Blue Smoke (3 page)

“All the houses were dark. The Castos' outside light was on, but they mostly forget to turn it off, and I could see a little bit of light in Mindy Young's bedroom window. She sleeps with a night-light even though she's ten. I heard a dog bark. I think it was the Pastorellis' dog, Fabio, because it sounded like him. He sounded excited, then he stopped.”

“Did any cars go by?”

“No. Not even one.”

“That late at night, that quiet, you'd probably hear if a car started up down the block, or a car door closed.”

“It was quiet. Except for the dog barking a couple times. I could hear the air-conditioning humming from next door. I didn't hear anything else, that I remember. Not even when I was walking down toward the shop.”

“Okay, Reena, good job.”

The door opened, and once again John was struck by beauty.

Bianca smiled. “Gib, you don't ask the man in? Offer a cold drink? Please, come inside. I have fresh lemonade.”

“Thank you.” John had already gotten to his feet. She was the sort of woman men stood for. “I wouldn't mind something cold, and a little more of your time.”

The living room was colorful. He thought bold colors would suit a woman like Bianca Hale. It was tidy, the furniture far from new, but polished recently enough that he caught the drift of lemon oil. There were sketches on the walls, pastel chalk portraits of the family, simply framed. Someone had a good eye and a talented hand.

“Who's the artist?”

“That would be me.” Bianca poured lemonade over ice. “My hobby.”

“They're great.”

“Mama had drawings in the shop, too,” Reena added. “I liked the one of Dad best. He had a big chef's hat on and was tossing a pizza. It's gone now, isn't it? Burned up.”

“I'll draw another. Even better.”

“And there was the old dollar. My Poppi framed the first dollar he made when he opened Sirico's. And the map of Italy, and the cross Nuni had blessed by the Pope and—”

“Catarina.” Bianca held up a hand to stop the flow. “When something's gone it's better to think of what you still have, and what you can make from it.”

“Somebody started the fire, on purpose. Somebody didn't care about your drawings or the cross or anything. Or even that Pete and Theresa and the baby were inside.”

“What?” Bianca braced a hand on the back of a chair. “What're you saying? Is this true?”

“We're jumping a little ahead. An arson inspector will—”

“Arson.” Now Bianca lowered herself into the chair. “Oh my God. Oh sweet Jesus.”

“Mrs. Hale, I've reported my initial findings to the police department's arson unit. My job is to inspect the building and determine if the fire should be investigated as incendiary. Someone from the arson unit will inspect the building, conduct an investigation.”

“Why don't you?” Reena demanded. “You know.”

John looked at her, those tired and intelligent amber eyes. Yeah, he thought. He knew. “If the fire was deliberate, then it's a crime, and the police take over.”

“But you know.”

No, the kid didn't miss a trick. “I contacted the police because when I inspected the building I found what appears to be signs of forced entry. The smoke detectors were disabled. I found what appear to be multiple points of origin.”

“What's a point of origin?” Reena asked.

“That means that the fire started in more than one place, and from the burn patterns, from the way the fire marked certain areas of the floor, the walls, the furnishings, and the residue, it appears that gasoline was used as a starter, along with what we call trailers. Other fuel, like newspaper or waxed paper, books of matches. It looks as though someone broke in, set trailers through the dining areas and back to the kitchen. You had more fuel back there: pressurized cans, wood cabinets. The framing throughout, the tables, chairs. Gasoline, most likely, was poured over the floor, the furnishings, splashed on the walls. The fire was already involved by the time Reena went outside.”

“Who would do that? Deliberately do that?” Gib shook his head. “I could see a couple of stupid kids breaking in, messing around, having an accident, but you're talking about deliberately trying to burn us out—with a family upstairs. Who would do that?”

“That's what I'm asking you. Is there anyone who has a grudge against you or your family?”

“No. No, God, we've lived in this neighborhood for fifteen years. Bianca grew up here. Sirico's is an institution.”

“A competitor?”

