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    Mick Abruzzo: The Second Wire
    Mick Abruzzo: The Second Wire
    Mick Abruzzo: The Second Wire
    Ebook107 pages1 hour

    Mick Abruzzo: The Second Wire

    By Nancy Martin

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    Mick Abruzzo is trying to go straight after a life of crime. But it's complicated.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBookBaby
    Release dateJul 15, 2014
    ISBN9781483533490
    Mick Abruzzo: The Second Wire
    Author

    Nancy Martin

    Winner of the 2009 Lifetime Achievement award for mystery writing from Romantic Times magazine, Nancy Martin announces the release of the 8th book in her popular Blackbird Sisters mystery series, NO WAY TO KILL A LADY. Set in Philadelphia, the story features three heiresses whose parents have run off with their trust funds. Now thay have a chance to regain their wealth when their aunt, "Madcap Maddy" Blackbird dies in a volcano and leaves her estate to the sisters. But Nora Blackbird soon discovers all the treasures in Aunt Maddy's house have disappeared...information that leads her to believe maybe Maddy didn't die the way everybody thinks. Author of 48 pop fiction novels in mystery, suspense, historical and romance genres, Nancy created The Blackbird Sisters in 2002--- mysteries about three impoverished heiresses who adventure in couture and crime --as if "Agatha Christie had wandered onto the set of Sex and The City." Nominated for the Agatha Award for Best First Mystery of 2002, HOW TO MURDER A MILLIONAIRE won the RT award for Best First Mystery and was a finalist for the Daphne DuMaurier Award. Currently, she is at work on the Roxy Abruzzo mystery series for St. Martin's Minotaur. In 2009 she received the Romantic Times Lifetime Achievement Award for mystery writing. Nancy lives in Pittsburgh, serves on the board of Sisters in Crime and is a founding member of Pennwriters.

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    Reviews for Mick Abruzzo

    4/5

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    • 3/5
      Martin needs an editor. There are grammatical errors and some sentences just don't make sense. She's on even ground with the Nora + Mick romance is written on auto-pilot. Good to read when you're half asleep.
    • 4/5
      At the start of book 10 A Little Night Murder (I think) it's obvious there's some backstory missing; something that was going on between book 9 and 10. This short story fills in the gaps. It's not strictly necessary, but for a reader invested in the series, it's satisfying to have. As a bonus (because not all between novel novellas are equal) this is a very well written, fully formed story about Mick's struggles to get out of the family business and stay legit. Martin always wrote Mick as a real person, struggling against his upbringing to be better and this story gives the struggle centre stage. Really well done and reminds me why and how much I miss this series.

    Book preview

    Mick Abruzzo - Nancy Martin

    9781483533490

    Against his better judgment, Mick Abruzzo agreed to meet his idiot brother at a noisy South Philadelphia college hangout where Little Frankie swore they’d blend in. But when Mick showed up, Frankie was wearing a pinky ring straight out of The Sopranos and flashing a wad of cash the size of a baseball. He had staked out a pair of stools right in front of the March Madness opener on the big screen. A swarm of girls hung around the nearby pool table. One of them had a finger stuck in her mouth as she lifted her sweater to show Frankie a rose tattoo on the soft baby fat of her belly. Frankie finally gave her some cash and she trotted off to the jukebox.

    Frankie drained his glass and turned companionably to Mick. I hear you need money, and it just so happens I know where to get some.

    Even though the bar noise was enough to keep their conversation private, Mick waited until the bartender set down his draft and eased away. Then he said, You couldn’t have made yourself more obvious in this place?

    What? You mean, with the chick?

    You gonna help her with her algebra homework later? That girl is jailbait.

    Frankie grinned. Lucky me.

    The older Little Frankie got, the more he took to pretending he was Big Frankie—talking like he owned most of the rackets in Jersey. He tried to imitate Big Frankie’s half-friendly, half-threatening smile, too, which on Little Frankie ended up looking like the big, loose grin of a patsy who’d buy another round without too much convincing. Little Frankie still hadn’t grasped the fundamentals.

    But Little Frankie wasn’t stupid. He was a lazy crocodile—floating around in the swampy river until a thirsty gazelle came down for a drink. Then all of a sudden he was the smart one, scoring with hardly any effort.

