Read Online Condemned by John Nicholas Iannuzzi - Free Book Online Page B

about. “I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” Sandro filled in. Tatiana laughed, putting her arm around Sandro. “What time is the next plane to New York, anyway?” Sandro asked the Marshal.
    â€œWell, you’re in luck there, Counselor. This isn’t exactly New York City. First direct flight isn’t until tomorrow morning. There’s a plane that leaves here at three thirty this afternoon. Goes to Chicago, gets into New York, about seven forty five.”
    â€œI can drive and be in New York before that.”
    â€œThere’s no doubt in my mind about that, Counselor.” The Marshal wagged his head again at the Testa Rossa.
    â€œIs there any way we can work this thing out?” Sandro asked. “How about if you don’t find me until tomorrow morning?”
    â€œI’d sure love to accommodate you, Counselor, but if someone at the office calls over here, and somebody says you’ve been here racing cars, and I didn’t get you to New York. Well, heck, you know …”
    â€œYeah, yeah.” Sandro glanced at the track. The cars from the session were coming into the pits. “Get in,” he said to the Marshal, nodding toward the Ferrari. He took his helmet out of the storage compartment and handed it to the Marshal.
    â€œYou mean it,” the Marshal said, starting to slide in behind the steering wheel.
    â€œThe other side, wise guy.”
    The Marshal and Tatiana both laughed. “I just wanted to sit behind the wheel a second.”
    â€œBilly, lend me your helmet,” Sandro called to a driver near the pits. The other driver threw his helmet to Sandro.
    â€œWe’ll go around once, and then you can call New York and tell them you did your mischief, you messed up our beautiful weekend.”
    â€œSorry, Miss,” the Marshal said to Tatiana. “Italy, right, your accent?”
    â€œYou have a great ear for accents,” Sandro smirked as he fired the engine. It snarled into life. He feathered the throttle, warming the engine as the Marshal, smiling like a kid at Christmas, donned the helmet, slid into the passenger seat, and buckled the safety belt.
    â€œWe’ll go for one quick tour around the track before the next cars get out there. Then we’ll hustle on to New York.”
    â€œThey gonna let you go around the track?” asked the Marshal.
    â€œHey, you’re the U.S. Marshal, aren’t you?”
    â€œDamn right,” he laughed. “Move it on out.”
    Sandro slipped the car into first gear as he studied the track. He eased forward, moving slowly on pit lane. He revved the engine to 7,000 RPM, held it, then popped the clutch. The car lunged toward the looping right hander at the end of pit lane; Sandro deftly upshifted to second just as the car crested a slight rise in the track; the bottom seemed to fall out of the car.
    â€œJee-suss Ch-ri-st!!!!” shouted the Marshal.

Harlem : June 18, 1996 : 4:05 P.M.
    The Midnight Cafe was on 137th Street off Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard. Its walls were wood paneled, remnants of its service as an Episcopal chapel in the late 1880s, when Harlem was a fashionable, brownstone-lined suburb of Upper Manhattan. Later, the chapel was converted into a funeral parlor, until 1930, when it became a speakeasy, then, finally, after Prohibition, a restaurant.
    During normal business hours, The Midnight Cafe was an upscale restaurant with a dash of forbidden for adventurous, white downtowners. To add to its inaccessibility, and therefore, desirability, the Cafe’s doors were always locked, opened only to customers who identified themselves to a bouncer at the Judas Eye in the door.
    After dinner hours, the lounge area in the front of the Café morphed into an after-hours blues club, mostly for soul brothers and sisters. The dining room in back was usually empty by then, the late night habitués preferring the intimacy of the lounge.
    At the moment, except for