Dopplegangster

by Laura Resnick

  Lopez look at all three of us for a long, tense moment.

  Then he sighed. “Well, my backup will be here in about two minutes. So if you were never here, then you need to be gone before then.”

  “Really?” I said. “You’ll let us leave? We don’t have to talk to Napoli or anyone?”

  “Esther,” Lopez said wearily, “the very last thing in the world that I want right now is to spend the rest of the night . . . No, the rest of the week . . . No, the rest of my career trying to explain to Napoli and my captain what you were doing here tonight with them.” His glance encompassed Max, Lucky, and Buonarotti.

  “Oh.”

  “We’ve got tainted physical evidence and conflicting witness statements. The, er, chicken-slaughtering priest who’s just committed suicide may be an accessory to murder. We recorded a phone conversation today in which Buonarotti brags about whacking Chubby Charlie, Johnny Be Good, and Danny the Doctor—”

  “He talked about it on the phone?” Lucky looked appalled.

  “—but he sounded so crazy in that conversation that I thought he seemed well on his way to making a credible insanity plea . . .” Lopez took another look at Buonarotti, who was now shrieking with laughter. “Even before now.” He shook his head. “Overall, I don’t think either side is going to want to take this case to trial.”

  Lucky said, “So Buonarotti will go to a prison for head cases. The priest will get buried. This mess will go away quietly. Sounds good to me.”

  I looked at Max, who looked much the worse for wear. “Yes,” I said slowly. “I guess that is for the best.”

  We heard sirens approaching.

  “Go,” Lopez said. “I won’t cover for you if you’re still hanging around when they get here.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “But someday, Esther . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Someday you’re going to explain to me what the hell that crap is that’s all over your face and hands. You look like you’ve had the worst tattoo accident in history.” His gaze swept our group. “All three of you, actually. And your little dog, too.”

  26

  “I was wrong about your boyfriend,” Lucky said. “He may be a cop, but he watched our backs when it counted. He’s a stand-up guy.”

  “I don’t think he’s my boyfriend,” I said morosely.

  “You ain’t sure?”

  “I haven’t talked to him since that night.”

  We stood outside St. Monica’s on the day of Father Gabriel’s funeral, watching the mourners leave. I had initially resisted attending the funeral Mass of the demented killer who’d tried to manipulate three crime families into a war as well as kill me, Elena Giacalona, and Connor Lopez. But Max and Lucky had convinced me that we had to wrap up this one last piece of business.

  So now we were loitering outside the front door of St. Monica’s with Nelli, keeping an eye on the mourners—to see if a doppelgangster attended the service.

  Buonarotti was the final deadly duplicate that Father Gabriel had made, as far as we knew from what we had witnessed upon destroying the demented sorcerer’s altar. But I agreed that we’d rest easier if we made absolutely sure.

  Nelli, with her injured paw wrapped in a fresh bandage and healing nicely, observed everyone leaving the church as the service ended, just as she had observed them entering.

  The priest’s funeral was heavily attended by members of all three of the crime families with which Father Gabriel’s life and evil works had been connected. Many non-felonious parish members were also in attendance. In particular, there were lots of tearful women mourners.

  Lucky said, “So your boyfriend figured out—”

  “Can you just call him Lopez?” I asked.

  “So Lopez figured out that the Gambellos and Corvinos wasn’t hitting each other, huh? Not bad for a cop.”

  “I told you not to underestimate him,” I said.

  According to the newspapers—which was how I was learning about this, since Lopez hadn’t called me—the Organized Crime Control Bureau had initially believed Charlie’s death might be the commencement of a new Corvino-Gambello war. But after Johnny Be Good was hit, an unnamed “new recruit” to the bureau had pointed out that the Corvinos had nothing to gain by killing a useless momzer like Johnny and that the murder of Don Victor’s own nephew would certainly incite a mob war at a time when the Corvinos and Gambellos each had far more to lose from such a conflict than either side could hope to gain from it. So the “bright young detective” had proposed the investigators consider who would actually benefit from such a war.

  “Cui bono,” Lucky said.

