Lloyd Corricelli - Ronan Marino 01 - Two Redheads & a Dead Blonde

by Lloyd Corricelli

  As we walked, I watched Tony. He didn’t speak, his eyes moving from side to side looking for any signs of danger. He would have made a hell of a Secret Service Agent. People stepped out of the way when they saw us coming and it wasn’t because of my overwhelmingly intimidating presence. Uncle Sal owned this neighborhood and it was a sign of respect.

  Sarducci’s sits on the first floor of a narrow two-story red brick building built sometime in the late nineteenth century, during the great first wave of immigration. On the second floor were apartments where dozens of families had lived throughout the many years of the building’s existence. If buildings could talk, this one would have had some incredible stories.

  We entered to the pleasant odor of bread baking. The restaurant walls were painted a white faux marble and dark wooden shelves held various types of plants I couldn’t name. The only thing hanging on the wall was an old black and white framed photo of the restaurant’s founder, Giuseppe Sarducci. He stood proudly in front of the restaurant in the nineteen twenties soon after emigrating from Sicily. I knew that because it said so on a little brass plaque underneath the frame.

  Gino, the current owner and Giuseppe’s grandson, met us at the door. A heavyset bald man in his mid-seventies, he was as much a fixture in the neighborhood as my uncle. Except for a stint in the army during the Korean War, Gino had spent his entire life in this restaurant and couldn’t picture being anywhere else.

  I could never imagine doing only one thing my entire life but it suited some people. As one of my professors in college used to say, if you’re happy what you’re doing, then go with it. Most of Gino’s family worked at the restaurant in one capacity or another. Whether it was waiter, cook or accountant they were bound to be named Sarducci.

  “Hey, Sal, Buon pomeriggio,” Gino said in perfect Italian. “Come siete?”

  “Buoni ringraziamenti, Gino. Come circa voi?”

  “I can’t complain,” Gino replied.

  People like him rarely did, even if there was a valid complaint to make. I should set up a training session between him and my father.

  “You remember my nephew Ronan.”

  “Yes, yes. Good to see you.”

  I smiled, nodded and shook his hand. Uncle Sal didn’t bother introducing Tony. Everyone knew who he was.

  “You know, Ronan’s a single man.”

  I swear I saw a light bulb appear over Gino’s head.

  “I should introduce you to my granddaughter Maria. She just graduated from BU and is looking for a husband.”

  I shook my head slightly at Uncle Sal and he winked.

  “Maybe some other time, Gino. My nephews and I need to talk business.”

  “Okay, yeah maybe next time. Come this way.”

  He grabbed a couple of menus and led us to a table set in the back.

  “I hear she’s a hot piece of ass,” whispered Tony.

  “Then why don’t you date her?”

  “Who says I haven’t?”

  He grinned and I crossed the name Maria Sarducci off my potential dance partner list.

  Gino pointed out a table set away from the others. Tony and I adjusted the seats so we could sit with our backs to the wall.

  “You packing?” Tony asked.

  “Yeah, you?”

  He simply smiled. On a list of one hundred stupid questions, asking Tony if he were armed would be somewhere in the top five. Gino gave us the menus and exited. A young waiter, probably one of his grandsons or nephews, came over and poured us some water. Tony gave him a look and he skittered into the back.

  “So what can I do you for, Ronan?” Uncle Sal asked.

  “Are you running the escort services in town?”

  “No, no, we have the strip joints,” Tony said.

  “Those are gentlemen’s clubs, nitwit” corrected Uncle Sal.

  I chuckled. Someday I’d have to figure out the difference. It was the mob version of political correctness.

  “Duffy has the escort services. Why?”

  “The girl I was dating worked for one called AAA Diamond. Heard of it?”

  Uncle Sal looked at Tony, who nodded. I could sense some concern.

  “Yeah, real high-class place. They have a lot of college age girls. Big money to hire from them,” Tony said. “They cater to the elite.”

  “That’s the place.”

