered sugar topped the delicious confection. I stared at it like it was the only food I’d seen in months.
    Jabroni laughed at my expression and motioned for me to come down off the ladder and enjoy the fare. After his gruff treatment of me upstairs, this was a turnabout in his behavior toward me. I