13
Once Father Gabriel and I were out of earshot of the
widow, I said, “I think I made her angry. I didn’t mean
to.”
“Well, it must be
admitted that she’s prone to anger,” Father Gabriel said gently, as
we descended the stairs to the crypt. “Especially when the subject
of, er, certain families comes up. The Gambellos and Corvinos have
given her much to grieve over.”
“Both families?” I asked curiously.
“Oh, yes. Both
families. It’s terribly sad. The trials she has been through, the
sorrows and injustices . . .”
The lights were
already on at the bottom of the brick-lined staircase, as well as
inside the crypt. Within the underground chamber, I found no
memories of Johnny, thank goodness. Just bunny costumes, chairs,
tables, and food. A lot of
food.
I said, “Wow! When
you said refreshments, I thought you meant a pot of coffee and a
box of doughnuts.”
There was a folding
table set up near the far wall, and it was practically groaning
beneath the weight of deli foods from, I assumed, one of Little
Italy’s mouth-watering salumerie.
Paper-thin slices of prosciutto were delicately rolled and arranged
on the same platter with shining slices of fresh mozzarella,
creamy-colored provo-lone, plump purple figs, well-marbled salami,
crisp-looking slices of red and green bell pepper, and pale green
melon balls. Another tray contained slices of lightly seasoned
roasted eggplant and grilled zucchini, four kinds of olives, and
marinated mushrooms. There was a basket of Italian bread, and a
generous supply of miniature cannoli—crispy tubes of dessert pastry
stuffed with sweetened ricotta cheese and tiny bits of dark
chocolate, then dusted with powdered sugar. A selection of sodas,
fruit juices, and bottled water was chilling on ice, and there was
an electric cappuccino maker with a pitcher of milk beside
it.
“There’s no wine,”
Father Gabriel said apologetically. “I just thought, you know, a
tense meeting about a deadly matter among bitter enemies . .
.”
“Ah,” I said. “Yes.
Alcohol might not be a good idea. They could get tipsy and shoot up
the church.”
“Or one of us,” he
said with feeling.
“Good point,” I
said.
“I hope they won’t
mind.”
“With this spread, I
don’t see how any reasonable person can have objections.” Our eyes
met . . . and though we exchanged no words, we shared the same
thought at the same moment—and chuckled together. This meeting
wasn’t for reasonable people, of
course; it was for wiseguys. I smiled at the priest, liking him.
“I’ll explain it to Lucky. I’m sure he’ll agree and take care of
any complaints that arise.”
“Thank
you.”
“Was the collections
dish especially full on Sunday, Father? This seems like a pretty
expensive refreshments table.”
“Lucky said that
Danny Dapezzo would reimburse the church.”
“Oh.” I nodded.
“Good.”
Since I doubted Lucky
had cleared that with Danny, I decided to make sure someone repaid the priest. I doubted any of St.
Monica’s parishioners made their weekly contributions in the belief
that their hard-earned cash would be used to feed tasty delicacies
to wealthy wiseguys.
Looking around the
crypt, Father Gabriel said, “Thinking of the widow’s tragic past
almost made me forget why we came down here. Do you remember where
you left your wrap?”
“Draped over the back
of the chair I was sitting on.”
Since the room was
rearranged, there was no telling which chair had been mine. I
didn’t see the garment anywhere, so I started looking through the
chairs that were folded and stacked against the wall. “Maybe
someone put my chair back, and my wrap slid down to the
floor?”
“Let’s see.” The
priest started investigating a different stack of
chairs.
I couldn’t resist
asking, “I understand Elena has lost three husbands,
Father?”
“Yes, her life has
been very difficult. Hmm, no, I don’t see a black wrap over here.
I’ll look at that stack over there,” he said. “Elena’s losses have
brought her closer to her faith, but at great personal
cost.”
“Her first husband
worked for the Gambello family?” I asked, trying not to sound
gossipy.
“More than that. He
was one of the Shy Don’s many nephews.”
That surprised me.
“Was he a brother of Johnny Gambello?”
