Dopplegangster

by Laura Resnick

  “I hypothesize,” Max said, “that it was created that way. I suspect the creature may not have known that Johnny Be Good’s body had been found. It may not even have killed Johnny. We must keep in mind that poor Chubby Charlie saw his perfect double, but no one saw who killed Charlie, even though many people were present and the doppelgangster, based on what we know so far, is a visible, tangible phenomenon.”

  “So if we’re not sure the double killed Johnny Be Good, and we’re not sure it even knew he was dead . . .” I spread my hands in a helpless gesture.

  “Keep in mind the short lifespan that Lucky has mentioned. I suspect the creature was created to last only until the death of the original was discovered,” Max said. “At that moment in time, and quite possibly without knowing why, the doppelgangster felt a sudden compulsion to depart. Shortly thereafter, I suspect, it ceased to exist.”

  “So . . .” Lucky thought it over. “The reason we ain’t seen Charlie’s doppelgangster since before he got whacked is because there were witnesses to his death.”

  Max nodded. “There was no interval between Charlie’s death and the discovery of his demise. I postulate that his double ceased to exist almost immediately thereafter. But in Johnny Be Good’s case . . .”

  I said, “The river has damaged the evidence, and there are witnesses who’ll confuse the trail considerably because they saw or spoke to ‘Johnny’ hours after the forensic estimate suggests that he was already dead.”

  “The police will be forced to conclude,” Max said, “that a serious mistake was made in the collection or interpretation of the physical evidence. And they’ll never be able to pinpoint what it was.”

  “So the killer doesn’t even need an alibi for the time of the murder,” I said. “Because the cops will never be sure when it happened.”

  “Meanwhile, in between when Johnny’s wife last saw him and when he turned up dead, no one was lookin’ for him because no one knew he was missing.” Lucky said with reluctant admiration, “This is one slippery hitter. The cops’ll never figure out who whacked Johnny. Or Charlie.”

  I looked at Lucky. “And you know who else might never figure this out?”

  Lucky let out his breath and nodded. “The Gambello family. The Corvinos found a hitter that can pick us off like wooden ducks at a carnival shooting gallery. And we might never figure out who it is or how he’s doing it.”

  “You’ve got two deaths in the family, and you’re just guessing it’s the Corvinos,” I said. Lopez was just guessing, too. “But I don’t see how that makes sense. Not with a killer as smart as you say this one is. Surely the Corvinos must know you’ll suspect them and hit back. So why isn’t the killer trying to make these deaths look like an accident?”

  Lucky shrugged. “Because in our line of work, one death might be an accident, but two is always a business problem. No matter what it looked like, we’d suspect the Corvinos by the time the second guy bought the farm. So why bother to disguise it? For the Corvinos, the main thing is to keep the cops from nailing them for these hits.” As his phone rang, he added, “Betcha they’re enjoying this.” He glanced at the readout. “It’s Danny.”

  “We need to meet him.” Max added firmly, “Without bloodshed.”

  Lucky answered his phone by saying, “I been tryin’ to reach you since last night, you putz.”

  Max looked at me anxiously.

  “Danny won’t hang up,” I assured him in a low voice. “This is how people in Lucky’s profession talk to each other.”

  “Ah! Another interesting example of their dialect. I see.”

  Lucky said, “What? Huh? Why should I believe you? Who? When? Get real.” After another minute or two of this, he covered the receiver with his hand and said to us, “Danny says the Corvinos been watching the news and are feeling very concerned. They claim they didn’t do these two hits on our family, and they want a sit-down to make sure we ain’t gonna hit them back, because that would be a terrible injustice.”

  “Do you think that’s Danny talking? Or is it his double?” I asked.

  “Don’t really matter,” Lucky said. “Whichever one it is, Max wants to talk to him. Er, it. Whatever. Right, Doc?”

  “Indeed,” said Max.

  Lucky nodded and said into the receiver, “I’d rather kiss Osama Bin Laden than have a sit-down with you, you jerk.”

  Max gasped and reached for the phone. I stopped him, figuring Lucky knew what he was doing. While I struggled with Max, my own phone rang.

