I raced into the bathroom and unrolled a long sheet of paper towels. I bunched them in my fist, returned to the old guy, and stuffed them into his free hand. By then he had removed his jacket to check out the injury. A small hole had ripped his white shirt open at the shoulder. Blood saturated the material.
Choking, I flew into the bathroom again.
The scrumptious donut made an ugly return, splattering across the floor before I could reach the toilet. Bent in half, I retched a couple of times and then straightened up to wash my face, rinse my mouth, and blow my nose. Disgust roiled through me as I glanced at the floor. I cleaned the mess, gagging the whole time, and then returned to assist the man out front.
Blood-soaked paper towels filled the wastebasket under the counter and the old man barked an order for more. I returned to the bathroom and brought the whole roll of towels back. The victim had a better handle on the situation than I did. I watched in squeamish awe as he dabbed up the blood and applied pressure with a wad of towels.
“You a cop?” He ground out the words.
“N-no,” I stammered, and swept my hair back from my face and off my shoulders. The hair flinging was a telltale nervous habit of mine, well known among my friends.
“You look familiar,” he said. “Do I know you?”
“I don’t think we’ve met,” I murmured, anxious to keep from throwing up again.
“What’s ya name?” he rumbled in a voice filled with pain.
“Esposito,” I said, wringing my hands. “Lavinia Esposito.”
“You from Cranston?” He huffed the question out on a strained sigh.
“Uh, yeah . . . originally.”
“I knew a woman who looked just like you. She had the same name.” He flexed the fingers of his hand while he spoke. “Your old man owned a pizza joint?”
“Um, yes, he did.”
“Gino Esposito, right?”
“Uh huh,” I said, keeping my eyes averted from the bloody sleeve and wads of paper towels soaked with blood.
“Call my doctor, kid. He’ll come’n get me.”
“Don’t you think we should wait for the cops?” I asked, hoping he’d go along with my suggestion.
“Nah, they’re a bunch of dopes. They’ll ask a string of questions I won’t answer. Just call this number, and ask for Louie-the-Lug.” He recited a number that I dialed on my cell phone.
A high-pitched, nasal voice answered on the first ring. I asked for Louie-the-Lug before handing the phone to the injured man. I tried hard not to listen—well, maybe not that hard.
“Come here’n get me,” the man ordered. “Get here fast. I have a slug in my shoulder and it’s friggin’ killin’ me.” He gave instructions to our location and flipped the phone closed before he handed it back to me.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Never mind that. You just forget you ever met me, right?” He turned a stern, dark-eyed glare on me. “Not a word to the cops and get rid of this basket of bloody towels, got it?”
“Okay, fine,” I said, lifting my hands in a stop motion.
Shortly, a car pulled to the curb—a small black Datsun, new and shiny. A pudgy man with three hairs combed sideways over his bald dome got out. He rolled around the side of the car and entered the station.
“I won’t forget your kindness, Lavinia,” the man said. He stumbled out the door and into the Datsun, assisted by the man I could only assume was Louie-the-Lug.
Muddle-minded, I watched the car scoot from the curb and take a right at the traffic light on the corner. Once he was gone, I used a plastic bag from under the counter to scoop up the stained bag from the basket. I gagged and my stomach rolled as I tied it all in a neat bundle and hustled outside to throw it in the community trash bin at the side of the building. Replacing the old bag with a new one, I went into the bathroom to scrub my hands, even though they weren’t dirty.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. For a minute, I was undecided on what course of action to take. It wasn’t smart to fail to report a shooting, let alone assist someone with a gunshot wound. As an instructor of law and order, I was well aware of the implications and possible consequences. The paper towels crumpled in my dried hands. Leaning against the wall, I ran a hand across my forehead and breathed out a deep sigh.
