Veronica. It’s a 6.

It may not be a “Tommy” gun but my M3 was just as convincing, 450 rounds a minute of cranking persuasion, she hadn’t failed me yet – tonight it wasn’t the gun that failed…

Friday nights I went down to the docks to collect “rent” for Big Jimmy Muldoon; afterwards, like every Friday night, I headed to the Starfish Lounge to clear my head of the smell of diesel fuel and seaweed stink.. and that’s when I met her.

Word on the street she was a West coast moll come to Jersey to score for Sid “Bag & Tag” Solemi; rolling into town like a tumbleweed in heat, she lost no time makin’ the rounds of clubs and casinos on the strip but tonight, she was at the Starfish.

I’d hit the Starfish around midnight and squeezing my way through the smoky crowd spotted an empty stool at the far end of the bar; didn’t take long to notice the herd of mooks at the other end, drooling over a woman sitting like a movie star among adoring fans.

She turned at that moment, a tall cool drink on a smokin’ July afternoon, wavy burnt chestnut hair sweeping past her shoulders like a hot summer breeze, our eyes made contact; sucked up into the shimmering blue of her eyes, it was a connection I would later regret.

Instinctively, I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket feeling for the bulky envelope of cash confident it was secure when I felt a hand lightly caress my knee – never noticed her walk over…