Dopplegangster

by Laura Resnick

  “Now?” he said. “You don’t want to wait for the others?”

  I explained that I had come early in search of my wrap. Seeing his blank expression, I asked, “Didn’t the administrator I spoke to on the phone today give you the message?”

  He shook his head. “At least, I don’t think so. I admit, I can be a bit absentminded. But I was in the crypt earlier, Esther, to set it up for your meeting, and I don’t remember seeing an evening wrap there. Of course, I’m not very knowledgeable about ladies’ accessories, and I wasn’t looking for it. Shall we go and have a look now?”

  I nodded and thanked him. He gestured for me to precede him, then encouraged the widow to find solace in her prayers. With Father Gabriel’s sturdy footsteps echoing behind me, I went toward the stairs that led down into the crypt.

  13

  Once Father Gabriel and I were out of earshot of the widow, I said, “I think I made her angry. I didn’t mean to.”

  “Well, it must be admitted that she’s prone to anger,” Father Gabriel said gently, as we descended the stairs to the crypt. “Especially when the subject of, er, certain families comes up. The Gambellos and Corvinos have given her much to grieve over.”

  “Both families?” I asked curiously.

  “Oh, yes. Both families. It’s terribly sad. The trials she has been through, the sorrows and injustices . . .”

  The lights were already on at the bottom of the brick-lined staircase, as well as inside the crypt. Within the underground chamber, I found no memories of Johnny, thank goodness. Just bunny costumes, chairs, tables, and food. A lot of food.

  I said, “Wow! When you said refreshments, I thought you meant a pot of coffee and a box of doughnuts.”

  There was a folding table set up near the far wall, and it was practically groaning beneath the weight of deli foods from, I assumed, one of Little Italy’s mouth-watering salumerie. Paper-thin slices of prosciutto were delicately rolled and arranged on the same platter with shining slices of fresh mozzarella, creamy-colored provo-lone, plump purple figs, well-marbled salami, crisp-looking slices of red and green bell pepper, and pale green melon balls. Another tray contained slices of lightly seasoned roasted eggplant and grilled zucchini, four kinds of olives, and marinated mushrooms. There was a basket of Italian bread, and a generous supply of miniature cannoli—crispy tubes of dessert pastry stuffed with sweetened ricotta cheese and tiny bits of dark chocolate, then dusted with powdered sugar. A selection of sodas, fruit juices, and bottled water was chilling on ice, and there was an electric cappuccino maker with a pitcher of milk beside it.

  “There’s no wine,” Father Gabriel said apologetically. “I just thought, you know, a tense meeting about a deadly matter among bitter enemies . . .”

  “Ah,” I said. “Yes. Alcohol might not be a good idea. They could get tipsy and shoot up the church.”

  “Or one of us,” he said with feeling.

  “Good point,” I said.

  “I hope they won’t mind.”

  “With this spread, I don’t see how any reasonable person can have objections.” Our eyes met . . . and though we exchanged no words, we shared the same thought at the same moment—and chuckled together. This meeting wasn’t for reasonable people, of course; it was for wiseguys. I smiled at the priest, liking him. “I’ll explain it to Lucky. I’m sure he’ll agree and take care of any complaints that arise.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Was the collections dish especially full on Sunday, Father? This seems like a pretty expensive refreshments table.”

  “Lucky said that Danny Dapezzo would reimburse the church.”

  “Oh.” I nodded. “Good.”

  Since I doubted Lucky had cleared that with Danny, I decided to make sure someone repaid the priest. I doubted any of St. Monica’s parishioners made their weekly contributions in the belief that their hard-earned cash would be used to feed tasty delicacies to wealthy wiseguys.

  Looking around the crypt, Father Gabriel said, “Thinking of the widow’s tragic past almost made me forget why we came down here. Do you remember where you left your wrap?”

  “Draped over the back of the chair I was sitting on.”

  Since the room was rearranged, there was no telling which chair had been mine. I didn’t see the garment anywhere, so I started looking through the chairs that were folded and stacked against the wall. “Maybe someone put my chair back, and my wrap slid down to the floor?”

