Read Online Night Work by Greg F. Gifune - Free Book Online Page B

and generally went out of his way to avoid even passing through it. This was a place where time stood still - a fact that only helped to feed his often-manic desire to move forward with life. And since his parents had relocated four years prior to a nice but modest home in the nearby town of Acushnet, distancing himself from the streets he'd grown up on had become much easier.
        Vincent parked directly in front of the club, an unassuming brick building with a single front entrance and a small dark window facing the street. Two men in their early twenties hung around near the door. "How's it going, fellas?"
        "Good, Vin," the taller of the two said. "How you been?"
        "Beautiful. Is Michael here yet?"
        "Inside," the other man told him. "Nice ride. What'd that set you back?"
        Vincent ignored the question and turned to Frank. "All set?"
        Frank answered with a nod and followed him through the door. He'd been by this building thousands of times as a child, had seen people come and go at all hours of the day and night, but had never once stepped foot inside. Some of the kids in the neighborhood had gotten part-time jobs there serving drinks, parking cars, or helping out with whatever needed to be done, but Frank's father had always forbidden him to associate with that aspect of the community. As he moved into a cramped and dimly lit foyer, he couldn't help but wonder what his father would think of him now.
        Illumination remained sparse as the lobby emptied into a larger main room. The walls were an odd tan color, the floor a basic industrial tile, and since there were no windows the only light was provided by hooded lamps suspended from the ceiling. Against the back wall sat a classic neon-faced jukebox in pristine condition, Vic Damone crooning through the large metallic speakers. The piece looked out of place - too ornate in such an otherwise drab setting. Several tables were scattered about; a few of them occupied by old men sipping coffee or playing cards. None of them looked up or acknowledged Vincent and Frank's arrival in any way. In an alcove at the rear of the building was a full kitchen where numerous mouth-watering smells were overshadowed by the predominant aroma of garlic.
        A fat man dressed in slacks, suspenders that hung loosely at his sides and a T-shirt stretched to the brink of destruction over his enormous belly, stood peering into a pot of tomato sauce, looking as if he'd mistakenly dropped an item of value into it just seconds before. His face bore an expression of discomfort as perspiration trickled the length of his bloated cheeks. The few black strands of hair that remained on his head had been combed straight back over his sweaty dome, and his pencil-thin mustache seemed only to underscore the sag of an already immense nose.
        "Hey," someone to Frank's right said. Two men sat at a table in the corner next to a small bar. Vincent approached them, greeting his brother Michael with a bright smile. They embraced as if they hadn't seen each other in months then turned their attention to Frank. "Mike, you remember Frank."
        "Sure," he said, extending his hand. "Good to see you."
        "How are you, Michael?" Frank nervously accepted the much larger man's hand. In a lightweight v-neck sweater and a pair of pleated slacks, it was the first time Frank had seen him in anything but a suit. "You're looking good."
        Michael Santangelo was a taller, thinner version of his brother. He had the same thick hair, the same black eyes and a similar gait, but his nose was smaller and his chin less pronounced. "You're looking good yourself." He possessed a smile considerably more reserved than Vincent's. "How's the family?"
        "Good, good."
        The second man at the table, Gino Fratenzza, remained seated throughout. Dressed in a polo shirt, chinos, and an expensive pair of Reeboks, he looked more like a banker on his day off than the