The Immortal Game Read Online Free

don’t know what game you think you’re playing….”
    “No game.” She tasted her drink. Rubbed a spot of foam from her nose. “I just hope he did suffer. He was a son of a bitch. And he had it coming.”
    She dunked a biscotti. Took a bite. Looked at Whitey.
    “You are too skinny,” he said.
    Her eyes widened.
    “You know Felicia’s down the street?”
    “Everybody knows Felicia’s.”
    “Maybe I buy you a meal.”
    “When?”
    “Tonight. Eight?”
    “Maybe I’ll be there,” she said.
    He was too busy watching her leave to notice the wise guy across the street taking notes with his eyes.

    Felicia’s was on Hanover, up a flight of stairs. You walked past pictures of celebrities eating there. Sinatra, Bob Hope, Roger Clemens.
    She kept him waiting a half hour.
    They started with red wine and clams casino.
    She grew up in Brighton, went to college at Suffolk. Her mom passed away two years ago. Cancer.
    “Tough break,” Whitey said.
    “That’s the way the cookie crumbles,” she said. Her eyes were not looking for sympathy.
    “Tough not having family around.”
    She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”
    He wanted to apologize. Almost said the words.
    She shook her head. “No apologies, Whitey. I don’t want to talk about it.”
    “What do you want to do?”
    “I want to get out of here.”
    *
    He was nervous. Self-conscious. He wanted to impress her. Hadn’t felt that way in a long time. He didn’t say much when they got to his place, as she explored his Spartan apartment. He watched her drag her finger along his leather couch, inspect the few pictures on the walls, mostly black and whites of his family. She asked who they were and he told her the truth. She nodded.
    “Nice,” she finally said. “Simple.”
    “I bought it for the view,” he said and opened the curtains to reveal Boston Harbor.
    “That’s worth the price of admission.”
    Watching her, framed by the scene and reflected in it, his breath caught, he would always look back at that as the moment he fell for her.
    “Come here,” she said.
    She tasted like the good red wine they had with dinner; he nibbled her earlobes and was rewarded with groans. She pushed him against the glass door and pressed into him, her breath rushing against his face, his neck, her hands feeling down his chest, his stomach, tugging his belt.
    They started on the couch, their pale reflections danced and writhed among the boat lights in the glass.
    Her body was like a gift he was unworthy of but still greedily devoured; she was wiry and supple and demanding. Eventually they made it to the bedroom and got down to serious business. She kept asking for more. He provided it .

    To break into an apartment with a good security system is not rocket science. All one requires is money and an inside man to pay off.
    In Whitey’s apartment building, that man was Hassan, known as Hoss by most of the tenants. Whitey knew the secret to breaking and entering, and he knew Hoss would be approached some day by hard men offering hard cash. Hoss had strict instructions of what to do. Hold out for as much money as possible, then provide them access. All Hoss had to do was give Whitey the signal. Let his home phone ring three times, wait thirty seconds, then let it ring once more. The rest was up to Whitey.

    His home phone had never rung before that night. Whitey paused.
    “If you answer that phone….”
    It was the signal. Whitey shifted her toward the nightstand, where he kept his .38 with the silencer.

    Two of them. The two that had been tailing him all day. They used the key Hoss had provided. Guns drawn, they slunk into Whitey’s apartment. He was still with the woman. Excellent. She was not quiet. Silently, the two men shared lascivious grins. One pointed toward the noise. The other man nodded and they tiptoed single file down the hall.
    The bedroom door was shut. Damn.
    But Whitey clearly had his hands full. The first man held up three fingers. Then two.