“No, Anthony and
Johnny were cousins. But they were almost as close as brothers.
Anthony was older, and he tried to take Johnny under his wing. Help
him, give him some guidance. But that, of course, turned out very
bitterly.”
“How so?” I asked,
looking around the room and wondering where else my wrap might have
fallen or been dropped. Among the bunny costumes? It seemed
unlikely, but I checked anyhow.
Father Gabriel
explained, “About twenty years ago, Johnny had an affair with a
lady whom a certain drug lord considered his, er, exclusive
companion.”
“Okay, I know Johnny
wasn’t very bright, but why would the woman do something so dumb?”
I wondered.
“Well, though his
looks were eventually ruined by his indulgences, Johnny was quite a
handsome young man. So the woman may have found him irresistible. I
remember neighborhood girls my own age swooning over Johnny back
then, though we were much younger than he, of course.”
“So you grew up
around the Gambellos?” I asked.
“Yes. Hmm, I’m afraid
I don’t see your wrap anywhere, Esther.”
“No, I don’t,
either.” But I was more interested in our conversation by now. “You
knew Johnny back then?”
“No, I just knew who
he was. As everyone did. Well, everyone except the cuckolded drug
lord and his thugs.”
“They came looking
for him?”
Father Gabriel
nodded. “But Johnny was not unaware of the risks of wooing that
woman, so he had taken a precaution when introducing himself to
her. And it’s easy to believe that he was too foolish to consider
how horribly the jest would backfire, or what it would cost
others.”
“Oh, my God!” I
covered my mouth. “Er, pardon me, Father. I mean . . . You’re
saying Johnny told the woman he was Anthony?”
The priest nodded.
“Precisely. As a result, Anthony’s body was found . . . Well, I’ll
spare you the details, but it was a brutal death. And Elena, just
over thirty at the time, became a widow.”
“What a terrible
story,” I said with feeling. “No wonder she hated Johnny. But
considering that Johnny had caused his cousin’s death, why didn’t
Don Victor . . .”
“Well, Johnny was
also a nephew of the don. So he was
given a pass.”
I’d heard the
expression before. At Bella Stella, of course. “And I gather it
wouldn’t turn out to be the last time, either, that the Shy Don
spared Johnny for doing something that would typically be a killing
offense.”
“No, indeed,” the
priest agreed.
“But how did Elena
wind up married to a Corvino after that?” I sat in a chair and
gestured for the priest to do the same.
“She fell in love,”
Father Gabriel said simply, taking a seat. “They met here, in fact.
I gather she sought support and counsel from Father Stefano, who
was the priest here back then. Father Stefano encouraged their
love, believing that the union of a Gambello widow and Corvino
soldier might end the constant and deadly violence between the two
families.” Father Gabriel sighed. “He had a good heart and a strong
faith, but he was naive about these matters.”
“It’s a real Romeo
and Juliet story, isn’t it?”
“With an equally
unhappy outcome.”
“When the Gambellos
found out,” I guessed, “the sh . . . er, things hit the
fan?”
“Elena married her
Corvino lover in secret, then went alone to Don Victor’s home to
confess the truth, to ask for his forgiveness and blessing. He was
so enraged, he tried to kill her.”
I gasped, imagining
the violence of that confrontation. The frail old man’s vitriol and
fury, Elena’s fear and desperation, and the thugs who were probably
just outside the door, prepared to carry out whatever heinous act
their boss ordered.
Father Gabriel
continued, “But even the don, who had committed so many acts of
deadly violence before growing old and turning over the dirty work
to his subordinates . . . Even he stopped short of murdering a
woman. Just short. Elena says she had
dark bruises on her throat for a week after that
night.”
I put my hand up to
my own throat, disturbed by the mental image of the Shy Don trying
to kill his nephew’s remarried widow.
Father Gabriel
shrugged. “There is some reluctance among wiseguys to murder a
woman.”
“I guess that saved
Elena’s life.”
He sighed. “Well,
they didn’t kill Elena, but as far as the Gambellos were concerned,
there was still unfinished business to settle. A Corvino had
courted a Gambello widow. He had poached in sacred territory. In
their code of honor, they couldn’t rest without making an example
of him. So Lucky . . . Oh. Oh, dear.”
