LITMIR.BIZ

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goings is that they are totally unpredictable,” Flynt explained to Michael.

      Michael knew of Luke’s reputation as an international playboy. The multimillionaire could afford the lifestyle.

      “Anybody going to take my bet?” Tyler demanded. “A hundred dollars on Luke is my offer.”

      “Not me,” Flynt said.

      “Nor me,” Michael echoed. “It’s time to go. Do we give up our slot and wait, or head out?”

      “We’ll start,” Flynt decided. “Matt can catch up.”

      The three claimed their golf cart and headed for the first tee. Running footsteps warned them of Matt’s arrival a few seconds later. “Sorry,” he puffed, tossing his bag into the back of the cart. “Rose was sick this morning.”

      Michael nodded. “It’s common with preg—” He broke off, worried that Matt might not want to discuss his bride’s condition.

      “Pregnant women,” Matt finished. “I know, but I’ve never been around one before. It’s alarming.”

      While Flynt and Matt discussed pregnancy and its symptoms with great earnestness, Tyler rolled his eyes and winked at Michael, who chuckled as he walked up to the tee and hit his first ball of the day.

      All in all, a satisfying game, he thought later, heading for the Yellow Rose Café and lunch after coming in second, right behind Tyler. Sunshine. Golf. Friends. The good life.

      Matt called home on his cell phone once they were seated. “Rose is fine,” he reported when he hung up. “She’s having lunch with her mom and sister.”

      “I met Susan Wainwright yesterday,” Michael told them. “She called me a baboon after I nearly ran her down in the street. I hope Rose is easier to deal with than her sister.”

      He immediately regretted the lapse in good manners, and even a possible doctor-patient relationship, assuming the stubborn ballerina showed up tomorrow for the checkup.

      Matt didn’t seem to notice the criticism of his new sister-in-law. “The sisters are diametrically opposite. Rose is gentle and kind…well, not that Susan isn’t,” he hastily amended. “She’s had a lot on her mind of late.”

      “The heart condition?” Flynt asked.

      “Yes. She’s been taken off the ballet roster until she has a thorough checkup and her doctor’s written okay to return. She’s pretty mad about that. Rose is worried.” Matt looked at Michael. “You know, you might talk to her and see if you can make her listen to reason.”

      Michael gave his friend a skeptical smile. “I already offered my services. After our little run-in, I think it would take a major miracle before she would see me.”

      Daisy, the same waitress from the previous day, came by to take their orders. The place was rapidly filling up, and she looked a bit harried. Michael wondered if she had a crush on Flynt. She was staring at him in an intense way that sent up a caution flag.

      Should he warn his golfing buddy to watch out for her?

      “Listen, could you come to dinner tonight at the ranch?” Matt suddenly asked, disrupting Michael’s thoughts. “Maybe you could reassure Rose, answer some questions for her about Susan’s condition. Susan will be there,” he added.

      “I really don’t know much about it.”

      Flynt added his invitation. “I think you should join us. Josie was asking about you this morning. She read an article in some magazine and was impressed with your credentials. I might be jealous,” he warned.

      “Right,” Michael said wryly. He had nothing better to do that evening. The idea of confronting the haughty Wainwright daughter appealed to him. “What time’s dinner?”

      “Come at six for cocktails,” Matt immediately said. “I’ll tell Rose to expect you.”

      Michael made a mental note of the time and nodded.

      “Hey,” Tyler said sotto voce. “There’s Carmine Mercado. The goon who shot Carl Bridges supposedly works for him. I understand he denies all knowledge of the man.”

      Michael did a quick once-over of the mob boss as the man left the temporary structure housing the Men’s Grill, a cigar clamped between his teeth.

      The doctor in him noted the pasty grayness about the mouth and bags under the Mafia don’s eyes. He knew Mercado was in his sixties. At one time, the older man would have been described as portly. Nowadays he would be termed overweight and out of shape. He certainly ought to lay off the smoking, Michael observed, listening to the hacking cough as the man and his crony headed for the door.

      Abruptly Mercado stopped.

      Michael had the uncomfortable feeling Mercado was staring at him. He glanced at Flynt. His friend raised his eyebrows as if to say he hadn’t a clue what the older man was looking at.

      Mercado entered the café and threaded his way between the tables, garnering irritated glances as he puffed on the stogie. Daisy, the waitress, stopped him.

      “No cigars allowed in here, sir,” she said politely but with an edge to her voice.

      There was a brief pause in the general conversation, then it resumed as if the diners remembered some fascinating tidbit they had to share at that moment.

      “Wow,” Tyler murmured. “The kid’s got brass.”

      The mob boss narrowed his eyes at the blond waitress, then he dropped the cigar into a glass of water on the table nearest him. Fortunately the diners had left only moments before, so no one was offended by the action.

      “Thank you, sir,” Daisy said in her heavy drawl and went on her way.

      “Arrogant son of a bitch,” Flynt said, a steely gleam in his eyes as he watched the little scene.

      The rest of the diners let out a collective sigh of relief. Michael felt the tension drop about ten levels in the café.

      To his surprise, the older man came to their table. He nodded to Flynt, Matt and Tyler, then looked at him. “You’re the heart doctor, right?”

      Although Michael was pretty sure the man had been born in the U.S., there was a definite trace of an Italian accent in his guttural tone.

      “Michael O’Day, yes.”

      Mercado stuck out his hand. Michael had no choice but to shake it. He did so, then gave the don a level stare, refusing to be intimidated by the perusal he was getting.

      “My doc told me I needed a new heart.”

      Michael digested this news, which tied in with the pastiness of the man’s skin and the quick, shallow breaths he took. “You need to give up smoking,” he stated.

      The bushy eyebrows, still black although the man’s hair was mostly gray, rose as if questioning Michael’s sanity to speak to him this way. “I read about you,” Mercado continued. “I want you to do the operation.”

      “I work out of Houston.”

      “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Mercado waved this little inconvenience aside. “I’ll come there.”

      “I take cases only upon referral from other medical professionals,” Michael coolly informed the man.

      “My doc will refer me.”

      This was said in such a way that Michael knew there would be no question about it. He suppressed a smile. There was something of a farce in the scene, as if they were all playing parts in a bad movie.

      “Good.” He pulled out a business card. “Here’s my office number. Have your doctor call.”

      The bushy eyebrows wagged up, then down. He handed the card to the man behind him. “Here, Frank, hold on to this for me. I’ll be in touch,” he said to Michael, and walked off.

      Silence

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