Here Comes the Body
Page 18
“From here? That’ll cost a fortune.”
“I know how much your mom wants you to stay. I’ll take a rain check.”
Jamie shrugged. “Whatever. I’ll wait with you.”
“I have calls to make, e-mails to send. I mean, after the last couple of days . . .” Mia made a bomb noise and gestured to her head as if it were exploding. “Go. Eat. Spend time with your mom.”
She pushed Jamie toward the front door. He quirked his mouth in a half smile. “Talk to you later.”
Mia watched him go inside. When she was confident he was gone, she opened the Pick-U-Up app and requested a driver for a long and very expensive ride. Then she began to cry.
* * *
“I’m the worst brother in the world.”
“Stop it. You’re a great brother.” Instead of going home, Mia had opted to visit Posi. The room, dreary to begin with, was made drearier by a gray drizzle falling outside and staining the windows.
“No, I’m terrible,” Posi said, his expression glum. “I should be out of the place, helping you and Dad with Belle View. Instead, it’s all landed on you.”
“I’m handling it.”
“You’re doing way more than that. Give yourself a little credit. The place hasn’t folded, Dad’s not in jail for murder, and you talked Donny Boldano off the ledge. That’s yuge.”
Mia shrugged. “Dumb luck. Mr. B always liked me.”
Posi eyed her. “There’s something else going on.”
“No, there’s not.”
“Yes, there is. I know you, Sis.” He pointed at her eyes. “Red lids. You’ve been crying.”
“No, I haven’t. It’s allergies.”
Posi shook his head. “Allergies don’t give you blotchy skin. Nothing personal, but you’re not a pretty cry-er.”
Mia glowered at her brother. “Thanks for that. Just what a gal feelin’ blue needs to hear.”
“Stop talking like an old-timey movie and tell me what’s going on.”
“It’s stupid.” Mia hesitated. “Jamie has a girlfriend.”
“Ah.” Posi sat back. “There it is.” He shook a finger at her. “Hasn’t our life together shown it’s a waste of time trying to keep stuff from me?”
Mia, annoyed, swatted at his finger. “Stop making this a thing. It’s not. I don’t know why it’s pushing my buttons. It shouldn’t.”
“Of course it’s gonna bother you. You’re totally in love with him.”
“I am not! As a matter of fact, I got invited to a hot club tonight by a hot guy.”
“What club?”
“The Union.”
Posi raised his eyebrows. “Nice. I heard that place is awesome. You gotta tell me all about it. And about the guy. See if he’s worthy of the Positano Carina Seal of Approval.”
“Oh, I’m not going.”
“What? Why not?”
“I’m just . . . I’m not in the mood. Not after what happened with the murders and Dad and everything.”
Posi leaned forward and put his hands on Mia’s shoulders. Henry Marcus, the guard on duty, took a step toward him. “No contact, Posi.” He sounded apologetic, and added sotto voce, “I gotta at least look like I’m doing my job.”
“My bad.” Posi let go of Mia. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared her down. “Messina Florence Carina, stop being a martyr.”
Mia gaped at her brother, then responded with anger, “You’ve got a lot of nerve saying that to me, Mister Worst Brother in the World.”
“If not me, who? And I’m not talking about all you’re doing for Dad and for Belle View. I’m talking about you hiding behind your messed-up personal life. You were in a bad marriage. So what? I’ve been in two already, and you know there’s a third in my future.”
“I’m not being a martyr, Posi.” Mia tried to keep her voice from quavering. “At least you’re divorced. I’m not a divorcee, I’m not a widow. I don’t know what I am. And I haven’t been to a club since forever. I don’t even know if I remember how to dance. Plus, the guy who invited me is the DJ. What do I do, stand there and go like this?” Mia snapped her fingers and mimed dancing in place. “I’ll look ridiculous. I’ll feel ridiculous.”
The expression on Jamie’s face wasn’t devoid of compassion. “Look, you want to keep pretending you don’t have a thing for Jamie, it’s your call. But when a hot guy asks you to a hot club . . . you go.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think, Mia. Do.”
Henry tapped his watch. “Time’s up, you guys.”
