Chiara stood. “Let them know I’ll be around to talk to them.”
Filomena walked her to the door. “Angela and the kids are home from the funeral parlor, if you want to talk to them. The entrance is in back.”
Angela DiMartini invited Chiara into the kitchen. The room was dim and quiet, except for the murmur of a TV game show that drifted in from another room. Even with a puffy face, a red nose, and no makeup, Angela, with her deep-blue eyes, pale complexion, black hair dusted with white, and high cheekbones, was breathtakingly beautiful. She couldn’t have been more different from her mother-in-law, Mariana.
“Detective Corelli, this is my son, Ernest,” Angela said, introducing the young man who walked into the room. Lucky Ernest, he favored his mother in looks.
He looked puzzled. “How can we help you, Detective?”
Chiara cleared her throat. “We’ve had a complaint—”
“Did the drama queen accuse Grandma Concetta of poisoning my father?”
“Now, Ernest, she’s your grandmother—”
“Not through any choice of mine,” he said, getting red in the face. He turned to Chiara. “She’s a nut case. When I was a kid, she used to warn me not to eat anything that Grandma Concetta cooked. My father was grossly overweight, had a heart condition, diabetes, high blood pressure, and clogged carotid arteries, so it’s no surprise that he had a massive heart attack.”
“I’m sorry, I have a few questions. Can we sit?”
Angela touched Ernest’s arm. “It’s her job.”
They moved to the table.
He sighed. “What do you want to know?”
“Did Concetta make anything special for Aldo, anything that only he ate or drank?”
“We all ate whatever she cooked, yesterday and every day,” Ernest said.
“What about the capozzelli, Ernest?” Angela asked.
Yuk. The head of a sheep split down the middle, exposing the brains, the eye staring. Her mother had cooked it, but Chiara had never had the stomach to taste it.
He thought for a second. “Tony Two Fingers ate it, too.”
“Tony Two Fingers?”
“A family friend. Only Tony and Aldo eat capozzelli, so Mama invites Tony whenever she makes it. They didn’t like each other, but it never kept them from sharing a sheep’s head.”
“Where can I find Tony?”
THE next afternoon, Chiara drove to Mulberry Street in Little Italy. Chinatown was overrunning the Italian section, but there were still remnants of the old neighborhood, like the social club where, she was told, Tony Two Fingers could be found most days. She opened the door and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. A few old men, some playing cards, looked up through the smoke.
“Hey, Doll, you looking for me?” He was sitting alone at a table near the door.
“It’s Detective Corelli. And if you’re Tony Two Fingers, I’m looking for you.”
He held his left hand in the air, and wiggled the two fingers still there. “You got me. Come take a load off. How about an espresso?”
Close up, she could see that Tony Two Fingers had been around a long time—his remaining fingers were so gnarled she doubted he could still pull a trigger, his nose looked like it had encountered a few hard objects in its time, and a scar started at his eye and disappeared into his black silk shirt—but he seemed energetic, happy to have company.
“Thanks, no coffee. Just a few questions.”
“Sure, Doll.” His laughing eyes checked out his cronies, but when he saw her face he changed his tune. “Er, Detective.”
“How do you know Concetta Moretti?”
“Me and her was an item when we were kids.” He pulled a worn wallet from his back pocket and handed Chiara a frayed black-and-white photo. “That’s me and Concetta.”
“You made a beautiful couple.” Chiara studied the photo. “Angela looks just like her.” She handed it back.
He stared at the photo, then slid it into the cracked plastic holder, and leaned forward to tuck the wallet into his back pocket. “Yeah, Concetta was a looker. Still is. But I got into a line of work she didn’t want no part of. Then I started partying, and she told me she had better things to do with her time than sit home every night worrying if her husband was dead or, worse, in bed with another women, so she dumped me.” His eyes filled. “Stupid me. I was too young to realize what I had.” He shrugged and smiled. “But we always stayed friends. Now we’re old, and I got nobody, so she invites me to eat sometimes, especially when she cooks the old food.”
“When was the last time you ate at her house?”
“C’mon, Dol . . . er, Detective, you know I was there Sunday. And she didn’t poison that piece of shit.”
