Cook's Christmas Capers (The Angie Amalfi Mysteries)

by Joanne Pence

  Given all she'd seen so far, it was interesting that Richie Amalfi was on Angie's father's side of the family. From what Paavo told her, Sal Amalfi was a straight arrow—a businessman who had made millions on shoe stores and real estate. Angie's mother's relatives were another story. One branch of Serefina's family, headed by her uncle Bruno Bacala, also called Bruno the Tweeds because of his stylish clothes, was connected up to the armpits.

  Richie placed his hand on her arm, startling her out of her thoughts. She hadn't heard him return. "Have you got the gizmo in your purse with the picture of the dead body?"

  She handed the iPad over and he showed the bartender.

  "Sure I know him," the man said. "It’s Cockeyed Lanigan. Mean old coot."

  "He’s dead," Richie stated.

  "No fooling? Man, the old guys are dropping like flies. Nobody’s going to mourn Lanigan, though, you can count on that."

  "Any idea why he’d be headed to the airport this morning?"

  "Not me. The only guy who ever talked much to him was Punk Leo. Maybe he knows."

  Richie’s attention was distracted from the bartender when a new customer came in laughing about some old Santas who broke up a mugging just outside St. Francis. The kids they caught not only gave up the old lady’s purse, but went into the church to thank God they were still alive.

  The clientele at LaRocca’s Corner laughed as if it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

  Richie was all over the newcomer finding out just where the van was, who was in it, and where it was going. The information didn’t help much, but at least they knew the Santas were in the neighborhood.

  By the time they left LaRocca’s, the sun was setting. "Damn!" Richie said, scowling at the sky. "Soon, it’s going to be harder than ever to find them." He checked his watch. "I’ve only got four hours."

  "Then what?" Rebecca asked, putting her jacket back on, rebuttoning the top of her blouse, and capturing her long hair once more into a barrette. "Your Santas turn into a pumpkin?"

  His mouth wrinkled into a worried frown. "No, but I might."

  Just then, right before their wondering eyes did appear … a big white Econoline filled with little old men. The van headed up Columbus Avenue, then turned onto Mason.

  "Holy shit!" Richie cried and took off after it.

  The van started up a hill. Richie and Rebecca tried to catch it but were losing ground when a cable car clanged for them to get out of the way. As it went by Rebecca grabbed the pillar that went from the back guardrail to the roof. She used it to pull herself onto the bottom step on the side of the cable car.

  Richie was behind Rebecca and couldn’t grab the same rail, but lunged for the back of the car and managed to grab the top of the guardrail. He had to run fast to keep his footing, and then he shot up, lifting a foot onto the bottom rail and pulling the second foot up after it. He held on tight.

  "Rebecca! Watch out!" he suddenly shouted.

  She had been looking at him, and now turned to see the back end of a UPS van jutting out into traffic, only a half-foot from the side of the cable car.

  She stared at it, shocked, when he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and yanked her body hard against his, then held her close to the back of the cable car as they zipped past the UPS van with only inches to spare.

  As she watched, she knew her face and every other part of her would be decorating the van right now if it weren't for Richie's quick thinking.

  On the other hand, she wouldn't be in this predicament or on this cable car in the first place if it weren't for him! She wasn't sure if she should thank him or slug him.

  She might decide after she stopped shaking.

  He was still holding her tight when a red-faced conductor stormed out of the cabin. "What the hell is wrong with you two idiots? If you want to commit suicide you do it on somebody else’s car! Now get inside and pay like everyone else, or get the hell off!"

  The cable car was halfway to the next corner when it had to stop behind a row of cars for a red light. Richie saw that the van was stopped as well.

  Ignoring the conductor, he leaped off the car and ran toward the van. When Rebecca saw what he was up to, she followed, but not before mouthing "Sorry," to the outraged ticket-taker.

  Violation: riding public transportation without paying fare.

  "Open up!" Richie yelled, tugging on the driver’s locked door handle and pounding on the window. "What’s the matter with you guys?"

