Free Killer Punch by Amy Korman Page A

rosemary. There was a huge U-­shaped bar in the front, with chocolate-­hued walls and tiny brass sconces creating a convivial, Rat Packy–style vibe, and a large dining room that included comfy leather-­upholstered booths and white-­clothed tables behind it. The air-­conditioning was on full blast, and customers ranged in age from guys in their twenties all the way up to ­couples in their eighties, with women in sparkly shoes, guys in suits and sport coats. Cleavage was lavish, and eyelashes were long. A band fronted by a guy in a tuxedo belted out oldies, and the mood was super-­festive.
    The ­people who didn’t really fit in, to be honest, were me and Bootsie. Every other hemline in the place stopped at mid-­thigh, and my caftan was getting strange looks. Bootsie’s Talbots golf skirt, polo shirt, and whale-­print sandals were even more out of place, as was her makeup-­free, sporty vibe. No one seemed to mind, though, that we had a large basset hound with us, wagging at everything in sight.
    Plus Sophie was right: Waffles wasn’t the only mutt in the place. I saw a Yorkie, a Bichon, a Cavalier King Charles, and several other tiny dogs sitting in the dining room with a group of Real Housewife–style ladies in their forties. Another booth was full of uniformed policemen digging into plates of clams casino, and behind them were a bunch of girls having a bachelorette celebration complete with one wearing a “Bride” sash and a tiara.
    â€œSophiieeee!” said a man in a crisp white shirt and a beautifully cut suit who rushed toward us, shaking Sophie’s hand and emitting a waft of pleasant-­smelling cologne. He was tanned and impeccably groomed, and appeared to be in his early sixties. He beamed down at our friend.
    â€œToooonyyy!” sang Sophie. “I’ve missed ya!” she added, giving him a double cheek kiss.
    â€œI can’t believe it, what’s it been, five years?” said Midnight Tony. “And you won’t believe it, but guess who’s here, too?”
    He indicated a dark-­haired man at the bar, who was several years younger than Tony, but just as flawlessly bronzed and handsome, and in a cool navy sport coat and dark jeans. He immediately jumped up and enveloped Sophie in a huge hug.
    â€œLobster Phil LaMonte!” shrieked Sophie. “What are you doing back in Jersey?”
    A FT ER M IDNIGHT T ONY, Lobster Phil, and Sophie had exchanged about five minutes of “You keep getting younger” and “It’s been too long” greetings, Tony led us to his best booth, whereupon Phil joined us and insisted he was going to buy us dinner.
    â€œWhat the hell. Order a petit filet for the doggie, too!” Lobster Phil said, immediately endearing himself to me.
    To be honest, I was slightly nervous about dining in an off-­the-­books restaurant with what could only be some of Sophie and Barclay’s former Trenton business associates. Then again, Lobster Phil was clearly a dog lover, so he had to be okay. And if the police were eating here, that made the place perfectly safe—­right?
    â€œThese are my friends Bootsie and Kristin,” Sophie said as Tony seated us on the Naugahyde banquette and waiters immediately delivered Chianti, rustic bread, olive oil, and a huge plate of grilled figs topped with Gorgonzola. “We all live over in Pennsylvania, and this one”—­here, she indicated Bootsie—­“is, like, a champion eater.”
    â€œLuckily, I got a lotta money with me!” joked Phil—­at least I thought he was joking, until he whipped out a packet of bills and started tipping every waiter who passed by our table.
    â€œIs that a poker game I see in the back?” Bootsie asked Tony, who was still hovering at our table, as she ripped into the bread. “Because I happen to be an excellent card player.”
    I knew this to be