“You didn’t like him.”
“Nah. He was a freeloader. He hit me up for twenty thou last year and I been chasin’ him ever since. Lying bastard went around sayin’ I must have whatchacallit, dementia, cause I never gave him no money. Bad enough he took my money, then he tried to make a fool of me. If he wasn’t Concetta’s son-in-law, I woulda killed him.”
“Speaking of that, I understand Concetta made capozzelli for you and Aldo, Sunday.”
“Yeah, it was delicious. And no, I didn’t slip him no poison. We had half each, the brains, the cheeks, the eyes, all of it.” He rubbed his hand on his belly. “Fab-u-loso. And now that Aldo’s gone, I get it all to myself next time.” He leaned across the table. “Concetta ain’t no fool. If she was going to poison that head, she wouldn’t have invited me.”
“You let him get away with not repaying all that money?”
He smiled. “Me and Concetta are gonna be ninety soon. We been friends too long for me to screw with her family. Besides, I wouldn’t do that to Angela, though she’ll be better off without the creep. Anyway, he’s into so many people for so much money, I figured somebody’s gonna do him sooner or later. So, Doll, I’m innocent.” He paused. “Of this one, at least.” His laugh was infectious and, despite herself, Chiara smiled. He reminded her of the old guys in Bensonhurst, the Brooklyn neighborhood where she grew up.
She handed him a card. “Thank you, Tony. Give me a call if you think of anything.”
He stood and walked her to the door. “What if I think of calling you for a date?” he said, loud enough for his cronies to hear. Somebody cheered.
“I’m flattered, but I never mix business and pleasure.”
On the street, Chiara put on her sunglasses. She glanced at her wristwatch. Concetta Moretti and her grandson should be back by now.
CONCETTA invited Chiara in. The kitchen smelled like home: a large pot of tomato sauce bubbled on the stove, something crackled in the oven, a pile of chopped garlic stood ready on the counter next to several heads of escarole, three bunches of broccoli, and a huge bowl of salad. But it was the trays of Italian desserts displayed on the table that stirred Chiara’s stomach.
“Sit, Detective. Black or brown?”
“Black.”
Concetta smiled. Apparently, Chiara had passed the first test: understanding the question meant espresso or American coffee.
Concetta placed the demitasse and a sliver of lemon on a saucer in front of Chiara.
“Anisette?”
“No thanks, no alcohol while on duty.” Actually, she never added the sweet liquor to her espresso.
Concetta pointed. “Cannoli, nucca della, struffoli, cheese cake, biscotti. A little of each?”
Chiara eyed the nucca della. The fried bows were her favorite.
“Nothing, thank you.”
“Afraid I’ll poison you?” Concetta cackled, her eyes sparkling and challenging. She closed her eyes, moved her hand over the dish of cannoli, picked one, then made a show of biting and chewing it.
Chiara indicated the spread. “What’s the occasion?”
“You know how it is. Death in the family, people drop in, you gotta have a little something.”
Chiara sipped her espresso. “By now, you know that your son-in-law’s mot
her has accused you of poisoning him, so I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Sure honey. Ask away, I ain’t got nothing to hide.”
“How did you get along with your son-in-law?”
Concetta popped the rest of the cannoli in her mouth, chewed and swallowed. “I cooked, he ate. He loved my cooking.”
“From what I’ve gathered, he took advantage of your generosity.”
Concetta shrugged. “Family. You share what you got.”
“What about his treatment of your daughter?”
“Did I say I liked him? I hated the bastard. He put my daughter through hell, he shamed her, he shamed his kids, he shamed my family. I’m glad he’s dead.”
Whoa. Chiara sat back. “So you killed him?”
She threw her head back and laughed. “Nah.”
Concetta turned as a slender young man entered the kitchen. “Ah, here’s my favorite grandson. Philly, this is Detective Corelli, a nice Italian girl.” She winked at Chiara.
He kissed his grandmother, then turned to Chiara. “Look at that face.” He pinched Concetta’s cheek. “Is that the face of a murderer?”
Concetta beamed and flushed like a teenager.
“I’m starving.” He poured himself a cup of espresso and held the pot out to Chiara.