  Lucky covered his phone while I checked the LCD panel on mine. “Relax, Doc,” he said. “Reverse psychology. Let’s let Danny think this sit-down was strictly his idea, that we don’t even want to come. It’ll make our hand stronger when we’re face-to-face.”

  “Oh!” Max relaxed. “I see.” He smiled. “My dear fellow, clearly I should leave this in your hands. I apologize!”

  My caller was Lopez. I flipped open my phone. “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me. I’m sorry about last night.”

  Lucky whispered to me, “Should I suggest the bookstore?”

  “For what?” I said.

  Lopez said, “Uh, for canceling our date.”

  I covered the phone for a moment so he wouldn’t hear me speaking to Lucky again.

  Lucky said, “For the sit-down. Do we want to meet here?”

  I shook my head. I was disinclined to hold a Mafia sit-down in the place where Max lived and worked.

  “Esther?” Lopez said, sounding puzzled. “Are you okay?”

  I removed my hand from the receiver and assured Lopez, “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. You really don’t need to worry so much about me.” Then I said to Lucky, “How about Bella Stella? It’s closed and empty.”

  “Oh, please, don’t you start on me, too,” said Lopez. “Stella Butera is bad enough.”

  “What?” I said absently into the phone.

  Lucky shook his head. “No way will the Corvinos come to Stella’s. It’s Gambello turf.”

  Lopez said, “Stella’s lawyer is claiming restraint of trade and . . . oh, a bunch of other stuff. I can’t keep his jabbering straight after two minutes. And it turns out Stella’s got friends in high places. So it looks like we’re going to have to let her reopen the restaurant soon.”

  Lucky said, “Danny’s suggesting St. Monica’s.”

  “That’s good,” I said with a nod to Lucky.

  “Not it’s not good.” Lopez sounded irritable. “Look, I know you like Stella, and I know you want to start earning again—even though I really want you to find a safer job—but it’s a crime scene, Esther. A crime where we can’t even figure out how the crime was committed! So we might need to go over the scene again. But it looks like that’s just too damn bad, and Stella will get her way.”

  Lucky said to me and Max, “Okay, we’re on. The sit-down is set for St. Monica’s. Tonight at eight o’clock.”

  “Meanwhile,” Lopez continued wearily, “the Shy Don’s lawyer—who, by remarkable coincidence, is the same lawyer representing Stella—is pressuring us to release the bodies of Chubby Charlie and Johnny Be Good, so that the family can hold their funerals.”

  “So release the bodies,” I said absently.

  Lucky and Max looked at me. I waved a dismissive hand at them.

  “It’s a murder investigation, Esther,” Lopez said. “And we’re not scheduling our work around the Gambellos’ social calendar!”

  “Sore subject?” I guessed.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” Lopez sighed. “Anyhow, until we sort out the discrepancies between the physical evidence and various witness statements, releasing the bodies to be embalmed isn’t our favorite choice.”

  “I know there are discrepancies,” I said. “But I told you exactly what I saw. I told Napoli. I told you both. Over and over.”

  “I didn’t mean you,” Lopez said soothingly. “Well, not just you.”

  “Oh?”

  Nearby, I heard Lucky making the exchange o
f insults with Danny that signaled they were preparing to say good-bye and get off the phone.

  Lopez said to me, “We’ve got witnesses who say they talked to Johnny Gambello hours after the medical examiner says he was already dead.”

  “So there’s confusion about when Johnny Be Good died?” I asked, a little loudly. When Lucky and Max looked at me again, I nodded.

  “We’re going to have to reinterview everyone we’ve talked to,” Lopez said, sounding tired.

  I prudently decided not to mention that I was one of the people who’d spoken with Johnny after he was dead.

  Deciding it was time to change the subject, I said to him, “Never mind dead wiseguys. How are you? You’ve been working ridiculous hours. You haven’t even had a day off since coming back from Long Island!”

  “Oh, I’m fine. Actually, that’s why I called,” he said in a lighter tone. “They finally noticed my overtime and ordered me to take a couple of days off. Are you free tonight?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  No, no, no . . . I wanted to drum my heels and cry.