Mia rose from her chair. “I’ll let you know if there’s anything new with the murders.”
“Go to the club tonight, Mia.”
“Stop bugging me. I said I’ll think about it. Love you.”
“Love you, too. Go to the club.”
“Argh!”
Henry opened the door for Mia. “I’m with your brother on this. Go to the club.”
Rankled, Mia uttered a profanity and tromped out of the visiting room.
It was still drizzling when she got outside. Mia pulled out the portable umbrella and pair of folded-up plastic booties Elisabetta insisted she always carry in her tote bag. She slipped on the boots and opened the umbrella. Her empty stomach growled. Salam-bini’s Pizza and Pasta—home of the infamous prom invitation pizzas from Mia’s past—loomed on the corner of Thirty-First Street. She stopped at the restaurant’s to-go window and ordered a slice she instantly wolfed down. A teen about the age her prom suitors had been stepped up to the window. “Pepperoni pizza, please.”
“Prom, huh?” Mia said with a conspiratorial wink.
The teen looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “No, ma’am. I’m hungry.”
He paid for his food and moved away from Mia. Great, now I’m a crazy lady and a ‘ma’am.’ Could today get any worse?
Depressed, she started for home. Then on impulse, she detoured to the cell phone store where Chris Tinker worked. She looked through the front window and saw a girl arranging a display of phone accessories. The employee wore the same light blue, logo-ed polo shirt that Tinker was wearing the day Mia spied on him. The girl finished what she was doing and retreated behind the counter. Mia entered the store.
“Hi, can I help you?” the clerk asked.
“I was looking for the assistant manager. Chris Tinker.” Mia took out her cell phone but held it at a distance so the girl couldn’t see how old it was. “He sold me a phone and I have a few questions about it.”
“He doesn’t work here anymore.”
This was an unexpected development. “Really? I just bought the phone last week.”
“That’s about when he disappeared.”
Mia’s heart raced. The situation was growing more interesting by the minute. “What do you mean, ‘disappeared’?”
“Well, maybe not disappeared,” the girl backtracked. “He never showed up to work. We left messages on his phone, but he never got back to us. I still have his last paycheck.”
“Wow. That’s so strange.”
“Tell me about it. Anyway, I can help you with your phone.”
Mia feigned checking the time on her phone. “You know, I didn’t realize how late it is. I’ll have to come back. Thanks anyway.”
She made a fast exit and hurried down the block, finally stopping under a store awning, where she put a call in to Cammie.
“Hey, what’s up?” Cammie yelled into the phone over the noise of a subway.
“Where are you?”
“On the way to Manhattan. I’m seeing a show.”
“Can you find out from Pete if he knows that Chris Tinker is missing? He was one of the guests at the bachelor party and he knew Angie, the first murder victim. I can’t believe I’m saying ‘first.’ What a world.”
“Pete’s right here. He bought the theater tickets. I let him come with me, but I’m making him sit across from me on the subway. Hey, Pete, did you know someone named Chris Tinker is missing? . . . He didn’t know.
What? . . . He was a bachelor party guest, Peter, knew the dead stripper or call girl or whatever she was. I swear, Mia, sometimes I don’t know how he keeps his job . . . What? I can’t hear you because of the express train on the other track. Speak up! He said thanks, he’ll have Hinkle look into it. Gotta go, we’re going into a tunn—”
The call failed. Mia parked her phone back in her tote bag. Then she traipsed toward 46th Place, dodging the occasional puddle.
* * *
Darkness had fallen by the time Mia reached home. “That you, cara bambina?” Elisabetta called from her kitchen.
“Si.” Mia took off her booties, then her shoes, and padded down the narrow first-floor hallway. Nonna and her friends Phyllis, Lucy, and Joan were in the living room, seated around a card table playing canasta.
“Joan brought over a tray of tricolore cookies,” Elisabetta said. “They’re in the kitchen. Help yourself.”
Mia went into the kitchen, where she poured a cup of coffee to go with the handful of three-color cookies she grabbed. “I got my electric bill from the Easter display,” she heard Joan say. “It was the highest ever.”
