LiAnn paused, taking another drink of wine. Her over-inquisitive mind was in full gear. “Why the Magnolia?” Jimmy gave her a questioning glance. “I mean, why did you decide to volunteer there instead of teach art at a college, or start your own home studio?”
“Ah, I see what you mean now. Well, quite simple, really. The head of nursing is the mother of a former student of mine. She asked if I would consider it. I jumped at the chance because I’ve been fascinated with The Magnolia ever since I can remember. The place is not only beautiful and historic, but full of treasured memories for me.”
“Do you mean Carmella D’Nucci?”
Shocked, Jimmy replied, “Yes. Do you know her?”
“Well, not really. I’ve met her twice while visiting Mr. Pickard. Plus, I heard about what happened to her son. Such a tragedy. Was he, I mean, you know, the one…?”
“Yes. Oh, it’s so sad. Ray-Ray had such a creative eye. Watercolors were his favorite. He was gifted with raw talent, it just needed to be fine-tuned. Unfortunately, he succumbed to the trappings of a creative mind, ones numerous other artists have fallen victim to. Addiction and insanity. It seems substance abuse and mental issues appear more often in creative minds rather than the minds of analytical thinkers. Don’t worry, though. I seemed to have missed those two problems.”
“That’s good to know. Although if you were insane, would you know it?” LiAnn quipped.
Jimmy laughed. “You know, I probably wouldn’t. Guess you will have to decide if I’m sane on your own.”
LiAnn shifted gears. “You know, when I first met Mrs. D’Nucci, her vibe rubbed me the wrong way. She looked at me not only like she knew me, but hated me. Of course, once I found out about her son’s murder, I reneged on my previous assumptions about her demeanor. The woman sure is strong. I would be beyond consolable if something happened to Karina. Work would be the last thing on my mind. I would shrivel up and die.”
“Though I’m sure some of her unpleasant vibes, as you called it, stemmed from Ray-Ray’s death, I imagine the majority was from competition. Carmella D’Nucci is a beautiful woman, one used to all the attention in a room on her. When you walked in, I’m sure that changed.”
The waiter appeared with their dinner before LiAnn had a chance to respond. The food looked and smelled divine, so their conversation died down while they ate. During the silence, it gave LiAnn time to roll around their previous discussions, and soak up her perceptions about the date so far.
Jimmy was pleasant enough, and though she couldn’t quite pinpoint exactly why, LiAnn’s previous attraction to him had waned. There was a neediness in Jimmy she hadn’t noticed before, and it sent her internal alarm bells off. After her third bite of chicken, LiAnn made up her mind. The only relationship between the two of them would be as friends.
The remainder of the evening was spent swapping stories of their lives. LiAnn glossed over things, telling only the minimum in answer to Jimmy’s rapid-fire questions. By the time nine o’clock rolled around, she was ready to call it a night.
Alone.
The dust bunnies between her legs were safe for the time being. When LiAnn told Jimmy she enjoyed the evening but needed to go home and check on her parents, the look on his face was unmistakable. He was disappointed and didn’t say much as they walked out to her car. They stopped at the driver’s side and Jimmy watched with sad eyes while LiAnn unlocked the door. He reached past LiAnn and opened the door, but never moved. The needy man was gone, replaced by the charming Casanova.
“Thank you for joining me for dinner, LiAnn. As I said at the beginning of the evening, you’re an intriguing woman. I hope to see you again, soon.”
Jimmy was close, his face inches away from LiAnn’s. The want, the need, the heavy lust he exhibited the day he asked her out, was back. In full force. Wine, garlic, chicken, and tiramisu lingered on his breath, his musky aftershave unable to override the aromas. Desire danced behind his hooded eyes. Jimmy leaned closer, his lips parted, and LiAnn was trapped by his smoldering stare. His hold on her broke right before his mouth ascended from the shrill chirp of LiAnn’s cell phone.
Crigger’s ringtone. Figures.
In a flash, she was inside the car. LiAnn forced an apologetic smile as she grabbed the door handle. “I’m sorry, but I’m just not ready for anything other than friendship, Jimmy. Thank you for a lovely dinner. I’ll see you in painting class tomorrow.”
