8 Antiques Con

by Barbara Allan

  Then a rather brawny-looking biker wheeled in, got off his motorcycle, and came to my rescue.

  “Let me help you with that, ma’am,” he said politely.

  He was bald and had a colorful snake tattoo across his face, one of the snake’s eyes his own; he wore torn blue jeans and a black leather jacket, chains hanging from the shoulders. Quite colorful.

  Then, taking my box, he balanced it in one hand while opening the door with his other.

  “It’s nice to know,” I said, “that there are a few real gentlemen left in this crazy old world.”

  “Hey, no problem. I was a Boy Scout once.”

  “And I was a Girl Scout! What a lovely coincidence.”

  We were just two strangers, sharing a quiet moment of bonding.

  Let that be a lesson to you, gentle reader: don’t judge a book by its cover. Here’s another one: when in the presence of colorful individuals, keep your rape whistle handy. That goes for you, too, fellas.

  As I stepped inside, loud electronic dance music assaulted me—a thump, thump, thump reverberating off the walls. The lighting was minimal and for theatrical effect, but sunlight filtered in through several high windows, allowing me to take a good gander at the place.

  The room was large, its periphery dotted with small tables and chairs, glowing beer signs hanging on the walls. In the center was an elevated, rectangular stage surrounded by the bar, a sort of moat swimming with burly bartenders (at the moment, only two) positioned to protect the girls (one dancer presently) from any patron’s unwanted attention.

  About a half-dozen male customers with bored expressions perched on the stools around the rectangular counter, appearing more interested in their beers than the charms of the suspiciously busty woman dancing just a few feet away. Her hair was a long mane a shade of red that you might find in Sherwin-Williams, if not in nature, and she had excellent muscle tone. Little of that tone was concealed—her panties were scant, but I’m afraid so was her sense of rhythm. Of course, it would be difficult to dance well in those spiked heels. Her breasts were bare and gravity defying, and she was working a pole like a fireman reluctant to slide down and answer an alarm.

  I set the heavy box down on the bar, and watched as she hung upside down, the red mane swaying, her legs in the air, V for victory. V for something!

  “Dear!” I called out over the music. “Less is more! Don’t give away the store! Do leave something to the imagination!”

  It’s all been downhill since the bikini was invented.

  The dancer responded, but the music drowned it out, though I am fairly sure it was a negative reaction, judging by her facial expression. Still, she was hanging upside down at the time, and with my chronic earwax buildup, I’m afraid I couldn’t be sure.

  Well, if my constructive criticism was going to be ignored, I might as well get to it. I collected my food box and headed back to a pair of swinging doors.

  Behind me, a bartender yelled, “Hey, you! Lady! You can’t go in there!”

  But he was too far away, and rather trapped within his own fortress, and not quick enough to keep me from entering the back room, pushing through like Matt Dillon entering the Long Branch Saloon.

  Once through the swinging doors, I froze, the way a perp does on TV when a cop yells, “Freeze!”

  Four guns were trained on me.

  Four guns brandished (isn’t that a wonderful word?) by a quartet of tough-looking men, who had simultaneously jumped to their feet from an oversize wooden card table, where carefully arranged stacks of poker chips went tumbling over.

  I hauled out my most dazzling smile. “Good afternoon, gentlemen! I’m Vivian Borne, and I’ve come all the way from Iowa to bring you some delicious Italian food.”

  The men, guns still on me, exchanged puzzled looks.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, almost giddily. “I didn’t bring the food with me from Iowa. It was prepared by one of the finest bistros in Manhattan.”

  Now, before I go any further, dear reader, I will not be using these gentlemen’s real names, in an effort to protect the innocent (moi). But I will assure you that their real, actual names are prominently featured in FBI documentation of racketeering in New Jersey. And for that reason I will not describe them in detail, either, although I will admit that I was rather astounded by their resemblance to a number of major players on that old HBO series The Sopranos . Why, they could have been stand-ins for the actors portraying characters on that excellent if violent program.

  I wish I could just nickname these individuals by the names of those characters, but—like the elderly gent whose finger was bitten off by a chimp on the Serenity trolley—I would prefer not to go to court.