There were muttered reactions from the others. “You think that’s bad,” Lucy said. “Mine was so high I can’t pay it off all at once. I have to pay in installments.” Heightened mutters followed this revelation.
“That’s nothing,” Phyllis scoffed. “You know what I have to do to pay off mine? Borrow money from my children.”
This elicited gasps and even a “Madonna mia.” “Can’t top that,” Elisabetta said, her voice flat.
Mia stopped eating midbite, her appetite gone. She’d never heard her grandmother pass up a chance to one-up her friends on a holiday electric bill. The stress of the events at Belle View were wearing on the poor woman. Mia had to help her. She put down her coffee cup and strode into the living room. “Nonna, I saw your credit card bill in the junk drawer,” she scolded. “No wonder you’re hiding it. I can’t believe how much money you already spent on Memorial Day decorations, and it’s not even happening for a month. It’s Memorial Day, not the Fourth of July, for goodness’ sake.”
The other women exchanged glances. “How much did she spend?” Phyllis asked. “I only ask cuz I’m curious.”
Mia shook her head. “No. I can’t even tell you how much, it’s so embarrassing.” She scowled at Elisabetta. “We’ll talk about this later. But no more spending on decorations, you got it? You’ll have to take out a second mortgage on the house to pay off the bills.”
“Second mortgage,” Phyllis muttered, looking pale.
Elisabetta tried to look stricken but held her hand of cards over her mouth to cover a smile. “Si, bella. I’ll try to be more careful. But no promises.”
Mia pretended to storm out of the room, then took the stairs up to her apartment two at a time, rejuvenated by her good deed. It was a nice alternative to a murder investigation that was starting to feel like an exercise in futility. Pete didn’t seem all that excited about her Chris Tinker revelation. Maybe he was right, and it was a dead end. The cell phone salesman had a major drinking problem. For all she knew, “Tinker the Drinker” might be somewhere drying out.
She stepped over Doorstop, who was splayed out across the entry, per usual. After feeding him, she cleaned out his litter box, refilling it with a combination of litter and her shredded wedding photos. Mia flashed on what Posi said to her: “Don’t think. Do.” It reminded her of an old Italian saying she’d grown up with: Gli uomini facciare le donna parlare, which translated to “Men act, women talk.” She’d always hated how sexist and dismissive the expression was, especially since the Family’s wives, mothers, and daughters couldn’t talk about the one thing they really wanted to: what their husbands, sons, and brothers did for a living. This lack of communication drove Gia Carina crazy and led to some of her biggest fights with Ravello. Mia sympathized with her mother on this issue.
Her mind wandered to the news Donny broke about Jamie having a girlfriend. A “city” girl. Probably a college girl, educated and sophisticated. Everything Mia wasn’t. She finished cleaning out Doorstop’s litter box. Then she went into her bedroom and pulled a pair of pleather jeggings out of a rococo drawer. She dug through another drawer and found a stretchy purple top with a hint of sparkle. Mia held the top and jeggings up to her in front of the full-length mirror attached to the back of the bedroom door. All she needed was her black leather ankle booties, and she’d have a great outfit.
The hell with murders and fancy Manhattan girlfriends. Mia was going clubbing.
Chapter Twenty
Mia showed up at The Union around eleven P.M., fortified by four espressos. The club, housed in a deconsecrated Methodist church near Manhattan’s Union Square, was painted a shade of pink usually found in the Caribbean islands. Even though it was early for the nighttime scene, a line of would-be patrons stretched halfway down the block.
Mia approached the bouncer guarding the club’s entrance. He scanned her from head to toe, not in a sexual way but in an “are you cool enough to get in?” way. “I’m on the list,” she said. “Mia Carina. I’m a friend of Dee’s,” she added, feeling smug about being gifted with the privilege of using DJ DJ’s nickname.
The bouncer scrolled through a list on his iPad, then waved her past him, into the hallowed halls of the currently coolest club in New York City.