The car turned over on the first try. She backed out of the spot and peeked in the rear view mirror. A twinge of guilt slithered around in LiAnn’s stomach. Jimmy hadn’t moved. She was glad it was dark so she couldn’t make out the look on his face.
LiAnn drove for a few blocks before pulling into a gas station by the freeway. It was time to fuel up before heading back, plus she wanted to check her cell. She kicked off her heels and threw them on the passenger floorboard. No way would she ever put them on again. Her feet ached. Barefooted, LiAnn stepped out of the car and refueled the tank. Once finished, she slid back inside, grateful for the air conditioner, and scrolled through her cell.
Two missed calls, both from Crigger. She shook her head and laughed out loud, the irony of his timing hysterical. The voicemail indicator blinked, so she pushed the button to listen.
“LiAnn, its Andrew. I…need to talk to you. Call me the minute you listen to this message. I don’t care what time it is.”
Stunned, LiAnn stared at the screen. The only time Crigger used her first name was before, during, and after sex, or in the midst of a heated, personal argument. LiAnn hadn’t heard him say her name since the night he proposed, which was years ago. Tears welled up in her eyes, and LiAnn couldn’t stop her finger from pressing “play” again. Crigger’s voice brought a rush of emotions to the surface. It dawned on her why she didn’t, couldn’t, connect with Jimmy Calhoun.
Because LiAnn was still deeply, desperately, unequivocally, in love with Andrew Crigger.
Taking a deep breath, LiAnn wiped her eyes. She scrounged around in her purse for the headset. Once the annoying thing was situated in her ear, LiAnn pulled out of the gas station. Traffic was light, and in less than a minute, she was on the freeway. She hit redial on her phone, sweat pouring from her palms. Crigger picked up on the second ring.
“Hey, thanks for calling me back. Do you have a minute? We need to talk.”
Yes, Crigger. Yes we do. The hair on LiAnn’s arms bristled, followed by a chill of worry up her spine. Something was wrong. She sensed it in his voice. Instead of giving in to her emotions, the way the sound of his voice made her head and heart swoon, LiAnn forced her voice to remain light and airy. “Hey to you too, Crig. What’s up? Not out catching bad guys tonight?”
There was a long pause before Crigger replied, “Melissa Doster…she, um, was in an accident.”
Crigger’s words were like a punch in the gut. LiAnn gripped the steering wheel with more force, pushing aside her emotions. Cop mode roared back. “From the tone of your voice, she didn’t survive.”
Crigger cleared his throat. “No, I’m afraid she didn’t. I’m sorry, LiAnn. I know how close you two were. It just happened less than an hour ago. Hasn’t even hit the news yet. I wanted you to hear it from me, rather than the media. Her…passing will affect a lot of things.”
“Yes, it will. And, thanks for telling me. So, what happened? Car accident? When is the funeral?” Silence. “Crigger…are you still there?”
“Yes. She wrecked her car on I-5 on her way home from work. There, uh, won’t be a funeral. Only a graveside service.”
LiAnn’s heart sank. No funeral after a car accident usually meant a mangled body, one a mortician couldn’t fix. A wave of sadness pounded in her chest. Poor Melissa. A tough-as-nails woman, driven to make the owners of Jubilee accountable for what their greedy schemes had done to seniors. Married for less than four months. A warm tear slid down LiAnn’s cheek when she thought about the loved ones left behind to continue on without Melissa.
Lost in memories, LiAnn
forgot she was on the phone with Crigger. She jerked when he cleared his throat.
“LiAnn?”
Blinking back her tears, LiAnn replied, “Sorry. Just…trying to digest it all. Will you let me know when and where the memorial will be so we can send flowers?”
“Of course. Listen, I need to go, but, uh, if you need to talk or anything, you know, about Melissa or whatever, call me on my cell. Starting Monday, I’ll be on vacation. Okay?”
His voice, the tone, was quiet. Sweet. Hesitant. She knew the offer wasn’t just because of Melissa’s passing. Another tear wandered down her face. He still loved her, and God, she never stopped loving him. LiAnn forced her voice to remain steady. “Sure thing. I’ve got your number, Crigger.”