“I know everyone who runs a restaurant in the area. We're on good terms.”

“A former employee, maybe. Or someone who works for you who you've had to reprimand.”

“Absolutely not. I can swear to it.”

“Someone you or one of your family, or one of your employees, argued with? A customer?”

Gib rubbed his hands over his face, then pushed up to walk to the window. “No one. No one I can think of. We're a family place. We get some complaints now and then, you can't run a restaurant without them. But nothing that would send off something like this.”

“Could be one of your employees had an altercation, even outside the job. I'll want a list of their names. They'll need to be interviewed.”

“Dad.”

“Not now, Reena. We've tried to be good neighbors, and to run the place the way Bianca's parents did. Modernized the system, some, but it's the same heart, you know?” There was grief in his voice, but smoking through it was anger.

“It's a solid place. You work at it hard enough, you make a good living. I don't know anybody who'd do this to us, or to it.”

“We've had calls from neighbors all morning,” Bianca put in as the phone rang again. “I have our oldest girl answering the phone for us. People telling us how sorry they are, offering to help. To clean up, to bring food, to help rebuild. I grew up here. I grew up in Sirico's. People love Gib. Especially Gib. You'd have to hate to do this, wouldn't you? No one hates us.”

“Joey Pastorelli hates me.”

“Catarina.” Bianca passed a weary hand over her face. “Joey doesn't hate you. He's just a bully.”

“Why do you say he hates you?” John wanted to know.

“He knocked me down and hit me, and tore my shirt. He called me a name, but nobody will tell me what it means. Xander and his friends saw, and they came to help, and Joey ran away.”

“He's a rough kid,” Gib put in. “And it was . . .” He looked into John's eyes, and something passed between them Reena didn't understand. “It was upsetting. He should have counseling at the least. But he's twelve. I don't think a twelve-year-old broke in and did what you said was done.”

“It's worth looking into. Reena, you said you thought you heard the Pastorellis' dog when you were sitting outside.”

“I think it was him. He's kind of scary, and has a hard bark. Like a cough that hurts your throat.”

“Gib, I'm thinking if some kid roughed up my daughter, I'd have a few words with him, and his parents.”

“I did. I was at work when Reena and Xander and some of the kids came in. Reena was crying. She hardly ever cries, so I knew she was hurt. Her shirt was ripped. When she told me what happened . . . I was pretty steamed. I . . .”

Slowly, he looked over at his wife, a hint of horror in his eyes. “Oh my God, Bianca.”

“What did you do, Gib?” John brought his attention back.

“I went straight over to the Pastorellis'. Pete was hanging out, and he went over with me. Joe Pastorelli answered the door. He's been out of work for most of the summer. I lit in.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I was so pissed off. So upset. She's just a little girl, and her shirt was torn, her leg was bleeding. I said I was tired of his kid bullying mine, and it was going to stop. That this time Joey had gone too far, and I was thinking of calling the cops. If he couldn't teach his kid any better, the cops would. We yelled at each other.”

“He said you were a fucking do-gooder asshole who should mind his own goddamn business.”

“Catarina!” Bianca's tone was razor sharp. “Don't you ever use that kind of language in this house.”

“I'm just saying what
he
said. For the report. He said Dad was raising a bunch of snotty, whining brats who couldn't fight their own battles. But he said more swears. Dad said some, too.”

“I can't tell you exactly what I said, or he said.” Gib pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don't have a tape recorder in my head like Reena. But it was heated, and it was close to getting physical. Might have, but the kids were standing out in front of the shop. I didn't want to start a fistfight in front of them, especially since I went over there about violence in the first place.”

“He said somebody ought to teach you a lesson, you and your whole family. With swears,” Reena added. “And he made swear signs when Dad and Pete walked away. I saw Joey when we were all out because of the fire. He smiled at me. A nasty smile.”

“Do the Pastorellis have any other children?”