  “Let’s see.” The priest started investigating a different stack of chairs.

  I couldn’t resist asking, “I understand Elena has lost three husbands, Father?”

  “Yes, her life has been very difficult. Hmm, no, I don’t see a black wrap over here. I’ll look at that stack over there,” he said. “Elena’s losses have brought her closer to her faith, but at great personal cost.”

  “Her first husband worked for the Gambello family?” I asked, trying not to sound gossipy.

  “More than that. He was one of the Shy Don’s many nephews.”

  That surprised me. “Was he a brother of Johnny Gambello?”

  “No, Anthony and Johnny were cousins. But they were almost as close as brothers. Anthony was older, and he tried to take Johnny under his wing. Help him, give him some guidance. But that, of course, turned out very bitterly.”

  “How so?” I asked, looking around the room and wondering where else my wrap might have fallen or been dropped. Among the bunny costumes? It seemed unlikely, but I checked anyhow.

  Father Gabriel explained, “About twenty years ago, Johnny had an affair with a lady whom a certain drug lord considered his, er, exclusive companion.”

  “Okay, I know Johnny wasn’t very bright, but why would the woman do something so dumb?” I wondered.

  “Well, though his looks were eventually ruined by his indulgences, Johnny was quite a handsome young man. So the woman may have found him irresistible. I remember neighborhood girls my own age swooning over Johnny back then, though we were much younger than he, of course.”

  “So you grew up around the Gambellos?” I asked.

  “Yes. Hmm, I’m afraid I don’t see your wrap anywhere, Esther.”

  “No, I don’t, either.” But I was more interested in our conversation by now. “You knew Johnny back then?”

  “No, I just knew who he was. As everyone did. Well, everyone except the cuckolded drug lord and his thugs.”

  “They came looking for him?”

  Father Gabriel nodded. “But Johnny was not unaware of the risks of wooing that woman, so he had taken a precaution when introducing himself to her. And it’s easy to believe that he was too foolish to consider how horribly the jest would backfire, or what it would cost others.”

  “Oh, my God!” I covered my mouth. “Er, pardon me, Father. I mean . . . You’re saying Johnny told the woman he was Anthony?”

  The priest nodded. “Precisely. As a result, Anthony’s body was found . . . Well, I’ll spare you the details, but it was a brutal death. And Elena, just over thirty at the time, became a widow.”

  “What a terrible story,” I said with feeling. “No wonder she hated Johnny. But considering that Johnny had caused his cousin’s death, why didn’t Don Victor . . .”

  “Well, Johnny was also a nephew of the don. So he was given a pass.”

  I’d heard the expression before. At Bella Stella, of course. “And I gather it wouldn’t turn out to be the last time, either, that the Shy Don spared Johnny for doing something that would typically be a killing offense.”

  “No, indeed,” the priest agreed.

  “But how did Elena wind up married to a Corvino after that?” I sat in a chair and gestured for the priest to do the same.

  “She fell in love,” Father Gabriel said simply, taking a seat. “They met here, in fact. I gather she sought support and counsel from Father Stefano, who was the priest here back then. Father Stefano encouraged their love, believing that the union of a Gambello widow and Corvino soldier might end the constant
and deadly violence between the two families.” Father Gabriel sighed. “He had a good heart and a strong faith, but he was naive about these matters.”

  “It’s a real Romeo and Juliet story, isn’t it?”

  “With an equally unhappy outcome.”

  “When the Gambellos found out,” I guessed, “the sh . . . er, things hit the fan?”

  “Elena married her Corvino lover in secret, then went alone to Don Victor’s home to confess the truth, to ask for his forgiveness and blessing. He was so enraged, he tried to kill her.”

  I gasped, imagining the violence of that confrontation. The frail old man’s vitriol and fury, Elena’s fear and desperation, and the thugs who were probably just outside the door, prepared to carry out whatever heinous act their boss ordered.

  Father Gabriel continued, “But even the don, who had committed so many acts of deadly violence before growing old and turning over the dirty work to his subordinates . . . Even he stopped short of murdering a woman. Just short. Elena says she had dark bruises on her throat for a week after that night.”

