Two O'Clock Heist: A Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 2) by Joanne Pence Page A
Authors: Joanne Pence
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pointed to a door on the far wall. “You have your own bathroom.”
“Thank you.” She faced him. “Just give me a minute, and then we should go to the hospital.”
He started out of the room, but stopped and looked at her. “Somed ay, Rebecca, I hope you and I can be together and think of nothing but having a good time.”
She gave him a small smile as she admitted. “Me, too.”
CHAPTER 7
Richie’s head felt like the Tsarist Army was trampling through it with heavy boots and a gazillion horses. Maybe a Siberian wooly mammoth or two.
He and Rebecca didn’t get back to his house until 3:30 in the morning. Carlo Fiori was lucky in that the worst of the burns were on his hands and arms as he protected his face and ran free of the car. Still, he faced a painful recovery.
Richie heard Rebecca walking around at 7 a.m. He tried to go back to sleep, but couldn’t stop his brain from racing over all that had happened the day before. When he learned about her morning meeting with Eastwood, he had given her the keys to his BMW. He hoped the Russians who fire-bombed her Explorer—and he was sure they were behind everything—didn’t go after his Beemer in the same way.
He knew she would be tied up with Eastwood for a while, and since he couldn’t sleep, he decided to take care of business. But first, he had to deal with his mother.
Early Sunday morning always—religiously—found her at 9 a.m. mass at Saints Peter and Paul Church in North Beach. She always sat in the same pew with her Italian lady friends. In fact, they even rotated the assigned “duty” to get there early to save seats. He went there and told her he couldn’t make it to dinner that Sunday the way he usually did.
She and her friends had him sit next to her to talk and then persuaded him to stay for mass. It didn’t take much persuading when he imagined crazy Russians after him and Rebecca. Deep down, he probably wanted to stay, which was why he hadn’t simply phoned his regrets.
From the church, he continued down Powell Street to Big Caesar’s.
He parked in the back of the club next to Uncle Silvio’s truck, a truck filled with cases of unlabeled wine bottles. He again wondered who had snitched to the ABC.
His Uncle Silvio had produced red wine for himself, family and friends for years. Over that time, people constantly said he should bottle and sell it. So, three years ago, when he had a particularly fantastic crop of grapes, he decided to get serious. A couple of goombas convinced him that obtaining a license to sell wholesale was no big deal.
Yeah, as if doing anything with the government was ever easy, Richie thought. Who were they kidding?
Plus, this was California. Everything was a problem here, and you never knew which group you’d come up against. On one side was the “anything goes” crowd, those who held their hands out and looked the other way as long as their palms were sufficiently greased. On the other side were the obstructionists, those who followed the letter of the law so closely and carefully, they would go back to the time before California was even a state if it meant finding a reason to deny you whatever simple little thing you wanted to do.
The California department of Alcohol Beverage Control was firmly in the latter camp. Despite assurances that Silvio’s wine could be bottled and sold, when all 5000-plus bottles of it were ready to go, the ABC refused to give him a license because he hadn’t gone through all the steps required by the U.S. Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau, an arm of the federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. When Uncle Silvio went to the ATTB, however, they pointed to California ABC’s rules and regulations saying that they weren’t being met, and that state law had to be complied with.
Richie’s elderly uncle was going crazy with all these rules and regulations written in a style no normal human being could begin to understand. The party of the
“Thank you.” She faced him. “Just give me a minute, and then we should go to the hospital.”
He started out of the room, but stopped and looked at her. “Somed ay, Rebecca, I hope you and I can be together and think of nothing but having a good time.”
She gave him a small smile as she admitted. “Me, too.”
CHAPTER 7
Richie’s head felt like the Tsarist Army was trampling through it with heavy boots and a gazillion horses. Maybe a Siberian wooly mammoth or two.
He and Rebecca didn’t get back to his house until 3:30 in the morning. Carlo Fiori was lucky in that the worst of the burns were on his hands and arms as he protected his face and ran free of the car. Still, he faced a painful recovery.
Richie heard Rebecca walking around at 7 a.m. He tried to go back to sleep, but couldn’t stop his brain from racing over all that had happened the day before. When he learned about her morning meeting with Eastwood, he had given her the keys to his BMW. He hoped the Russians who fire-bombed her Explorer—and he was sure they were behind everything—didn’t go after his Beemer in the same way.
He knew she would be tied up with Eastwood for a while, and since he couldn’t sleep, he decided to take care of business. But first, he had to deal with his mother.
Early Sunday morning always—religiously—found her at 9 a.m. mass at Saints Peter and Paul Church in North Beach. She always sat in the same pew with her Italian lady friends. In fact, they even rotated the assigned “duty” to get there early to save seats. He went there and told her he couldn’t make it to dinner that Sunday the way he usually did.
She and her friends had him sit next to her to talk and then persuaded him to stay for mass. It didn’t take much persuading when he imagined crazy Russians after him and Rebecca. Deep down, he probably wanted to stay, which was why he hadn’t simply phoned his regrets.
From the church, he continued down Powell Street to Big Caesar’s.
He parked in the back of the club next to Uncle Silvio’s truck, a truck filled with cases of unlabeled wine bottles. He again wondered who had snitched to the ABC.
His Uncle Silvio had produced red wine for himself, family and friends for years. Over that time, people constantly said he should bottle and sell it. So, three years ago, when he had a particularly fantastic crop of grapes, he decided to get serious. A couple of goombas convinced him that obtaining a license to sell wholesale was no big deal.
Yeah, as if doing anything with the government was ever easy, Richie thought. Who were they kidding?
Plus, this was California. Everything was a problem here, and you never knew which group you’d come up against. On one side was the “anything goes” crowd, those who held their hands out and looked the other way as long as their palms were sufficiently greased. On the other side were the obstructionists, those who followed the letter of the law so closely and carefully, they would go back to the time before California was even a state if it meant finding a reason to deny you whatever simple little thing you wanted to do.
The California department of Alcohol Beverage Control was firmly in the latter camp. Despite assurances that Silvio’s wine could be bottled and sold, when all 5000-plus bottles of it were ready to go, the ABC refused to give him a license because he hadn’t gone through all the steps required by the U.S. Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau, an arm of the federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. When Uncle Silvio went to the ATTB, however, they pointed to California ABC’s rules and regulations saying that they weren’t being met, and that state law had to be complied with.
Richie’s elderly uncle was going crazy with all these rules and regulations written in a style no normal human being could begin to understand. The party of the
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