  “I wish I was free,” I said sincerely. “But I have plans I can’t change. Uh, too many people involved.”

  “If it’s an orgy, I could come along and be your partner,” he suggested.

  “I can’t bring a date to this,” I said truthfully.

  “Oh, well. Okay.” The fact that he never sulked was fast becoming one of my favorite things about him. He asked, “What about tomorrow? I could come over.”

  “Yes,” I agreed readily. “Absolutely. Let’s do something together tomorrow.”

  “You know what I want to do together.” His voice was silky now.

  I glanced at Max and Lucky, wishing they’d feel a sudden, doppelgangster-like compulsion to depart.

  “And I want to cooperate fully with that,” I said carefully.

  Lucky gave me a wary glance. I shook my head and rolled my eyes, hoping he’d think I was just humoring Lopez about the investigation.

  “Well, I was thinking . . .” Lopez said. The tone of his voice made me fantasize about the expression on his face right now. “Since dating has turned out to be too complicated for us to manage, maybe we should back-burner this dinner that we keep canceling.”

  “That’s right,” I said, realizing. “You’ve never even bought me dinner!”

  “Not for lack of trying,” he pointed out.

  “The bum!” Lucky said.

  “Is there someone with you?” Lopez asked.

  “I’m in a shop.” Strictly speaking, this was true. “You were saying?”

  “Oh, you’re shopping? Okay, since you’re busy, I’ll make this fast. I was thinking I’d come by tomorrow afternoon for a few hours of hot sex—you know, the kind that makes the neighbors complain about the noise. And then I’ll take you out for dinner. Or maybe we’ll just order out. We’ll play it by ear after we’ve exhausted each other. Deal?”

  A wave of heat washed over me, and I didn’t trust myself to say anything in front of Max and Lucky that wouldn’t make the rest of the day extremely awkward for me.

  “Still there?” I could hear the smile in Lopez’s voice.

  “Yes,” I said faintly. “It’s a deal.”

  “See you then,” he murmured. “Oh, and don’t bother dressing up for the occasion. I don’t plan to be gentle with whatever you’ve wearing when I get there.”

  I made an involuntary sound. Lopez laughed. Max and Lucky looked at me strangely.

  “Bye,” I choked out.

  I gently folded my cell phone shut, then sat there staring at it with a stupid smile, feeling flushed and dizzy . . . and extremely conscious of the two men gazing at me with fatherly expressions. Max looked anxious, Lucky looked annoyed.

  “What did the cop want?” Lucky said. “You look all pink and guilty.”

  “It’s under control,” I said, continuing my pretense that Lopez had called about the case.

  “Don’t kid yourself,” said Lucky. “Love ain’t never under control.”

  I thought of the Widow Giacalona and supposed he was speaking from experience.

  “One gathers from your end of the conversation that, as we surmised, the police are indeed struggling with physical evidence that conflicts with eyewitness accounts?” Max said.

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “This is a realm in which the mundane forces of law and order, though well-intentioned, are helpless—and possibly even an impediment.”

  “You mean the cops could get in the way?” Lucky asked.

  “Precisely.” Max’s expression grew concerned. “Or even endanger themselves.”

  “And you’re not looking at me that way because you’re worried the charmless Detective Napoli could be in danger,” I guessed.

  “Well, I feel some concern for Detective Napoli’s safety, too, but I know you are not attached to him.”

  “No, indeed.”

  “And as you and I have previously seen,” Max said gravely, “Detective Lopez is a most dedicated and astute young man. He may pursue this case with more determination that is healthy for him.”

  Realizing Max had a point, I looked at Lucky.

  The old hit man said, “Don’t even think about it. I ain’t gonna expend energy to watch a cop’s back.”

  “He’s my boyfriend,” I pointed out. “Or almost.”

  “You should be more careful about the friends you choose,” Lucky grumbled.

  “I believe that, in good conscience, we must count Detective Lopez as an innocent under our protection,” Max said to Lucky.

  Lucky snorted. “I met this guy, and I can guess how he’d like that description.”

