Mourning Express

by K. M. Waller

  He sighed. “Just promise me that you won’t go poking around Napoli’s Bar.”

  It didn’t feel right lying to a preacher, so I turned on a huff and marched out to my car. Once I settled in the driver’s seat, I sent Gabe a text.

  I needed another disguise.

  ∞∞∞

  “Why are we doing this again? Wasn’t the quilt excursion enough drama for one day?” Gabe darkened my eyebrows with a brow pencil as we sat in my car in the parking lot at Napoli’s Bar waiting for it to open.

  I’d stopped by the apartment long enough to change clothes and pick up Gabe. Apparently, he wasn’t too keen on my plan. Yet, he’d worn a salt-and-pepper colored wig and wide-framed glasses to disguise his appearance as well.

  “This isn’t about drama. It’s about justice. The detective wants evidence of foul play so I’m going to give him some evidence. I’ll get a few pictures of Bowman handing over the payoff and we’ll be out of here before anyone even notices us.”

  “This is Asheville on a Thursday afternoon, not Hollywood. Day drinking is not a sport here. I’m positive we’ll be the only people in the bar when it opens.”

  “It’ll be fine. Trust me.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not really.”

  “What’s my cover this time? I didn’t enjoy being the fiancé or boyfriend.” He checked his fake hair in the mirror before digging through his kit for a lipstick to apply to my lips. “You’re a little too demanding for my taste.”

  I rolled my eyes to the ceiling and huffed out a sigh. I hardly qualified as demanding. “This time all you have to do is have my back. We’ll pretend we don’t know each other. Let me go in first and you come in a few minutes afterward. I can see a pool table through the window, so you can park it there and signal if you think I’m in any kind of trouble.”

  I heard him swallow hard while he dabbed a deep red lipstick on my lips. “I don’t like the idea of trouble. Pastor Tom warned you against coming here.”

  If Pastor Tom had taken me seriously, I wouldn’t be here. Not wanting to rehash a conversation we’d already had on the ride over, I glanced in the mirror to check the disguise again. This time we’d opted out of a wig but added so much eye makeup that I should still be pretty unrecognizable. He’d teased and sprayed my hair until it looked like I could pass for a double for any of the women on Mob Wives Chicago. I’d taken my outfit to the next level with a black pleather bustier, matching pants, and knee-length boots.

  I adjusted the bustier and caught Gabe’s concerned expression focused on my barely exposed cleavage. “What?”

  He raised an eyebrow and placed his makeup tools back inside his kit. “Why do you even own that outfit?”

  “Remember that walk-on I did as Working Girl Number Three on ‘Law & Order SVU?’ They let me keep the outfit.” I tugged at the top again. “And no one would buy it off of me on eBay so I’m stuck with it.”

  Gabe gave me a full head-to-toe once over. “You’re so not going to blend in.”

  I slipped into my New Yorker accent. “It’s a mob bar. Of course, I’m going to blend in.”

  “You sound like a cabbie.”

  “Then I’m getting it right. Or I could do Fran Drescher.”

  He clapped his hands over his ears. “No.”

  A hand belonging to a body I couldn’t see through the dingy window pulled the chain on the fluorescent Open sign. The same hand then flipped over the smaller sign hanging on the door. Three p.m. on the nose. I tapped Gabe on the shoulder. “It’s go time. Remember, come in five minutes after me and have your cell phone camera ready.”

  “You mean like this.” He held up the phone to my face and pressed his camera button. His chuckle filled the front seat of the car. “Someday, when they do a documentary on this murder, I’m going to have photographic proof of your mob wife disguise.”

  “Be serious,” I said. “And let me pose better.” I leaned back and put my arms above my head in a sultry pose. He clicked a few more shots and our laughter died down as the realization hit us that we shouldn’t be making jokes.

  “What if this gets dangerous?” he asked.

  “Then we call 9-1-1.”

  His face lit up and he spread out his hands. “We should have a panic word.”

  “Gabe, we’re wasting time.”

  “Panic word or I won’t go in.”

