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ads he put around town.”
    “The ads saying come train with a Navy SEAL? Are you serious? How petty.”
    She nodded, trying not to laugh.  
    “Val, give me a break. I wasn’t a SEAL …”
    “But you trained them.”
    “I trained with them, sometimes , and I worked with them sometimes. Regardless, I don’t want to use my military background like that. I want to leave it right there, in the background.”
    She was still smiling. “I know, Milo, but he thought people would line up in droves to train like that. It could have helped him pay the bills. I’m not arguing with you, but you know Rico.”
    “Yes, I know Rico.”  
      “Poor Milo, and poor Rico. You two big, tough guys are just a couple of sensitive babies, aren’t you?”
    I let her rub my cheek, and asked if she wanted to get a drink tonight.
    “I thought you were working.”
    “I should be done after dinner.”
    She looked across the deck at another table waving for her. “I have to go.”
    But I wouldn’t let her. “This job today pays what I make in a week. So I say we take a long weekend next weekend, get away from the heat, and spend some time together, head up to Asheville?”
    She kissed me and said, “Call me after dinner. I have to go.”
    She pulled away, but I wouldn’t let her. “One more question.”
    Her glare said, Don’t push it .
    “You’ve lived in Tampa a lot longer than me. So where would the grandson of a former mob boss take his stripper girlfriend to dinner for a special occasion on a Sunday night?”
    She thought about it for a quick moment, answered, and rushed away.
    I liked her answer.

CHAPTER FOUR
Winners and Losers

    The Italian restaurant Val recommended on Dale Mabry had no reservations for a Chad Scalzo, so I had opened the Open Table app on my iPhone and gone about calling every restaurant I’d ever heard of in Tampa. The latest call rang five times before a woman answered curtly.  
    I sat up on my barstool and repeated the drill: “Yes, I’m trying to confirm my reservation for tonight.”
    She told me to hold. I waited about ten seconds, just long enough to tell Sean to pour another Guinness. Then she was back. “What’s the name again?”
    “Scalzo. Chad Scalzo.” I lowered my voice, even though the barroom was practically empty except for a homeless bugger playing darts, and a biker couple sharing fish and chips across the bar.
    “Hmm, I’m sorry. I don’t see any reservation for you tonight. When did you make it?”
    I said, “My bad,” thanked her, and hung up.
    Yet another strikeout. I’d realized there was no guarantee Scalzo had made the reservation in his name or that he and Angie were going anywhere that required reservations. If I couldn’t locate their dining locale, I’d have to go back to SkyGate and wait for him to show. But even then, there was no guarantee Scalzo would be picking Angie up—Kiki could be driving her from her latest date to dinner, or she could be taking a cab or Uber. And if tracking them down tonight failed, I’d have to resort to trying to serve Scalzo at the airport the next day, which would not please Mr. Wilcox or his irritable bowels.
    Sean returned with my stout. He was among my favorite bartenders at Four Green Fields, an Irish pub a stone’s throw away from downtown. All the bartenders here hailed from the mother country and had names and accents to prove it. More importantly, they poured the perfect pint of Guinness, a feat which usually took no less than five minutes. Stepping in here was like traveling to Ireland: a thatched roof overhead, barn planks for a floor. The walls were littered with photos depicting Irish political and cultural history: pictures of everyone from James Joyce to Gerry Adams. During Happy Hour on Fridays, the place was crawling with lawyers, judges, and other Hillsborough County justice workers. You’d rarely find me there during such a time unless duty called. I liked visiting during the down times, like a quiet