  I put my hand up to my own throat, disturbed by the mental image of the Shy Don trying to kill his nephew’s remarried widow.

  Father Gabriel shrugged. “There is some reluctance among wiseguys to murder a woman.”

  “I guess that saved Elena’s life.”

  He sighed. “Well, they didn’t kill Elena, but as far as the Gambellos were concerned, there was still unfinished business to settle. A Corvino had courted a Gambello widow. He had poached in sacred territory. In their code of honor, they couldn’t rest without making an example of him. So Lucky . . . Oh. Oh, dear.” He looked at me, evidently recalling that I hung out with Lucky. “Never mind.”

  “So Lucky killed him?” I asked in shock. “For that?” I had assumed Lucky’s murder of Elena’s second husband was “business,” not something so personal, so vicious.

  “Yes.”

  “No wonder she hates Lucky so much,” I said, appalled.

  “Yes,” Father Gabriel repeated.

  I felt depressed. I was suddenly ashamed to think of Lucky as my friend, as someone I liked.

  Lopez had been right, I was naive. I knew Lucky was a killer! Had I really supposed he’d had good reasons for murdering people?

  “Of course, Elena remarried in time,” said Father Gabriel.

  “Uh-huh,” I said, not really interested now, feeling sick as I thought about the deeds of a man I had described to Elena as my friend only a few minutes ago.

  “To another Corvino.” The priest shrugged. “Perhaps she was lonely. Or perhaps staying within a powerful family made her feel safer. But, of course, Eddie Giacalona was killed, too. About two years ago.”

  “By Lucky?”

  “No. By another Corvino.”

  I looked at Father Gabriel in surprise. “They killed one of their own?”

  “For betraying the family.” He snorted and added, “Not all bosses are as sentimental as the Shy Don.”

  “So Elena must hate the Corvinos almost as much as she hates the Gambellos.”

  “It’s an obsession with her.” He looked even sadder. “She comes here to pray twice a day, almost every day. But her heart has not yet felt God’s infinite love and forgiveness.”

  “That’s hardly surprising, is it?” I said.

  He suddenly changed his tone and the subject. “But listen to me, gossiping about all this water under the bridge. We still haven’t found your wrap, have we? We should look in the lost and found. If you spoke to Mrs. Campanello—that’s who was in the office today—she probably came down, found it, and put it there. Why didn’t I think of that before? You stay here, Esther, I’ll go look.”

  He was gone only a minute before I discovered that, in my newly dark mood, the silent crypt felt oppressive and Johnny’s ghost was everywhere—like the ghosts of Elena’s husbands. So I slid out of my chair and climbed the steps back up to the church.

  It seemed Elena Giacalona was not destined to pray in peace this evening. There was a man sitting next to her on the church pew, talking to her. I recognized Don Michael (“no relation, I assure you”) Buonarotti. His presence didn’t seem to agitate her the way Lucky’s did. They were speaking together in low voices. The expression on her face was serious and a little tense, but she seemed to be speaking to him in a reasonable way. At one point, she placed a hand over the pendant that hung around her neck. I thought again of the Shy Don trying to strangle her.

  Her gaze shifted away from Buonarotti and she saw me. The stiffening of her posture must have warned him they weren’t alone; he immediately looked in my direction.

  “Miss Diamond.” He rose to his feet. “Nice to see to again.”

  I was surprised he recognized me. No one else had. I supposed Elena must have told him I was here.

  “How are you?” I said politely.

  “Disappointed,” he said. “I’m trying to convince this lovely lady to join me for dinner, but she refuses.”

  I gestured to our surroundings. “You’ve chosen an interesting setting for courtship.”

  He shrugged. “It’s where I can count on finding her.”

  “I think I’ll start praying at home,” Elena said. “I get more peace there.”

  “Did you see where Father Gabriel went?” I asked them.

  “Through that door.” Buonarotti indicated the same door the priest had come through earlier.

  I turned to go in search of him, but I stopped when the door opened and he came through it.

  “Oh, Esther! I thought you were still downstairs,” he said.