The Union’s interior was so dark Mia bumped into half a dozen people as she wended her way to the DJ booth. Red and blue lights swooped around the nave-turned-dance-floor, making her feel like she’d been caught up in a drug bust. Electronic dance music blasted from every orifice in the old building. Mia, sticking to the room’s perimeter to avoid a sea of dancing humans, couldn’t resist resting a hand on one of the church’s walls. It literally vibrated with each bass note. She surveyed the crowd and suffered an attack of insecurity about her outfit, which suddenly felt more Florida than Manhattan. Mia hoped the darkness and whatever drugs the club-goers were on would distract from her fashion faux pas.
She arrived at the DJ booth, which had commandeered the altar and was an open setup more akin to a stage set. Another DJ was working alongside Dee, who was a study in concentration as he deftly manipulated a complicated array of equipment that looked like it could launch a spaceship. He glanced out at the crowd to take their dance temperature, and Mia waved to him. He responded with a wide smile that dispelled her self-doubt and waved her onto the altar to join him. She did so.
“I wanted to thank you for the Koller gig.” Dee yelled to be heard over the eardrum-shattering music. “I already got calls from some of their friends and frenemies. They’re the best kind of clients because they’ll spend a ton of money to one-up everybody in their social circle.”
“I’m working with one of those now,” Mia yelled back. “Except she’s trying to one-up her own twin sister.”
Dee whistled. “Cold.”
“But great for business.”
“You know it.” He winked and fist-bumped Mia.
“Dee, I’m going out for a smoke.” The other DJ, a tattooed guy in his early twenties who had a bass clef note shaved into the back of his hair, took a pack of cigarettes off his console.
“No worries, man. Mia, this is Ty, my assistant. I’m training him so that we can do two gigs a night. If we work the same gig, he covers when I need a break and vice versa.”
Mia and Ty exchanged greetings, then he took off with his pack of cigarettes. “Take his seat ’til he comes back,” Dee said. He handed her headphones. “These’ll help you hear the music without going deaf. Hey, Sarah!” He flagged down a cocktail waitress dressed in a black unitard who so blended in with the dark interior, she looked like a floating head. “Mia, what do you want?”
“This looks like a beer and whiskey crowd. Would I sound ridiculous ordering a glass of chardonnay?”
Dee chortled. “Yes, but it doesn’t matter because no one can hear you.”
“Or see me.” Mia squinted. Her e
yes still hadn’t adjusted to the schizoid lighting system that ranged from nonexistent to blinding flashes akin to an emergency alert.
Sarah’s head floated off. Mia settled back into Ty’s leather chair, which proved comfortable. She bopped along to the music, a fun mix of EDM, current pop hits, and retro dance tunes updated with new beats. Despite the frenetic energy of the club, Mia felt more relaxed than she had since starting at Belle View.
Sarah returned with drinks. She passed an IPA beer to Dee and handed Mia her wine. Mia reached into her purse for her wallet, but by the time she’d pulled it out, the waitress had disappeared. “Put that away,” Dee said. “Drinks are on the house for me and my guests, but no way I’d let you pay even if they weren’t.”
“Then thanks to both The Union and you.”
Mia sipped her wine and evaluated the timbre of the night. Is this a date? she wondered. It kind of feels like one. She noticed the area of the dance floor closest to the DJ booth was occupied by single women and a few gay men. They danced suggestively, trying to get Dee’s attention. The club was pulsating with sexual tension as well as music, and for a minute, Mia felt overcome with it herself. Down, girl, she warned herself, then drank a big gulp of wine.
“What’s your favorite dance song?” she heard Dee ask, and then realized he was talking to her.
“Oh. Honestly? Like, not trying to pretend I’m hip or anything?”
“I want total honesty.”
“My parents were disco royalty in the seventies. They won contests. You could call KC and the Sunshine Band our house band.”
Dee grinned. “I love me some KC. Pick one.”
“Easy peasy. ‘Get Down Tonight.’”
“Nicholas,” the DJ called to a dancer near the booth. “Help my friend Mia down and dance with her to the next song.”
Nicholas gave Dee a thumbs-up. He said something to his male partner, who drifted away, then Nicholas held out his hand to Mia. She came around to the front of the DJ booth and let him help her onto the dance floor. A second later, the sound system blasted the familiar double-speed guitar solo that launched the sexy song.