  “Huh?” I said.

  “Whom does it benefit?” Max translated. “Who stands to gain?”

  “Oh.”

  “Betcha never thought I knew some Latin.” Following this principle, the OCCB had stepped up its electronic surveillance of the Buonarotti family, and continued this scrutiny even after Danny “the Doctor” Dapezzo’s murder seemed to confirm a more obvious theory of events. Before long, circumstantial evidence pointed to Michael Buonarotti (quoted in a press release two days ago as assuring the media that he was “no relation” to Michelangelo). These suspicions were confirmed when the don was recorded on the phone admitting to the murders. That same night, Buonarotti was arrested at St. Monica’s.

  A leaked excerpt of a transcript of the incriminating phone call certainly seemed to suggest Buonarotti was out of his mind. He claimed godlike qualities, including invisibility, the ability to pass through locked doors and to shoot around corners, and inviolable immunity from counterattack. He declared his victims were helpless against him, and he insisted he couldn’t be caught.

  “Giving names and details on the phone,” Lucky said. “He really was going off his rocker.”

  “I guess it all went to his head,” I said. “The power that Gabriel’s sorcery made available to him, the sense of supernatural omnipotence that Buonarotti felt when he—”

  “There is no such thing as ‘supernatural’ phenomena,” Max said, watching the mourners exit the church. “There is only—”

  “Esther’s right,” Lucky interrupted. “The power went to his oversized head. He shoulda never got those hair plugs. They probably affected his brain.”

  “He wears hair plugs? Really?” I shook my head. “I never would have guessed.”

  So when I had told Lopez that night at the bookshop that the Corvinos and Gambellos didn’t want a war, I had confirmed his theory that someone else was engineering all this. And he presumably had the church watched the following night because Buonarotti had alluded, in his recorded phone call that day, to having a “little bit” of help from a priest. OCCB hadn’t expected violence at the church Buonarotti attended, but “an alert patrolman” had called for backup upon hearing shots fired there after midnight.

  Rumors were running rampant, in the media and in the congregation of St. Monica’s, about Father Gabriel’s activities. Perhaps because he was Catholic, it was his death, rather than his possible involvement in three Mafia hits, that was causing the most controversy. Had the priest fallen off the balcony or had he deliberately jumped? I knew what I had seen, but apparently Lopez wasn’t pressing the point. I supposed I could understand why not—Lopez was Catholic, too, after all, and suicide was a mortal sin.

  “I hope Buonarotti goes away for the rest of his life,” I said, thinking about Elena as I rubbed my throat. It was three days since Buonarotti’s doppelgangster had grabbed me there. It didn’t hurt much anymore, but the bruises hadn’t faded yet.

  “He will, for sure,” said Lucky. “Because he ain’t gonna live long.”

  Max and I both looked at Lucky.

  The old hit man shrugged. “He stood up—on the phone—for whacking made guys in two families. What did you think would happen?”

  “But how?” I argued. “He’ll be in prison.”

  “Guys are easy to whack in prison. Nowhere to hide.” Lucky shrugged. “And this
guy has been cursed with certain death. Piece of cake.”

  “True,” Max said thoughtfully. “Encountering a doppelgangster doomed the victim rather than empowering a particular killer. Anyone with murderous intent could have done what Don Michael did once the victim was cursed. But Don Michael happened to be the killer whom Father Gabriel chose to take into his confidence.”

  “So even without the Corvinos and Gambellos after him now . . .” I said.

  “He wouldn’t be long for this world, anyhow,” Lucky said. “With his personality? The very first guy who has to share a breakfast table with him in the joint will probably whack him.”

  “Speaking of guys who aren’t long for this world,” I said, “what’s going to happen to Angelo Falcone? The papers said he disappeared as soon as the cops released him.”

  “He sure did,” Lucky said. “And good riddance.”

  “So the young man has left New York City?” Max asked.

  “Yep. And probably even Angelo ain’t dumb enough ever to come back.”

