"Thanks for nothing, Johnny," I told him. "And by the way, if you think those are nice, friendly neighbors moving in next door, you're a fuckin' mortadella."
I didn't bother to wait to see his reaction. Joe opened the front door for me and I raced outside. The damp air was colder than ever against my hot cheeks.
"What the hell was that all about?"
I might have asked Gus the same question but he beat me to it.
"You mean—"
"I mean shylocking. And pump and dumps. Col tempo la foglia di gelso diventa seta. And fuckin' mortadellas!" He pressed a hand to his heart. "Since when do girls talk like that? Since when do you know about such things?"
Honest, I couldn't help myself. I had to laugh. I didn't even try to explain. Not until we were in the car. Then on the way back to the cemetery, I gave Gus the lowdown on the research I'd done all weekend, a brief description of DVD technology, and a short history of the life and times of The Sopranos.
"I thought you said you recruited twelve people for this study?"
Dan had been thumbing through a file folder with my name on it. When he heard my voice, he looked over to where I stood in the doorway. He blinked, confused, then glanced around his empty office, as if it was the first time he realized we were the only ones there.
"I did say twelve, didn't I?" He hurried to the door to usher me inside. It was the typical hospital office with a tile floor, white walls, and standard-issue metal furniture. No photographs. No funny posters. The only thing that made the office look like it actually belonged to someone was the array of framed diplomas on the wall and a mirror where I was pretty sure Dan never checked to see if his outfit passed fashion muster. If he did, he wouldn't have been wearing navy pants with a black shirt.
"The rest of my subjects for the study… " There was a metal credenza behind Dan's desk, and he motioned to it and to the neat stack of fat file folders on it. "They've been in and out all week," he said. "You're the final interview."
"Does that mean you saved the best for last?"
At least he knew flirting when he saw it. Dan blushed. Unfortunately, even flirting wasn't enough to distract him. He got right down to business, pulling papers out of my file.
"I've got this questionnaire for you to complete tonight. When you're done, we'll set up a time for your next visit. That's when we'll start the real testing."
Testing.
A word that had never agreed with me.
"Testing as in… "
"EKGs. EEGs. CAT scans and an MRI. You'll probably need to spend an entire afternoon here. I'd also like to conduct some of the classic ESP experiments. You know, just to make sure we have all our bases covered."
"You think I have ESP?"
Dan grinned. "Like I said, I'd like to cover all our bases."
"And our bases begin… " I glanced at the papers he still held in his hand. There must have been at least ten in the stack. This did not bode well for my plan of getting home early and crawling into bed. It was already after eight, the only time all week that Dan could see me. After my earlier visit with the retired wiseguys and an afternoon avoiding starting my research on tombstone symbolism for that article I was supposed to be writing, I was dead on my feet.
"You ready to get started?" Dan asked, and when I told him I was as ready as I would ever be, he invited me to sit in the chair behind the desk. "Sorry the accommodations aren't a little more luxurious, but you should have plenty of elbow room." He checked his watch. "I've got to pop over to the lab to check on the results of some of the other testing. I'll give you a few minutes so you can get started."
As soon as he was gone, I settled down to business. I dutifully filled in the blank lines on the top paper. My name. My address. My phone number. My health insurance information. It wasn't until I started in on the detailed information part of the questionnaire (Please describe the circumstances that led to your head injury) that I realized I wasn't alone. Spooky music or no spooky music, I was getting to be an expert in feeling a certain ghostly presence.
"You're not going to help me get through this, so why did you bother to come along?" I asked Gus.
"I dunno." I looked up to find him peering at the diplomas that lined the walls in sleek black frames. If the alphabet soup that followed Dan's name on each of them meant anything, he was one smart cookie. "Maybe I just don't like the idea of you seeing this guy here all by yourself. It's not the way a proper women behaves."
"First of all… " I scratched down the last few words of the story of the day I'd whacked my head on Gus's mausoleum. "Nobody worries about that kind of thing anymore. And besides, I'm here on business."
"He wants to shrink your head."
"Not exactly." I flipped the page to the next question.
What symptoms did you exhibit after your accident?
"Is passing out a symptom?" I asked Gus, and even before he could answer, I decided it was and detailed how I woke up and found myself in the ER.
"Still, the two of you alone… " Gus let the words hang.
I made a face. "Doesn't look like that's going to happen as long as you're around."
"You'll thank me for it later." He moved from the diplomas to the bookcase and when he walked past the mirror, I didn't see Gus's reflection. He tipped his head to read the titles on the bookshelf. "He has brains, this boy."
"Lots of them." I checked out the next question. What unusual behaviors have you exhibited since your initial visit to the emergency room?
"Think you qualify as an unusual behavior?" I asked Gus. Not that I intended to mention him. Ever. Instead, I talked about having trouble sleeping and about the ringing in my ears that started right after the accident and that I still occasionally heard. Ordinary stuff and nothing to worry about. Just as Doctor Cho had said all those weeks ago.
Which made me wonder how I even qualified for Dan's study.