In a flash, my day had gone from bad to horrid. I needed to talk to my father before making any plans. This man might know my dad, and it seemed prudent to find out whatever I could to make an informed decision . . . right? Reluctant to place that call, I paced the office a few times, tapping my lips with my forefinger. If I didn’t ask, I wouldn’t know, and I had to know everything. My main problem in life is not just that I often find myself in unusual circumstances, but that I am endowed with an overabundance of curiosity that bodes ill for me—most of the time.
I dialed up the number as my anxiety rocketed to new proportions. The phone rang a few times and I considered hanging up. Just when I had decided to leave my father out of this, he answered the call. Dang!
“Hi, Dad. It’s me, Lavinia.”
“And?” His deep voice rumbled.
His old-world, Italian attitude was the usual state of affairs. My father and I go head to head often, but he is my dad and I am his only daughter, so . . . he wished that I would marry, settle down, produce a pack of little monsters, cook pasta, and truck everyone to soccer practice. Those were never going to be on my ‘To Do’ list. I like kids—just as long as they’re other people’s kids. My brother, Giovanni, is a doctor in Nebraska and does no wrong in the eyes of my parents. Conversely, I am not viewed with those particular rose-colored glasses.
Don’t get me wrong, my parents love me . . . it’s just that Gio has an approved profession, a wife, and they live a mundane existence—it’s mundane in my estimation, anyway. After all, how exciting could the cornfields of Nebraska be?
My father is of the opinion that I work a man’s job and live too dangerously. He also disapproves of the fact that I hang out with cops and he continually points out how I have picked up bad manners and other poor habits from them. Well, not everyone is perfect.
“Dad, I recently met a man who says he knows you. He has gray hair, a rugged build, and hangs out with a guy named Louie-the-Lug. What’s his name, do you know?” The phone was silent for so long I thought I’d lost the connection. I shook the small piece of equipment, tapped it on the counter, and stared at the face of it. The line was still open, so I asked, “Dad, are you there?”
“Are you on the Hill?” he murmured in a resigned voice.
“No, I’m at a community police station waiting for Freedom Banger. Remember her?”
“I do.”
“So do you know this guy or what?”
“He’s a businessman from the Hill. That’s all I can tell you . . . other than his name is Tony Jabroni. I want you to stay as far away from him as you possibly can without leaving Rhode Island.” He sighed and asked, “Do you understand?”
“I got it. I was only curious since he knew about your pizza restaurant and all.” A businessman from the Hill? That word ‘businessman’ covered a lot of ground when it came to those who hung out on Federal Hill.
“Where did you meet him?”
Time to lie by omission. I was on the fast track to hell, so what was one more lie on top of all the others? Lying by omission was a gift I’d been given at birth and it had become second nature whenever I found myself in a tight spot.
“He stopped by the station for a minute. This guy, Louie, came and picked him up.” It wasn’t a lie . . . not really, I’d convinced myself.
“Huh. You’re sure that was all?”
“Uh huh.” I lied again. “I’ve got to hang up. Freedom just came back from a call. I’ll talk to you later, Dad.” I disconnected and settled on the stool in the silent building, all by myself.
The ‘Hill’ is Federal Hill. Once known as the Italian mob mecca, it’s now an ethnic mix-and-match affair located in the City of Providence. L
ong ago the area was inhabited by all manner of cutthroats and thieves. The Mafia had owned Federal Hill and thrived on lots of bad guy stuff. Over the years, they were downsized by the FBI with help from the local and Rhode Island State Police. Mafia families had all but disappeared, humbled by jail sentences in federal prisons across America. Business was bad. Things fell into decay.
But alas, as with everything, there’d been a resurgence of mob activity lately, but more hush, hush than ever.
The police computer sat handy, so I typed Tony Jabroni’s name into the search engine. It took a minute, but more information than I thought possible scrolled across the screen. He wasn’t Mr. Nice Guy, but a thug with a long list of problems with the law. I read on and on. Afraid I would get caught on the computer, I finally clicked the window closed and brought back Free’s report page.
