Cook's Night Out by Joanne Pence Page A

couple of years ago Paavo had worked hard to prove that Snake Belly, aka Jerome Walker, was innocent after some so-called friends set him up to be the fall guy for killing a rival gang member. The real killers went to jail, and Snake Belly, hardly a model citizen himself, promised to help Paavo whenever he could. It didn’t do either man’s reputation any good to let others know about their little deal, however.
    Paavo stepped to the side so that, like Snake Belly, he could keep a sharp eye on the alley’s entrance. “Something’s going on in the city, and it’s causing trouble—deaths. It involves gambling.”
    â€œSo what else is new?” Snake Belly was clearly unimpressed.
    â€œIn particular, numbers.”
    â€œAh, yes.” His bored expression changed completely and a wry smiled appeared. “Now I’m beginning to comprehend, my good man. Yes, sir. There is some mean shit going on there. You got that right.”
    â€œTell me about it.”
    â€œNobody’s saying nothing. Leastways, not yet. But some big money is on the street, probably Vegas money. And all of a sudden numbers is hot .”
    â€œWho’s behind the Vegas money?” Paavo asked. “The mob?”
    â€œDon’t seem to be. The mob would be smoother, more connected, you know? Whoever this is, they’re making waves. Some bad waves, too. They’re some real bad dudes.”
    Paavo handed him two twenties. “See what you can find out. Two nights? Same place?”
    â€œI’ll be here,” Snake responded.
    Snake Belly left and Paavo was alone. Suddenly he was walking down Third Street again, Ray-Bans shielding his eyes, a cocky sway to his step, and an attitude that said keep clear.
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    The next afternoon at the mission, Angie assisted the volunteer in charge of Auction Central, Mary Ellen Hitchcock. An apple-faced, brown-haired woman, with little makeup and frumpy albeit expensive clothes, Mary Ellen was in her thirties, with two children in private school, and on her second husband—this one a lawyer, instead of the schmuck doctor, as she called him, whom she’d been married to the first time around.
    Mary Ellen confessed to Angie that once upon a time she had spent her days like a lost soul, volunteering time and services at one charitable organization after another. Then one day, after picking up her prescription for Prozac (which she’d grown to rely on more and more),she walked out of the drugstore and bumped into Reverend Hodge. They began talking, and he invited her to come to the mission to help. Now she worked here exclusively, and as often as she could. She didn’t need medication any longer, not even an aspirin.
    There was something about the reverend, she said, that just made you want to help him. “How could you not trust a face like his?”
    Mary Ellen showed Angie how to log in donations and give the donor a receipt with the highest possible donation value shown on it for tax deduction purposes.
    Angie watched more than one donor’s face light up when someone would bring in, for example, a Waterford bud vase that the giver valued at three hundred dollars and Mary Ellen would cry out, “You’re too modest. This is worth at least four hundred. Let’s make it four-fifty to be safe.”
    A fifty percent increase was the norm.
    â€œI can’t get over the quality of the items that have been donated,” Angie said.
    â€œThis is nothing. Take a look in the back room.”
    Angie opened the door to the room. “Oh, my God!” She walked up to a dress hanging on a rack. “This is an original Dior. From the sixties, I’d say. A classic. It’s worth more today than it cost originally.” She held up the short, glittery black dress with a pouf of netting flaring out from about midthigh to knee. “Though I’m not sure anyone would wear it. Maybe a museum will want it? Or a vintage