8
I got two phone calls late the following afternoon,
both of them important.
An old buddy from the
Actors Studio called and told me about a role that he’d heard had
just unexpectedly opened up after the actress who’d been cast in it
had gone parasailing on Saturday and wound up in
traction.
Naturally, I phoned
my agent.
And while I was on
hold on my landline, Lucky called my cell phone.
“We got a big
problem, kid,” he said. “There’s another doppelgangster on the
loose.”
“What?” I sat down with a thud. “Who? How do you
know?”
“We can’t talk on the
phone,” he said. “Don’t they teach you
nothin’ at acting school?”
“But you just said there’s another dopp—”
“Meet me in an hour
at the place we met before.”
I frowned. “The place
we met bef . . . Oh! You mean the church?”
He sighed in
exasperation. “Yeah. The church.”
“In an hour?” I
glanced at the clock and thought about my date this evening. “How
long will this take?”
“It’ll take as long
as it takes.” Lucky sounded terse. “And bring your
friend.”
“My friend?” I said
blankly.
“Your friend who’s an
expert with this kind of problem,” he prodded.
“Oh! You mean
Max?”
“Jesus, don’t use
names on the phone!” Lucky snapped
before he hung up on me.
I closed my cell
phone. Then I hung up the landline, figuring I’d call my agent
again later. I doubted I’d have time to come back home before my
date, so I called Lopez. I got his voice mail.
“I have to go out,” I
said. “So don’t come to my place. I’ll meet you at
Raoul’s.”
I was still a bit
scratched and blue, so I was thorough about applying makeup. Then I
dressed to kill, in a manner of speaking, and styled my hair.
Hoping nothing would happen to muss me before my date, I took a cab
to Max’s.
As soon as I entered
the bookshop and called Max’s name, Nelli trotted up to me, face
and paws stained blue, tongue lolling, tail wagging. I grabbed her
shiny new collar so she wouldn’t shed on my little black dress
while I explained the situation to Max.
“By all means, we
must attend this meeting at once!” he agreed. “But, er, although
your outfit is very attractive, it’s rather, uh . . . I mean to
say, are you sure it’s suitable for church?”
“It’s suitable for a
date with the man who’s on his way to being my boyfriend,” I said.
“Which is where I’m headed after this meeting.”
“Ah! How is Detective Lopez?”
“A little overworked.
Come on, Max, I have a cab waiting outside.”
He cast a look of
undisguised horror toward the street. “A cab?”
Max hated modern
transportation—cars, trains, planes, elevators, escalators. They
all terrified him.
“It’ll be fine,” I
said soothingly. “We’re only going to Little Italy.”
“We could
walk.”
“Not in these heels,” I said. “Anyhow, we’ll barely get
there in time as it is.” Recalling the way I had looked the last
few times Lopez saw me, I had put real effort into my appearance
today. So now I was running a little behind schedule.
I grabbed Max’s
sleeve and tugged. “Say an incantation or something, but let’s
go. Come on.”
“I’m not sure how
long I’ll be gone,” he said to Nelli as I hauled him out of the
bookstore. “Feel free to review some Latin texts if you get
restless.”
“So how’s it going?”
I asked as we got into the cab. “With Nelli, I mean?”
“Oh . . . there are
some communication problems to work out.”
“I’ll bet.” I told
our driver where to take us, then asked Max, “Have you found any
good source material on our problem yet?”
His face brightened.
“Yes! A colleague in Jerusalem is sending me some rare texts. They
should be here within a day or two. Federal Express is a most
remarkable innovation.”
“Indeed.”
“And my colleague
assures me I may keep the volumes as long as I need them,” Max
said, “since doppelgängerism is not a common problem in the Middle
East.”
“Well, it’s good to
know there’s at least one problem they don’t have
there.”
I was about to
mention the cops’ theory that Chubby Charlie had been having a
manic episode, but I realized there was no point in talking just
now. Max was clutching the door handle in terror and flinching
every time the cab swerved. By the time we reached West Houston
Street, he was muttering in a language I couldn’t
identify.