  We fell silent as Don Carmine Corvino and his wife left the church and walked past us. The flashily dressed mobster ignored Lucky. Behind him, though, Fast Sammy Salerno gave Lucky a little nod. Mikey Castrucci gave him the finger.

  “What a putz,” Lucky muttered. “We’re at church.”

  After Buonarotti’s arrest was announced, the Corvino family had accepted that the Gambellos weren’t responsible for Danny Dapezzo’s murder. There would be no mob war, they wouldn’t target Lucky for a hit, and Max and I were completely safe from them. Like the Gambellos, though, the Corvinos were casting hostile glances at the Buonarottis who were in attendance today. Don Michael’s organization, however, denied all knowledge of his recent activities. In any case, his high-profile arrest had weakened his crime family considerably, and the other families didn’t seem to consider the Buonarottis a serious threat now.

  Stella Butera came out of the church, dressed all in black and wearing a dramatically veiled hat. She clasped Lucky’s hand and said he was looking well. She clasped my hand and asked if she’d see me at work tonight. I said yes. The restaurant had reopened two days ago. Although I couldn’t sing for a few more days, thanks to the doppelgangster’s brutal assault on my throat, I could certainly wait tables and earn money.

  Jimmy Legs also paused on his way out of the church to greet us. Nelli recognized him and wagged her tail, and he patted her head. Ronnie Romano talked to Lucky for a few minutes, but he snubbed me; he still disapproved of my dating a cop.

  “I’m not sure I’m still dating him,” I said gloomily to Lucky when he explained why Ronnie had refused to acknowledge my greeting.

  Lucky said, “Oh, come on, I seen the way that guy looks at you, and how mad he gets when he thinks someone’s tryin’ to hurt you.”

  “Then perhaps you also noticed how dangerously insane he thinks I am, and how fed up he gets with finding me involved in his investigations and with having to lie to his superiors to protect me?”

  “You really think he’d dump you over a little thing like insanity and lying and concealing evidence and getting involved in . . . Uh, I mean . . .” Someone caught Lucky’s eye, and he looked relieved to have an excuse to abandon the subject. “Hello, boss! Hey, you’re looking great!”

  Actually, Don Victor Gambello looked so close to death’s door that I thought we should summon an ambulance, but I didn’t contradict Lucky. The octogenarian boss of the most powerful crime family in New York might be skeletally thin, a sickly gray-yellow color, wheezing with the effort of walking down the steps of the church, and trying to control a tremor, but there was still a chillingly cold, ruthless shrewdness in the elderly gaze that assessed me, Max, and Nelli.

  “So these,” he said in a breathy, rasping, very soft voice, “are our friends?”

  Lucky drew in a sharp breath of pleased surprise. “Yes, boss. This is Esther Diamond, Dr. Maximillian Zadok, and Nelli. Our friends.” Lucky added to us, “I told him what you three done for us.”

  I said, “Well, we didn’t exactly do it for—” Lucky elbowed me, and I shut up.

  Don Victor looked at us without saying anything. Max acknowledged Lucky’s introduction with polite phrases. Nelli wagged her tail, causing a passerby to give a startled exclamation of pain. The old mobster continued to stare hard at us for a long moment. I could tell that a lot of people around us were staring, too, aware of this marked attention and wondering what would happen.

  At last, the Shy Don said, “Thank you.” He gave Max a friendly handshake, patted Nelli’s head, and raised my hand to his lips. Then he turned and left.

  “Gosh,” I said, aware of the puzzled and impressed scrutiny of dozens of people around us.

  “Brief,” Max said, “but gracious.”

  “You’re friends of the Gambello family now,” Lucky said. “So if you ever need anything . . .”

  “Which reminds me, my dear fellow! I must thank you for your help with the Internal Revenue Service!”

  My eyes flew wide. “Lucky! What did you do?”

  “Relax, will you? I just gave those IRS letters Max has been getting to the boss’ accountant, that’s all. He cleared it up with one phone call.”

  “How did he clear it up?”

  “It was all just a dumb mistake. So calm down,” Lucky said. “The letters was intended for a business with a tax ID that’s one digit different than Max’s, is what the accountant says.”

