by K. J. Larsen
“Damn, girl!” Charlie said.
“Three brothers,” I gasped, out of breath.
“Caterina!” a voice down the hall thundered. Relief rushed through me and I felt my legs go.
Charlie snatched a Starburst package off the floor. “Later.” He vanished down the hall.
“Papa?” I squawked.
The echo of running feet charged the hallway. Rocco finished first through the door waving a gun. Papa, Uncle Joey, and the twins were close behind.
I gave a crooked smile from my perch on the vending machine.
“Nice trophy,” Uncle Joey said.
“Get her off me,” Schnozzola rasped.
“Did he hurt you?” Papa demanded.
I waggled a stocking foot. “I lost another hundred dollar shoe.”
“Sick bastard,” Papa said, and the twins kicked the goon.
“Owwwee!”
Rocco helped me down. “Tino’s guys are mopping up outside. They beat the crap outta a couple guys. Bloody noses, a few broken teeth.”
“This one could go to the hospital,” the twins said with admiration.
I held my breath. “Did you find Eddie’s guns?”
Uncle Joey shook his head. “Max said somebody tipped them off.”
I groaned. “We got nothing?”
Max flashed a smile from the doorway. “Did somebody mention my name?”
“Where the hell were you?” I sputtered. “I had two guys on me. I dodged a gun and a knife.”
“Babe,” he smiled. “You had it handled.”
“Two guys?” the twins frowned. “You let a guy get away?”
Max ambled to the soda machine, slid a dollar in the slot, and pushed a button. He raised his Mr. Pibb to the guy on the floor.
Joey scooped the knife from the corner and kneeled beside the vending machine. The blade glinted against Schnozzola’s throat.
“Eddie’s shitty equipment collapsed and crushed your bad ass. Sue your boss if you like. But if you mention my niece’s name I’ll cut your heart out.”
“Damn straight,” the twins snarled, stuffing their pockets with candy.
Max plucked my gun from a corner and tucked it in my pants.
Papa growled and Rocco pushed Max aside. “C’mon, sis. You don’t want to be here when Captain Bob arrives.”
“Wait!” the guy wearing the vending machine cried. “You can’t leave me like this.”
“Bye bye,” I sang, and forged down the hall.
“Owwee!”
I looked back startled. “What the…”
Rocco gripped my shoulders, turned me around and steered me toward the exit.
“The twins are a little pissed about that shoe.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
We stepped outside into the parking lot and I took a big gulp of fresh air.
Tino rushed to squeeze me in a bear hug. “Caterina!” He felt soft and warm and smelled of sweet wine and oregano.
He stepped back and swept his arm across the parking lot.
“He’s showing off his carnage,” Max murmured. Eddie’s guys littered the ground, the shit beat out of them.
“My men did this for you,” Tino said, “and still they don’t tell me where you are.”
I worked my throbbing temples with my fingers. “They didn’t know.”
Tino shrugged. “Max took a couple guys down himself.”
Max smiled. “I saved your life, Babe. You can thank me later.”
Papa growled. “Save your own and get the car.”
Max winked and jogged off to the Buick.
Tino gathered his army and disappeared into the night.
“Tino knows this isn’t Afghanistan, doesn’t he?” I said.
Joey grinned. “He knows enough to retreat before Captain Bob rides in.”
Captain Bob. The name sent chills down my spine. I staved off a wave of panic and assessed the damage. There was no truck, no illegal weapons. No evidence of a crime. What we had was a B&E felony, a man struck down by a potato chip machine, and some do-good charity workers ambushed at work. There was only one left thing to do.
“I’m moving to Mexico,” I announced. “Tonight.”
Brakes screeched and a car careened into the parking lot. Busted. If Bob was behind those blinding headlights I’d race like hell for the border.
Eddie’s guys staggered to their cars and the speeding vehicle skirted around them like cones on an obstacle course. I put it in reverse and ducked behind the DeLuca offensive line.
