by Rosie Genova
“Maybe. But we have other people to consider, Vic, including Barone, Florence, and Jason. Especially after what you told me about the computer crash at the restaurant. And let’s not leave out Crazy Iris.”
“Actually, we need the answer to a pretty basic question: past or present? Is Pete’s death tied to something he did a year ago or fifty years ago?”
Sofia nodded. “Or maybe both.” She fished her phone back out of her purse and checked the screen. “The club’s off Exit 36, and we just passed the exit for Long Beach Island. Less than thirty miles to go. With any luck, we’ll be there in a half hour.”
As it turned out, our luck held, and we got to the Atlantic City Country Club by three.
“Wow,” I said, taking in the velvety greens and stately clubhouse. “Will you look at this place?”
“Almost makes me want to take up golf,” Sofia said. “My dad played here, and apparently lots of famous people played here. It’s old school, but cool.”
We found Gerry Domenica behind the counter at the pro shop. At first I had wondered at an eighty-year-old who was still working, but one look at Domenica told me he was hale and healthy. Though he was no more than five-six, he had the broad shoulders and compact frame of a much younger man. He still had a head full of silver hair, slicked back in a style of two generations earlier. As we approached him, I picked up the distinct scent of Old Spice.
“Can I help you girls?” he asked with a smile, and I tried not to bristle. He’s of another era, I told myself. So to him we’re girls.
Sofia trained her most blinding smile at him. “Mr. Domenica, we’re sorry to bother you at work, but we’re doing some family research and thought you might be able to help us.” She held out her hand. “I’m Sofia Rienzi, and this is my sister-in-law, Victoria. We’re trying to track down a Rienzi relative of my husband’s, and we think it’s possible your father might have known him back in Atlantic City.”
“That so?” he asked. He was still smiling, but there was wariness in his voice. “I’m not sure I can help, but I’ll try.” He tapped the side of his head. “The memory’s not what it used to be.”
Ha, I thought. You’re still sharp as a tack, Gerry Domenica. And for some reason you’re on your guard. I reached out my hand. “Nice to meet you, sir. I appreciate your seeing us.”
“Why don’t you girls come and sit down out on the terrace for a minute? I’ll bring us some nice lemonade.” He led us to a table in a shady spot outside the clubhouse, and the two of us sat down.
“Does he seem suspicious to you?” I asked as soon as he was gone.
Sofia rolled her eyes. “I met him, like, a minute ago. And by suspicious, do you mean is he sketchy?”
“More like does he suspect us?”
“Probably. We need to disarm him.”
“I’ll leave that to you, Miss Congeniality,” I said. “Here he comes.”
Domenica set a tray of drinks down on the table. “Help yourselves, please.” He sat across from us, resting his elbows on the table, his hands clasped. “How can I help you?”
I told him what I had learned about Zio Roberto, both my family’s version and what I’d been able to piece together about Robert Riese or Reese. When I was finished, I opened the book to the photo of Barone, Domenica, Alfonso, and the unidentified Robert Riese. When Domenica reached for the book, his shirtsleeve hiked up, revealing an old tattoo in faded blue ink. He pointed to the picture and grinned as I tried not to stare at his left arm.
“There’s my dad,” he said. “Gerry Sunday, they called him. Man, they knew how to dress in them days, didn’t they?” He traced his finger across the page. “And there’s Mr. Leo.” He looked up at us. “That’s how I always referred to him. He was my godfather.” He smiled broadly, providing a glimpse of a gold tooth. “For real, I mean. He christened me.”
“Do you know the other men in the picture?” Sofia asked, turning on a high-watt smile.
“Sure,” he said. “That’s Alfie. I don’t remember his last name.” He pointed to the man who bore such a marked resemblance to my father. “And that’s Robbie. Sometimes we called him Roberto. I tell ya, he was a pistol.” He looked at me with narrowed eyes. “He’s the guy in your family you’re tryin’ to track down, right?”
“Yes,” I said, a little startled. “How did you know?”