“No. Just Joey.” Gib sat down on the arm of his wife's chair. “You want to feel sorry for the kid because it looks like Pastorelli's pretty hard on him, but he's such a bully.” He looked at Reena again. “Maybe worse.”

“Like father, like son,” Bianca murmured. “He beats his wife, I think. I've seen her with bruises. She keeps to herself, so I don't know her well.
They've lived here nearly two years, I think, and I've rarely had a conversation with her. The police came once, right after he was laid off. Their next-door neighbors heard shouting and crying and called the police. But Laura, Mrs. Pastorelli, told them nothing was wrong, and that she'd walked into a door.”

“He sounds like a charmer. The police will want to talk to him. I'm sorry this happened.”

“When can we get in, start cleaning up?”

“Going to be a little while yet. Arson team's got to do their job. Structurally, the place held up pretty well, and your fire doors stopped it from spreading to the upper floors. Your insurance company's going to need to look at it. These things take time, but we'll do what we can to expedite. I'll tell you, it would've been worse without Eagle Eye here.” He gave Reena a wink as he rose. “Sorry about all this. I'll make sure you're kept informed.”

“Will you come back?” Reena asked him. “So you can show me what's in your toolbox and what you do with it?”

“I'll make a point of it. You've been a really big help.” He held out a hand, and for the first time her eyes went shy. But she put hers in it for a shake.

“Thanks for the lemonade, Mrs. Hale. Gib? You mind walking me back to my car?”

They walked out together.

“I don't know why I didn't think of Pastorelli. I still have a hard time believing he'd have gone this far. In my world, you're that pissed off at a guy, you take a swing at him.”

“Direct approach. If he was involved in this, it could be he wanted to hit you where you live. Your foundation, your tradition, your livelihood. He's out of work, you're not. Hey, who's out of work now?”

“Well, God.”

“You and your employee confront him. Your kids are standing out in front of the restaurant watching you confront him. Neighbors, too, I imagine.”

Gib closed his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, people came out.”

“Attack and destroy your place of business, it sure teaches you a lesson. You want to point out his house?”

“There, on the right.” Gib nodded. “The one with the drapes drawn. Hot day to close the curtains. Son of a bitch.”

“You're going to want to steer clear of him. Push down that urge you're feeling to confront him over this. He got a car?”

“Truck. That old Ford there. The blue one.”

“About what time did the two of you go a round?”

“Ah, sometime after two, I guess. Lunch crowd was about done.”

As they walked, several people stopped, or opened doors, or stuck their head out a window to call out to Gib. At the Pastorelli house, the curtains stayed closed.

There was a small crowd gathered on the sidewalk near the restaurant, so John stopped while they were still out of earshot. “Your neighbors are going to want to talk to you, ask questions. Be best if you didn't mention what we've talked about.”

“I won't.” He let out a long breath. “Well, I've been thinking about doing some redecorating. Guess this would be the time.”

“When the scene's cleared, you're going to see a lot of damage, a lot that was done during suppression. But the bones of your place, they held strong. Give us a few days, and when it's cleared I'll come back and take you through myself. You've got a nice family, Gib.”

“Thanks. You haven't met all of them, but I do.”

“I saw all of you last night.” John took out his keys, jingled them in his hand. “Saw how your kids set up food and sandwiches for the firefighters. People who think of doing something positive in their hard times, they've got good bones, too. There's Arson now.” He inclined his head as a car pulled up. “I'm going to have a word with them. We'll be in touch,” he said and offered his hand.

John walked to the car as the detectives got out of either side, and he gave them a steely grin.

“Yo, Minger.”

“Yo back,” he said. “Well, looks like I've done about all your work for you.” He took out a cigarette, lit it. “Let me bring you up-to-date.”

It didn't take a few days. The police came the following afternoon and took Mr. Pastorelli away. Reena saw it happen with her own eyes as she walked home with her best friend since second grade, Gina Rivero.

They stopped when they reached the corner where Sirico's stood. Both the police and the fire department had put up tape and warnings and barricades.