The car screamed to a halt at Papa’s feet, tires smoking. I copped a peek from behind the twins and Chance Savino sprang from the driver’s seat. I blinked, shook my head, and looked again. What the hell is he doing here, I thought.
Savino didn’t waste words. He shoved his way through a barrage of Italians and when he reached the end of the huddle the tightness left his jaw and relief flooded his face. He threw out his arms and for one crazy moment I thought he would wrap them around me.
Instead he planted his hands firmly on my shoulders and shook me fiercely.
“Are you out of your mind, DeLucky?”
My voice quavered with the jostling. “Nice to see you too, Savino.”
Papa frowned. “Savino?”
“Chance Savino’s dead,” the twins said, smacking down Skittles.
He let go of my shoulders and it came to me then. Chance Savino was alive and I had witnesses. Five of Chicago’s finest and one hot bodyguard who disappears every time someone tries to kill me.
A drum roll would be nice but I threw out a hand for flair. “Papa, Uncle Joey, Rocco, Vinnie, and Michael,” I announced, “this is Chance Savino.”
The twins were unconvinced. They dropped Skittles in my outstretched hand.
Max blazed to the curb in the Buick.
“One car left,” Papa said with satisfaction. “Must belong to the guy trapped under the vending machine.”
“What guy?” Chance said.
I popped some Skittles in his mouth. “You don’t want to know.”
Chance moved closer, lifted my chin, and searched my face in the street light. Papa growled.
His gaze froze on the bruise Schnozzola left when he cuffed the side of my head.
“Who did this to you?”
Savino touched the side of my face and I winced. “Where’s your bodyguard?”
As if on cue Max appeared. “I got the car, Babe. Let’s blow.”
Chance nailed Max with his fist. Max staggered backwards and crashed on the asphalt. He shook the cobwebs from his head and dabbed his bloody lip with the back of his hand.
“Who the hell are you?” Max said stroking his jaw.
“That’s for letting Cat come here tonight.”
“Letting me?” I said hotly.
Max reeled to his feet and rolled up his sleeves. “I’m gonna kick your ass, you son of a bitch.”
I whipped the 9mm from my pants. “Enough already or I’ll shoot you both.”
Savino’s passenger door shot open and Special Agent in Charge Larry Harding scrambled out. I groaned inwardly.
“Everything OK here, Agent Savino?”
I gasped. “Agent Savino?”
“We’re good.”
Harding cleared his throat. “Did you notice a woman with a head injury is waving a gun.”
“You’ve met Agent Harding, I believe.”
“Took your sweet time getting here,” Max growled.
“Agent Savino?” I pushed him. “Shut up.”
He grinned. “So I’m not a crook. You’re not going to hold that against me.”
I gritted my teeth and lowered my voice. “You’re a crook all right. I know all about your miserable diamond scheme. The good old boys at the FBI think the diamonds were lost in the explosion. But you kept them for yourself.”
“Would those be the diamonds you lifted from me? Who’s the real crook here?”
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I stomped on his foot and twirled around to face Savino’s partner. “I have something for you, Larry.”
I pounced to the Buick, whipped the passenger door open, yanked out my leather Zac tote, and emptied it on the hood. Squealing triumphantly I snapped up the little black bag and plopped it in Agent Larry Harding’s palm.
He looked confused. “What…”
“Diamonds,” I said crisply. “A small fortune I imagine.”
Max shot me a look of betrayal. “You had the diamonds?”
“Madre Santa!” Papa breathed and the DeLuca men locked their eyes on the small sack in Harding’s trembling fingers. The Agent caught his breath and peered in the bag greedily. I whipped around to face Savino squarely. His face was a mask.
Special Agent Larry Harding’s voice was tight. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, Ms. DeLuca.”
He held the bag in his right hand and tipped the contents into his cupped left. What he got was air. He tossed the bag on the ground.
I scooped it up in my hand and jammed my fingers inside. The diamonds were gone.
A twisted smile played around the edges of Chance Savino’s mouth.
“Perhaps you should accompany me downtown, Ms. DeLuca.” Agent Larry Harding faced me squarely. “Is it true you dreamed up these diamonds?”