  “Your girlfriend was working as a hooker?” Tony asked.

  I didn’t like hearing Karen referred to as a hooker, but I guess in reality that’s what she was. Uncle Sal slapped his arm.

  “Show some respect, the man is hurting,” Uncle Sal growled.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it,” Tony said.

  “S’okay,” I said. “Do you know where their offices are?”

  “Tony?” Uncle Sal asked.

  He shrugged his ape-sized shoulders.

  “We’ll find out for you,” Uncle Sal offered.

  “Thanks. I looked up their website but it just had a phone number.”

  “They have a fucking website?” Tony asked.

  “Yeah, most of the escort services do now,” I said.

  “We should have a website,” Tony said.

  I figured mobsters.com was already taken. Maybe they could use wiseguys.org. Uncle Sal just ignored him.

  “What are you going to do?” Uncle Sal asked.

  “I’m going go there and ask them nicely for a client list then use the process of elimination to hopefully pinpoint some likely suspects.”

  “You really think they’ll just give up that information?” Uncle Sal asked.

  “No, but I can be a very persuasive fellow when I need to be.”

  “You need some backup?” Tony asked. “Maybe just in case things get out of hand.”

  “Sure, but won’t that cause problems with Duffy?”

  Uncle Sal and Tony again looked at each other. I swear they were communicating by telepathy.

  “It might. Duffy and I have been working hard to keep the peace between us. It’s been a long time since we had any conflict,” Uncle Sal said.

  “I could ask my brother,” I said, knowing damn well he wouldn’t get his hands dirty. There were others I could call, but in a scuffle there was no one I’d rather have watching my back than Tony.

  “No, Tony you go with him. Try to stay in the background though. Now is not a good time to start shit with those Mick assholes.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “I don’t want to be the cause of tension between you and Duffy.”

  Uncle Sal put his hand on mine. “Family comes before business. Always remember that.”

  We didn’t talk shop the rest of the afternoon. The conversation drifted between two of Uncle Sal’s favorite topics, women and sports. I ordered my favorite meal, chicken parmigiana with ziti, garlic bread and some white wine. It was easily some of the best I’d ever eaten.

  We finished our meal with cannolis for dessert and espresso. When the check came I tried to pay, but Uncle Sal wouldn’t hear of it. He pulled a huge wad out of his pocket and dropped three fifties on the table. He never looked at the bill nor did he expect change back.

  Uncle Sal and Tony promised they’d find out where AAA Diamond’s office was by the next morning. They had some business to attend to so I left them at the hardware store and walked over to Faneuil Hall. I grabbed a cup of coffee and sat on the bench next to the statue of Red and Larry Bird’s bronzed sneakers.

  As I watched the tourists go by, my thoughts were all over the map. I considered who had been the better movie Batman; Keaton, Kilmer, Clooney or Bale. I decided it was clearly Bale.

  I thought about Dr. Sadolovaki and tried to guess her first name. Maria and Gina were the leading contenders though I didn’t rule out something more traditionally Greek. I thought about Buckner’s error in the 86’ World Series and how against my mother’s wishes my father had let Marc and I stay up well beyond our bedtime to watch it. I thought about what was worse, the smell of a rotting corpse or Morley’s breath. Most
importantly, I thought of Karen and what I was going to do to the son of a bitch who killed her.

  EIGHT

  The next morning I woke up early, made some coffee and turned on ESPN to catch Sportscenter. I was watching highlights of some college football game I didn’t care about when the phone rang. Uncle Sal came through with the address and instructed me to pick up Tony at his condo at around one. I wanted to do it sooner but he said Tony had been out late with some ladies. I was shocked.

  I went upstairs, took a shower and got dressed. I chose black jeans, boots, and a black turtleneck to go with my black leather jacket. Ronan was going into full ninja thug mode today.