When the cab pulled
up outside St. Monica’s, I paid the driver, got out, then opened
Max’s door and extracted him from the vehicle. His legs buckled
briefly, and I clutched him until he seemed steady enough to walk
on his own.
“All right?” I said
after a moment.
“Yes.” He
straightened the fedora he usually wore when he left the shop, then
adjusted the way his long duster was hanging on his rather short
body. The coat had been bequeathed to him by a gunfighter long ago,
and he wore it with pride. With his long white hair, white beard,
and odd clothing, he made a memorable first impression. Lucky
Battistuzzi, however, had seemed quick to recognize the expertise
that lay beneath the eccentricity.
Max gestured to the
door of the church, which was open to the warm May breeze. “After
you, my dear.”
I preceded him into
the serene and hallowed interior of the old church. It seemed very
dark compared to the bright afternoon sunshine outside. I blinked a
few times, waiting for my eyes to adjust.
Somewhere in the
soft, dim shadows, a woman screamed horribly.
Moving vehicles are
just about the only kind of danger Max shrinks from. He responded
immediately to the woman’s screams by rushing down the center aisle
toward the sound of her voice. I dashed after him like a lemming.
But my high heels were made for seduction, not sprinting, and I
still couldn’t see that well. Predictably, within a few steps, I
fell down.
“Agh!” I hit the
stone floor of the church with a splat
that knocked the wind out of me.
I lay there for a
moment, stunned and gasping for air. By the time I hauled myself
laboriously to my feet, leaning on a pew for balance, I realized
that the screams I heard were not, as I had thought at first, cries
of pain or terror.
Elena Giacalona was
enraged, not scared or hurt. I could see her now that my eyes had
adjusted to the dim light. And I could see her companions, too:
Lucky, Father Gabriel, and a well-dressed, middle-aged man whom I
didn’t recognize.
“Stay away from me!”
she shouted at Lucky. “How many times must I tell you? How dare you
even speak to me! Have you no
shame?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t
mean to upset you,” said Lucky.
“You’re still
speaking!” the Widow Giacalona shrieked.
I glanced around and
saw Max then. He, too, had realized that the lady didn’t need his
help, and he was hanging back now, obviously reluctant to intrude
on this scene.
Lucky said, “But,
Elena—”
“Are you deaf?” said the man whom I didn’t recognize. “She
don’t want nothin’ to do with you, you jerk.”
“You stay out of
this!” snapped Lucky.
As Lucky’s body
language got menacing, Father Gabriel tried to intercede. “Now,
gentlemen,” the priest said, “let’s all remember where we
are.”
“Harassing a woman in
church is where you are, you piece of garbage!” Lucky snarled at
the stranger.
“Sticking your nose
where it don’t belong is where you are, cretino!” shot back the other man.
“If I ever catch you
bothering her again . . .” Lucky warned.
“Look who’s talking!”
was the smirking reply.
“Madonna! Can’t I even pray in peace?” Elena
screeched.
She turned on her
heel and stormed down the aisle of the church, stalking past Max
without even a glance. Her stride was so brisk that the ornate
cross around her neck was bouncing.
Since I had met her
before, in a manner of speaking, and since she seemed very upset, I
felt an obligation to say something as her hurried steps brought
her closer to me.
“Are you all right?”
I asked.
The intense,
long-lashed eyes met mine. “Men are such pigs!”
The thrice-widowed
woman stalked past me and exited the church.
Lucky and the other
man had already turned on each other, uttering standard masculine
threats, the gist of which was that each of them wanted the other
to stay away from the Widow Giacalona.
Father Gabriel tried
several times, without success, to calm them down.
Finally, the other
man capped the escalating exchange of insults by saying, “What
makes you think she’d even waste saliva by spitting on you,
asshole? You killed her husband, for chrissake!”
“Don’t take the
Savior’s name in vain in here, you
putz!” Lucky shouted back.