I chewed the end of the pen, thinking it over. "It doesn't make a whole bunch of sense, does it? If everything's normal—"
"Then why were they so spooked—you should excuse the phraseology—when you mentioned Tommy? Exactly what I've been wondering."
But not what I was talking about. Because I knew it wouldn't do me any good to try and stick to my own agenda, I switched gears. It was easier to mull over the events of the afternoon than it was to try and fathom the workings of an Einstein like Dan, anyway. "The whole Tommy thing can't have anything to do with you. Tommy was dead ten years before you were. You're the one who had him clipped."
"You gotta stop watching them DMVs."
"DVDs," I corrected him. "And you're changing the subject."
Gus shrugged, making it clear that it was no bigger deal then than it had been forty years earlier. "Tommy was a rat. And it was strictly business. He got what he deserved."
"Then why did your associates seem to care so much?"
Gus pursed his lips, thinking. "They were surprised. That's all. You showed them that you're not just another pretty face. They didn't think a girl could be so smart."
Ridiculous to be pleased by such a small thing, I know, but it was as close to a compliment as I'd ever gotten from Gus. I smiled. "Am I smart?"
He winked. "You had me there to help you."
"Wish you could help me now." I flipped to the next page and the next question and paused with my pen poised over the paper.
Do you ever think that you are deluding yourself ? Not facing the truth? Not dealing with reality?
"So how come you never told me about your old man?"
I was deep in thought, trying to figure out how to answer Dan's question when Gus's came at me out of the blue. I looked up, floored.
"You told Rudy," he said. "About your old man. You said he was in federal prison."
"Oh, that." I set down the pen and shook out my hand. "I never mentioned it because it doesn't matter."
"Matters to your father." Gus's smile was grim. He perched on the corner of Dan's desk. "Matters to you, too, I think."
"That's good. Only if you ever… I dunno… want to talk about it… "
"I don't."
"That's good." He stood. "Sometimes it ain't easy for a kid… you know?"
"Good thing I'm not a kid." I glanced at the stack of papers still untouched. "And I'm not getting any younger."
I pulled the next page in front of me.
Do you ever hallucinate?
Okay, Dan had me there. Once upon a time that seemed like forever ago, I wouldn't have hesitated. Do I hallucinate? Ask me back then and I would have known the answer.
You betcha!
But there was that birthmark on Gus's hip that proved me wrong. And the inside information on The Family Place and Tommy Two Toes. Info I couldn't have dreamed up, no matter how vivid my hallucinations.
There was Gus standing in front of me, as real as the desk between us.
Did I hallucinate?
"No." I spoke out loud and wrote down the single word.
Do you talk to people other people can't see? Do you hear their voices?
"Shit." I tossed down the pen. "How can I even be in this stupid study when I have to start out lying to Dan?" I asked Gus and myself. I spun Dan's desk chair around, stalling for time, looking for a way out that was ethical without being too truthful. I glanced at the stack of file folders, the questionnaires completed by the other people in the study. "Do you suppose they're crazy, too?"
" 'Cept you're not."
"Something tells me Dan would disagree."
"Then he'd be wrong."
I poked the stack of folders with my pen. "You think they told the truth?"
"You think anybody does?"
I wasn't about to get philosophical. Especially when I'd just decided to hedge my bets and cheat. A little.
If I looked at what the other participants wrote, maybe I could come up with an answer that sounded at least a little believable.
My mind made up, I picked up a couple of the folders and flipped through them. That's when I heard the office doorknob turn. Dan was back.
As fast as I could, I tossed the folders back on the credenza and spun my chair around.
And that was too bad.
Because in the instant I'd looked through them, I saw something very interesting.
Sure the other folders were stuffed with papers. But those papers? They were blank.
Chapter 11
When I got home a couple hours later, I was still mulling over the mystery of those file folders stuffed with empty paper. I suppose I would have kept right on wondering what Dan was up to and why he'd lied about the other study participants except that the second I was inside my apartment and had the door closed behind me, I had bigger things to worry about.
An arm went around my neck and I got yanked back so hard and so fast, my feet left the floor.
"Some bitches don't know when to mind their own business," Albert Vigniolli grumbled in my ear.
After that…
Well, after that, the wondering and the worry were officially over. The panic kicked in.
I must have looked like a rag doll, thrashing and squirming, powerless with Albert's beefy arm around my neck, my feet dangling and my own arms flailing. I caused about as much damage as a rag doll would have caused, too. Which was exactly none.
I tried for an elbow to his ribs.
Albert laughed.
I did my best to get my foot up so I could bash him in the knee with the heel of my shoe.
Albert tightened his hold.
He had arms like steel bands and muscles on top of his muscles. Every one of those muscles clenched, slowly squeezing my neck. This was something Albert had obviously done before and he was plenty good at it. What fun would it be to cut off somebody's air supply quickly? This way, bit by bit, one heartbeat at a time, I knew exactly what I was missing.
What I was missing was oxygen.
My ears buzzed, and even though all the lights in my apartment were off, the scene in front of me got even darker. I tried like hell not to pass out. Not that I was looking forward to finding out what Albert was planning to do to me. But the idea of blacking out and not knowing was even worse.