“It ain’t that hard, miss,” he said. “For one thing, you’re too pretty to be related to a Petrocelli, and for another, your eyes are just like Robbie’s.”
“It’s my dad who really looks like him,” I said. “We think he went by the name Robert Riese. Does that sound familiar?”
“Mighta been the name. Don’t really remember.”
“Well, can you tell me what you do know about Roberto?”
“A little bit. He was one for the ladies, that’s for sure. Well, until the drugs got hold of him.”
“Was he involved with drugs?” Sofia asked.
“Was he?” Domenica let out a snort. “You kids think you invented marijuana, but it’s been around for years. That’s how Robbie started. He hung around those jazz clubs. But after that, he went on to harder stuff.”
Great. So Zio Roberto was a pothead, and probably worse. I might have to tell Nonna and my dad a sanitized version of this particular chapter of Rienzi family history. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
“Yup, it was a real shame. He was a smart guy. Coulda rose in the ranks if he’d wanted. But Mr. Leo didn’t like anybody in the organization messin’ with drugs. Absolutely forbade it. He did not approve, no, sir.”
Sofia and I exchanged a glance. We both knew that Barone’s organization was only too happy to traffic in drugs. “Mr. Domenica—” I began.
“Please, call me Gerry, honey.”
Okay, Gerry honey. I so wanted to say it out loud, but instead I smiled. “Thank you . . . Gerry. I was wondering if you knew what eventually happened to Robert.”
He shut the book and slid it across the table to me. “Sorry, I don’t. Wish I could be more help.” He stood to go. “Now, if you girls don’t mind, I have to get back to work.”
As I watched him go, an insistent question pounded in my ears—the past or the present? The past or the present? Where did the answer to Pete’s death lie?
Chapter Twenty-five
We had barely fastened our seat belts when I turned to Sofia. I started the car, but left it in park. “Did you notice the tattoo that showed from under Domenica’s left shirtsleeve?”
“No. You were sitting on that side of him. Why?”
“The image was faded and blurred, but I’m sure it was a lion. I tried to see the rest of it through the fabric, but it was too dark.”
“A tattoo of a lion? Wait a minute,” Sofia said. “Are you telling me—?”
“You bet I am. I think Gerry Domenica has a tattoo of a prancing lion on his arm, similar to the one that Tattoo Guy has. That’s got to be more than a coincidence, don’t you think? I wonder if they’re connected somehow.”
“To each other? Or to—?” She stopped suddenly, her mouth dropping open to form a pink, glossy O. She turned to me with a look of triumph. “Okay, Miss Writer. Think: Why is a lion significant?”
I frowned. “I don’t know. King of the jungle? A representation of courage?”
Sofia clapped her hands, her tone gleeful. “I can’t believe I got this ahead of you. Think horoscopes. Think DiCaprio.”
“Oh my God, I’m an idiot. Leo. Leo Barone! Of course.” I put out my fist for a bump from Sofia. “Good catch, SIL. I wonder if the tattoo signified loyalty or something.” My mind was racing through the possibilities. “It might make sense for Gerry Domenica to have a tattoo related to the Barones, but why the carousel operator?”
“I guess we can’t rule out coincidence,” Sofia said, but didn’t sound convincing.
“True,” I
agreed, “but for the sake of argument, let’s assume there’s a connection.”
Sofia pawed through her purse and pulled out a pack of sticky notes and a pen. “So back in the day, Gerry Jr. gets a lion tattoo.” She stopped, her pen poised over the paper. “But why, Vic? His father was part of Barone’s inner circle, not him.”
“Right. Okay, let’s think about this. We think that Domenica Jr. is eightyish, right?” I did some quick mental math. “That would have put him in his teens and twenties at the height of Barone’s operation in Atlantic City. He certainly could have been involved. You heard him talking about it today—he had this gleam in his eye.”
“Like he was proud of it,” Sofia said.