  “Fine.” I surveyed our surroundings. Not much to choose from. “The panic word is top shelf.”

  “In a bar, really?”

  “Gabe!”

  “Fine. Top shelf. Let’s just get this over with.”

  I exited the car and reminded him to wait by extending my fingers in a wave and mouthing the words “five minutes.” The building’s exterior had seen better days, but after I pushed through the front door, I realized the outside definitely had held up better than the inside.

  The bar stretched half the length of the back wall with a hallway on the right that appeared to lead to the restrooms. A smell that resembled days-old grease came from that direction. The rest of the open room had the pretty standard barroom items like a couple of pool tables and a few wooden round tables for patrons to sit and enjoy their drinks.

  The far left of the room had a makeshift stage and a sound system that looked old enough to be considered antique.

  So, the mob liked karaoke. Interesting.

  “What can I get you?” The man behind the bar tilted his head to the side and regarded me like a dog who’d found something unrecognizable on the ground.

  Think New York. Big hair. Fran Drescher. I sashayed to the bar and slipped onto a stool. “Hi there, big guy.” But was he big, really? He seemed average height and build. I cleared my throat to transition from my Jessica Rabbit overacting to the displaced New Yorker like I’d first planned. “Whatever’s local,” I answered his original question in my cabbie voice.

  “Three-fifty.” He dropped a cold can of HOPness Monster in front of me and moved to watch the television on the back wall.

  “I guess getting a glass is a no-go,” I murmured and set one of my last folded twenties on the counter. On a normal day, I’d enjoy the pale ale, but I needed all my wits and couldn’t afford to get the least bit tipsy when preparing to obtain evidence.

  The door creaked open behind me. Assuming it was Gabe, I didn’t turn around.

  “Whisky. Top shelf.” The voice belonging to the brisk order made my skin crawl. Bowman.

  The bartender slapped down a shot glass and filled it to the brim. “Boss’ll be with you in a minute, Bo.”

  Had Gabe come in at the same time? I needed my back up. Every muscle in my body tensed.

  The door squeaked again and I let out a slow release of pent up breath. Gabe leaned in beside me and used a ridiculous islander voice to ask for anything light on tap. The bartender looked between us and filled a mug with beer. Gabe took it and slapped a five-dollar bill on the counter. He didn’t glance in my direction but made his way over to the pool table like we’d planned earlier in the car.

  Bowman slammed back his whisky and focused his attention on the television. I didn’t even have the nerve to look up and see what program had enraptured him and the bartender. It sounded like an action flick. Please don’t let it be one of my made-for-t.v. movies.

  A movement from the hallway caught my eye. The slick-haired Mr. Gangster from earlier in the day crooked a finger and waved it at Bowman. “Boss wants you in the back.”

  Ugh. It hadn’t occurred to me that the back room might be where they’d conduct business. Bowman tossed a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “I’ll pay for the lady’s drink too.”

  I almost rejected the offer from the man I accused of murdering his uncle, but then remembered how poor I was and pulled my twenty back. He’d been a jerk about the quilt, so he most definitely owed me three dollars and fifty cents. Bowman disappeared around the corner and I fidgeted in my seat for a few seconds. Gabe would not be happy with my next move, but his presence
gave me the courage to get the evidence I needed.

  I slipped off the edge of the stool and the bartender cut his eyes in my direction.

  “Ladies room,” I answered as if he’d asked a question out loud.

  He pointed in the direction I already headed. Gabe’s voice rang out loud behind me. “So, what do you have that’s top shelf?” He’d enunciated top shelf slowly and clearly and I knew it was his code for me to stop. The good thing and the bad thing about best friends is that they often know what you’re doing even before you do. My phone beeped a text. I ignored it and set it to vibrate. If I dared to read a warning from Gabe, I’d lose my nerve. Justice for Pearl and Harold, I reminded myself even though my hands shook.

