Dopplegangster (22 page)

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Authors: Laura Resnick

BOOK: Dopplegangster
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“You
know
what I want to do together.” His voice was silky now.
I glanced at Max and Lucky, wishing they’d feel a sudden, doppelgangster-like compulsion to depart.
“And I want to cooperate fully with that,” I said carefully.
Lucky gave me a wary glance. I shook my head and rolled my eyes, hoping he’d think I was just humoring Lopez about the investigation.
“Well, I was thinking . . .” Lopez said. The tone of his voice made me fantasize about the expression on his face right now. “Since dating has turned out to be too complicated for us to manage, maybe we should back-burner this dinner that we keep canceling.”
“That’s right,” I said, realizing. “You’ve never even bought me dinner!”
“Not for lack of trying,” he pointed out.
“The bum!” Lucky said.
“Is there someone with you?” Lopez asked.
“I’m in a shop.” Strictly speaking, this was true. “You were saying?”
“Oh, you’re shopping? Okay, since you’re busy, I’ll make this fast. I was thinking I’d come by tomorrow afternoon for a few hours of hot sex—you know, the kind that makes the neighbors complain about the noise. And
then
I’ll take you out for dinner. Or maybe we’ll just order out. We’ll play it by ear after we’ve exhausted each other. Deal?”
A wave of heat washed over me, and I didn’t trust myself to say anything in front of Max and Lucky that wouldn’t make the rest of the day extremely awkward for me.
“Still there?” I could hear the smile in Lopez’s voice.
“Yes,” I said faintly. “It’s a deal.”
“See you then,” he murmured. “Oh, and don’t bother dressing up for the occasion. I don’t plan to be gentle with whatever you’ve wearing when I get there.”
I made an involuntary sound. Lopez laughed. Max and Lucky looked at me strangely.
“Bye,” I choked out.
I gently folded my cell phone shut, then sat there staring at it with a stupid smile, feeling flushed and dizzy . . . and extremely conscious of the two men gazing at me with fatherly expressions. Max looked anxious, Lucky looked annoyed.
“What did the cop want?” Lucky said. “You look all pink and guilty.”
“It’s under control,” I said, continuing my pretense that Lopez had called about the case.
“Don’t kid yourself,” said Lucky. “Love ain’t
never
under control.”
I thought of the Widow Giacalona and supposed he was speaking from experience.
“One gathers from your end of the conversation that, as we surmised, the police are indeed struggling with physical evidence that conflicts with eyewitness accounts?” Max said.
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“This is a realm in which the mundane forces of law and order, though well-intentioned, are helpless—and possibly even an impediment.”
“You mean the cops could get in the way?” Lucky asked.
“Precisely.” Max’s expression grew concerned. “Or even endanger themselves.”
“And you’re not looking at me that way because you’re worried the charmless Detective Napoli could be in danger,” I guessed.
“Well, I feel some concern for Detective Napoli’s safety, too, but I know you are not attached to him.”
“No, indeed.”
“And as you and I have previously seen,” Max said gravely, “Detective Lopez is a most dedicated and astute young man. He may pursue this case with more determination that is healthy for him.”
Realizing Max had a point, I looked at Lucky.
The old hit man said, “Don’t even think about it. I ain’t gonna expend energy to watch a cop’s back.”
“He’s my boyfriend,” I pointed out. “Or almost.”
“You should be more careful about the friends you choose,” Lucky grumbled.
“I believe that, in good conscience, we must count Detective Lopez as an innocent under our protection,” Max said to Lucky.
Lucky snorted. “I met this guy, and I can guess how he’d like
that
description.”
“Max didn’t say we should
tell
Lopez we’re watching out for him,” I said, knowing Lucky was right. Lopez would be appalled to learn how involved in this I was, and he’d be somewhere between amused and insulted that Max and Lucky were thinking of watching his back. “But even so . . .”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Lucky said in disgust. “Fine. Whatever. We’ll watch your boyfriend’s back. But if you think he’s going to return the favor and watch
ours,
then you don’t know nothin’ about cops.”
“Thank you, Lucky.” I beamed at him. He scowled back at me.
Max said, “Did he press you about our plans?”
“Huh?”
“Did Detective Lopez attempt to ascertain our next move?”
“Oh! Um, no.”
“So we can go ahead with the sit-down without worrying the cops will bust in?” Lucky asked.
“Yes.” The case had obviously not been Lopez’s priority when he called me. I felt hot again. “We’re good to go.”
“Well, then,” Max said brightly, “let’s plan our strategy. Er, how
does
one prepare for a meeting of this nature?”
“First rule of a sit-down,” Lucky said, “you gotta leave your piece at home.”
“My piece?” Max said.
“Your rod. Your peacemaker,” Lucky elaborated.
“We don’t want to make peace?” Max asked in confusion.
Lucky sighed. “I can see we got a lot of work ahead of us before tonight.”
12
 