“It looks lonely,” Reena murmured.

Gina put a hand on her shoulder, expressing support. “My mom said we'll all light candles before Mass on Sunday for you and your family.”

“That's nice. Father Bastillo came to see us, at the house. He said stuff about strength in adversity and God working in mysterious ways.”

“He does,” Gina said piously, and touched a hand to the crucifix she wore.

“I think it's okay to light candles and pray and all that, but it's better to do something. Like investigate, and find out why, and make sure somebody gets punished. If you just sit around praying, nothing gets done.”

“I think that's blasphemy,” Gina whispered, and looked around quickly in case an Angel of God was about to strike.

Reena just shrugged. She didn't see how it could be blasphemy to say what you thought about something, but there was a reason Gina's older brother Frank called her Sister Mary these days.

“Inspector Minger and the two detectives
do
stuff. They ask questions and look for evidence, then you know. It's better to know. It's better to do something. I wish I'd done something when Joey Pastorelli knocked me down and hit me. But I was so scared, I could barely fight.”

“He's bigger than you.” Gina's free arm linked around Reena's waist. “And he's mean. Frank says he's nothing but a little punk who needs his a-s-s kicked.”

“You can say ass, Gina. Donkeys are asses, and it's even in the Bible. Look, it's the arson detectives.”

She recognized them, and the car. They wore suit coats and ties like businessmen today. But she'd seen them in the coveralls and helmets when they'd worked inside Sirico's.

They'd come to the house and talked to her just like Inspector Minger. And a spurt of excitement hit her belly when they got out of their car and walked to the Pastorellis'. “They're going to Joey's house.”

“They talked to my dad, too. He came down to look at Sirico's and talked to them.”

“Ssh. Look.” She wrapped her arm around Gina's waist, too, and eased them both back, just around the corner, when Mrs. Pastorelli opened the door. “She doesn't want to let them in.”

“Why not?”

It took a mighty strength of will not to tell, but Reena only shook her head. “They're showing her a paper.”

“She looks scared. They're going inside.”

“We're going to wait,” Reena stated. “We're going to wait and see.” She walked down to sit on the curb between parked cars. “We can wait right here.”

“We were supposed to go straight back to your house.”

“This is different. You can go up, tell my dad.” She looked up at Gina. “You should go tell my dad. I'm going to wait and see.”

While Gina ran up the sidewalk, Reena sat, her eyes trained on the curtains that hadn't opened again today—and watched.

She got to her feet when her father came back alone.

His first thought when he looked at her eyes was that it was no longer a child looking back at him. There was a chill in them, a ferocity of chill that was completely adult.

“She tried not to let them in, but they showed her a paper. I think it was a warrant, like on
Miami Vice.
So she had to let them in.”

He took her hand in his. “I should send you home. That's what I should do because you're not even twelve, and this is the kind of thing you shouldn't have to be part of.”

“But you won't.”

“No, I won't.” He sighed. “Your mother handles things the way she handles them. She has her faith and her temper, her rock-hard sense and her amazing heart. Fran, she has the faith and the heart. She believes that people are innately good. That means it's more natural for them to be good than bad.”

“Not for everybody.”

“No, not for everybody. Bella, right now she's pretty centered on Bella. She's walking emotion, and whether people are good or bad isn't as important to her at the moment, unless it affects her. She'll probably get over most of that, but she'll always feel before she thinks. And Xander, he's got the sunniest nature. A happy kid, who doesn't mind scrapping.”

“He came to help when Joey was hurting me. He scared Joey away, and Xander's only nine and a half.”

“That's his nature, too. He wants to help, especially if somebody's being hurt.”

“Because he's like you.”

“That's nice to hear. And you, my treasure.” He bent down, kissed her fingers. “You're most like your mother. With something extra all your own. Your curious nature. Always taking things apart, not just to see how they work but how they fit. When you were a baby, it wasn't enough to tell you not to touch something. You had to touch it, to see what it felt like, to see what happened. It's never been enough for you to be told something. You have to see for yourself.”