  “Max didn’t say we should tell Lopez we’re watching out for him,” I said, knowing Lucky was right. Lopez would be appalled to learn how involved in this I was, and he’d be somewhere between amused and insulted that Max and Lucky were thinking of watching his back. “But even so . . .”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Lucky said in disgust. “Fine. Whatever. We’ll watch your boyfriend’s back. But if you think he’s going to return the favor and watch ours, then you don’t know nothin’ about cops.”

  “Thank you, Lucky.” I beamed at him. He scowled back at me.

  Max said, “Did he press you about our plans?”

  “Huh?”

  “Did Detective Lopez attempt to ascertain our next move?”

  “Oh! Um, no.”

  “So we can go ahead with the sit-down without worrying the cops will bust in?” Lucky asked.

  “Yes.” The case had obviously not been Lopez’s priority when he called me. I felt hot again. “We’re good to go.”

  “Well, then,” Max said brightly, “let’s plan our strategy. Er, how does one prepare for a meeting of this nature?”

  “First rule of a sit-down,” Lucky said, “you gotta leave your piece at home.”

  “My piece?” Max said.

  “Your rod. Your peacemaker,” Lucky elaborated.

  “We don’t want to make peace?” Max asked in confusion.

  Lucky sighed. “I can see we got a lot of work ahead of us before tonight.”

  12

  Hoping to collect the transparent black wrap I had left behind the night before, I got to St. Monica’s half an hour early for the sit-down.

  I had just finished talking with Lucky on my cell phone. He wanted to make sure I had followed his advice after leaving the bookstore that afternoon; I assured him that I was now dressed appropriately for the evening. Lucky thought a meeting between the Gambellos and the Corvinos, particularly in the current circumstances, would be tense enough without the presence of outsiders making everyone jumpy. However, since he also thought Max and I needed to be there, he decided the best thing would be for us to try to fit in.

  I felt sure I could comply, but we both had our doubts about Max. So while I went home to change clothes, Lucky had remained at the shop, continuing to teach Manhattan’s resident mage t
o blend in with the wiseguys. Lucky had also phoned two of his colleagues and told them to be at the sit-down; Danny would bring two soldiers, too. So now, with a small bunch of violent felons due to arrive soon at St. Monica’s to hear (little did they suspect) our theories about apparitional bilocated doppelgängerism, I prayed for good luck—and felt an unprecedented impulse to make the sign of the Cross.

  “I’ve been hanging out in church too much,” I muttered to myself.

  I glanced around the shadowy, silent interior of St. Monica’s, hoping to see Father Gabriel. It was presumably too late in the day for a church administrator to be here, and I had no idea where they stowed lost-and-found items. I supposed I could go into the crypt to see if my wrap was right where I’d left it . . . But the last time I had visited the crypt, I’d met a doppelgangster down there, so I was reluctant to venture back into that subterranean chamber on my own. Even the bunny costumes from the Easter play couldn’t make that place seem unthreatening to me now.

  My roving gaze settled on the only other person in the church at moment. The Widow Giacalona was kneeling before the altar of Saint Monica, her head bowed in prayer. People weren’t exaggerating about her devotion.

  I wondered if the widow would go to the crypt with me to look for my wrap.

  When she lifted her head, crossed herself, and rose to her feet, I cleared my throat and said, “Hello. Nice to see you again.”

  She looked over her shoulder at me. The large, dark, long-lashed eyes showed no spark of recognition. “Have we met?” she asked with a faint frown.

  I realized that by dressing to blend in at the sit-down, I had changed my appearance so much that the widow didn’t know me.

  “I’m Esther Diamond.” When this obviously didn’t ring a bell, I added, “Lucky Battistuzzi’s friend.”

  You know—a chorus girl with ties to the mob.

  “Oh. Yes.” A look of disgust crossed her face. “Lucky’s gumata.”

  I knew from conversations I overheard at Bella Stella that gumata was a loaded word for a wiseguy’s girlfriend; men said it carelessly, and women never used it nicely. However, the widow had lost three husbands and had legitimate grievances against Lucky, so I decided to let the insult pass.