  Rebecca was on the passenger side, yanking on the doors, but they were also locked. She looked inside, and sure enough, just as Richie had promised, rows of little old Santa Clauses sat, their dark brown eyes gaping back at her in surprise and wonder. She had to admit that until that very moment, a part of her simply hadn’t wanted to believe his story was true.

  She pulled on the door handle of the front passenger door with both hands, one foot on the frame for leverage, demanding the fellow inside open it, when the light turned green. Other cars began to move. Suddenly, the door swung open and slammed hard against her. The window hit her nose, hurtling her end over end. Black lights and bright stars exploded in her head. Luckily, she rolled in the direction of the sidewalk out of the way of the oncoming cars. The van rocketed away.

  Richie's hands tucked under her armpits and lifted as he half-dragged her out of the street and over to the curb where they both sat. "You okay?" He took out a handkerchief—she didn’t think anyone used them any more—and lightly pressed it to her nose. Maybe in his line of business he needed one. When he lifted it away, she saw blood. There was no maybe about it.

  "Does it feel broken?" he asked.

  The world turned as red as her blood. She'd been dragged all over town, had a drink in a bar with a nest of criminals, broke enough laws to spend a week in jail, nearly got wiped out while riding a cable car, and now she'd been hit in the nose by a van of Santas! Her breath started coming short and fast, her ears rang, and her entire world began to tilt.

  Suddenly, he grabbed the back of her head, shoved it between her knees and held it down. Her hand found his chest and she shoved him away. He let go of her, and she sprang back up. "What the hell are you doing?" she shrieked.

  "You turned white as a sheet! I thought you were going to pass out," he said. "You gotta take it easy. How does your nose feel?"

  "Take it easy?" Her temples pounded. "How can I take it easy around you! You moron! You dolt! You—" She grabbed the handkerchief from him as she felt blood trickling down her nose to her upper lip and covered both. She gingerly felt her nose. It didn't feel broken, thank God! "You pithant!" She lisped.

  "Calm down," he ordered as if talking to a child. "You're hurt."

  "I'll show you hurt!" She swung her arm and socked him in the ear, hard, then jumped to her feet.

  "Ow!" He rubbed the side of his head. "What did you do that for?"

  "I must be crathier than you are to have wathted my time on you and your bullthit!" The thought that she was no closer to knowing why he was driving around with the Santas, what he was up to, how it was all connected to her dead guy, and the fact that she was lisping, turned her purple with rage.

  A car driving by stopped and a middle-aged man gawked at her, his mouth hanging open. She stepped towards him. "What'th your problem?" she demanded. He sped away.

  She spun back to Richie, still sitting on the curb watching her in stunned silence.

  Abruptly, she stopped, stared down at him, then lifted her head and walked away, handkerchief still pressed firmly to nose.

  He shook his head in wonder, then got up and followed.

  Chapter 5

  THE TWELVE SANTAS marched single file into LaRocca’s Corner wishing Merry Christmas to one and all. Half of them followed Lorenzo the Slug in a rush to the bathroom, while the others took over two tables, three barstools, and ordered twelve Boiler Makers. Earlier, they’d had lunch at the replacement for the Old Spaghetti Factory, and espresso at the replacement for the Café Trieste. Neither, they’d c
oncurred, was as good as the "real" places they remembered.

  Once they got settled, after a few words with the bartender about the Good Ol’ Days, Guido Cucumber said, "By the way, we’re looking for Big Leo Respighi. Seems he’s given up mahjongg. Even closed his business. What’s up? You know where we can find him?"

  The bartender looked surprised. "Leo? I hadn’t heard he’d closed up shop. I suspect he’s home with the old lady."

  "No way," Guido said. "His wife’s dead."

  Stricken, the bartender put down the rag he’d been wiping glasses with. "Anna Maria?"

  "Hell, no!" Guido scowled. "That’s Punk Leo’s wife—"

  "Don’t call him Punk if you know what’s good for you," the bartender warned.

  "Who cares?" Guido said. "We’re talking his father—Big Leo."

  "Hey, fellows, I’m sorry," the bartender said. "But Big Leo died about six, seven years ago."