“You killed her
husband?” I blurted.
All three men spun
around to look in my direction with identical expressions of
surprise on their faces.
“Esther!” Lucky said.
“Why didn’t you say something? I didn’t know you was here. You’re
late.”
No wonder he was so
sure, when I had asked about it, that Elena wasn’t killing off her
own husbands.
“You killed her husband?” I
repeated.
He shrugged. “Just
the second one.”
“Gee, Lucky,” I said,
“do you think maybe that’s why she
doesn’t like you?”
“She got over it,” he
said defensively. “She remarried.”
“Who the fuck are
you?” said the other man. He turned to
Father Gabriel. “Who the fuck is she? Oh! Excuse me, Father. I
mean, who is the young lady?”
“It’s a pleasure to
see you again, Esther.” Father Gabriel smiled at me, then gestured
to Max. “Did this gentleman come with you?”
“Yes, Father.” I
wobbled toward the men, wincing a little. I had turned my ankle
when I fell. Max removed his fedora and gave a courteous little bow
as I made the introductions. “Dr. Maximillian Zadok, Father
Gabriel.” I looked at the stranger. “And I’m Esther—”
“Hey, I just got it!”
The man snapped his fingers. “I seen your face in the Exposé. You’re the chorus girl who saw Charlie
Chiccante get whacked.”
“Chorus girl, you schmuck?” Lucky said. “I’ll have
you know, this young lady is a fine classical actress who also
happens to sing like an angel, which is why Stella gives her a job
whenever her talents don’t happen to be in immediate demand on the
stage.”
I beamed at Lucky.
Maybe the Widow Giacalona should cut him some slack.
“And you, sir?” Max
said politely to the stranger. “May we know your
name?”
“Sure.” The man
stepped forward to offer Max a handshake. “Buonarotti. Michael
Buonarotti.” He smiled and added, “No relation.”
“To Lucky?” I
said.
Buonarotti scowled.
“Jesus, no.”
“Watch your mouth,”
Lucky said. “We’re in chu—”
“I mean,” Buonarotti
said, “no relation to the
Buonarotti.”
I frowned. “To the
don of the Buonarotti family?”
“I am the don,” Michael Buonarotti snapped. “Don’t you
know nothin’?”
“Then
who—”
“I believe he means
Michelangelo Buonarotti,” Max said.
I was still confused.
“Michelan . . . Oh! That
Buonarotti?”
“No, no, really,”
said the don modestly. “No relation, I assure you.”
“Fine,” I said.
“Whatever. Lucky? We need to talk.”
Lucky was frowning at
me. “What are you wearing? You can’t come into church dressed like
that!”
“I have a date,” I
said tersely. “Anyhow, there’s nothing wrong with the way I’m
dressed.” I was wearing a sleeveless black dress with a beaded
bodice that showed some cleavage, complimented by a silky,
translucent wrap that was currently slung over my arm. It was my
sexiest dress, and it had been too long since I’d had occasion to
wear it. Okay, it wasn’t what I would choose to wear to temple, on
the two occasions per year that I go so that my mother won’t nag
me, but it certainly wasn’t indecent.
“Of course there’s
nothing wrong with it,” said Father Gabriel. “I think you look
lovely, Esther. Your date is a lucky man.”
“Thank you.” I smiled
at the handsome priest. Lucky frowned at me and stepped on my
foot.
“Nothing wrong at
all,” Buonarotti agreed. “You look classy. A real
eyeful.”
“Ain’t you got
nothin’ else to do with your time?” Lucky said, glaring at
Buonarotti.
“Oh, I guess I can
find something to occupy me elsewhere.” Buonarotti rolled his eyes.
“After all, I wouldn’t wanna intrude on you and your doctor and
your fine classical actress, now would I?” He chuckled at his own
wry wit. “No, definitely not. So I guess I’ll be leaving.” He
turned to the priest. “Always a pleasure to see you,
Father.”
“You’re always
welcome here, Michael.”
