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Authors: Laura Resnick

BOOK: Dopplegangster
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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 finishing 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.
He looked like a hippy who’d been cast in a
Guys and Dolls
revival.
As Lucky continued talking, Max glanced down the aisle and saw me walking toward him. “Oh, excuse me, miss? We’re looking for . . .
Esther?
”
“Max?”
Lucky’s jaw dropped.
“Kid?”
Nelli’s tail wagged harder, expressing her happiness at the reunion.
I said to Lucky, “What did you do to Max?”
Lucky preened. “Ain’t I a genius?”
“I should never have left the bookstore today,” I said with conviction.
“Oh, dear,” Max said fretfully. “Do I not look the part?”
Lucky said, “Ignore her. You look perfect. But don’t say ‘oh, dear.’ Say ‘fuck.’ ”
“I can’t say that!”
“Then say
‘Madonna’
or ‘bite me.’ ”
“It’s a lot to remember,” Max said, starting to look flustered.
“You’ll do fine.” Lucky gave me a stern look. “Tell him he’ll do fine.”
I nodded. “You’ll do fine, Max.”
“But, Esther, is my ensemble not convincing?” Max asked.
“Well,” I said honestly, recovering from my shock, “I am not the expert on what will make these guys take you seriously. Lucky is. So let’s go with his judgment on this.”
“Exactly,” said Lucky. “And may I say, kid, even without my help, you did a great job. You could almost be Danny’s eldest daughter.”
“He lets his
daughter
dress like this?”
Lucky asked, “Where’s Father Gabriel?”
“In the crypt.”
“Everything’s all set up?”
“You
are
going to pay him for all that food, aren’t you?”
“Won’t have to,” Lucky said. “Danny called for the sit-down, so he’ll make a big donation to the church when he gets here and sees the spread. He’s a vicious bastard, but he knows what’s right. At most, I might have to pay for the wine.”
“There is no wine.” I explained why not.
Lucky shrugged, then nodded.
Max asked, “So . . . we won’t need to ask for a receipt?”
“A receipt?” Lucky said. “At a
sit-down
?” Suspecting the source of Max’s sudden interest in fiscal paperwork, I said, “Did you receive another letter from the IRS today?”
“Yes. It appears to be a litany of dreadful threats. It’s most distressing,” Max said morosely. “It also doesn’t really seem to be written in English. That is to say, the
words
are English, but they make no sense.”
“That sounds normal,” Lucky muttered.
“I wonder if this is all because Mercury is in retrograde?” Max mused.
“Okay, what does that mean?” I said.
“It’s astronomy,” Lucky said.
“Astrology,” Max corrected. “When Mercury, the astral body that rules communications, is on the other side of the sun from Earth, then communications here become confusing and difficult. It happens three times per calendar year, on average, because Mercury’s solar orbit is so much smaller than Earth’s. And while Mercury is in retrograde, which typically lasts for about three weeks, letters get lost, messages get garbled, comments get misinterpreted, people have trouble keeping their appointments, and so on.”
Lucky looked alarmed. “Let’s hope everyone keeps tonight’s appointment. We got serious business to discuss!”
I thought about how hard it was for Lopez and me to get together lately, and about my trouble communicating with my agent to get the audition I wanted; I’d left another message on his answering machine late this afternoon. I also thought of my missing evening wrap and the lack of communication about it between Father Gabriel and Mrs. Campanello.
“How much longer did you say will Mercury be in retrograde?” I asked anxiously.
“Oh, another ten days,” Max said. “I wonder if the IRS will stop harassing me then? Or at least make more sense?”
“You want I should take care of this little problem for you?” Lucky offered.
“No!” I said sharply, forgetting about my communications problems as I envisioned the implications of Lucky’s question. “
I
will look over Max’s IRS correspondence when I have time.
You
will stay out of it, Lucky.”
Lucky looked annoyed by my tone. “Whatever. Max and I will go downstairs and have a word with Father Gabriel now. Esther, you stay up here and direct all the arrivals to the crypt.”
“Of course,” I said. “It’s how I’ve always longed to spend a Tuesday evening.”
14
 
A
fter everyone arrived at St. Monica’s for the sit-down, I wasted an hour of my life watching wiseguys stuff their faces (and, boy, can wiseguys eat) and listening to them brag about the women they had bedded and the punks to whom they had taught a lesson. Realizing that if I was alive at the age of one hundred, I’d still look back on tonight and regret this squandered hour of my sojourn on this planet, I took Lucky into the stairwell to have a quiet word with him.
“I thought we were here for a sit-down,” I whispered.
“This
is
a sit-down,” he whispered back.
“No, this is more like a family reunion in hell.”
“It’s a
process
,” Lucky said. “This ain’t a meeting between lawyers and accountants, you know. We’re blood enemies. You gotta allow time for everyone to get comfortable with each other and get used to makin’ eye contact without reaching for their pieces.”
“I thought no one brought pieces!” I whispered in alarm.
“Relax, no one did. I searched ’em as they came in. That was a figure of speech.”
“Well, it’s been an hour. Aren’t they comfortable
yet?
”
“It ain’t a good idea to rush things,” Lucky said. “Anyhow, officially, Danny’s the one who called for this sit-down. So protocol is, it’s up to him to bring up our mutual business.”
“Our ‘mutual business’?” I repeated sharply. “You mean the killings, Lucky?”
My tone annoyed him again. “
Madonna
, you’re edgy tonight. Maybe you shoulda stayed home.”
“No, I’m just wondering how you could have . . .” I bit my lip and reined in my temper. Lucky’s ruthless murder of Elena’s husband was not a subject to be discussed in whispers in the stairwell and under these circumstances. “Never mind. Let’s go back in.” I avoided his eyes and brushed past him.

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