While I wondered if anyone had seen Tony get shot, I called my friend and confidant, Lola Trapezi, to ask if she’d be able to make the trip to Providence to pick up my sorry ass. After I explained what happened with the old woman, she snickered a bit. Then she asked if I was unharmed and agreed to come and get me. Lola wondered if I had spoken to Marcus—the main man in my life—about my unfortunate incident. I told her I hadn’t, and she shouldn’t either. With that said, I disconnected the call and waited, hoping no new disaster would arise before she arrived.
The Salt & Pepper Deli is located down the street from my house. Lola owns it and is an extraordinary chef. We have been friends for years. When I inherited my aunt’s two-level, monstrous colonial that held two apartments, Lola had been supportive in my life in general.
Aunt Lavinia, or Livvy as I called her, had been my favorite aunt. When she passed away a year before, I’d been devastated. I visited her grave often since it is only a few blocks from the house. Not only do I resemble Livvy, I bear her name, her figure, and her attitude. With strong Italian genes, the only thing I hadn’t inherited was the upper lip growth of hair—we all need to be thankful for something.
Within minutes of my call to Lola, Freedom strode through the door. She finished my stolen vehicle report, put the description of the woman and the car out over the air for other cops, and started another report on the call she’d just responded to. I hung around until the front door opened and Lola marched in.
“What a neat building you have here, Freedom,” Lola exclaimed as she stared around the cell-like rooms of the station.
“Yeah, my sister calls this place ‘the dugout.’ It reminds her of a baseball dugout.” Freedom smirked. “Your brother still works out of District Seven, doesn’t he?” she asked Lola.
“He does. Do you ever see him?” Lola glanced at the posters of criminals and, in dismay, shook her mane of rich auburn hair.
“Not often . . . we mostly work different shifts.” When cops know cops, they often know their families as well. Lola and Freedom had met several times throughout her brother’s career as a police officer.
Lola’s glance turned toward me. She asked if I was ready to go. I nodded, thanked Free, and said I’d call her later. I turned to leave and stopped short when Freedom called out, “I think there’s a chop shop in the neighborhood, Vinnie. I’ll keep a lookout for your car. Everyone will be watching for it—and the old broad.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that.” The thought of having to replace my car had started my head pounding.
It was still warm inside the car when Lola rolled the MINI Cooper from the curb into traffic. We turned toward home, remaining quiet for about two blocks before Lola started with questions about what had happened. She knew me too well.
Unable to stop a lie once it started, I decided to tell her the truth. After all, Lola was trustworthy. We had navigated many trials and tribulations together over the years. If anyone would understand why I did the things I did, it would be Lola. I slouched down in the seat, tapped my lips for a second and then glanced at her. The petite woman of five feet had bushy auburn locks, freckles, and a Julia Roberts smile that melted the hearts of even the most hardened people. Lola turned her almost black eyes toward me for a second and waited.
“A guy came into the station while I waited for Free to return from her call. He’d been shot and––”
“Oh, my God! Don’t tell me you harbored a criminal in the community police station?” Lola burst out before I could finish.
“Let me finish,” I said and tossed my hair back from my face. “He stumbled in, and I asked if he wanted me to call the cops. He wouldn’t allow it. He said I was to forget him. My dad says he’s a business man named Tony Jabroni, from the Hill. I used Free’s computer to look him up afterwards, and guess what?”
“I know what. He’s a thug, a criminal, a wiseguy, a bad man. Bad, bad, bad.” Lola’s eyes got wider with every word.
“And how do you know this?” I asked, narrow-eyed and curious.
“He’s in the news every other minute on some racketeering charge or other. Don’t you watch the local news?”
“I must have missed that particular report,” I said in a sarcastic tone.
“Honest to God, Vin, you must have heard something about him. You teach law enforcement. What did you find out when you put his name in the computer, huh?” Lola’s fuse seemed shorter by the minute. “You found out he has a rap sheet as long as an airport runway, that he’s a no good mobster who hustles for a living. He runs illegal gambling, guns, and that’s just for starters.”
Yelling at me . . . Lola was yelling at me. Why? I wondered as I sat in the passenger seat of her fast little car as it sped through stop signs and intersections.
