Mafia Girl Read Online Free PDF Page A

stinks, and stuffing it in my bag, and then changing into heels while the driver is repeating, “What’s inside joke? What’s inside joke?”
    “Something funny…to only you and your friends…like my sorry life.”
    I slam the door, inhale, and stare at the sky. It’s dark and hazy and I can’t find even one teensy star to wish upon and this is all so…out of the box.
    Then it hits me. I have my campaign slogan.

SEVEN
    Mick Jagger is singing as I walk in. I can’t get no…no no no…no SAT-IS-FAC-TION , which makes me think that maybe God has my direct line after all. I hold up my head and push past the crowd along the bar.
    “Hey, hot mama!” A thick arm snakes out and grabs me around the waist. I slide out of it and keep going. The place is jammed. Heads turn as I walk, but I pretend not to notice as I search and search for him , but he is not here , at least not yet . I check my watch. Ten. Is he off work yet? Maybe cops hang out at bars when their shifts are over, but what the hell hours are the shifts and why didn’t I think of that before?
    I’m probably wasting my time. No, I am wasting my time. I make my way up to the bar and order a beer. “ID,” the bartender says, all flirty-eyed. I smile and hand it to him.
    “Looks good to me,” he says. It should—it cost enough from that sleazo East Village forger from the Balkans. I find a back corner of the bar and stand there nursing the piss-awful beer as I glance at my watch for the tenth time like an obsessive compulsive. Not much time left because the stupid taxi got stuck in horrendous traffic because of construction and an accident that involved a pimp from New Jersey duded up in a white suit with a cowboy hat who planted himself on the hood of his white stretch Hummer so people passing by all slowed down and were like, whoa, w-h-a-t? Bottom line, it took almost an hour to get to this dump, never mind the fare. So, Officer Hottie, if you’re coming, you better get here soon because my mom will start calling and I don’t want to answer from a bar with blasting music because, hello, that does not exactly sound like I’m in Clive’s apartment sweating over math. And if my parents find out, I’ll be shackled and homeschooled.
    “Refill?”
    The guy is older than my dad, seriously. I shake my head and manage a weak smile, then glance at my watch. Officer Hottie now has five more minutes. If he doesn’t show, I’m out of this pit.
    Now that I rethink this, I realize what a stupid idea it was. What was I thinking? Then I start going over the trouble I went through to get here, based on nothing more than Clive’s guess that he hangs out here because he lives nearby. As I take a sip of my beer, I feel a hand on my ass and turn quickly.
    “Do you mind?” I slap away the arm but his BO smell lingers and he laughs and shrugs and I look at my watch for the twentieth time and start the final countdown. The place is a total dump and I am out of here because this was about the uncoolest thing I have ever done.
    I walk toward the door saying, “excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, excuse me” a hundred million times but the music is loud and suddenly everyone seems drunk and deaf and pissed and oblivious. And then I’m thinking about how it probably won’t be easy to find a cab going back and why didn’t I think of that before and what if my dad finds out? And then because I’m so obsessed, not to mention making my last ditch effort to case the place for Officer Hottie, I don’t watch where I’m going, so the tip of my shoe catches on the leg of a bar stool that’s sticking way the hell out, and I lose my balance and careen to the side. And then—wham—crash into someone going by. An arm suddenly reaches out and braces me, or I would have been sprawled on the floor.
    “God,” I yell out, trying to balance myself. I spin around all spastic, and I am staring into a face that stares straight back at me and doesn’t respond, at least at first. It