  The other Santas were listening and they all doffed their caps in memory of the now Dead Leo.

  "See, I told you he was dead!" Peewee muttered.

  "We gotta plan." Lorenzo the Slug sat at a table and the Santas gathered around him. "I thought Big Leo would be the one to help us. He knew a lotta things money can’t buy. We needed him, and now he's dead. The rat!"

  "Poor Dead Leo," Guido Cucumber muttered.

  "I got an idea," Joe Pistolini, called Joe the Pistol for obvious reasons, said. "I know a woman who’ll help us. Her uncle's a good friend."

  "I hope so," the Cucumber said. "I’m starting to get a little tired with all this eating and drinking and gabbing. I gotta save my energy for tonight."

  The others wearily concurred.

  As Richie walked alongside Rebecca back to his Porsche's parking spot, he tried to figure out if he should ditch her somewhere. He had to admit, for some weird reason he liked having her there, but she had no part in this, and it could end up being dangerous for her.

  Somebody was pulling a fast one here, and he was in the middle of it. What if the extra Santa had shown up at the airport and said he was supposed to be part of the group? Richie wondered if he’d have believed him and let him join the others. Or even worse—what if he would have bumped off one of the real passengers and took his place? Would the others have known he didn’t belong? In fact, what if one of them already was a fake? What if they’d all been kidnapped? How could he explain how he’d let that happen on his watch?

  The thought turned him ashen.

  Some insider had to have leaked out the information about the Santa costumes. Who was the snitch, and whose side was he on? Were the old boys, right now, in danger?

  He doubted it. They hadn’t looked the least bit scared when they sucker punched Rebecca with the van’s door. The nerve of those guys picking on a woman that way … unless they decided she was the one who posed the most danger to them.

  He only hoped she didn't end up with two black eyes as a result. The lady, he had discovered, had a temper.

  He had chuckled about the Santa costumes when they were first proposed. These old geezers were only "somebodies" in their own minds, he had thought. Some had served time. Others were lucky, had never been caught, and the statute of limitations had long passed on anything they might have done.

  On the other hand, considering that they were now on the lam and another Santa was dead, maybe they’d been right to be paranoid.

  He thought about letting someone on the inside know what was happening, but doing so meant he had to admit that he’d lost the twelve guys. Twelve! Who in the hell loses twelve men? That was more than a frigging football team!

  It was embarrassing. Not to mention potentially deadly. Scratch the "potentially." Much as he hated to admit it, Rebecca Mayfield and her resources in the police department were his last, best hope at finding them.

  The chance of the Santas being picked up by the cops was high. Frankly, he never imagined they could drive around in a van all day and not get nailed. None of them could drive a straight line, he was sure, and he doubted they could keep this up for very long now that it was dark out. Half the guys had cataracts and the other half were legally blind. No way could they continue night driving without running into something.

  Once that happened, Rebecca would get the call from the dispatcher, and he’d rush with her to wherever they were, pick up the pieces and deliver them on time.

  "Your nose stop bleeding?" he asked.

  "Yes." She'd put the handkerchief in her purse. "I'll send the hankie back after I wash it."

  "It's not important."

  When they reached a street lamp, he stopped walking. "Wait," he said, then turned to her and put his hand under her chin, studying her face in the light. "I don't think you'll have a shiner for Christmas."

  "Good! I don't want anything to remind me of this day!" She pushed his hand away.

  He tried not to chuckle, but failed. He started walking again, and she continued at his side.

  "It's not funny," she muttered.

  The way she had lost her temper irritated her. Paavo Smith would never have done anything so undignified, and she shouldn't have either. She decided to put things back on an even keel.

  After a while, she said, "Your kids must be excited about Christmas. Are any young enough to still believe in Santa Claus?"

  He jumped. It wasn’t the kind of question a guy liked to hear. "My what?"

  "Kids. The ones you talked about at LaRocca’s."

  "I don’t have any kids! None that I’ll admit to, anyway," he added. An old joke. He was sure he didn’t have any, though he’d lived pretty wild in his younger days.