  I’d acquired quite a collection of weapons during my stint in the military. I opened my gun safe and picked up my Desert Eagle .44 Magnum. It was way too big to conceal on my frame and since I didn’t think I’d be shooting down any enemy aircraft today, the Colt .45 Defender looked like my best option. I slapped a full seven round magazine in, jacked a round into the chamber and slid it into a goatskin holster. Grabbing another magazine out of the safe, I put it on my belt and adjusted the holster for comfort.

  It was only around ten and I had about three hours to kill so I figured I might as well get some breakfast at the Raven. It was between the lunch and breakfast shifts so I had the place mostly to myself. I sat at the lunch counter and looked at the menu. Jesse strolled out from the back, leaned on the counter and batted her big brown eyes at me.

  “Hey, Ronan, how are you?”

  “Okay.”

  “What’s with all the black? Going out to break somebody’s leg today?”

  “I might. Anyone owe you money?”

  “Besides my asshole ex-husband, no.”

  I found that amusing. I needed a good laugh and Jesse was always good for one.

  “Hey, you smiled. I thought maybe you forgot that handsome smile of yours.”

  She looked into my eyes and winked. The lady had an incredible talent for flirting.

  “What can I get you today?”

  “Does it have to be on the menu?”

  “Oh Ronan, if only it had worked out I might be somewhere else today,” she said in a mocking wishful voice.

  “Yeah, divorced and miserable running the local calorie corner, oh wait, that’s where you’re at today.”

  “Sadly,” she replied. “You ever look back at when we were in college and think about where you thought you’d be by this age?”

  I pondered the question for a moment. “I figured I’d be in the Air Force, married with a few kids and well on my way to retirement.”

  “How’s that working out for you?”

  “Not so good.”

  “Me neither,” she lamented. “So what do you feel like this morning?”

  “Why don’t you give me an order of French toast?”

  “Cinnamon?”

  I nodded and she put a cup of coffee in front of me.

  “Coming right up.”

  I sipped on the coffee and wondered how she might be in bed almost fifteen years later. She had to have learned some new tricks in that time or maybe she’d peaked back then. My impure thoughts were interrupted by Detective Garcia who strolled in and hovered over me.

  “Hey, Ronan. Mind if I sit down?”

  “Sure.”

  “I hope you don’t have any ill will toward me. It was just business.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I worked like that all the time. Where’s your partner?”

  He scowled. “Worked another detail with Congressman LaValle last night and coming in late.”

  “I saw them at the hockey game the other night. They’re getting tight, huh?”

  He shrugged. I could tell he didn’t care.

  “So, you making any progress?” he asked.

  Jesse came by and poured him a cup of coffee. He put cream in it and added two sugars stirring it slowly.

  “I’ve hit a dead end. How about you guys?”

  “I found a very slight paint transfer on the car.”

  This was good news. “Where?”

  “Rear bumper. Morley didn’t think it was worthwhile to search the car again, but I decided to do it on my own. It’s not much to go on.”

  “So you think she was murdered?”

  “Hard to say without any kind of motive or suspects but I guess it’s possible. I sent the paint sample to the state lab. It’s going to be a while though, they’ve got a huge backlog.”

  “Crime is in season this time of year.”

  “Yeah, unfortunately. I’m frickin swamped.”

  “What color was the transfer?”

  “Black.”

  “That should narrow things down. Not many black cars around here.”

  “No, not at all,” he sighed.

  Jesse brought my French toast and I spread some butter and poured on some maple syrup.

  “You know that makes em’ soggy,” he said.

  “What do Puerto Ricans know about French toast?”

  “Enough to use a separate bowl for the syrup and dip the pieces in.”

  “How revolutionary,” I replied.

  “Yeah, you should see the shit we can do with a can of beans and some rice.”

  I was starting to like the kid; he wasn’t the humorless tight ass I’d thought.

  “So how long you been with Lowell?”

  “About five years. Came on after I finished college.”

  “How long were you in the service?”

  “I did my four.”

  “Marines,” I said. “Where were you stationed?”

  He looked surprised. “How’d you know I was in the Corps?”