As usual, Crigger hung up without saying goodbye. LiAnn bit her lip and let out a long sigh. In the dark confines of the car, she whispered a prayer. Comfort for the grieving family of Melissa Doster and silent thanks for her blessings.
21
Planning the End
Caesar dropped the pen on the desk, biting his lower lip to keep from groaning out loud. The joints of his knuckle sent shockwaves of pain up his arm. Glancing up at the grandfather clock in the corner of the bedroom, Caesar was shocked to discover he’d been at his desk for a little over four hours. It was almost three o’clock in the morning. He rubbed his hands together, hoping to massage the pain away instead of taking more aspirin.
He tried not to let anger overtake his mind. Dealing with an aging body was one thing. As time marched on, it was expected to move slower, lose muscle tone, gain wrinkles, become winded by activities. Have joints the size of golf balls, thinning hair, or bowel trouble. Though annoying, those issues he could handle. However, the loss of the mind, the inability to rely on a once sharp memory, losing time, seeing things, infuriated him.
The detailed notes on the desk in front of him was the first time in his entire life Caesar had ever written down his plans. Ever. Up until a few hours ago, only vague notes were kept on open orders, written in Italian, but if anyone ever found them, no one would ever suspect they pertained to anything shady. Random scribbles about hearts, lungs, livers, eyes and sometimes a pancreas or two, would appear as a strange shopping list of a man who enjoyed eating things most people would turn their nose at. Orders came in the form of chess moves from another former Attica buddy, Master Noriaki Yamashita, delivered to a fake email account created years ago.
For the last few months, Caesar had waffled back and forth about retiring. At first, he was stubborn, refusing to accept the fact his mind was slipping. But after the sickening experience at Ray-Ray’s funeral, Caesar had no choice but to face reality. When clear-headed, he knew his mind was playing tricks on him. It was releasing his own inner angst for the life he led, for some of the things said by the apparition of Romella, only Caesar knew. The horrible things he’d done to not only strangers, but people he cared about. His breaks in reality were arriving faster, and lasting longer, than even a few weeks prior.
It was time to get out, leave the business to others. Walk away from it all before he became trapped inside the halls of his twisted mind. The thought of others watching him break down, turning into a demented, driveling old fool, made him sick to his stomach. Caesar Calvanio would not spend the rest of his life being cared for. Pitied. Reliant upon others to wipe his ass, feed him, wash him. No way. He would go out with one last, big score, and slink off into the sunset, and fade away like blips of dreams. Take what little remaining moments of sanity he had left and spend them surrounded by the beauty of the islands, hoping and praying for the sweet appearance of Romella before he pulled the trigger.
Caesar looked back down and studied the notes he’d written earlier. Instructions for Carmella, Franco, Vincenzo and Carmine. The role each of them would play, who would take over, and who wouldn’t survive the final plans. He stood and walked over to the nightstand to grab his cell. It took a few seconds for his stiff fingers to punch in Carmine’s number.
“What’s up, Boss?” Carmine grumbled, sleep still heavy in his voice.
“Need you to bring the others to my house for dinner after work tomorrow. Be here at six. Don’t be late.”
“Sure thing. Everybody?”
“Yes. It’s time. Oh, and I have some things I need to attend to on my own, so you won’t need to come by for our regular visit. See you at dinner.”
Caesar didn’t give Carmine a chance to respond. He hung up the phone, gathered his notes, slid them under the pillow, and climbed into bed. Caesar needed to rest before he made his big announcement.
He was exhausted but fearful of sleep. After the horrific encounter with Romella while awake, he was terrified of what would happen when his subconscious was in control. What Caesar craved was the warm, sensuous interactions from before. Like frolicking on the sun-drenched beaches of Tahiti with Romella, her raven hair full and shimmering under the sun as they made love at the water’s edge. Or just her presence at the edge of his bed, silently watching over him, her eyes beaming with love.
But the putrid, rotting version of her corpse is what came to mind when Caesar closed his eyes. The vile, truthful words she said to him started to replay. So, instead of thinking about his long-dead wife and her spot-on accusations, Caesar let his mind wander to his younger days. A time when his body and mind were at their peak, and he entered the life that would define him.