  He glanced at Rebecca. She was basically a quiet woman, but he liked it when she talked to him, even if she said some oddball stuff. "What made you think I had kids?"

  She looked confused. "Somebody asked about Sheila, and you said your wife was home with the kids."

  "Wife? No way! She’s an old girlfriend. A widow. She’s got kids. May her husband rest in peace, but after I dated her awhile, I could see why he decided to check out so young. I don’t have anything to do with her anymore. Or ... not much."

  "No wife, no girlfriend?" she asked.

  "No wife. Lots of girlfriends," he said with a grin. "None serious. Not lately, anyway. You?"

  She thought about Greg Horning at home in Cleveland for Christmas. "Could be," she admitted. "I'll see how it works out after the holidays."

  He nodded. "Another cop?"

  "Sure. Who else do most cops date but other cops?" she asked with a rueful shrug. "We're the only ones who understand us."

  "That's what I figured," he said. "I warned my cousin Angie about that, but the Amalfis are all pretty stubborn."

  Her eyebrows lifted. She couldn't imagine anyone having a negative thought about Paavo Smith. He was the best cop she'd ever met. Angie Amalfi, on the other hand ... "That's funny, because all of Homicide warned Paavo about Angie."

  He did a double take. "Are you crazy? Angie's a great catch."

  Rebecca frowned. "A lot of women go for the uniform."

  "Paavo's plain clothes." Richie eyed her. "Why? Who do you think is better suited for him?"

  She stared straight ahead. "I have no idea."

  He eyed her firm mouth, her small pointed chin, jutting proudly. "Oh, yeah?" he asked. He wanted to smirk, but didn't dare.

  She glared as if she'd gladly see him burst into flame. "That's what I said."

  They reached his car and got in.

  "Where to?" she asked.

  "Telegraph Hill."

  "Why?"

  "I've got to talk to somebody."

  In just a couple of minutes, he stopped in the driveway of a house half way up Telegraph Hill on Vallejo Street. "Wait here." He got out of his Porsche.

  To his irritation, she got out of the car as well. Before he could object, she said coldly, "If you think I’m about to twiddle my thumbs in your car while I’ve got a dead body to investigate, you’re wrong. If this guy knows anything, I�
��m going to hear it."

  "He won’t talk to a cop," he shouted, arms spread straight out at his sides and his face so close to hers they were almost nose-to-nose.

  "He’ll talk if I take him in!"

  He straightened, doing a slow burn and running his hand along the back of his head. She was going to get him bloody well killed! He tried not to shout, to be reasonable, but it didn't work with her. "For what reason could you arrest him? Because I think he might know something? That won't work. He'll simply say I was wrong. Look, Inspector, I need to find my twelve guys. If they know something about your dead merry old elf, you’ll find out, but only after I’ve got them. So, back off!"

  "Go to hell," she said calmly.

  "Trust me," he pleaded, running out of ideas and time.

  "Not on your life! Who lives here?"

  "It's Punk Leo's place. But you can't call him that to his face. Just Leo. Leo Respighi."

  "I want to see him."

  He glared. "Then keep your mouth shut and don’t—whatever you do—let on that you’re the law!"

  She glared right back. "I'm not making any promises."

  He clamped his jaws shut and grudgingly led the way up the outside stairs to the front doors. As they went, he noticed that she quickly removed the barrette and fluffed her hair a bit, and even smoothed and adjusted her blouse. Except for the bruise on her nose, a drop of blood on her blouse, and the smudge on her face, to him the lady looked damned fine.

  There were three doors in the style common to San Francisco flats. He rang a bell and one of the doors buzzed open. Inside a narrow foyer they faced another long flight of stairs.

  "Hey, paisan—it’s me, Richie."

  "Richie! Caro mio!" A woman’s voice called down. As they reached a bend in the stairs, they looked up to see a middle-aged woman with a square face and short, black curly hair standing at the landing. She wore an apron and was wiping her hands, a diamond and platinum ring on nearly every finger, then held her arms out to give Richie a big hug. He hugged her in return.