  “You showed me your tattoo.”

  “Seriously, is it that obvious?”

  “I spent a lot of time around Marines. They’re a breed apart. You ever in Okinawa?”

  “Two years at Camp Foster with the MP unit. You were in the Air Force, right? Shea told us you were a Major. That’s impressive.”

  “He meant a major pain in the ass,” Jesse said as she skirted by and refilled our coffee.

  “Probably that too. Yeah, I was with OSI and did a tour at Kadena. You study martial arts there?”

  “Yeah, you?”

  Before I could answer, his cell phone rang. He looked at the number and shook his head.

  “It’s the office.”

  “I don’t miss those days.”

  He finished his coffee and threw a couple of bucks on the counter.

  “Duty calls,” he said. “You’re actually a pretty good guy when you’re not locked in an interview room.”

  “I’m a real bastard when I don’t get any coffee.”

  We shook hands.

  “See ya’ round.”

  He answered his phone and exited. I went back to my French toast. The black paint transfer had some exciting possibilities. When two cars collide with enough force, they typically exchange paint. Accident investigators can sometimes use it to prove fault since every manufacturer’s paint has a slightly different chemical makeup. More importantly, it’s often useful in hit and run accidents to identify the guilty party’s car.

  I’d have to keep an eye out for black cars with a yellow paint transfer. Just happening upon one though was about as likely as seeing a unicorn walking down Merrimack Street. I’ll bet if I’d had my Bat Computer the paint analysis would be done and I’d find the car today. Life in a fantasy world was so much easier than the real one.

  ****

  Tony lived down in one of the newer condos on Revere Beach, which claimed the title as America’s first public beach. When I was a kid we’d come down here in the summer but it looked nothing like it does now. The old rundown arcades, dance halls, theaters and rides, as well as the huge wooden roller coaster “the Cyclone,” were still here then. Most were long closed and the remnants finally destroyed by the Blizzard of Seventy-Eight.

  I’ve seen pictures of the beach in its heyday and it looked just like my father and Uncle Sal described it, the
Coney Island of Massachusetts. The only survivor from my youth was Kelly’s Roast Beef, which will hopefully always be there.

  Tony’s building loomed twelve stories over the beach, its off-white color blending nicely into the fall sky. I’d never ask but I wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that Uncle Sal owned a piece of the building. I parked out front and took the elevator up to the top floor. Tony answered the door wearing a white terrycloth robe. I was almost blinded by the gold chains hanging across his hairy chest. His hair was mussed, he was unshaven and his eyes barely open.

  I said, “Hey, you wop bastard. Ready to go?”

  “Jesus, what time is it?”

  “One. That’s what time Uncle Sal told me to come over.”

  “You always were so fucking pucktual.”

  “It’s punctual.”

  “Whatever. Come in and close the door. I’m going to shit, shower and shave. Make yourself at home.”

  He disappeared into the back and I walked to the living room. He had lots of black lacquer furniture in the dining room that someone must have picked out for him. He didn’t have the dogs playing pool painting like in the old days, but the ones of topless women were a bit too much for my tastes. I looked out the huge panoramic picture window that ran across his living room at the ocean. In the distance, the LNG tankers headed toward East Boston harbor.

  “Hi.”

  I turned to find a cute shorthaired brunette in a skimpy lace teddy smiling at me. Her breasts were huge store-boughts that must have been a double “D” cup with nipples that looked like they were permanently perky and might poke your eye out if you weren’t careful. One day she was definitely going to have back problems. She had wide childbearing hips that looked like they were built with a guy Tony’s size in mind.

  There was a little tattoo of a rose on her pelvis, just below her waistline and through the sheer fabric of the white lingerie I could see she was clean-shaven or “Doctor Bombay” as I’d heard it described.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “I’m Nicole. Do you work with Tony?”

  She spoke with a squeaky little-girl’s voice that some guys found attractive. I couldn’t be counted among them.

  “I’m his cousin, Ronan.”