  “They were dunning Max with letters on the basis of a typo?”

  Max nodded. “Mercury Retrograde. Such things happen.”

  “So you can close your jaw,” Lucky said. “I didn’t break any legs.”

  “By the way,” I said hesitantly. “I know I got a little snappish with you this past week, Lucky. I’m really sorry.”

  “Ah, forget it kid. Doppelgangsters, panicky wiseguys cursed with death, seeing Charlie whacked right in front of you, an evil sorcerer trying to screw up your audition, problems with your boy—with Lopez . . .” He shrugged. “Who wouldn’t get a little cranky?” After a moment, he added, “Speaking of Lopez, here he comes.”

  I caught my breath and followed Lucky’s gaze. Lopez was emerging from a car that was parked down the street. He was wearing a pale gray suit with a dark coal gray shirt and tie, and his black hair was neatly combed. His blue eyes looked alert and serious as he approached the church.

  “Max,” I said suddenly, “what do you think happened in the church that night? When the lights came on?”

  Max’s head turned sharply, his expression surprised as he met my gaze. “Oh! I didn’t know you realized . . .”

  “Realized what?” I prodded.

  “Realized that one possible explanation for the sudden illumination was the unconscious imposition of his will on matter and energy at a moment when he feared for your life.”

  “But Max, you don’t really think . . . I mean . . .”

  “Think what?” Lucky said, his intent gaze fixed on the approaching cop. “What does Max not really think?”

  “I think,” Max said, “that we should keep our minds open to the possibility that Detective Lopez has talents of which he is unaware.”

  “Madre di Dio!” Lucky said.

  Which was more or less my reaction, too.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t believe it. No way. And Lopez certainly wouldn’t believe it.”

  Max said nothing as he watched Lopez approach.

  “Max and me will be inside,” Lucky said to me, “paying our respects to the departed.”

  Max said, “Perhaps if I spoke with Det—”

  “Leave Nelli with Esther.” Lucky took her leash from Max and handed it to me. “Just in case.”

  I frowned at Lucky. “Lopez is not a dopp—”

  “We’ll be lightin’ a candle to St. Monica while you talk to the cop.”

  Lopez’s gaze followed them briefly as they retreated, then moved back to me. My heart was thudding as he walked up to me. He looked so hand
some, and Lucky was right, he was looking at me like he . . .

  But if he really did feel that way, he sure didn’t look happy about it.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.”

  Nelli sniffed his hand, then gave a little wag of her tail.

  Lopez looked at my throat and frowned with concern. He reached out as if intending to touch me, but then stopped himself and lowered his hand. “How’d you get those bruises?”

  I told a semi-truth. “Buonarotti.”

  His expression darkened. “Does it hurt much?”

  “Not so much now. I can’t sing, of course, but that’ll come back in a few more days.”

  “So you’re okay?”

  I nodded. He didn’t say anything else.

  “So . . .” I shrugged. “You didn’t attend the service.”

  “Well, I’ve suggested the deceased was an accessory to murder, and I’ve refused to swear that his death wasn’t suicide. So I thought he might climb out of his coffin if I showed up.” He added, “But it seemed like a good idea to keep an eye on who did come.”

  “Oh.”

  After an awkward silence, he said, “I see the Shy Don is quite taken with you.”

  “He was just being polite.” I reached into my purse and pulled out Lopez’s cell phone. I had brought it along, thinking he might come today. “Here.”

  “Hey!” He was obviously pleased to get it back. “Thanks! Where did you find it?”

  “The priest stole it from you. At Vino Vincenzo.”

  “Son of a bitch. So he was a pickpocket?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked at me. “How did you get ahold of it?”

  “Dumb luck, you might say.”

  He evidently decided not to ask any more about it. He put the phone in his pocket.

  We gazed at each other.

  I thought again about that moment in the church: I want LIGHTS! And then . . .

  I said suddenly, “Have you ever . . .”

  When I didn’t continue, he prodded, “What?”

  I wasn’t sure what I wanted to ask. “Have you ever felt strange?”

  “All the time, since I met you.”