  I sped up my pace, the pleather making a squeak-squeak with each rub of my thighs. Once in the darkened hallway, I counted three doors. Two had a sign on the door that labeled it for the men’s room or ladies’ room. The third had a rectangle window just big enough for me to see into the back room. Not wanting to risk someone staring at the window and seeing my face, I pressed my ear against the crack in the door and listened to the voices mingling instead. I couldn’t make out their words clearly, but if I didn’t hurry I’d miss my chance.

  My heart raced and I held up my cell phone to the rectangle. I clicked the button and the camera phone autofocused and used the flash feature. I sucked in a sharp breath.

  I’d forgotten about the flash. With my chest tight, I waited for someone to burst through the door and grab me. After a minute or so no one came.

  The picture on my phone showed wire racks and cleaning supplies. Nothing of any use. I had to get inside the room for a better look. The door hinges creaked slightly and I poked my head around the corner. I’d claim confusion on finding the restroom if I came face-to-face with anyone.

  The back room appeared to be twice the size of the front bar area. Wire racks with supplies framed the outside edges. I could hear voices, but they weren’t loud enough to make out the conversations. I slipped inside and ducked behind a wire rack filled with paper towels. Through the shelf I could see a table in the center of the room. One big enough to seat six or seven people. I crouched down and low-walked a few steps. The squeak squeak of my pleather pants sounded off the white wall behind me. No matter how I positioned myself, I couldn’t get a clear picture. The smell of burnt grease increased and I could see a small cooking area off to the right.

  A scuffling of shoes caught my attention. Before I could run, Mr. Gangster appeared beside me. He grabbed my upper arm and pulled me to my feet. He squeezed so hard, I winced in pain. “Ow, let go.”

  “What’s going on over there?” A voice not belonging to Bowman or Mr. Gangster called from inside the room.

  “We got a nosy broad,” Mr. Gangster replied. He shoved me into the room and I stumbled forward, catching myself on a metal rack lined with supplies.

  My heart raced and my ears rang from the pressure of the blood shooting through my body. I’d been busted spying on the mob and if they were like anything in the movies, I’d be sleeping with the fishes if I couldn’t talk my way out of this and fast.

  10

  My throat dried and I didn’t know how to explain my presence in the back room of the bar. The man with the voice I didn’t recognize chewed on the end of long brown cigar. The boss. The opposite of how I expected a mob boss to dress, he wore a flowery blue Hawaiian shirt and spectacles that sat on top of his head full of white hair. I put his age close to Grammy’s and if we’d been at Countryside instead of this scary bar, he would’ve fit in with all the other elderly residents.

  With the wire racks out of the way, what I’d thought to be a simple storeroom with a table in the center turned out to be an organized gambling center. Against the far wall three women sat with their backs to us working phones and typing information into handheld tablets. A large television attached to the wall in front of them had picture-in-picture of a couple of golf games.

  After noticing my presence, one of the women hung up the phone and removed a couple of stacks of cash from the middle of the table where Bowman sat with the Boss.

  The Boss worked the end of the cigar for another few seconds before his eyes widened. “I know you.”

  Oh no. My mouth worked but no words came out. I hadn’t been this scared since Victor put a black snake in my bed when we were ten years old. At least I’d been able to scream and run away. I backed up a step and bumped into Mr. Gangster.

  The boss set his cigar down on the table and stood, his face spreading into a wide smile. “You’re that actress. Rosalind something. No, wait. Diva Rosalind. My granddaughters follow you on that social media stuff.”

  Bowman had been sitting at the table with his back to me, but at the mention of my name he turned to give me a full once over. The recognition hit and the scowl on his face deepened.

  I ignored him and thrust out my hand. “I am that actress. Very nice to meet you, Mr…?”

  “Napoli. Carlino Napoli.” He grabbed my hand and pumped my arm up and down. “Do you see this, Teddy? We got us a famous person in the bar.”

  Mr. Gangster grunted and moved out from behind me.

  Carlino grasped my elbow and guided me to the table. With a light shove, he put me in the chair beside Bowman. “I’ve seen every single one of your B movies thanks to my grandkids. Not too often we have big names come out of Asheville, so they like to keep up with the ones that do. I’m a bit of a movie buff too.”

  The mob liked karaoke and was a fan of my low-budget movies. Interesting.