Who got to the diamonds? And how? I closed my eyes and replayed my steps since snatching the diamonds from Devin’s toolbox. My purse was with me everywhere but the shower. I opened them again and Uncle Joey winked.
“Ms. DeLuca,” Harding repeated, “did you or did you not imagine these diamonds?”
The twins flicked Sugar Babies in the air and caught them with their tongues. Max scowled at me, and Chance Savino mouthed liar, liar. I pretended not to read lips.
I turned my head around to meet Special Agent in Charge Larry Harding’s level gaze.
“I see dead people,” I said. “Diamonds, I’m not so sure about.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
The day Dorothy was to be interred, I arrived at Mickey’s as the tow truck pulled up and dumped her charred remains alongside a spanking new fire-hydrant. The video in my head hit replay and for one awful moment I relived the fiery blast and Tommy’s deafening scream. I squeezed my eyes shut and when I opened them again Uncle Joey stood beside me. He pressed a warm cup in my hand.
“Coffee,” he said, “with something to put the color back in your cheeks.”
I wrapped my fingers around the cup gratefully and followed him inside.
Mickey’s was abuzz with preparation for Dorothy’s funeral. The women from the Moose Lodge, dressed in Sunday best, set tables for a funeral brunch.
The twins, hanging out with the food, sampled the seven-layer dip.
“Caterina is here,” Mama said with the relief of someone ready to hand off the show. “She knew Dorothy better than any of us.”
The Lodge ladies nodded somberly. “She was the last to see Dorothy alive.”
“And the first to kill her,” my sister Sophie snickered.
Mama held up a fistful of napkins. “Would Dorothy prefer yellow or white?”
“She liked blue.”
“Of course!” Mama smacked her forehead. “Dorothy was blue!” Mama hauled a hankie from her bra and dabbed her eyes.
“I’ll run to the Jewel for the blue,” I said seizing my escape.
Papa raced me to the door. “Got it!”
There was a flash and he was gone.
“This is a good thing you’re doing, Cat,” Mickey hollered from the rafters. “We’re expecting a big crowd.”
He was hanging a long streamer emblazoned Dorothy’s High.
“Dorothy’s High?” I said.
“The printer got it wrong. It was supposed to say Dorothy’s Riding High,” Mickey shrugged. “I think Jack will get the message.”
“What message is that?”
Father Timothy walked through the door flanked by two nuns, Uncle Joey, and Elvis.
“I booked music for the funeral,” Uncle Joey announced.
Elvis stood shaking his hips.
“Do ‘Honky Tonk Angel,’” Father Timothy said. “It’s my favorite.”
“You’re such a priest,” I said.
“How do you like my sign?” Mickey said.
Uncle Joey frowned.
“He doesn’t get it either,” I said.
Rocco strolled through the door blowing dust off a running-horse emblem he retrieved from the rubble outside Mickey’s door. “Jack will want to keep this. I found it in the wreckage.”
“That used to be a fender,” the twins said, sampling the antipasto.
“There’s not much left of Dorothy to see,” Rocco sighed regretfully.
“That’s OK.” Sister Margaret crossed herself. “People are coming to see the woman who killed her.”
I groaned.
“Tough crowd,” Uncle Joey said.
Father Timothy checked his watch. “It’s show time. Take your places. We start when Jack arrives.”
“Are you sure he doesn’t know?” Mickey said.
“Totally clueless as always,” I said. “Tino and Max are bringing him in.”
“Jack can be stubborn,” Mama said. “What if he refuses to leave the shop?”
“The guys will handle it. Tino wasn’t always a sausage maker, you know. He was a spy like James Bond.”
“Really?” Father Timothy said.
“She’s delusional!” Sophie sang.
“Just watch,” I said. “They always get their man.”
***
The black Buick screeched to a halt beside Dorothy. Max jolted from the back seat, seized Jack’s greased and lubed coveralls and deposited him unceremoniously on the sidewalk. Jack swung a bloodied fist and slammed air. His eyes fixed on Dorothy. A tortured sound escaped his throat.
