Married To The Mob

Somewhere in New Jersey "What part of 'The mob's got a contract on you' do you not understand?" Dan's whispered question didn't faze the stunning blonde at his side. She shrugged. "I understand you're trying to do your job, Mr. FBI Special Agent Maddox, but you should remember I've lived with these people all my life." He went to press his point, but she cut him off. "Do you really think they don't know where to find me?" She tossed her tawny mane. "They have more arms into more places, people and things than a family of octopuses...octopi?" Dan looked around at the innocent bystanders, busy pretending not to listen. Why did he always get the nutcases? "How about this, Carlotta--" "Hold it right there! Your memory's not so hot, is it? I've asked you and asked you not to call me that. Carlie--that's what you want to call me. It's not so hard, is it? Try it, you might like it." Her wink nearly sent his patience over the edge. "Do you ever take anything seriously?" "Yes," she said, her eyes intent, her voice warm and vibrant. "I take God seriously. And then I leave the rest to Him." Dan had heard this kind of crazy illogic before. David Latham, one of his closest friends and a fellow agent in the Philadelphia Organized Crime Unit, was a gung ho religion sellout. Then, after a recent case, his partner, J. Z. Prophet, went and married another one. To really throw him for a loop, J.Z. succumbed to the lure of false confidence in the same philosophical game of mirrors, and was now one of them. "You go ahead and do that," Dan said, in a low voice. "But while you're in the Witness Protection Program, you better leave the driving to me--so to speak." She rolled her large brown eyes. "Speaking of driving--" "Would you please lower your voice? People are staring, and we don't want to draw attention to you." Carlotta--Carlie--laughed. Here he was, trying to keep the crazy woman alive, and she laughed. He tried again. "Don't laugh like that. Keep it quiet. I just told you we don't want to draw attention--" "Just look--at where," she gasped between laughs, "we are. Then you tell me who's causing the commotion." Dan pressed his forehead against the aggressively pink door frame. "I know, I know, I know. But that's the whole point. Why did you feel the need to come--" "Simple," she said. "I love nice nails, and mine looked like fence posts after a dust storm. So where did you want me to go? A drive-in lube shop?" From the corner of his eye, Dan caught the fascinated stares of the nail techs, noses and mouths covered with baby-blue dust masks, and the dozen or so women in various stages of acquiring lethal prongs on the tips of their killer claws. He took a deep breath. "Okay. Let's go. We've over-stayed our questionable welcome." "But I'm not done yet." "Oh, yes you are." Dan grasped her upper arm and urged her toward the--what else?--pink door. "And I don't mean the paint on the nails either." "But I have no color--" "Believe me, you don't lack in that department." He glanced at the talons on her hands. "Even when your nails look like the glow-in-the-dark fake ones kids wear." "How dare you? These are the finest acrylic--" "You want to die for plastic nails?" That finally made her pause. "Well, no. Of course I don't." She took a step toward the bubble-gum-colored front door. "But I'm not willing to live a shadow life either." Dan took advantage of her forward motion and took hold of her hand. Carlie confounded him when she called out over her shoulder, "Bye, Dianna. Take care of little Davey, Sarah. Shonna, remember to tell your mom to try the echinacea for that cold. And Trish? Dump the jerk. He's not worth it--" "What are you doing?" He turned to stare at her. "Who are all those women? How do you know themAiken, Ginny is the author of 'Married To The Mob', published 2006 under ISBN 9780373874026 and ISBN 0373874022.