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dismissed with a flick of his hand. "It was just Jimmy being Jimmy. He's not happy unless everyone in the room is terrified of him." I thought Jimmy probably didn't have to work real hard to accomplish that.
    "Who were those men anyway?" They'd certainly creeped me out, Frank with his fake friendliness and the other guy who'd sat stiff and unsmiling.
    "Frank and Richie Santini. They're brothers and they run that local union we're defending against election fraud."
    That was why Frank's name had seemed familiar. I remembered now. The papers always hinted at dodgy business when he was involved, though he'd yet to actually be caught doing anything illegal. He was well known in the city and I’d recently seen an article of him out palling around with the current mayor.
    Greg returned while I was mulling this over and I realized I hadn't even looked at the menu. He was waiting for me to order as I fumbled with the booklet, belatedly realizing with dismay that I didn't know what half the items were.
    "Um," I hesitated, skimming the menu for a dish I knew. "Do you have any soup?" I asked hopefully. Soup was good. Soup was universal. Every place had soup.
    "Of course," Greg said. "Our Chef's soup of the day is celery-root soup with bacon and green apple."
    Okay, not what I had been expecting but it had bacon, how bad could it be? "I'll take that," I said, handing him the menu. Greg and I looked expectantly at Blane. That smile was tugging the corners of his mouth again and I tried to ignore the fluttery feeling it gave me in the pit of my stomach.
    "I'll have the strip, medium-rare," Blane ordered. Well. That sounded good. Crap. I should've ordered that instead. Except I wasn't a hundred percent sure he was buying. He probably was but, just in case, it would be really embarrassing to be stuck with a check I couldn't pay. I didn't have a lot of cash on me and I used my one credit card for emergencies only.
    "You sure all you want is soup?" Blane asked me. At my nod, Greg left again.
    "You've had a busy day," Blane said. "In one day you've had someone using you as a hostage, and someone else threatening you." I blanched. I hadn't realized he'd found out about the incident at the courthouse.
    Reaching across the table he tugged slightly at the open collar to my shirt, exposing the bandage at the base of my neck. I was so surprised I didn't immediately react. His eyes were on mine, then moved down. I jerked backward.
    "Excuse me," I said, my voice frosty. I didn't like where this was going. Was this the reason he'd brought me here? Did he think I was going to demand workman's comp or something over what had happened today?
    "Where did you learn to get away like that?" Blane asked, taking another sip of his drink and completely ignoring my reaction. He leaned toward me, folding his arms on the table.
    "My father," I said, sitting back slightly. His gray-green eyes were focused intently on me and I had to look away. Blane made me nervous, my fascination with him notwithstanding. The energy that always seemed to float around him was nearly palpable. My surreptitious observance of him over the past few months had shown me that he was intense in everything he did. Now, apparently, I was his focus. I fidgeted under his steady gaze, taking another swallow of my Manhattan.
    "What else did he teach you?" he asked.
    I thought for a moment, then decided to be truthful, no matter if I came across as oddly different from Blane’s usual companions.
    "The fine art of making a proper whiskey drink, as any good Irishman knows. How to shoot, and more importantly, hit what I’m shooting. Not to trust what people say, but only what they do."
    I had been hoping to set Blane as off balance as I was, but his face gave nothing away. He took a sip of his drink so I took the opportunity to pose a question of my own.
    "How did you find out about today?" I asked.
    "I was there," Blane answered, setting his glass back down on the table. "He was my client. On trial