“Exactly. And he identified Roberto and Alfonso; he talked about them as though he knew them.” I pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road, hoping Sofia would help me navigate. Even with a GPS, I had a tendency to get lost. “In fact, don’t you think it’s strange that he looks at me and sees an immediate resemblance? That he also knows that Zio Roberto did drugs and was a bit of a Casanova, yet has no idea that he ended up in jail for murder? A murder that was pretty well publicized, according to our own research.”
“Oh yeah,” Sofia said, scribbling away on the yellow notes. “He was picking and choosing what he wanted to tell us.”
“There were other things, too—something that he said that made me think he was lying, but I lost it. Or something I noticed about him. I don’t remember now. It’s driving me crazy.”
“You’ll probably remember at three o’clock in the morning.”
“Let’s hope.” I pointed to a light up ahead. “Is that the turn for the parkway?”
“See the green sign with the pretty yellow state of New Jersey in it? The one that says Parkway? That would indicate that this is our turn.”
“There’s no need for sarcasm, lady. I didn’t want to miss it. I’m on the clock here.” I accelerated onto the northbound ramp, only to join another long line of drivers—day-trippers heading home. I sighed. “Here we go again.”
“That’s okay,” Sofia said. “Gives us more time to debrief. Let’s get back to the tattooed carousel operator.”
“Danny thought the guy was an ex-con.”
“I wouldn’t be so quick to jump to that conclusion,” Sofia said. “Anybody without a regulation haircut is suspect to your brother.”
“Maybe. But I trust his instincts. If the guy did spend time in jail, couldn’t the lion tattoo be connected to a gang or something?”
“I guess,” Sofia said doubtfully. “But if the lion does symbolize the Barones, that would mean—”
“That their criminal activity didn’t end with Leo’s death!” I interrupted. “And that maybe Richard Barone isn’t as clean as he’d like everybody to believe. God, I wish I could see him without his shirt.”
Sofia let out a laugh. “There you go again, risking death by Iris.”
“You know what I mean. I wonder if he’s got a lion tattoo. Not that I would mind seeing him without his shirt, but that’s neither here nor there. But speaking of Iris—if Barone is dirty, does she know it?”
“Never mind Iris,” Sofia said. “Did Pete know? That’s the big question. If Barone is mobbed up, and Pete somehow got wind of it, that would be reason enough to get him out of the way.”
I looked over at her. “Or pay somebody else to do it.”
“Probably.” She opened the red folder and studied our list of names. “You know, Vic, I think we need to back up the truck here.”
“Would you mind translating that highly Jersey-esque phrase for me?”
“You have been in New York waaay too long,” Sofia said, rolling her eyes. “You know what I mean—let’s rethink this for a minute. All along we’ve been assuming that Pete drank himself to death at the hand of a person or persons who wanted him out of the way. Given his blood alcohol, it’s a likely scenario: He drank himself into unconsciousness and fell facedown in the shallow water in the carousel house. But we still haven’t answered the big question of what he was doing there.”
“A planned meeting with one or more of the suspects?”
She nodded. “The more I think about it, the more I think it’s likely, especially if he was blackmailing any of them.”
“So let’s review our timeline. Pete showed up as we were serving dinner, somewhere between six and six thirty, before the storm hit.” The traffic was breaking up; I picked up speed and my thoughts followed suit. “At some point he interacted with Iris, according to Gale at the library. It was likely after six thirty when I saw him leave, but he was only holding the food bag. Nando saw him after that holding two bags, one of which held his food, but another heavier one as well.”
“Did Nando tell you a time?”
“No.” I shook my head. “We were all so busy. And once the storm was really raging, I don’t think many of us were paying attention to the time.”
“Okay,” Sofia said, “if my memory serves, we all ran inside around seven thirty and Danny got called out at about eight forty. I remember looking at the time when he was leaving.”
“That sounds right. And at some point when we were inside, Father Tom came in because he had seen Pete out on the boardwalk.”
“So Pete was probably still alive at eight, yes?”
“I think it’s likely. But somewhere in that hour between seven thirty and eight thirty, both Jason and Alyssa went missing for a while.”