He looked at me, evidently recalling that I hung out with Lucky.
“Never mind.”
“So Lucky killed
him?” I asked in shock. “For that?” I
had assumed Lucky’s murder of Elena’s second husband was
“business,” not something so personal, so vicious.
“Yes.”
“No wonder she hates
Lucky so much,” I said, appalled.
“Yes,” Father Gabriel
repeated.
I felt depressed. I
was suddenly ashamed to think of Lucky as my friend, as someone I
liked.
Lopez had been right,
I was naive. I knew Lucky was a killer! Had I really supposed he’d
had good reasons for murdering
people?
“Of course, Elena
remarried in time,” said Father Gabriel.
“Uh-huh,” I said, not
really interested now, feeling sick as I thought about the deeds of
a man I had described to Elena as my friend only a few minutes
ago.
“To another Corvino.”
The priest shrugged. “Perhaps she was lonely. Or perhaps staying
within a powerful family made her feel safer. But, of course, Eddie
Giacalona was killed, too. About two years ago.”
“By
Lucky?”
“No. By another
Corvino.”
I looked at Father
Gabriel in surprise. “They killed one of their own?”
“For betraying the
family.” He snorted and added, “Not all bosses are as sentimental
as the Shy Don.”
“So Elena must hate
the Corvinos almost as much as she hates the
Gambellos.”
“It’s an obsession
with her.” He looked even sadder. “She comes here to pray twice a
day, almost every day. But her heart has not yet felt God’s
infinite love and forgiveness.”
“That’s hardly
surprising, is it?” I said.
He suddenly changed
his tone and the subject. “But listen to me, gossiping about all
this water under the bridge. We still haven’t found your wrap, have
we? We should look in the lost and found. If you spoke to Mrs.
Campanello—that’s who was in the office today—she probably came
down, found it, and put it there. Why didn’t I think of that
before? You stay here, Esther, I’ll go look.”
He was gone only a
minute before I discovered that, in my newly dark mood, the silent
crypt felt oppressive and Johnny’s ghost was everywhere—like the
ghosts of Elena’s husbands. So I slid out of my chair and climbed
the steps back up to the church.
It seemed Elena
Giacalona was not destined to pray in peace this evening. There was
a man sitting next to her on the church pew, talking to her. I
recognized Don Michael (“no relation, I assure you”) Buonarotti.
His presence didn’t seem to agitate her the way Lucky’s did. They
were speaking together in low voices. The expression on her face
was serious and a little tense, but she seemed to be speaking to
him in a reasonable way. At one point, she placed a hand over the
pendant that hung around her neck. I thought again of the Shy Don
trying to strangle her.
Her gaze shifted away
from Buonarotti and she saw me. The stiffening of her posture must
have warned him they weren’t alone; he immediately looked in my
direction.
“Miss Diamond.” He
rose to his feet. “Nice to see to again.”
I was surprised he
recognized me. No one else had. I supposed Elena must have told him
I was here.
“How are you?” I said
politely.
“Disappointed,” he
said. “I’m trying to convince this lovely lady to join me for
dinner, but she refuses.”
I gestured to our
surroundings. “You’ve chosen an interesting setting for
courtship.”
He shrugged. “It’s
where I can count on finding her.”
“I think I’ll start
praying at home,” Elena said. “I get more peace
there.”
“Did you see where
Father Gabriel went?” I asked them.
“Through that door.”
Buonarotti indicated the same door the priest had come through
earlier.
I turned to go in
search of him, but I stopped when the door opened and he came
through it.
“Oh, Esther! I
thought you were still downstairs,” he said.
I didn’t want to tell
him that I was afraid to be alone in a well-lighted room full of
good food and bunny costumes, so I said, “I thought I’d come help
you search the lost and found.”
“Oh, it’s only a
cardboard box under a table,” he said with a smile. “No help
needed. But I’m afraid I didn’t find your wrap there.”