She leaned her head against his arm. The heat was thick and drowsy. Somewhere in the distance thunder grumbled. She wished she had a secret, something deep and dark and personal so she could tell him. She knew, in that moment, she could tell him anything.

Then across the street, the door opened. They brought Mr. Pastorelli out, one detective on either side of him. He was wearing jeans and a dingy white T-shirt. He kept his head down, as if he was embarrassed, but she could see the line of his jaw, the set of his mouth, and she thought, Anger.

One of the detectives carried a big red can, and the other a large plastic bag.

Mrs. Pastorelli was crying, loud sobs, as she stood in the doorway. She held a bright yellow dishcloth and buried her face in it.

She wore white sneakers, and the laces of the left shoe had come untied.

People came out of their houses again to watch. Old Mr. Falco sat on his steps in his red shorts, his skinny white legs almost disappearing into the stone. Mrs. DiSalvo stopped on the sidewalk with her little boy Christopher. He was eating a grape Popsicle. It looked so shiny, so purple. Everything seemed so bright, so sharp, in the sunlight.

Everything was so quiet. Quiet enough that Reena could hear the harsh breaths Mrs. Pastorelli took between each sob.

One of the detectives opened the back door of the car, and the other put his hand on Mr. Pastorelli's head and put him inside. They put the can—gas can, she realized—and the green plastic bag in the trunk.

The one with dark hair and stubble on his face like Sonny Crockett said something to the other, then crossed the street.

“Mr. Hale.”

“Detective Umberio.”

“We've arrested Pastorelli on suspicion of arson. We're taking him and some evidence into custody.”

“Did he admit it?”

Umberio smiled. “Not yet, but with what we've got, odds are he will. We'll let you know.” He glanced back to where Mrs. Pastorelli sat in the doorway, wailing into the yellow dishcloth. “She's got a black eye coming up, and she's crying for him. Takes all kinds.”

He tapped two fingers to his forehead in a little salute, then crossed back to the car. As he got in, pulled away from the curb, Joey streaked out of the house.

He was dressed like his father, in jeans and a T-shirt that was gray from too many washings and not enough bleach. He screamed at the police as he ran to the car, screamed horrible words. And he was crying, Reena saw with a little twist in her heart. Crying for his father as he ran after the car, shaking his fists.

“Let's go home, baby,” Gib murmured.

Reena walked home with her hand in her father's. She could still hear the terrible screams as Joey ran hopelessly after his.

N
ews spread. It was a fire of its own with hot pockets and trapped heat that exploded when it hit air. Outrage, an incendiary fuse, carried the flames through the neighborhood, into homes and shops, along the sidewalk and into the parks.

The curtains on the Pastorelli house stayed tightly shut, as if the thin material were a shield.

It seemed to Reena her own house was never closed. Neighbors streamed in with their covered dishes, their support and their gossip.

Did you know he couldn't make bail?

She
didn't even go to Mass on Sunday.

Mike at the Sunoco station sold him the gas!

My cousin the lawyer said they could charge him with attempted murder.

In addition to the gossip and the speculation was the oft repeated statement: I knew that man was trouble.

Poppi and Nuni came back, driving their Winnebago all the way from Bar Harbor, Maine. They parked it in Uncle Sal's driveway in Bel Air because he was the oldest and had the biggest house.

They all went down to Sirico's to look, the uncles, some of the cousins and aunts. It looked like a parade, except there were no costumes, no music. Some of the neighbors came out, too, but they stayed back out of respect.

Poppi was old, but he was robust. It was the word Reena had heard most to describe him. His hair was white as a cloud, and so was his thick mustache. He had a big wide belly and big wide shoulders. He liked to wear golf shirts with the alligator on the pocket. Today's was red.

Beside him, Nuni looked tiny, and hid her eyes behind sunglasses.

There was a lot of talk, in both English and Italian. The Italian was mostly from Uncle Sal. Mama said he liked to think he was more Italian than manicotti.

