Beyond Redemption

CHAPTER ONE

Through the plate-glass window Gina Santucci spotted her mark, mulling over the menu and conversing with the swarthy proprietor. She hesitated before entering the Café Apollo. If she was scared, her calm exterior masked the excitement that rumbled beneath the surface. Once inside, she lingered around the door for a few minutes, preening her hair and touching up her lipstick in the cracked mirror that hung crookedly on the wall. In an instant she had the customer’s attention. She used her body like a weapon. All she had to do was point it in the right direction. Men were pushovers!

In a slow and sexy swagger she strutted her stuff across the dining room, her high heels clicking noisily on the tile floor. At the counter she perched on a metal stool. One ankle coiled itself around the rung, and the other dangled loosely. Her skirt rose high, revealing more than her knees. She didn’t need eyes to perceive that the guy sitting next to her was staring at her appreciatively. Little grunts of approval like yum-yum emanated from his throat, but the food wasn’t that good.

Gina ordered coffee and a sweet roll. The pastry was stale. After one bite she pushed it aside. She took a tentative sip of the steaming brew. It was hot enough to scald her mouth. She could wait. The cup was an excellent prop, giving her time to play her game without appearing obvious.

Her male accomplices had done their legwork well. For several days they stalked their pigeon like a pair of hungry vultures. He was a man of regular eating habits. Like clockwork he parked his van at the curb in front of the diner. He always locked his vehicle and looked both ways before crossing the one-way street. A cautious type. At precisely six o’clock he strolled into the eatery. His pants and shirt were soiled and faded, his pigskin boots caked with fresh mud. A construction worker. On his right arm he sported a tattoo of a mermaid riding on an anchor. His long blond hair was disheveled and sun-bleached.

In front of him he sampled a bowl of chili con carne with enough red pepper in it to clear his sinuses. Tidbits of meat floated on the greasy surface. Slowly he munched on crackers with little appetite for the spicy concoction. The noise made by his strong healthy teeth sounded like a cement mixer.

Groaning asthmatically, the electric fans hardly cooled the establishment, only circulating hot air and spinning off bits of dust. The place was nearly empty. Paying customers were outnumbered by the flies, floating on globs of mashed potatoes in gravy that previous patrons had left uneaten on their plates. Nobody seemed in any hurry to remove the mess.

Behind Gina in a corner booth a couple of bag ladies sat huddled over their table, eating burgers, fries, and sharing the same glass of lemonade. They looked unwashed. Each wore a gunnysack of a dress with a pair of man’s shoes old enough to curl up at the toes. Facing the sidewalk, they kept their eyes peeled on a shopping cart that was filled with deposit bottles and aluminum cans they had rummaged in trashcans all day. The women seemed reluctant to return to the heat and hassle of the streets. Outside the temperature was hovering at a sticky eighty degrees.

The curly-haired owner of the diner was stacking plates in the steamy kitchen and chatting in Greek with the cook. Each man wore a chef’s cap to prevent the perspiration from dripping into his eyes. They recognized the gentleman at the counter as a regular customer, but the young lady next to him was a stranger. She had the earmarks of a hooker, only better. The revealing blouse. The short skirt. The well worn pumps. Her face, though, wasn’t overly made up, nor was she sporting a bunch of cheap jewelry like her older counterparts who walked the streets. The foreigners in the kitchen had been around long enough to know what was going down. So what! It was none of their business. Around here you kept your trap shut to survive.

From the corner of her eye Gina caught her mark staring furtively at her. Between them was a vacant stool, their elbows nearly touching. If push came to shove, he looked the type who could handle himself well in s brawl. Plenty of muscle on those arms and shoulders. Not to worry, she convinced herself for the moment.

Armed for close combat, her accomplices could easily overpower him. Once they trapped a victim, there was no escape for him. They never gave a sucker an even break because there was no percentage in it. With brass knuckles they could turn a guy’s face into strawberry jelly. If that failed to knock him senseless, one of them carried a razor-sharp switchblade strapped to his ankle in a leather sheath. He knew every dirty trick in the book__ how to break fingers, gouge eyes, and rupture testicles.