“And you’re thinking one or both of them might have met with Pete?” Sofia asked. “But that would mean that either they went out in the storm or Pete came back to the restaurant, right?”
“Right. But now that you spell it out, I can see the difficulty with that theory. If the storm was that bad, and Pete had come by the restaurant, he would have tried to stay and wait out the storm, don’t you think?”
“I do think. And if either Jason or Alyssa met him somewhere and came back—” she began.
“They’d be soaking wet,” I interrupted. “Of course. You know, I tried to pin down Alyssa about where she’d been, but she was evasive.”
“She was probably in a lip lock somewhere with Tattoo Guy,” Sofia muttered.
“But remember she also said something about the temps wanting to leave early and splitting tips, but I don’t remember exactly when. I’m wondering if Tattoo Guy might have followed Pete at some point. You know what? I think it’s time to put in a call to Alyssa,” I said. “We need to identify that guy.”
“Do you think she’ll tell you his name?”
“She will if she thinks we want to hire him.”
“That’s sneaky, Vic. I like it.”
“Would you get my phone out of my purse? It’s by your feet.”
“How do you find anything in here? Sheesh.” After emptying half the contents of my purse, Sofia finally fished out my phone. “Got it. I don’t suppose she’s in your contacts?”
“No. But if you check the call history, she’s the only number with an 848 area code.”
“Oh, okay. Yup, it’s here. Want me to call?”
“Please. And then put her on speaker.” I shot her a grin. “But keep your pretty mouth closed; I don’t want her to know anyone is listening in.”
Alyssa picked up on the third ring. “Hello?” Her tone was cautious; I guess I wasn’t in her contacts, either.
“Hey, Alyssa. It’s Victoria Rienzi. How are you?”
“Oh, hi, Victoria. I’m good. Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine. I’ve got you on speaker, okay? I’m driving.”
“Sure thing, girlfriend,” Alyssa said, her sweet voice carrying in the enclosed car. “What can I do ya for?”
Sofia made a gagging motion with her finger to her open mouth, and I shook my head at her furiously. “Well, you know how crazy Labor Day weekend is down here, and we’r
e shorthanded at the restaurant without you and Jason. We thought we’d reach out to some of the temps we had on the night of the party.” I held up my crossed fingers. “Did you know any of them?” Of course you did, Alyssa, but will you tell me?
“Well, I kinda knew Jackson. You might remember him.” She giggled. “Actually, you might remember his tats.”
Sofia’s eyes widened and I put my finger to my lips. “Oh, sure. He helped out a lot when we were packing up to go inside. You think he might want some work?”
“Maybe.” I waited, but she didn’t offer anything else.
“Do you have contact info for him?” I persisted. “A phone number or e-mail?”
“No, sorry,” she sang into the phone. “I only met him that night.”
Sofia scribbled on her pad and held it up for me to see. SHE’S LYING!!! it read.
“Do you know his last time?”
“That I do know. It’s Manchester. Jackson Manchester.”
I glanced at Sofia, who was frowning as she wrote down the name. “Okay, thanks, Alyssa,” I said. “Have a good year.”
“You, too, Victoria! Bye now.”
Sofia ended the call and held up the pad again. “Jackson Manchester? Anything strike you about that name?”
“Aside from sounding like the name of a British noble, it’s about as fake as my mother’s eyelashes.”
“You bet it is.” Sofia zoomed out on the screen of my GPS until it showed the whole of Ocean County, complete with the names of its towns, including Jackson and Manchester. “This dude took his name from a map.”
“So, who is he?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Sofia said, “but I’m beginning to think he’s the key to this whole thing.”
* * *
When I got back to the restaurant, things were as hectic and busy as my mother had promised. Lucky for me, my grandmother had gone home before the dinner service, but I was sure she was preparing a tasty lecture to serve me when she got the chance. I put on my apron and grabbed a ticket book, moving automatically around the dining room to check on linens and setups before the dinner rush began. I was setting up the coffee station when the dining room door opened; it was Miss Ferraro, clutching a rusted metal box.
