Beyond Seduction. Kathleen O'Reilly

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СКАЧАТЬ held up the stack of books in front of her. Law books. “I got a problem with the social security department. Foolish computer error, that’s what it is.”

      “What what is?”

      “They think I’m dead, and I don’t know how to prove I’m alive. The state of New York issued a death certificate as a mistake. I was in the hospital four months ago, stupid heart. I should exercise more, I suppose.”

      “You need some help?”

      “Could you?”

      Sam thought for a minute. “I’ll need your ID. Just to make sure you’re not pulling one over on me.”

      She laughed, and then handed over a well-worn card. “Here you go,” she answered.

      Sam pulled out his cell, and punched in a few numbers. “I know just the guy.

      “Dan. It’s Sam. Need a favor—”

      “You’re not going to put us on the show, are you?”

      “No, no, you’re in the clear—this time. I have a citizen in need.”

      “It’s after five, Sam. Can it wait?”

      “Come on, Dan, I’ll owe you one, and best of all, it’s easy.”

      “Will we get a kudos on the air?”

      “For you, I’ll do a special segment.”

      “Okay, what’s up?”

      “I have a lady here, living, breathing, and talking to me, that the social security department thinks is dead. Can we correct the state records, and mail one of your official letters to those nasty bureaucrats in Washington that wouldn’t know a heart if it was, well, a living heart?”

      “Name of the un-dead?”

      “Geraldine Brady,” answered Sam, and then reeled off the rest of Geraldine’s pertinent info while she beamed as any non-dead citizen would. “Got all that?”

      “Yeah. Blockheads, all of ’em. I’ll fix it.”

      “You’re a prince among men, Dan.”

      “Save it for your fans, Sam.”

      He just laughed and hung up. “I think it’s taken care of it, but here’s one of my cards, and let me know if you don’t get a letter in a couple of weeks.”

      Geraldine put down her books and gave him a hug. Right in the middle of the bookstore. Sam smiled politely, because he wasn’t exactly comfortable with the touchy-feely aspects of his job, especially not under the wicked, gleaming eyes in the photograph of Mercedes. Sam ran a finger under the collar of his leather bomber jacket, feeling the sweat that had collected there. Somehow, some way, he was absolutely sure Mercedes Brooks was laughing at him. He swore under his breath, and shook his head, clearing the ghosts, clearing the image of her.

      O’Kelley’s was a much-needed reprieve from the bookstore. The place was casual, dark, and ear-poppingly loud. He scanned the room for the guys, spotting them at a table against the black-paneled wall, underneath the Harp beer sign. Bobby was a journalist who he’d bonded with when he was a political reporter for WNBC. Across from him was the reason for the dinner—Tony Rapanelli. Seven years ago, after a particularly rowdy New Year’s Eve party, Tony had mistaken Bobby for a mugger and tackled him in the middle of 8th Avenue. It was the start of a beautiful friendship.

      Things had been quiet for awhile, but now Tony was going through the last throes of a painful divorce, and it was sucking the life out of him slowly and surely. For the past few months, Sam and Bobby had been working with Tony, trying to cheer him up, trying to let him see life after a break-up. Tony—who had been married for seventeen years, with two kids, two dogs, and one house on Long Island—hadn’t even cracked a smile.

      However, they were determined to keep trying.

      Sam plastered a grin on his face. “Hey! Didn’t mean to keep you all waiting.”

      Bobby stood and they knocked fists, an odd mix of formality and urban America. Although he always wore a jacket, Bobby was half Puerto Rican, half Italian and still carried around some of the ways of the street. “My man, how’s things?”

      “Eh,” Sam answered, ordering a Diet Coke from the waitress.

      He settled into a chair and grabbed the bowl of pretzels, the best he was going to manage for dinner.

      Tony raised his glass. “To women.”

      At that, Sam raised a brow. This was new. Maybe they were lucky and Tony had gotten laid. In Sam’s experience, sex always put a rosy spin on life.

      “Today is Tony’s anniversary,” muttered Bobby, before Sam could get too carried away with excitement. “Listen, Tone, the wife has a friend. Now, she’s not a stunner, but she’s nice—”

      The table broke out in groans. “And she got a boob job last year,” he finished.

      “Age?” asked Tony.

      “Thirty-two.”

      “What’s wrong with her?” he asked.

      “Now, wait a minute,” Sam interrupted. “Tony, you’re thirty-seven. Absolutely nothing is wrong with you, and there’s no reason to assume that there’s a problem.” Sam believed in fighting injustices wherever they occurred, even in his friends.

      “Point taken,” admitted Tony, and then turned back to Bobby. “So what’s wrong with her?”

      “Were you listening?” said Sam. “There doesn’t have to be anything wrong with her. Right, Bob?”

      Bob got all shifty-eyed and Sam groaned. “Look, she’s got this voice. Kinda Brooklyn.”

      “No, absolutely not,” said Tony, using two syllables at the end, just like any good Long Islander would do.

      “Jeez, how do you plan on meeting any women if no one is good enough?”

      Bobby laughed at Sam. “Spoken like the eternally single man that you are.”

      “I was married. Once,” said Sam.

      Bobby rolled his eyes. “Anything before twenty-six is too young to count.”

      Bobby was right about that. The marriage had been too short, too casual to count, and Sam had stayed far away since then. Maturity and wisdom would do that to a man. But today, he found himself wishing there was someone to go home to. Not because he wanted a home-cooked meal, oh, no. His reasons were more basic. Sam was still carrying around an extra seven inches of pain and misery from a little too much “cold silver against a naked breast,” and it would be nice to have someone to take the edge off.

      Like Mercedes Brooks, for example.

      Sam closed his eyes and groaned, low and painful, and a mere two decibels louder than he intended.

      Tony СКАЧАТЬ