“Now get lost,” said
Lucky.
“Someday, Lucky,”
Buonarotti said with a cold look, “you’ll go too far.”
“You can count on
it.”
Buonarotti’s glare
grew threatening. Then with a suddenness that I found chilling, he
banished the look and turned a cheerful smile on me and Max. “Miss
Diamond. Dr. Zadok. A pleasure to meet you both.”
As we watched Don
Michael Buonarotti leave, Max murmured doubtfully, “That man comes
here to pray?”
Lucky snorted. “He
comes here to hit on the widow. Ever since his wife got sick of his
skirt chasing and dumped him.”
“The Widow Giacalona
doesn’t exactly strike me as a ‘skirt,’ ” I said.
“Of course, she
ain’t! But Buonarotti wants a new wife,” Lucky said with a dark
scowl. “In addition to his skirts.”
“And he’s pursuing
her in church?” I said.
“I don’t question why
people enter the house of God,” Father Gabriel said. “I just give
thanks that they do. Especially in this
neighborhood, where there has been so much bloodshed over the
years. Such as the other night.” He took my hand and gazed at me
with concern. “I can only imagine how distressing the events at
Bella Stella must have been for you, Esther.”
Those events were
worse for Charlie, obviously, but I nodded and said, “I was very
upset.”
“To see a man killed
in cold blood right in front of you . . .” The priest shook his
head. “How dreadful for you.”
I didn’t want to keep
reviewing Charlie’s murder, so I changed the subject. “Lucky says
there’s a weeping saint here?”
Taking my cue, the
priest smiled and gestured to the stone statue of Saint Monica.
“Yes, we’re very proud of it. Of course, only Elena Giacalona has
seen the saint’s tears so far. She’s very devout, you
know.”
“Prays to Monica
twice a day, every day, I gather,” I said.
“Elena’s life has
been plagued by tragedy and loss,” the priest said
sadly.
I glanced at Lucky.
“Indeed.”
“She’s had three
husbands,” the hit man muttered. “I only killed one.”
“All the same, Lucky,
you don’t think it’s maybe a doomed courtship?” I said. “And also
not in the best possible taste?”
Father Gabriel looked
at the ceiling and remained tactfully silent. As did Max, whose two
marriages, centuries ago, had left him with a strong preference for
bachelorhood. Which was just as well, since, for mystical reasons
that weren’t entirely clear to me, his vocation encouraged
celibacy. Much like Father Gabriel’s vocation, I
realized.
“Elena will come
around,” Lucky said. “I just need to give her time. But never mind
that now.” Glancing from me to Max, he said, “I got someone you
need to talk to.”
“And I should prepare
for vespers,” said Father Gabriel. “If you’ll excuse
me?”
“Of course,” I
said.
After the priest
exited through a side door, Lucky took my arm. “Let’s take a
walk.”
“Oh, good. We’re
going to sit in the pews?” My feet hurt. I don’t usually wear high
heels.
“Not this time, kid.
We gotta talk in the crypt.”
“The crypt?” I tried
to pull my arm out of his grasp. “I don’t want to go into the
crypt. Could you possibly suggest a
creepier meeting place?”
“A perfectly
understandable reaction,” said Max, nodding. “An underground vault,
with all the inherent fear of suffocation and smothering that such
places naturally engender in mankind.”
“You’re not helping,
Max,” I said.
“And there’s no
denying that a crypt is a shadowy and mysterious chamber rife with
negative mythology,” he added. “Not to mention the atmospheric hint
of dark rituals far older than Christianity itself!”
“Nah, it’ll be fine,”
said Lucky prosaically. “They got electricity down there and
everything.”
“Why can’t we talk up
here?” I demanded.
“Because whatever’s
going on, we gotta be discreet,” said Lucky. “Or whoever’s behind
this situation might figure out that we’re sniffing him
out.”
Since this made a
certain amount of sense to me, I sighed and agreed to go into the
damn crypt.
“Watch your
language,” Lucky said. “You’re in church.”