“No, thanks, I’m already hyper.”
He reached for a cannoli.
“Make sure it’s not the one with poison,” Concetta said, her eyes on Chiara.
Chiara struggled to keep a straight face. It was hard not to like the woman.
“Okay, Granny.” Philly finished the cannoli in two bites, wiped his lips, and carefully folded his napkin. “I hear you’re investigating Uncle Aldo’s death.”
“True.”
“Well, Granny didn’t poison him. My uncle was in bad shape. After walking a few feet, he huffed and puffed like someone who’d just climbed to the top of the Empire State Building.”
Like his mother climbing the steps, Chiara thought.
“I thought his heart finally gave out,” Philly said.
Concetta cut a large slice of cheesecake and put it in front of him. “Be careful, Philly, I can’t remember if I put poison in that.” She smirked.
“No, thanks.” He moved the plate back to her.
Concetta slid it toward him.
The back and forth was familiar. Growing up, Chiara had had countless exchanges like that with her Aunt Carmela, who wouldn’t take no for an answer and pushed food on everyone with the zeal of a drug lord. She could still hear Uncle Mario moaning, “One more bite and I’m a dead man.”
“Granny hated him but she would never commit murder,” Philly said. “She loves to feed people. So she cooked all the things he loved every night and put them in front of him. Like she’s doing with me and this cheesecake. But, I can say no. Uncle Aldo couldn’t. He ate and ate and ate, every night, until he could barely breathe.”
He moved the cheesecake to the center of the table. “I told her she should be cooking diet food for him, but she said she was too old to learn new recipes.”
Concetta smirked. “Hey, Aldo was sixty years old. Was it my fault he ignored what his doctors told him? Besides, if he didn’t get what he wanted here, he would go to a restaurant and spend money he didn’t have.” She waved a hand over the trays of sweets. “Have somethin’ else, Philly.”
Chiara stood. She knew what the autopsy would say. Concetta had killed Aldo all right. She’d done what she always did. She’d cooked his favorites. Aldo had done what he always did. Stuffed himself. You could say Concetta had killed him with kindness. And kindness—even with intent—is not a crime.
Concetta smiled. “When you see Aldo’s mother, tell her she’s invited for dinner, anytime.”
THANKSGIVING ON THE THROGS NECK BRIDGE
Terrie Farley Moran
WHEN I was a kid, I dreaded the Thanksgiving trip to my grandmother’s house on Long Island. Not that I didn’t love Pop’s mother, a cozy woman overflowing with hugs and smelling like fresh-baked cookies. She always sent us birthday cards with crisp dollar bills and usually slipped every grandkid a shiny quarter whenever we visited. I always wondered how such a sweet lady could have a raging bully for a son.
A trip that would take barely an hour on your average Thursday could turn into long hours in bumper to bumper traffic on Thanksgiving Day. Pop would be drinking his beer all the way and getting nastier by the minute. But in 1961, the year I turned fifteen, the long anticipated Throgs Neck Bridge finally opened and was bound to shorten the trip, shorten the ordeal.
As usual, my father put two six-packs of Rheingold beer on the floor behind the driver’s seat while my mother pretended not to notice. I nudged my brother, and he shifted his feet so as not to shake the cans. We both remembered the Labor Day car ride to Orchard Beach.
It had been an extra hot, sticky day, and the ride from the west Bronx all the way across the borough to the cool waters of the Long Island Sound seemed to go on forever. Lenny idly swung his foot, tap—tap—tap against the brown paper bag. Somewhere along Pelham Parkway, my father told us to pass up a cold one. He leaned into the glove compartment for the heavy metal can opener, its sharp triangular point edged with the gunk of a thousand cans of beer. At the next red light he punctured the top of the can. Foam shot up, sprayed the roof of the car and splattered all over him. Wet soggy bubbles floated back and burst on me and Lenny. Luckily, Mama had stayed home to clean or she’d have been in the soggy mess too. Pop turned the car around, and we headed home, him yelling all the way. At every red light, he’d take a swat at Lenny’s legs. At first Lenny cried, but I kept giving him the hand-across-my-neck signal. Stop now. Crying just got Pop more riled, and he’d spin more out of control.