H
oping to collect the transparent black wrap I had left behind the night before, I got to St. Monica’s half an hour early for the sit-down.
I had just finished talking with Lucky on my cell phone. He wanted to make sure I had followed his advice after leaving the bookstore that afternoon; I assured him that I was now dressed appropriately for the evening. Lucky thought a meeting between the Gambellos and the Corvinos, particularly in the current circumstances, would be tense enough without the presence of outsiders making everyone jumpy. However, since he also thought Max and I needed to be there, he decided the best thing would be for us to try to fit in.
I felt sure I could comply, but we both had our doubts about Max. So while I went home to change clothes, Lucky had remained at the shop, continuing to teach Manhattan’s resident mage to blend in with the wiseguys. Lucky had also phoned two of his colleagues and told them to be at the sit-down; Danny would bring two soldiers, too. So now, with a small bunch of violent felons due to arrive soon at St. Monica’s to hear (little did they suspect) our theories about apparitional bilocated doppelgängerism, I prayed for good luck—and felt an unprecedented impulse to make the sign of the Cross.
“I’ve been hanging out in church too much,” I muttered to myself.
I glanced around the shadowy, silent interior of St. Monica’s, hoping to see Father Gabriel. It was presumably too late in the day for a church administrator to be here, and I had no idea where they stowed lost-and-found items. I supposed I could go into the crypt to see if my wrap was right where I’d left it . . . But the last time I had visited the crypt, I’d met a doppelgangster down there, so I was reluctant to venture back into that subterranean chamber on my own. Even the bunny costumes from the Easter play couldn’t make that place seem unthreatening to me now.
My roving gaze settled on the only other person in the church at moment. The Widow Giacalona was kneeling before the altar of Saint Monica, her head bowed in prayer. People weren’t exaggerating about her devotion.
I wondered if the widow would go to the crypt with me to look for my wrap.
When she lifted her head, crossed herself, and rose to her feet, I cleared my throat and said, “Hello. Nice to see you again.”
She looked over her shoulder at me. The large, dark, long-lashed eyes showed no spark of recognition. “Have we met?” she asked with a faint frown.
I realized that by dressing to blend in at the sit-down, I had changed my appearance so much that the widow didn’t know me.
“I’m Esther Diamond.” When this obviously didn’t ring a bell, I added, “Lucky Battistuzzi’s friend.”
You know—a chorus girl with ties to the mob.
“Oh. Yes.” A look of disgust crossed her face. “Lucky’s
gumata
.”
I knew from conversations I overheard at Bella Stella that
gumata
was a loaded word for a wiseguy’s girlfriend; men said it carelessly, and women never used it nicely. However, the widow had lost three husbands and had legitimate grievances against Lucky, so I decided to let the insult pass.
I simply said, “I’m not his—”
“With a pretty young thing like you on his arm,” she interrupted, “why won’t he leave
me
alone?”
Well, even though I guessed she was at least twenty years older than me, she was beautiful in a rich, earthy way that I thought would make any number of men walk right past me to get a date with her. (Which is okay; talent lasts longer than beauty, and I want to keep getting acting work until the day I shuffle off this mortal coil.) But, though she evidently wasn’t vain about her looks, she was way off base about my relationship with Lucky. I wondered if it was my outfit.
“I’m not being euphemistic when I say ‘friend,’ Elena.” She scowled again, and I said, “Er, Mrs. Giacalona. Lucky’s like an uncle to me, and he’d be dismayed to learn anyone had other ideas about our friendship.” When this, too, failed to warm her expression, I added, “I have a boyfriend. A nice young man.”
“Another Gambello?” she said, her voice full of loathing.
“No, he’s a cop.”
That surprised her. “You date a
cop?
”
I sighed. “Yes. I do. I date a cop.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, ask anyone,” I said, hoping we could get on a roll here, so I could ask her to go into the crypt with me without it sounding too strange. “Half of Stella Butera’s customers have met him by now. You know Stella?”
“Yes.” The widow glanced at Saint Monica. “Stella lost her man, too.”
“Just the one.” After a moment, I said, “That came out wrong.”
“Stella used to come here. We prayed together sometimes.” Elena shook her head. “But like so many, her faith was not enduring. She doesn’t pray to the saint anymore.”
Rather than seeing it as a sign of weak faith, I figured that Stella had eventually gotten over the death of her longtime lover, Handsome Joey Gambello, who had been killed at the restaurant five years ago. Now she chose to live in the present and look to the future, and that struck me as healthy. However, Stella had indeed lost only one man. I supposed it wasn’t surprising that a thrice-bereft woman like Elena Giacalona was keeping regular company with Monica, patron saint of widows and wives.
Seeking a friendly comment to fill the silence, since this still didn’t seem quite the right moment to invite Elena into the crypt with me, I said, “Who was Saint Monica? A devout medieval widow?”
“Not medieval.” The widow shook her head. “She lived in the fourth century. Monica was married to an abusive pagan husband, and she spent her whole life praying he would convert to Christianity.”
“Were her prayers ever answered?” I asked, thinking that sounded like a grim marriage for both spouses.
“Yes. He converted on his deathbed.”
“Better late than never, I suppose.”
“She was also the mother of Saint Augustine.”
“Oh?” I thought it was too bad Max wasn’t there to see that I am not quite as uneducated as he thinks. “Author of the
Confessions
and
The City of God
, right?”
The widow seemed to warm to me, smiling a little. “Yes, that’s right.”
“He’s also the guy who said, ‘Lord, grant me chastity . . . but not yet.’ ” I enjoyed a friendly chuckle over this all-too-human plea.
The widow’s expression turned cold. Apparently it was not one of her favorite saintly quotes.
Hoping to repair the damage, I said solicitously, “I hear you’ve seen Saint Monica weeping?”
“Yes.” She turned to gaze at the saint’s statue and crossed herself. “Yes, I have.”
A reverent expression warmed her face, making it even more beautiful. Also a little scary—there was a spark of zealous fervor there that, for a moment, didn’t look wholly sane.
She said in a passionate voice, “My devotion has been rewarded with the saint’s grace and mercy. She has shed tears for my sorrow.”
“That’s amazing.” Careful to keep my skepticism out of my voice, I asked, “When was this?”
“It’s happened several times.” The widow clasped her hands in front of her chest and gazed with rapture at Saint Monica. “She feels the pain of the brokenhearted, and she weeps for us.”
“ ‘Us’? I thought no one but you had seen her weep.”

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