“Why are you yelling at me? And slow down. I’ve already had a bad day. Some old toad stole my car, my personal effects, and my new Louis Vuitton handbag. Now I am embroiled in a shooting case that was none of my business, and you, my best friend, are yelling at me for something that wasn’t my fault.”
A huge sigh escaped the petite body next to mine. She pulled close to the curb and slammed the shift lever into park.
“I’m sorry, Vin. Sometimes you get into things way over your head. I know it wasn’t your fault, but hell, you could get into real trouble for aiding and abetting a shooting victim who also happens to be a known criminal.”
“I think you’re overstating the aiding and abetting thing, but I will grant you that I know what trouble I could get into for not reporting the incident.” I picked at my fingernails while I mumbled, hoping her tirade was over for the moment.
“Maybe you’re right. I still think you should report the whole thing. Free Banger will take the report from you—just ask her.”
“I’ll think about it, okay?”
“Yeah, right.” Lola shook her heavy locks, banged her forehead on the steering wheel a couple times, and put the car in drive.
Her mouth had just opened once again when my cell phone rang. I glanced at her and thought I’d been saved by the bell—literally. But I was wrong.
“Yeah?” I said into the phone.
“Hey, it’s Freedom,” she said. “Did anything happen while you were here alone?”
My heart pounded and I clenched the phone. “Like what?”
“Someone just came in and reported they heard shots fired. Did you hear any shots?”
“I may have heard something, but I didn’t know it was gunfire.”
The phone was silent for a minute and then Free asked, “You wouldn’t be holding something back, would you, Vin?”
“Well, um, uh . . . a guy came in and asked me to call a ride for him. I think he was injured.” I’d begun to sweat and my headache had worsened.
“Injured like how?” she asked.
“Well, there was some blood involved.”
“Don’t even tell me that you knew about this shooting and didn’t report it when I came back to the station. What were you thinking?” Free yelled into the phone.
I held the phone away from my ear as she ranted. When she ran out of swear words, I put the phone on speaker and said, “For Chri
ssake, Free, he just asked for a ride. He didn’t even tell me who he was. I called the number he gave and he left. I never saw the shooter . . . honest.”
Freedom ranted on again for a while. I rubbed my temples and listened to her. She asked that I give her a full report in the morning. With a sigh of relief, I agreed and ended the call.
Lola stared out the window. She remarked, “Freedom’s reaction was interesting, huh? Somebody reported the gunshot, huh?”
I nodded.
“Good, at least you don’t have to deal with not telling her anymore.” Lola’s voice held a certain amount of ‘I told you so’ satisfaction. “To change the subject—since I know you don’t want to talk about what happened today anyway—I’m leaving on my cruise tomorrow. My brother will drop me at the airport early in the morning. I’ll be gone for about six days. Check the house daily, okay? The furnace hasn’t been friendly lately even though the repair guy said there’s nothing wrong. I don’t want the water pipes to freeze while I’m away if the damned thing decides to crap out.”
“Okay, I will.”
This home ownership stuff really sucks at times. We both agree on that. On the other hand, we both like not having to answer to a landlord.
My tenant, Aaron Grant, lives on the second level of my giant-sized colonial in the country village of Scituate (spoken as sit-chew-it) in western Rhode Island. Aaron is the size of a WWF wrestler, dark-haired, dark-eyed, tanned year-round, and gorgeous to a fault. He’s also an undercover FBI agent whose cover is the Rhode Island Gaming Commission. He works on illegal gambling, money laundering—and all that that entails.
Aaron moved into the apartment a while back, became a good friend, and now eats at my kitchen counter quite often. And at my family’s house with me, occasionally. He has taken a shine to my mother, who thinks he’s charming and possibly marriage material. He is both of those things. Only my father knows he’s a Fed. That eliminates him as marriage material, in his mind. It makes life interesting, but then I never have cared for the mundane.
Cold Moon Dead Page 2