As Tino told it later, he had wheeled the bullet ridden black Buick to Jack’s garage. Max hopped in the backseat and Tino waved him over.
Jack was drinking again. His face showed a dark stubble and a bloody bandage swathed a hand. The mechanic dropped another finger in an engine.
“I saw Cat DeLuca drivin’ your car last week,” Jack said.
Tino nodded.
“You heard what she did to Dorothy.”
“Cat didn’t blow up your car.”
Jack leaned back and his bloodshot eyes scanned the full length of the peppered Buick. Ridicule gurgled in his throat.
Tino ignored him. “Hop in. There’s a noise in my engine when I drive.”
“You still friends with Cat DeLuca?”
“I am.”
Jack spat. “Take your business elsewhere.”
Max then leaped from the back, grabbed Jack’s shoulders, and dragged him inside. Jack kicked his legs out the window and sputtered curses all the way to Mickey’s Bar and Grill.
Jack’s jaw dropped. He looked around the crowd. Elvis sang “She’s A Machine.” Rocco presented Jack with the running-horse emblem.
“That’s your fender,” the twins called from the crowd.
Father Timothy cleared his throat.
“We have gathered here today to remember Dorothy.”
A few sniffles sounded from the crowd. I wondered if everyone understood Dorothy was a car.
Father Timothy’s voice resonated with feeling. “Dorothy’s service on earth has ended. We recognize how faithful she was to both Jack and to his father, Bernie.”
“Amen, brother,” a voice called out. I twisted my head around. It was a Baptist.
“Dorothy was loyal, true, and reliable,” the priest continued.
“She required very little maintenance,” Jack choked.
“Dorothy is no longer here with us. She has gone on to be with Bernie. The roads they travel are paved with gold.”
A voice sniggered. “If I know Bernie, he’s chippin’ gold and playing poker.”
; “Potholes in heaven,” someone laughed.
The priest lifted his hands. “In the midst of this company we trust Dorothy to God’s care. Her ravaged body we commit to the ground.” He made a sign with his hand.
“Iron to ore.”
“Glass to sand.”
“Rubber to recycle.”
Father Timothy ended with a prayer.
The band started up and Elvis belted out “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” Pale in his dress whites, Tommy the rookie came forward. He clutched a single long-stemmed red rose in his hand. A hush rippled through the crowd.
Tommy stood silently a long moment. He made his peace, knelt, and placed a rose on the pile of rubble. The men and women of the precinct fell in line behind him, each offering a blood red rose to the fallen Mustang. When they had finished, the residents of Bridgeport followed. One by one we tossed a flower on the remains, until Dorothy, smothered with splashes of green and velvety red petals, glimmered in the sun.
My heart swelled in my chest. Jack had his miracle. He’d lost Dorothy but the community rallied around him. The people of Bridgeport weren’t about to let the sky fall on his house alone. They didn’t care that he was totally nutso. He belongs here. He’s one of us. That has to count for something.
Papa pressed a blue napkin in my hand, and smushed another to his face.
Mama yanked a dinner bell from her bra. “We eat!” The twins led the stampede to Mickey’s door.
Jack lingered outside. He hunkered down on the spanking new fire hydrant beside Dorothy. I approached him uncertainly. He hadn’t shaved and he smelled like booze. He looked older than I remembered.
“Thanks, Cat,” he said without turning his head.
“I never meant for anything bad to happen to Dorothy.”
“I know. But it don’t bring my dad back.”
I smiled. “Maybe this will.”
A horn blared and Jack did a double take. A smoking red 1953 Bel-Air Convertible barreled down the street and jerked to a stop beside Dorothy. Jack did a double take.
Uncle Joey grinned goofily from behind the wheel. “Bernie knew a sweet ride.”
“Olivia?”
Jack raced to the rear bumper and dropped to his knees. His fingers felt for three notches etched in the chrome. His dad carved them the night he took Clarabelle and a bottle of his papa’s whiskey into the backseat. It was the night Jack was conceived.