  So I’ll just call them Johnny Contralto, Fabio, Petey Pecans, and Big Kitty.

  Now, you may think I was intimidated by such dangerous company. And perhaps I would have been, had I not watched all six seasons of The Sopranos and felt I was among old, dear friends, not to mention knowing quite a lot about the Mafia in New Jersey. Television can be so educational!

  Behind me, the beefy bartender, who had somehow found his way out of his self-imposed barricade, pushed through the swinging doors, letting in briefly the thumping music.

  “I tried to stop the old bat, boss,” he said apologetically. “Want me to throw her ass out?”

  “Really!” I said. “That kind of talk is most uncalled for! ‘Bat’ indeed.”

  Smiling, his gun in hand at half-mast, Johnny Contralto said, “That’s okay, Vinnie. We got this. You go back to work.”

  (I’m going to risk using Vinnie’s real first name, since I don’t know his last name, and also he didn’t remind me of anybody in particular on any TV show.)

  Vinnie shrugged and left, taking the music with him.

  Petey Pecans turned his bullet-hard eyes on me; he had weird white streaks in his carefully coiffed hair, reminiscent of Elsa Lanchester in The Bride of Frankenstein.

  Petey demanded, “Now, why should you wanna bring us food?” He wore dark slacks and a short-sleeved black-and-gray-striped bowling shirt.

  I said, “This box is awfully heavy—may I set it down on the table? Can you boys make room?”

  Johnny Contralto made a quick gesture with his gun. “Yeah, okay, lady,” he said, adding, “But make it slow.”

  I placed the box in the middle of the table—they must have been between hands, because no money was piled there—careful not to disturb their cards (it was too late for the poker chips).

  And, as I had anticipated, the tantalizing aroma of the food wafting toward the men caused them to lower their guard, and their weapons.

  “Do you have a microwave?” I asked. “It was a half-hour ride here from the city, and you may wish to heat this up a skosh. But the box still feels warm.”

  Big Kitty, his shark eyes seeing a potential meal, stepped toward the box. “What did ya bring us, honey?” He had on sweatpants and a too-tight baseball jacket.

  Fabio, under a dizzying pompadour, said, “Take it easy, Kitty. This might be the craziest hit that ever went down—she might have hardware in there.” He was wearing a black leather jacket unzipped over a white t-shirt, a gold chain around his neck.

  Petey Pecans said, “Or it could be fulla rat poison! But, uh . . . what is it, anyway?”

  Like a mother informing her four strapping, mischievous sons what was for dinner, I said, “Linguine with clams, veal piccata, and chicken Parmesan. And for dessert, cannoli and tiramisu. Oh, and garlic bread, naturalmente.”

  Fabio’s lower lip extended into a pout. “What, no baked ziti?”

  “Oh, that’s in there, too. Just an oversight in reporting my inventory.”

  It would have been disastrous to have forgotten baked ziti! Seemed like on The Sopranos Tony’s wife, Carmella, served that dish whenever she wanted something, which she then usually got.

  Petey Pecans asked, “Where’s it from?”

  “Coppola’s,” I said.

  Fabio, licking his li
ps, said, “They got some good gravy, over at Coppola’s.”

  For those of you with basic cable: “gravy” is Italian for marinara sauce.

  “And they got truly righteous cannoli,” Big Kitty added, then made a kissing gesture with his mouth and fingers.

  Johnny Contralto was holding back his culinary approval, studying me with sharp, tiny eyes. “You ain’t answered us yet, lady. . . .”

  “Call me Vivian, please.”

  “Okay, Vivian. Nice to meet you, Vivian. Thanks for wheelin’ in the meal wagon, Vivian. But why are you doin’ us this generous thing? We ain’t never seen you before. Which makes me think there’s something that you want from us.”

  “Very perceptive, sir. I can see why you’re in charge.... You are in charge?”

  Johnny Contralto nodded. He was studying me shrewdly.

  I continued: “But why don’t we talk about that while we eat? The food will get cold. Strike now while the takeout is hot! And we won’t even have to fire up the ol’ microwave.”

  Johnny Contralto was still studying me.