  I didn’t want to tell him that I was afraid to be alone in a well-lighted room full of good food and bunny costumes, so I said, “I thought I’d come help you search the lost and found.”

  “Oh, it’s only a cardboard box under a table,” he said with a smile. “No help needed. But I’m afraid I didn’t find your wrap there.”

  “No?” I was disappointed. Also surprised. “Do you think it’s been stolen? From a church?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” the Widow Giacalona said in disgust. “It’s disgraceful, Father!”

  “There’ve been thefts here?” I asked in surprise.

  “Yes. Too many lately. And what else would you expect,” Elena added darkly, “with all the goombata and young thugs who come to this church?”

  “Now, now,” said Father Gabriel, “they should be respected for attending church, not accused of stealing. Besides a few misplaced items hardly counts as a crime wave.”

  “If you say so, Father,” the widow said grudgingly.

  “So do you think my wrap is gone for good?” I asked in dismay.

  “Oh, perhaps Mrs. Campanello put it somewhere else and didn’t tell me,” Father Gabriel said.

  “No, it’s been stolen,” Elena said with dark certainty.

  “Well, Father, I understand you’ve got company coming that I don’t particularly want to see,” said Buonarotti, “so I’ll be on my way. Elena, may I escort you home?”

  I thought she would refuse, but Father Gabriel said, “Please do agree to it, Elena. It’s later than you usually come here. It would comfort me to know you’re not going home alone.”

  “Very well, Father.” As she stood up, she ignored the hand that Buonarotti extended to her. “But I will certainly be entering my home alone.”

  “Hey, did I suggest otherwise?” said Buonarotti, feigning offense. “But . . . maybe we could stop for dinner along the way?”

  The widow rolled her eyes and turned away without answering him. But I thought I saw a touch of amusement on her face, and I wondered if she’d give in. Maybe the man was wearing her down. Even if she was understandably reluctant to get involved with yet another wiseguy, she might be flattered by the Don’s attentions. And, unlike Lucky, this suitor had not killed any of Elena’s husbands.

  After Don Michael and the widow left, Father Gabriel went back to the crypt to see if his arrangements needed any finis
hing touches. I stayed in the church and strolled over to the statue of St. Monica. I studied the saint for signs of weeping. Finding none, I shrugged; the widow’s religious fervor was undoubtedly accompanied by wishful thinking, perhaps even by outright hallucination. Then, since it seemed the thing to do, given my surroundings, I put a coin in the donations box and lit a candle, hoping for a successful sit-down. Although only gangsters had been killed so far, that didn’t mean that no innocent person would ever be targeted by the powerful entity committing these murders.

  While I was wondering if Elena would find love again, this time with Michael Buonarotti, Lucky and Max entered the church.

  They brought Nelli with them. She noticed me before they did, and she wagged her tail. Apparently she’d forgiven me for the comment about her ears. Maybe dogs—or familiars—didn’t hold grudges.

  “So these were straight hits?” Max was asking Lucky as they walked down the aisle of St. Monica’s.

  “No, no, someone was sending a message with these hits.” Lucky stopped in the middle of the church and elaborated. “A straight hit is when no one ever finds the body. Clean and tidy. Bada-beep-bada-bope-bada-boop.”

  “Oh! Yes, of course. I remember now.”

  “No evidence. No corpse. No case.”

  “Understood, dear fellow.”

  “Don’t call me that at the sit-down.”

  “Yes, of course,” Max said.

  “And don’t say ‘of course.’ Say ‘no shit’ or ‘whatever’ or ‘sure.’ Got it?”

  Max nodded. “Whatever.”

  “When you risk the cops finding the body, it’s because sending a message is important enough to take that chance.”

  “Sure.”

  “So what’s the message we’re supposed to get outta these hits?” Lucky said. “We still don’t know.”

  “No shit.”

  I blinked at the first vulgarity I had ever heard Max use.

  I also blinked at his appearance. He wore a black pin-striped suit with black shirt and a white tie. I looked down and saw he wore shiny black shoes. His unruly white hair was tamed by gel and scraped severely away from his bearded face. The ensemble was topped off by a black fedora with a white hatband.