Runner-up 1

Bonner picked up his glass and took a swig. He sat back, grabbed a cocktail napkin, patted his lips with it and casually swiped it across his drenched forehead. He let out a sigh, stalling, pretending to be waiting for a counteroffer from Greene, pretending to play it cool while his mind raced trying to figure out a way to get Palmieri to talk.

Ernesto had been clear: You must get him to implicate the Marenco Cartel bosses.

At the moment, all he had was a $125,000 bid for the flash drive -- a laughingly small pittance from someone like Palmieri. The guy routinely smuggled million-dollar boatloads of dope in from Mexico; $125K was but a drop in a huge green ocean. Palmieri was playing him.

Not that it mattered, not that Bonner would get a penny. But it confirmed his suspicion that the man was unaware Bonner knew his role as a lieutenant in Marenco’s army . . . the Finger of the Beast.

“Hold on here,” Carmen said, slapping her hand on the table.

Bonner smirked. This little girl had no clue what Falco had gotten her into. Bonner studied her, watched her straighten in her chair, pull back her shoulders, harden her eyes. She thought she was acting gutsy, but she was just acting stupid.

Palmieri gazed at Carmen. “Yes, Miss . . . Ventura, is it?” He lowered his eyes, letting them linger on her breasts. “Or do you prefer Miss Carmel Candy?”

Her jaw clenched. “I prefer you remember I have my own demands.”

Chuckling, Palmieri said, “And what, little lady, makes you think you can demand anything?”

It was Carmen’s turn to chuckle. “Because I have a package. A special gift from Antonio Falco, full of nice little surprises -- recorded phone conversations, lots of talk about money, lots of names.”

“And where might this package be?” Again his eyes roamed over her skintight T-shirt. He pushed back his chair, glanced under the table. A smile played at the edge of his lips. “It doesn’t appear as if you have any pockets.”

“How dumb do you think I am?” She leaned forward. “I’m not selling the package. I’m selling you the promise that I’ll keep it to myself.” She paused. “Call your goons off. Let me live in peace . . . with a $10,000-per-month allowance.”

Bonner couldn’t believe what he was hearing. She was going to get them all killed. His body tensed; he winced as the wires pulled hairs from his chest. I’ve gotta stop this, he thought. Gotta get Carmen and Greene out of here. I need to get Palmieri alone. It’ll be hard enough to get him to talk about his Marenco connections; it’ll be impossible with this judge and stripper sideshow. He cleared his throat, started to push himself up from his chair.

A firm hand on his shoulder pushed him back down. “Sit. I’m taking over now.”

All eyes turned to the judge. His eyes were bloodshot, his face, a clammy yellow-tinged mask. His hand shook as he pulled his jacket aside and wrapped his fingers around the butt of the gun protruding from his waistband. “I suggest you all listen to me carefully. My reputation, my career, my life is on the line. Understand: If I don’t get what I want, I won’t hesitate to use this gun.” He looked around the table. “First on each of you, and then on myself.”

Judge Laurence Greene was a desperate man.

And there were few things more frightening, more dangerous, more unpredictable than a desperate man.

Renee Holland Davidson says she “used to pound a calculator for a living.” Now she pounds “a keyboard for very little fame and even less fortune.”