I clenched my fists, barely able to stand it. How’d the old man like it if someone smacked him around like that?
We walked through the courtyard and into the building, with Pop shouting and pushing Lenny ahead of him, promising to “fix your scrawny ass.” That time of year, neighbors left their apartment doors open to capture any bit of breeze that came through the hallway. Rickety gates, yellow sticks forming a diamond-shape pattern, were spread across the doorways where dogs or toddlers lived. As we climbed the stairs I could hear the doors close on the floors above us. If you heard it, but didn’t see it, you couldn’t be a witness. It was the code of the tenements.
Mama came running down from our apartment on the third floor.
“Be quiet. Does the whole building need to hear you?” She gave Pop a look that would have silenced me, but he was bigger and stronger. He needed only to raise the back of his hand in threat. She ducked past him, grabbed my brother and me by the hand. We ran down the stairs and out the door. She walked us to the nearby playground. Lenny whined about not going to the beach, but Mama shushed him promising we’d take the bus to Orchard Beach soon. And she promised ice cream, too.
Sometimes, on our way to school, we’d walk past my father’s car parked along Andrews Avenue or on one of the side streets. The dark blue Bel Air used to be classy looking until Pop hit one of the wide iron stanchions supporting the Jerome Avenue el train. That happened on one of the endless nights he’d come home half in the bag and roaring for something to eat. Now the passenger side front fender was a crumpled, rusted mess.
Sometimes, Lenny stopped at the car to take a regretful look at The Secret of the Old Mill, a Hardy Boys mystery he’d left on the rear window ledge during the Labor Day scuffle. Once he said, “Aunt Lolly gave it to me for my birthday. I wish it was a library book, then he’d have to give it back, right?”
I ruffled his hair. “Don’t worry, sooner or later, we’ll get another ride in the car. You’ll get your book then.” I tapped his shoulder. “Tag, you’re it.” And we ran down the hill, heading off to school.
Weeks later, Halloween brought its own special nightmare. The old man was on a tear and hadn’t come home for a day or two. I was secretly hoping to get through the holiday with
just the spooky fun of it, like a normal family. Right after school, Mama let us trick or treat for a while, but only in the building. I was too old for one of those costumes-in-a-box, so I put on one of my old jackets a couple of sizes too small that was just hanging in the back of the closet waiting for Lenny to grow into it. I had a broomstick, cut down for stickball games, tucked under my bed. I pulled it out, tied a bright red bandanna around the end and my hobo costume was complete. Lenny wore an old cowboy hat along with a new black eye mask and was convinced he was the spitting image of the Lone Ranger.
Excited as we were and already eating candy, Mama still made us sit down for a plate of franks and beans before the real fun began—going out after dark on a school night to load up on candy or chalk the doors of those folks who didn’t open to give us a Hershey bar or a nickel. We’d just finished traipsing through the building next door when I heard the hollering, followed by a whimper like an old dog who’d been kicked once too often.
Lenny was jumping around. He kept opening his bag wider and wider, wanting me to be amazed at all his boxes of Good and Plenty. “They’re my favorite, Joey. My very best favorite.”
He made a face when I hushed him, but then he heard it too. He froze. I pushed him back up the steps of the building we’d just left. “Wait in the hall until I come back for you.”
He nodded and ran through the big brass door.
I took a few steps toward our house, and then I could see them. Pop must have dragged her out to find us, bring us home. He had one arm out straight, his hand holding a fistful of Mama’s curly brown hair. He swung her in a deep semi-circle from one side to another. His other hand slapped her face repeatedly.
“You let my kids go begging? Trying to shame me? Like we can’t afford food? Find them. Bring the little bastards home.”
Mama was quiet, trying to avoid crying as best she could.
The people on the street, men coming home from work, mothers with costumed children, hurried by, wanting to leave a private matter private.
He was so drunk that one smack went wild; he missed Mama completely and hit his own extended arm. He lost his grip, tossing Mama free. Her body continued to follow the arc his momentum had started. Pop collapsed to the sidewalk, struggled to his knees then fell flat and stayed there. Mama steadied herself before trying to help him up.
Family Matters Page 4