  “If you’re worried it’s been poisoned,” I said with a dismissive shrug, “I’ll be happy to taste everything first. But, please, for gracious’ sakes . . . let’s eat already! I’ve had to smell this wonderful feast all the way here in a taxi.”

  Big Kitty looked woefully at Johnny Contralto. “Boss, cut us a break, will ya? I’m starvin’! I ain’t had a bite since lunch. You need a taste-tester, I’m your man. Heck, hand me a darn spoon and I’ll dig into the gosh-darn stuff.”

  (Something else I should mention—I will be substituting the saltier language with less offensive alternates, so as not to offend you, gentle reader. Not to mention Walmart. I wonder if they will ever carry our books.)

  Johnny Contralto shrugged. “Fair enough, Kitty. Let’s put on the flippin’ feedbag. Then we’ll talk, capeesh?” To the others, he ordered, “Get some dishes.”

  And faster than the St. Valentine’s Day massacre, the table was cleared, plates and utensils were brought, and cold beer was fetched from a fridge. Then we passed the dishes around and dug in, just one happy family (get it?).

  In between bites, I filled my new friends in on a little background, chiefly that I live in a small town called Serenity.

  “Never heard of it,” said Big Kitty through a mouthful of linguine. “Where is dat, anyway?”

  “As I said, I’m from Iowa, and our little jewel of a town is nestled along the banks of the majestic Mississippi.”

  “What’s it like, living there?” Fabio asked.

  “Have you ever seen a Frank Capra movie? It’s a Wonderful Life? Mr. Deeds Goes to Town?”

  There were nods all around. Capra was one of theirs, after all.

  “Well,” I said, “like that, but . . . not as well directed.”

  “Aw, that’s a make-believe world,” Petey Pecans grunted, a red dot of gravy on his pug nose. “No such thing nowhere.”

  “Au contraire. There are plenty of good jobs, a wonderful public education system, and everyone looks out for everybody else.”

  Johnny Contralto, chewing, said, “I don’t believe it. A river town? That close to Chicago? You got crime. Don’t tell me different.”

  “Well, yes, but practically none. Of course, we’ve had the occasional murder . . .”

  Johnny Contralto smiled smugly and nodded, spooning pasta.

  “. . . but those were crimes of passion. And what other crime there was in sleepy Serenity, some gang violence, for example, has disappeared in recent years. All thanks to one man.”

  “The mayor?” Big Kitty wondered, a kid in class who hoped he’d stumbled onto the right answer.

  I risked a healthy swig of beer—not really advisable on my medication, but, in this instance, needed to bolster my nerve.

  “No, dear,” I said. “I’m speaking of our former police chief—a fine public servant who shares your colorful ethnic heritage.”

  “Yeah?” Petey Pecans asked. “Who? Maybe I heard of the guy.”

  “Maybe you have,” I said casually. “His name is Anthony Cassato. Tony?”

  Forks on the way to mouths froze in midair. As if a cop on a TV show had said, “Freeze!” Oh. I used that one already. Sorry . . .

  Johnny Contralto asked, “This visit of yours today? It’s about Tony Cassato?”

  I nodded. “I came here to urge you to remove the, uh, I believe the term is contract that, uh, certain associates of yours appear to have taken out on him.”

  Johnny Contralto sat back, smug again. “And that’s how you think it’s done, huh, lady?”

  “Vivian, please. Vivian.”

  “You just waltz in with some pasta and gravy, and we ask you what you want in return? That it?”

  “The food was meant as a . . . peace offering. An icebreaker. Friends break bread together, and—”

  “We break a lot of things,” Fabio said.

  “Fellas. Boys.” I held up a peacekeeping palm. “I can well understand that when Tony was working in your province, he was probably in your hair. . . .” I glanced at the balding Johnny Contralto and added, “Figuratively speaking.... But what harm might he do you when he has relocated to the faraway Midwest?”

  The four looked at me. It would have been quite sinister had they not all had gravy on their faces.

  I continued: “Serenity needs Tony back. The town depends on him. Otherwise, Old Man Potter will take over Bedford Falls!” I was still working the Capra angle, if a little desperately.

  “Look, Vivian,” Johnny Contralto said, his manner calm, his voice almost friendly now, “even if I wanted to cancel that supposed contract you mention . . . I couldn’t.”