Caesar thought about his lifelong friend, Carmine Del Vecchio. Pictured him lounging in the bunk below with not one ounce of flab and a head full of black hair. Buff. Brawny. Tough as any street thug ever was, were, or would be. How Carmine had protected him for the first two years they shared a cell in Attica. Though Caesar wasn’t some puny punk and was more than capable of handling two or three men at a time, a group of them was another thing. The second the steel doors slammed shut, Caesar Calvanio, son and grandson of Carlos and Tomaso Calvanio, was a marked man.
Carmine watched Caesar’s back and his intimidating physique and brash attitude kept Caesar safe until he was released after time served. Less than two days without his buff bodyguard, Caesar was nearly beaten to death. He tried, but couldn’t really remember much about the day. Brief flashes of him standing, wet and cold in the shower bay, trying to wash away the grit and grime, the always present funk, of prison life. When Caesar shut the water off and turned around to grab his towel, he found himself staring at six men. He recognized them all. They were members of the El Rhukn gang.
Alone, without Carmine’s protection and the guards out of earshot, the thugs descended upon him. To enhance their cred and reputation in the prison by going after the son of a famous mobster, they attacked Caesar without mercy.
Caesar tried to withstand the blows, swinging wildly at anything moving, but it didn’t matter. There were too many. Pain tore through his right side. With one hand covering his face and the other trying to stop the bleeding from the shank wound to his side, Caesar tried to regain his composure. Though he managed to land a few solid punches, he was outmatched. His body collapsed on the cold tile, blood oozing from his face and side. Everything blurred, but just before he passed out, Caesar heard the voices of the guards. When he awoke, Caesar was inside a hospital room at Bellevue General, a thick, heavy bandage around his head and side.
Splashes of images of interactions with his father whizzed by. The discussion in the hospital room about Caesar’s brain injury and subsequent emergency surgery. Four broken ribs, a shattered nose, a skull fracture. It was hard to understand his father’s words from the continuous internal buzzing in his ears. Conversations held in the dead of night, his father relating how he took care of things. How he’d orchestrated a meeting with the warden of Attica, Benjamin Tadesco, to ensure Caesar’s safety for the remainder of his time behind bars.
The look of satisfaction on his father’s aged face as he spoke about the threats to kill the warden’s wife and children if one hair on Caesar’s head got mussed. How he explained in vivid detail to the petrif
ied warden that his son’s well-being in prison would be directly tied to the longevity of the man’s family. The empty, cold smile as he told Caesar all about his new cellmate and protector, Master Noriaki Yamashita. The shame in his father’s voice as he told Caesar he was weak, his reputation shot to hell. He would never be able to command others once out of prison, for the news of his beating would tarnish him for the remainder of his life. The cold, calculated look as his father informed Caesar he would need to lay low, perhaps disappear for a few years out of the country, once his time was served.
Time zoomed forward and Caesar found himself back inside his cell, staring at the slender, tattooed Asian. The images switched again, hovering around the late night conversations inside the dark cell as Caesar learned about his dangerous companion. Noriaki Yamashita was part of a Japanese Yakuza crime family, one with great influence that operated freely from major U.S. cities.
In a low whisper, Caesar was told to address the man as Master Yamashita. Just one look at the head-to-toe ceremonial tattoos of dragons, demons and daggers was enough to make Caesar comply with the request. Though the man was smaller than Caesar, the air about him made Caesar take note. Plus, Caesar was still recovering from his injuries, and didn’t want to add any more.
More images flashed by of the rigorous training Master Yamashita forced him to study in the wee hours of the morning. Caesar’s lanky body transformed quickly from the painful training. The final conversation inside the walls of their cell the night before his release, came next.
“Listen well, Calvanio-san, my dedicated student. These words will provide the edge needed to assure you survive and prevail in the battles of life. The greatest power for a man is to develop a warrior mind. The ability to embrace mushinno shin – the mind without a mind. Just as a mirror reflects objects without clinging to the images, the warrior mind is to flow free from one object to the next without impediment.
Blood Ties - A Magnolia Novel Page 21