She saw Uncle Larry—he was only Lorenzo when someone was teasing him—step over to lay his hand on Mama's shoulder, and how she lifted her hand to his. He was the quiet one, Uncle Larry, and the youngest of the uncles.

Uncle Gio turned and stared holes through the closed curtains of the Pastorelli house. He was the hothead, and she heard him mutter something in Italian that sounded like a swear. Or a threat. But Uncle Paul—Paolo—shook his head. He was the serious one.

For a long time, Poppi said nothing at all. Reena wondered what he was thinking. Was he remembering when his hair wasn't white and his belly not so big, and he and Nuni had made pizza and put the first dollar in a frame for the wall?

Maybe he remembered how they'd lived upstairs before Mama was born, or how once the mayor of Baltimore had come to eat there. Or when Uncle Larry had broken a glass and cut his hand, and Dr. Trivani had stopped eating his eggplant Parmesan to take him to his office down the street and stitch it up.

He and Nuni told lots of stories about the old days. She liked to listen to them, even when she'd heard them before. So he must remember them.

She wiggled through the cousins and aunts to put her hand in his. “I'm sorry, Poppi.”

His fingers squeezed hers, then to her surprise, he pushed one of the barricades aside. Her heart beat fast and quick as he led her up the steps. She could see through the tape, the burned black wood, the puddles of dirty water. The tray of one of the high chairs had melted into a strange
shape. There were scorching marks everywhere, and the floor had bubbled up where it hadn't burned away.

To her amazement she saw a spray can embedded in a wall as if it had been shot out of a cannon. There were no cheerful colors left, no bottles with candle wax dripped down the sides, no pretty pictures on the wall drawn by her mother's hand.

“I see ghosts here, Catarina. Good ones. Fire doesn't scare ghosts away. Gibson?” When he turned, her father stepped through the opening in the barricade. “You have your insurance?”

“Yes. They've been down to look. There won't be a problem with it.”

“You want to use the insurance money to rebuild?”

“There's no question of that. We may be able to get in and get started as soon as tomorrow.”

“How do you want to begin?”

Uncle Sal started to speak—because he always had an opinion—but Poppi lifted a finger. He was the only one who could, according to Reena's mother, make Uncle Sal swallow words. “Gibson and Bianca own Sirico's. It's for them to decide what's to be done and how. What can the family do to help?”

“Bianca and I own Sirico's, but you're the root it grew from. I'd like to hear your advice.”

Poppi smiled. Reena watched the way it moved over his face, lifting his thick, white mustache, and stopped his eyes from being sad. “You're my favorite son-in-law.”

And with this old family joke, he stepped down to the sidewalk again. “Let's go back to the house and talk.”

As they walked back, another parade, Reena saw the curtains on the Pastorelli house twitch.

T
alk” was a loose word to describe any event that brought the bulk of the family into one place. Massive amounts of food were required, older children were put in charge of younger ones, which resulted
in squabbles or outright wars. Behavior was scolded or laughed over, depending on the mood.

The house filled with the scent of garlic and the basil Bianca cut fresh from her kitchen garden. And noise.

When Poppi told Reena she was to come into the dining room with the adults, butterflies batted wings in her belly.

All the leaves had been put in the table and still it wasn't big enough for everyone. Most of the children were outside using the folding table or blankets, while some of the women ran herd. But Reena was in the dining room with all the men, her mother and Aunt Mag, who was a lawyer and very smart.

Poppi scooped pasta out of one of the big bowls and put it on Reena's plate himself. “So this boy, this Joey Pastorelli, he hit you.”

“He hit me in the stomach and he knocked me down and hit me again.”

Poppi breathed through his nose—and he had a big one, so the sound reminded her of the one a bull makes before it charges. “We live in an age when men and women are meant to be equal, but it's never right for a man to hit a woman, for a boy to hit a girl. But . . . did you do something, say something, to this boy so he thought he had to hit you?”