  I frowned. “Why not? Aren’t you the head of the New Jersey family?” That’s what the Internet had said, anyway.

  He shook his head. “Vito Corleone is still the Don.”

  (Again, I am protecting myself by substituting a fictitious name, which I’m borrowing from The Godfather, an excellent book and even better movie!)

  “I thought he was retired,” I said. (Internet again.)

  “He is what you call semiretired,” Johnny Contralto said. “But he’s still chairman of the board.”

  I thought Frank Sinatra was chairman of the board, but maybe Vito had taken over after Frank’s passing.

  Shifting in my chair, I asked, “Can you arrange for me to have a meeting with him?”

  “Ain’t likely,” Fabio said, shaking his head vigorously, though not a lock of that pompadour was able to make a break for it. “The Don’s in a old folks home in Teaneck, and he sees nobody but his son.”

  I sighed, disappointed. “Well, that’s that, I guess.”

  Petey Pecans said, “Sorry you come all this way for nothin’. But the food was a nice gesture, Viv. Okay I call you Viv, doll?”

  “I feel honored, Petey.” (Again, not his real name.) “But perhaps I could ask another favor? Or I should say, a different one?”

  Johnny Contralto said, “You want we should call a cab for you?”

  “No, I want you should call Gino Moretti for me.”

  “Who?”

  I smiled. “Please, we’re friends. Friends don’t insult each other.”

  Fabio said, “Not without risk, they don’t.”

  I ignored that, and kept my eyes on Johnny Contralto’s interesting face. “We all know that Gino is part of the Jersey family.”

  I knew this not from the Net, but from eavesdropping on Sal Cassato talking with one of his men, when I’d gone back to the crime scene to give the detective a keycard to our suite.

  I continued. “Obviously Gino isn’t here. Perhaps you’ve got him squirreled away somewhere. Holed up?”

  Johnny Contralto smirked. “And why would we do that, Vivian?”

  “To keep him from being questioned in the death of Tommy Bufford.”

  Petey Pecans asked menacingly, “Who are you, lady?”

  I shrugged. “I’m an honored guest of the Bufford Con
. . . and the one who found Tommy’s body. And I’m someone else, too. . . .”

  Fabio said, “And who would that be, Viv?”

  “Why, the only one who can clear Gino.”

  The men exchanged looks that were equal parts confusion and skepticism.

  I went on: “The police know Gino had an argument with Tommy, and that Gino threatened to kill him. That puts Gino on the top of their suspect list.”

  I paused, then asked, “By the way, do you know who’s in charge of the Bufford investigation?” Not waiting for an answer, I said, “Sal Cassato—Tony’s brother. Now, I ask you, how fair a shake do you think Gino will get?”

  A few seconds passed as the men sat there as frozen as . . . custard? Make that an Italian ice.

  Then Johnny Contralto withdrew his cell phone from a pocket and punched in some numbers.

  For about an hour, I joined my new friends in a game of poker ($5 white chips, $10 reds, $25 blues). It was dealer’s choice and I opted for Chicago (high spade in the hole splits the pot) and the game caught on, everybody dealing it for a while. I had just won my sixth pot when someone new pushed through the swinging doors to join our little get-together.

  Johnny Contralto gave me a nod that said, Gino.

  This was my first look at Bufford’s ex-partner, who wore a black jacket unzipped over a white shirt, blue jeans, and black boots. He had dark wavy hair, a large nose, and small eyes; but his sensuous mouth and cleft chin threw him into the “handsome” column.

  “Cash me out, boys,” I said. I was up two Cs (that’s two hundred dollars). “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “Right here is fine,” Johnny Contralto said. “We’ll just take a break and grab a few brews. Out at the bar.”

  They did.

  With Gino to myself, I gestured to the chair next to me and he sat, slouched, eyes hooded. “What do you want, lady? I wouldn’t be here if—”

  “If Mr. Contralto hadn’t told you to get your behind over to the Badda-Boom?”

  He shrugged sullenly.

  “And what I want,” I said, “is to help you avoid the hangman’s noose. But that attitude of yours isn’t helping.”