Somewhere during all my gasping and struggling, Albert's foot hit the edge of the living room carpeting where it met the hardwood floor in the hallway. His shoe caught and he staggered back. For one precious second, his grip loosened, and at the same time I gulped in a breath that felt like fire in my throat, I slipped toward the floor. No way he was going to let that happen. He caught me around the waist, grasped, and lifted, spinning me around so that my breasts were pressed against a chest that felt like poured concrete.
My ribs were being crushed, my breasts were squished, but lucky me, one of my knees ended up in exactly the right spot.
It was one of those silver platter opportunities and the only one I was going to get. I slammed my knee into Albert's balls.
"Son of a—" He yowled and let go and I hit the floor, butt first and full force. I didn't have the luxury of wallowing in the pain that shot up my tail-bone and into my back. As long as Albert was still hopping around on one foot, dropping the f-bomb and clutching his hands to his groin, I had the advantage.
I rolled to my knees and scrambled for the hallway that led to my bedroom. Thanks to a former tenant who had a problem either with the neighborhood or with intimacy issues, there was a lock on the door and my cell phone was in the pocket of my peacoat. If I could get that far—
I didn't.
Still bellowing, Albert grabbed me, spun me around and let go. I slammed into the wall, headfirst, and like those characters in so many cartoons, I saw stars.
Except that there was nothing funny about the situation.
Pain racketed inside my head and something wet and hot trickled into my eyes. Rather than think about what it was and what it meant, I made a mental note.
Please describe the circumstances that led to your head injury.
I'd have a whole new paragraph to add to my answer on Dan's essay test.
If I lived that long.
As far as I could see (and with blood in my eyes and a strobe display going on inside my head, it wasn't far), I had one advantage. I lived there. Albert didn't. The lights were off. He didn't know that when he launched me into the wall, I landed about three inches shy of the table near the front door. The one where I dropped my purse and keys when I walked in. The one near where I leaned the big, black umbrella I took to Garden View with me on rainy days.
I struggled to my feet and groped along the wall, and when my fingers finally closed around the umbrella's wooden handle, I was filled with a sudden and insane courage. I spun to face my attacker, raising the business end of the umbrella.
"Bitch!" Albert swung one meaty fist and I ducked. The lamp on the table hit the floor and shattered.
I managed a thrust and before Albert knew what hit him, the metal point of the umbrella was nestled against his breastbone. I applied just enough pressure to get his attention.
"Out of here, scumbag." I poked him a little harder and Albert stepped back and toward the door.
"If I ever see your ugly face anywhere near here again… " I pressed again and again, he took a step back. "Well, let's just say that if I have to deal with you like this again, it's not going to be—"
He swung one arm, windmill style. My umbrella went flying. And one very pissed Albert came at me.
My only choice was to run, and at that moment, the bedroom wasn't an option. Not with two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle between me and the hallway. I headed for the living room and put the couch between me and Albert, fighting for breath and the inkling of an idea that might save me from a situation that was looking grimmer by the moment.
At the front of the apartment, the streetlight from the opposite curb threw squares of light through the two front windows. When Albert came hurtling in from the hallway, it was the first I got a look at him. It wasn't a pretty sight.
A vein
bulged on his forehead and his face was dark and mottled. Against the palette of burgundy and purple, that scar on his cheek looked uglier than ever. His ponytail was mussed and his eyes… well, let's just say that the phrase if looks could kill came to mind.
It wasn't something I wanted to think about.
I backed away and Albert came around the couch and closed in on me.
"Looks like you don't take advice very good."
"Well." Even I'd learned that much from English 101. "I don't take advice well. And what advice, anyway? I was told—"
"You was told to mind your own business. And now… " He flicked his wrist. The blade of a long, skinny knife gleamed in the light of the streetlamp.
I took another step away from him. But like I said, the room was small; my back hit the wall. The knife blade glimmered and I stared at it, mesmerized.
I took a deep breath and held it. I don't know why. I guess I figured it would somehow keep it from hurting as much when Albert stuck that knife into me.
I was just about to find out when my front door shattered.
The lights flicked on and for a moment, I closed my eyes, blinded. When I opened them again, there was Quinn looking like a god and this time, it had nothing to do with his six-hundred-dollar suit, his Italian silk tie, or the fact that he was as hot and as tempting as sin.
It had everything to do with the gun in his hand.
"Back away, Vigniolli." Quinn cradled that gun like he knew how to use it. "Drop the knife and get down on the ground."
Albert wasn't very good at listening to directions. Before I could move and before Quinn could get a shot off, he lunged across the room and had me by the throat. "I'm leaving here," he said, stepping behind me and using me as a shield. "And she's coming with me."
Quinn didn't lower the gun. He sighted down the barrel, his eyes and his energies focused on Albert, assessing every twitch, anticipating every move. "Don't be stupid," he said. "You think I was dumb enough to show up here alone? I've got three black-and-whites waiting down on the street. That makes six patrol officers and my partner. How far do you think you'll get?"
Don of the Dead Page 14