“No?” I was
disappointed. Also surprised. “Do you think it’s been stolen? From
a church?”
“It wouldn’t be the
first time,” the Widow Giacalona said in disgust. “It’s
disgraceful, Father!”
“There’ve been thefts
here?” I asked in surprise.
“Yes. Too many
lately. And what else would you expect,” Elena added darkly, “with
all the goombata and young thugs who
come to this church?”
“Now, now,” said
Father Gabriel, “they should be respected for attending church, not
accused of stealing. Besides a few misplaced items hardly counts as
a crime wave.”
“If you say so,
Father,” the widow said grudgingly.
“So do you think my
wrap is gone for good?” I asked in dismay.
“Oh, perhaps Mrs.
Campanello put it somewhere else and didn’t tell me,” Father
Gabriel said.
“No, it’s been
stolen,” Elena said with dark certainty.
“Well, Father, I
understand you’ve got company coming that I don’t particularly want
to see,” said Buonarotti, “so I’ll be on my way. Elena, may I
escort you home?”
I thought she would
refuse, but Father Gabriel said, “Please do agree to it, Elena.
It’s later than you usually come here. It would comfort me to know
you’re not going home alone.”
“Very well, Father.”
As she stood up, she ignored the hand that Buonarotti extended to
her. “But I will certainly be entering
my home alone.”
“Hey, did I suggest
otherwise?” said Buonarotti, feigning offense. “But . . . maybe we
could stop for dinner along the way?”
The widow rolled her
eyes and turned away without answering him. But I thought I saw a
touch of amusement on her face, and I wondered if she’d give in.
Maybe the man was wearing her down. Even if she was understandably
reluctant to get involved with yet another wiseguy, she might be
flattered by the Don’s attentions. And, unlike Lucky, this suitor
had not killed any of Elena’s husbands.
After Don Michael and
the widow left, Father Gabriel went back to the crypt to see if his
arrangements needed any finishing touches. I stayed in the church
and strolled over to the statue of St. Monica. I studied the saint
for signs of weeping. Finding none, I shrugged; the widow’s
religious fervor was undoubtedly accompanied by wishful thinking,
perhaps even by outright hallucination. Then, since it seemed the
thing to do, given my surroundings, I put a coin in the donations
box and lit a candle, hoping for a successful sit-down. Although
only gangsters had been killed so far, that didn’t mean that no
innocent person would ever be targeted by the powerful entity
committing these murders.
While I was wondering
if Elena would find love again, this time with Michael Buonarotti,
Lucky and Max entered the church.
They brought Nelli
with them. She noticed me before they did, and she wagged her tail.
Apparently she’d forgiven me for the comment about her ears. Maybe
dogs—or familiars—didn’t hold grudges.
“So these were
straight hits?” Max was asking Lucky as they walked down the aisle
of St. Monica’s.
“No, no, someone was
sending a message with these hits.” Lucky stopped in the middle of
the church and elaborated. “A straight hit is when no one ever
finds the body. Clean and tidy.
Bada-beep-bada-bope-bada-boop.”
“Oh! Yes, of course.
I remember now.”
“No evidence. No
corpse. No case.”
“Understood, dear
fellow.”
“Don’t call me that
at the sit-down.”
“Yes, of course,” Max
said.
“And don’t say ‘of
course.’ Say ‘no shit’ or ‘whatever’ or ‘sure.’ Got
it?”
Max nodded.
“Whatever.”
“When you risk the
cops finding the body, it’s because sending a message is important
enough to take that chance.”
“Sure.”
“So what’s the
message we’re supposed to get outta these hits?” Lucky said. “We
still don’t know.”
“No
shit.”
I blinked at the
first vulgarity I had ever heard Max use.
I also blinked at his
appearance. He wore a black pin-striped suit with black shirt and a
white tie. I looked down and saw he wore shiny black shoes. His
unruly white hair was tamed by gel and scraped severely away from
his bearded face. The ensemble was topped off by a black fedora
with a white hatband.
He looked like a
hippy who’d been cast in a Guys and
Dolls revival.