  “You are the best at dying. I’ve never seen a better dead fish expression.” He waved a hand at Bowman. “Do you know who this is?”

  Bowman sniffed. “Never heard of her before yesterday.”

  I gave Carlino a weak smile. I hoped his mention of my death scenes didn’t mean he planned for me to act out a more permanent one. “Thank you for the compliments.”

  “Teddy, get this gal a drink. I want to tell all the guys that we had a famous actress in my bar and we had a drink. They’ll never believe it.”

  I perked up seeing an opportunity to use Carlino’s star struck-ness against him, get what I need, and hopefully get out alive. “Actually, I don’t mind taking some selfies and signing some autographs.”

  If I could get one of Bowman and Carlino in the same pic, I’d be golden.

  “You young folks and your selfies.” He chuckled and scratched at the gray stubble on his chin. “My grandkids fill up their phones with pictures of themselves poking out their lips and adding these little filter things to make them look like dogs. Back in my day, you took a picture and waited a month to see if it turned out okay.”

  Teddy brought a few highball glasses and set them down on the table. He poured about two fingers of a brown liquor into both glasses from a decanter.

  Carlino nudged the glass toward me, the excitement making him jittery. “This is from my personal stock of Rèmy Martin.”

  Oh man. I couldn’t come up with a polite way to say no thank you to a mob boss, so I downed the cognac with one swift tilt of my head. I barely tasted the sweet alcohol as it shot down my throat. “Mmm.”

  “Another!” He clapped a couple of times.

  I covered the top of the glass with my hand before Teddy could pour anymore. “I can’t.” I glanced around. I needed to be able to lie better on my feet. Best to go with what I know. “I’m actually working.”

  Carlino sipped his cognac and regarded me through squinted eyes. After a few seconds, he set the glass down. “Working? On a movie?”

  “I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but it’s a character profile I’m developing for a new movie. My character goes undercover to bust illegal activities in a bar.” I needed to sell it. “That’s why I’m dressed like a mob princess and sneaking around the back room.”

  Carlino’s face shuttered at the mentions of illegal and mob. “Why come to my bar?”

  “Because your last name is Napoli? And…” I pointed
to an envelope sitting in front of Bowman. The payoff I’d hoped to get a picture of.

  The glass he’d held hit the table with a thud. “It’s the same judgment no matter where I set up shop. If you have an Italian name and own a bar, you must be part of the mob.”

  I backpedaled quickly as anxiety in the form of prickly tingles started in my hands and moved up my arms. “I didn’t mean to insult you, Mr. Napoli.”

  “I’m a small businessman. And sometimes I like to have poker games in my back room while taking a few bets. That doesn’t make me the mob.”

  “Isn’t the gambling illegal though?” I asked, allowing my mouth to get away from me once again.

  His gaze flickered between Teddy and Bowman. “I’m not sure I like what you’re insinuating.”

  I’d outstayed my welcome.

  Bowman, who’d remained quiet during the entire exchange, pushed back out of his chair. “I got places to be, Carlino. Are we good for now?”

  “Yeah. We’re good.”

  I stood. “I should be leaving too. I am really sorry for perpetuating the stereotype and tropes out of Hollywood, Mr. Napoli. Are you sure you don’t want an autograph?”

  “Maybe one for the grandkids.” His face shifted from angry mobster back to happy grandfather.

  I let out a pent-up breath. I signed a few napkins with the bar’s name embellished on the front.

  Teddy the Gangster walked me back out to the main room where Gabe twisted his hands by the pool table. Once he saw me, he put his hand over his heart and headed for the exit. The bartender continued his vigil in front of the television.

  Right outside the entrance, Teddy called out to me and reached into his sports coat. “Hey.”

  I froze, waiting for him to plug me because I’d seen too much. I tucked my chin to my chest and said a little prayer which ended with me begging not to die in a black pleather bustier.

  “Maybe just one selfie,” he said, retrieving his phone. “Don’t tell the boss.”

  I stood close to him and smiled brightly while he snapped a couple of photos.