Part 21 (2/2)

”Oh! Um, no.”

”So we can go ahead with the sit-down without worrying the cops will bust in?” Lucky asked.

”Yes.” The case had obviously not been Lopez's priority when he called me. I felt hot again. ”We're good to go.”

”Well, then,” Max said brightly, ”let's plan our strategy. Er, how does does one prepare for a meeting of this nature?” one prepare for a meeting of this nature?”

”First rule of a sit-down,” Lucky said, ”you gotta leave your piece at home.”

”My piece?” Max said.

”Your rod. Your peacemaker,” Lucky elaborated.

”We don't want to make peace?” Max asked in confusion.

Lucky sighed. ”I can see we got a lot of work ahead of us before tonight.”

12.

Hoping to collect the transparent black wrap I had left behind the night before, I got to St. Monica's half an hour early for the sit-down.

I had just finished talking with Lucky on my cell phone. He wanted to make sure I had followed his advice after leaving the bookstore that afternoon; I a.s.sured him that I was now dressed appropriately for the evening. Lucky thought a meeting between the Gambellos and the Corvinos, particularly in the current circ.u.mstances, would be tense enough without the presence of outsiders making everyone jumpy. However, since he also thought Max and I needed to be there, he decided the best thing would be for us to try to fit in.

I felt sure I could comply, but we both had our doubts about Max. So while I went home to change clothes, Lucky had remained at the shop, continuing to teach Manhattan's resident mage to blend in with the wiseguys. Lucky had also phoned two of his colleagues and told them to be at the sit-down; Danny would bring two soldiers, too. So now, with a small bunch of violent felons due to arrive soon at St. Monica's to hear (little did they suspect) our theories about apparitional bilocated doppelgangerism, I prayed for good luck-and felt an unprecedented impulse to make the sign of the Cross.

”I've been hanging out in church too much,” I muttered to myself.

I glanced around the shadowy, silent interior of St. Monica's, hoping to see Father Gabriel. It was presumably too late in the day for a church administrator to be here, and I had no idea where they stowed lost-and-found items. I supposed I could go into the crypt to see if my wrap was right where I'd left it . . . But the last time I had visited the crypt, I'd met a doppelgangster down there, so I was reluctant to venture back into that subterranean chamber on my own. Even the bunny costumes from the Easter play couldn't make that place seem unthreatening to me now.

My roving gaze settled on the only other person in the church at moment. The Widow Giacalona was kneeling before the altar of Saint Monica, her head bowed in prayer. People weren't exaggerating about her devotion.

I wondered if the widow would go to the crypt with me to look for my wrap.

When she lifted her head, crossed herself, and rose to her feet, I cleared my throat and said, ”h.e.l.lo. Nice to see you again.”

She looked over her shoulder at me. The large, dark, long-lashed eyes showed no spark of recognition. ”Have we met?” she asked with a faint frown.

I realized that by dressing to blend in at the sit-down, I had changed my appearance so much that the widow didn't know me.

”I'm Esther Diamond.” When this obviously didn't ring a bell, I added, ”Lucky Battistuzzi's friend.”

You know-a chorus girl with ties to the mob.

”Oh. Yes.” A look of disgust crossed her face. ”Lucky's gumata gumata.”

I knew from conversations I overheard at Bella Stella that gumata gumata was a loaded word for a wiseguy's girlfriend; men said it carelessly, and women never used it nicely. However, the widow had lost three husbands and had legitimate grievances against Lucky, so I decided to let the insult pa.s.s. was a loaded word for a wiseguy's girlfriend; men said it carelessly, and women never used it nicely. However, the widow had lost three husbands and had legitimate grievances against Lucky, so I decided to let the insult pa.s.s.

I simply said, ”I'm not his-”

”With a pretty young thing like you on his arm,” she interrupted, ”why won't he leave me me alone?” alone?”

Well, even though I guessed she was at least twenty years older than me, she was beautiful in a rich, earthy way that I thought would make any number of men walk right past me to get a date with her. (Which is okay; talent lasts longer than beauty, and I want to keep getting acting work until the day I shuffle off this mortal coil.) But, though she evidently wasn't vain about her looks, she was way off base about my relations.h.i.+p with Lucky. I wondered if it was my outfit.

”I'm not being euphemistic when I say 'friend,' Elena.” She scowled again, and I said, ”Er, Mrs. Giacalona. Lucky's like an uncle to me, and he'd be dismayed to learn anyone had other ideas about our friends.h.i.+p.” When this, too, failed to warm her expression, I added, ”I have a boyfriend. A nice young man.”

”Another Gambello?” she said, her voice full of loathing.

”No, he's a cop.”

That surprised her. ”You date a cop? cop?”

I sighed. ”Yes. I do. I date a cop.”

”You're kidding.”

”No, ask anyone,” I said, hoping we could get on a roll here, so I could ask her to go into the crypt with me without it sounding too strange. ”Half of Stella Butera's customers have met him by now. You know Stella?”

”Yes.” The widow glanced at Saint Monica. ”Stella lost her man, too.”

”Just the one.” After a moment, I said, ”That came out wrong.”

”Stella used to come here. We prayed together sometimes.” Elena shook her head. ”But like so many, her faith was not enduring. She doesn't pray to the saint anymore.”

Rather than seeing it as a sign of weak faith, I figured that Stella had eventually gotten over the death of her longtime lover, Handsome Joey Gambello, who had been killed at the restaurant five years ago. Now she chose to live in the present and look to the future, and that struck me as healthy. However, Stella had indeed lost only one man. I supposed it wasn't surprising that a thrice-bereft woman like Elena Giacalona was keeping regular company with Monica, patron saint of widows and wives.

Seeking a friendly comment to fill the silence, since this still didn't seem quite the right moment to invite Elena into the crypt with me, I said, ”Who was Saint Monica? A devout medieval widow?”

”Not medieval.” The widow shook her head. ”She lived in the fourth century. Monica was married to an abusive pagan husband, and she spent her whole life praying he would convert to Christianity.”

”Were her prayers ever answered?” I asked, thinking that sounded like a grim marriage for both spouses.

”Yes. He converted on his deathbed.”

”Better late than never, I suppose.”

”She was also the mother of Saint Augustine.”

”Oh?” I thought it was too bad Max wasn't there to see that I am not quite as uneducated as he thinks. ”Author of the Confessions Confessions and and The City of G.o.d The City of G.o.d, right?”

The widow seemed to warm to me, smiling a little. ”Yes, that's right.”

”He's also the guy who said, 'Lord, grant me chast.i.ty . . . but not yet.' ” I enjoyed a friendly chuckle over this all-too-human plea.

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