    Mick had the uncomfortable feeling he had just been pegged for a gazelle.

    Frankie said, Since when did you get to be such an old man when it comes to jailbait? Since you shacked up with the redhead I’ve heard so much about? Pop says she’s the swanky type. You have to buy her jewelry to get her to put out? What does a diamond necklace get you in the sack, bro? Or maybe now you’re broke, you’re not getting any good action?

    Punching his brother in the mouth always felt like a good idea. Growing up, they had fought like wolverines. Even with Frankie satisfyingly bleeding from his nose and mouth, though, Mick had usually been the one who ended up in handcuffs. The first night Mick had successfully stopped himself from trying to beat the crap out of his brother, he’d slammed out of the house and stolen a motorcycle to get far away from the whole damn family. A day later he’d been picked up by a particularly vigilant cop, and his years of hard time began.

    So maybe he had learned to hold back when it came to Frankie. But holding back had its consequences, too.

    Now, though, Little Frankie only seemed to call when he was in trouble. Trouble that could spread to the rest of the family if Mick didn’t throw water on whatever fire Little Frankie had lit a match to.

    What’s the matter? Frankie asked while Mick considered the situation. You worried about busting your parole to make some money? Or do you want to hear the particulars?

    Whatever it is, as long as it’s coming from you, I don’t want anything to do with it.

    Suit yourself. Frankie put his elbows on the bar, both hands around his beer. He pretended to watch the game for a minute before leaning over again. I just thought I could do you a favor, Mick, get you out of the jam you’re in. I heard about the accountant stealing all your dough while you were inside. Tough break. But that’s what happens when you start trusting geeks instead of family, am I right? A couple of years ago, you’d have buried most of the accountant in a ditch and spread the rest of him along the Jersey turnpike.

    Mick ground his teeth and didn’t answer. Maybe it was good that Frankie believed he was capable of taking care of business the family way. Maybe it wasn’t so far from the truth.

    He sipped his beer. To be honest, he hated that he’d been ripped off. Months after it happened, he still itched to inflict serious retribution. Sure, some of the guys in his old crew had found the accountant and scared the shit out of him, but that hadn’t gotten Mick’s money back.

    These days, Mick was scraping to keep his legit businesses open. At home, Nora appeared to be cool with the fact that they couldn’t afford the pay the electric bill on that derelict house of hers. But to her, being poor was some kind of romantic notion. She cuddled up in bed to stay warm, which had its advantages, but Mick had been cold before and knew how much work it took to get the heat turned back on again. And accomplishing that while sticking to a code of good behavior he didn’t quite have a grasp on yet—that was harder than he’d figured.

    Now here was Frankie offering a way out.

    With a warning going off in his head, Mick set his glass back down on the bar. Who’s the mark?

    Frankie’s face broadened into a grin. Mexican dude. Does business under the name Damian Sanchez.

    Drugs?

    Nope. Washing coin.

    Laundering money for drug dealers.

    What does it matter? Cash is cash.

    That was Frankie. A walking Darwin Award.

    Sanchez is low on the food chain, no bodyguards, so he’s easy pickings, Frankie said. Here’s the beautiful part. He has a regular, like, routine. He collects money all week, then parks his car on the street while he visits his girlfriend. After the fun and games, he drives over the bridge to Camden where he hands over the cash to his boss—a bad dude you’d want to avoid. So I figure you steal the car while Sanchez is doing the girl. We split the money.

    That’s all you get? Half?

    As if the answer was obvious, Frankie said, I want the car, too.

    Mick’s radar kicked in. Why?

    It’s a vintage Jag. A 1972 E-Type, twelve cylinders. British racing green, but I can have it re-painted. I want that ride, bro. It’s a chick magnet for sure.

    What a bonehead. You’d get picked up ten minutes after you turn the key in a car like that. Better to ship it overseas.

    Hell, no, I want it. I want to drive it around after we do the deed. It’s a trophy car.

    A trophy for having bested a bad dude.

    Looking up at the TV screen, Frankie said, It’s not just the car. I could use the dough, too.

    Mick waited.

    Frankie drank some beer and said, I’ve got some debts. Nothing big. But, you know, I need to settle up.

    What kind of debts?

    Frankie shook his head. "Just a little trouble I need to take care of. I want to get in on the Final Four action, but I can’t unless—you know,

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