WHEN IS A GANGLAND HIT NOT A GANGLAND HIT?
The Gay Detective: Death and the Distracted Driver
Never text while driving and always check your rearview mirror
I’d known for almost as long as I’ve known my partner of fifteen years. A couple of Ian’s relatives were connected. In the mob sense of the word. His cousin Vincent, for one. Yes, Ian has a Cousin Vinnie.
Vinnie’s brother, Guido, owned a restaurant down on Fifth. Retro-rustic whitewashed plaster walls, hand-cut beams, red-and-white-checked tablecloths. But the framed black and white photos of the Olde Country papering the walls were the real deal. His chef’s clam linguini was to die for. And so far, I hadn’t felt any need to pry.
Cousin Vinnie’s bullet-riddled Mercedes coupe crashing through Guido’s front windows into a table of five changed that. Our quiet evening out was in a shambles.
Clam linguini with a bottle of chilled Grenache Blanc and a generous side of shattered glass.
Harry and I stood on the sidewalk staring at the heavy car’s pock-marked rear end. Whoever’d used the nine-mil semi-automatic on it had meant business.
Both passengers, a mid-level player and his bodyguard, were dead — along with the driver, Cousin Vinnie…
