Part 7 (1/2)
We also had many customers who shared the mannerisms and unfortunate fas.h.i.+on sense of wiseguys (loud s.h.i.+rts, s.h.i.+ny shoes, gold jewelry, and an ill-advised fondness for colorful sweat suits), but who weren't criminals. Sometimes it was easy to tell them apart from the mobsters, but not always.
”So, besides Charlie, who else dines at Bella Stella who's a Gambello?” Napoli asked me. ”You must have some ideas. Some guesses?”
I blinked. ”You're a lead investigator at the Organized Crime Control Bureau. Don't a lead investigator at the Organized Crime Control Bureau. Don't you you know?” know?”
”I'd like to hear your take on it.”
”Why?”
”You seem like an intelligent woman.”
”You don't think that,” I said irritably. ”You think I'm a ditz! You're hoping I'm so eager to feel important that I'll show off by trying to lecture you about stuff you already know-or d.a.m.n well should should know, since it's your job to know! And in the course of rambling on about life at Stella's, maybe I'll let some important information slip. Except that I don't know, since it's your job to know! And in the course of rambling on about life at Stella's, maybe I'll let some important information slip. Except that I don't have have any important information, Napoli!” any important information, Napoli!”
”Then tell me the truth about Charlie's death!”
”I have have told you the truth!” told you the truth!”
”It doesn't work, Miss Diamond. Based on the only possible trajectory of the bullet that killed Charlie, you had had to have seen the killer.” to have seen the killer.”
I blinked. ”What?”
”If you were near Charlie when he got shot, then you saw who killed him. There's no way you didn't.”
”That's what this is all about? You don't believe me?”
He shook his head. ”Your story doesn't hold up against the evidence, Esther.”
”I'd prefer that you keep calling me 'Miss Diamond.' ”
”So I'm wondering why you're lying.”
”I'm telling the truth,” I said wearily, beginning to suspect there was no way I'd ever convince him of this.
”Are you trying to protect the killer?”
”Do I look look like I'd protect a killer?” These questions were getting on my nerves. ”Do I look like someone whose protection a Mafia hit man would like I'd protect a killer?” These questions were getting on my nerves. ”Do I look like someone whose protection a Mafia hit man would want want?”
”So Charlie was killed by a Mafia hit man?” he pounced.
I rolled my eyes. ”I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that's the case, Detective.”
Napoli suddenly switched tactics, making an attempt to look concerned and sound sympathetic. ”So maybe you're afraid of what the Gambellos will do if you tell the truth about what you saw. I can understand that.”
”You don't do 'good cop' well,” I said. ”It just doesn't work for you.”
He scowled. ”Are you afraid of the killer, then?”
”Generally? Of course! Because the killer is, you know, a killer killer. But specifically? No. Because the killer must know I didn't see him. I mean, if he thought I did, wouldn't he have shot me, too?”
Napoli changed the line of attack again. ”Maybe you're trying to avoid trouble with the Gambellos? Maybe you knew knew they wanted Charlie dead, and you're afraid to talk about it.” they wanted Charlie dead, and you're afraid to talk about it.”
I frowned. ”Did the Gambellos want him dead? I thought he was a good earner.” the Gambellos want him dead? I thought he was a good earner.”
”So you do do hear them talk business!” hear them talk business!”
”No. Charlie told every waitress in the place that he was a good earner. He also told us he was good in bed.”
”Or maybe you you wanted him dead,” Napoli suggested. wanted him dead,” Napoli suggested.
”No, he tipped me well.” After a moment, I said, ”That came out wrong.”
Coplike, he changed the subject without warning. ”Did Charlie ever talk about the Corvino family?”
”Not to me.”
”To who, then?”
”I don't know. Sometimes I'd be pa.s.sing his table and I'd hear him say something like, 'Those f.u.c.king Corvinos. ' I don't remember anything more specific than that.”
”Does anyone else at the restaurant ever mention the Corvinos?”
”Yes.”
”Who?”
”Almost everyone.”
”What do they say?”
”About five times a night, they say, 'Those f.u.c.king Corvinos.' ” I had not observed much originality of expression among the wiseguys at Stella's.
”Did anyone mention the Corvinos after Charlie got shot?”
”Not that I remember. Mostly, I screamed a lot, then there was a stampede of departing wiseguys and screaming tourists, then Stella screamed a lot, then cops showed up . . . I don't remember much conversation, and certainly nothing about who might have killed Charlie.”
”So you think they already knew knew who did it?” who did it?”
” 'They,' who? There was me, Stella, three freaked-out waiters, our accordion-playing bartender, and a couple of tourists from Colorado who didn't see a thing but thought they should wait for the police, even so. No one else stayed inside the restaurant with the corpse before the cops arrived.”
”You know more than you're saying.”
”You're wrong.”
”What aren't you telling me?”
”That I don't like your s.h.i.+rt. Tan isn't your color.”
”By lying to me about what you saw,” Napoli said, ”you put yourself in more danger, Esther, not less.”