As Lucky continued
talking, Max glanced down the aisle and saw me walking toward him.
“Oh, excuse me, miss? We’re looking for . . . Esther?”
“Max?”
Lucky’s jaw dropped.
“Kid?”
Nelli’s tail wagged
harder, expressing her happiness at the reunion.
I said to Lucky,
“What did you do to Max?”
Lucky preened. “Ain’t
I a genius?”
“I should never have
left the bookstore today,” I said with conviction.
“Oh, dear,” Max said
fretfully. “Do I not look the part?”
Lucky said, “Ignore
her. You look perfect. But don’t say ‘oh, dear.’ Say ‘fuck.’
”
“I can’t say
that!”
“Then say
‘Madonna’ or ‘bite me.’ ”
“It’s a lot to
remember,” Max said, starting to look flustered.
“You’ll do fine.”
Lucky gave me a stern look. “Tell him he’ll do fine.”
I nodded. “You’ll do
fine, Max.”
“But, Esther, is my
ensemble not convincing?” Max asked.
“Well,” I said
honestly, recovering from my shock, “I am not the expert on what
will make these guys take you seriously. Lucky is. So let’s go with
his judgment on this.”
“Exactly,” said
Lucky. “And may I say, kid, even without my help, you did a great
job. You could almost be Danny’s eldest daughter.”
“He lets his
daughter dress like this?”
Lucky asked, “Where’s
Father Gabriel?”
“In the
crypt.”
“Everything’s all set
up?”
“You are going to pay him for all that food, aren’t
you?”
“Won’t have to,”
Lucky said. “Danny called for the sit-down, so he’ll make a big
donation to the church when he gets here and sees the spread. He’s
a vicious bastard, but he knows what’s right. At most, I might have
to pay for the wine.”
“There is no wine.” I
explained why not.
Lucky shrugged, then
nodded.
Max asked, “So . . .
we won’t need to ask for a receipt?”
“A receipt?” Lucky
said. “At a sit-down?” Suspecting the
source of Max’s sudden interest in fiscal paperwork, I said, “Did
you receive another letter from the IRS today?”
“Yes. It appears to
be a litany of dreadful threats. It’s most distressing,” Max said
morosely. “It also doesn’t really seem to be written in English.
That is to say, the words are English,
but they make no sense.”
“That sounds normal,”
Lucky muttered.
“I wonder if this is
all because Mercury is in retrograde?” Max mused.
“Okay, what does that
mean?” I said.
“It’s astronomy,”
Lucky said.
“Astrology,” Max
corrected. “When Mercury, the astral body that rules
communications, is on the other side of the sun from Earth, then
communications here become confusing and difficult. It happens
three times per calendar year, on average, because Mercury’s solar
orbit is so much smaller than Earth’s. And while Mercury is in
retrograde, which typically lasts for about three weeks, letters
get lost, messages get garbled, comments get misinterpreted, people
have trouble keeping their appointments, and so on.”
Lucky looked alarmed.
“Let’s hope everyone keeps tonight’s appointment. We got serious
business to discuss!”
I thought about how
hard it was for Lopez and me to get together lately, and about my
trouble communicating with my agent to get the audition I wanted;
I’d left another message on his answering machine late this
afternoon. I also thought of my missing evening wrap and the lack
of communication about it between Father Gabriel and Mrs.
Campanello.
“How much longer did
you say will Mercury be in retrograde?” I asked
anxiously.
“Oh, another ten
days,” Max said. “I wonder if the IRS will stop harassing me then?
Or at least make more sense?”
“You want I should
take care of this little problem for you?” Lucky
offered.
“No!” I said sharply,
forgetting about my communications problems as I envisioned the
implications of Lucky’s question. “I
will look over Max’s IRS correspondence when I have time.
You will stay out of it,
Lucky.”
Lucky looked annoyed
by my tone. “Whatever. Max and I will go downstairs and have a word
with Father Gabriel now. Esther, you stay up here and direct all
the arrivals to the crypt.”
“Of course,” I said.
“It’s how I’ve always longed to spend a Tuesday
evening.”