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Authors: Laura Resnick

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BOOK: Dopplegangster
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Glad that Charlie had tipped me so well on such a slow night, I went into the staff room, took off my apron, clocked out, and divvied up the bartender’s and busboy’s portions of my tips. Then I grabbed my sweater and purse, and I headed out of the restaurant. As soon as I was out on the street, where my cell phone got better reception, I checked my voice mail. I was hoping for a message from my agent telling me I had an audition. But no such luck. I snapped the phone shut and sighed.
“Did your date let you down?” said a voice behind me.
I turned to see Chubby Charlie approaching the restaurant. He was smiling flirtatiously (as he no doubt imagined it) at me.
Wondering why he was back, I said, “Did you forget something?”
“Yeah.” He grinned. “I forgot to ask you out last time I was here, honey. You’re one of Stella’s girls, right?”
“Um, I’m one of the servers here, yes. But you
did
ask me—”
“I thought so! You’re the one with the good voice, yeah? You sang ‘Beyond the Sea’ last time I was here.” He patted his heart. “Got me right here.”
The gesture drew my unwilling attention to his chest. “Did your handkerchief fall out of your pocket?” Although I had tucked it in for him a few minutes ago, I saw that it was missing now.
“Huh?”
“Your red handkerchief,” I said.
“Hey, you remember it?” Looking pleased, he slapped the empty pocket. “I fuckin’ lost it. Can you believe that? Probably some prick stole it.”
“That was fast.” I wondered who on this street would be reckless enough to pick the pocket of a Gambello killer.
“It matched this tie so great, too,” he said sadly.
“Uh-huh.” I tried to push past him. “Good night, Charlie.”
“Hey, where you goin’, cutie? I want to hear you sing tonight.”
“Your memory’s slipping, Charlie,” I said. “I
did
sing tonight.”
“Well, I ain’t fuckin’ been inside tonight yet, have I?” Then Charlie noticed my sweater and purse. “So you’re leavin’? I guess I won’t get to hear you sing tonight. Shit. Well, next time, huh? I’d fuckin’ love to hear you do ‘That’s Amore.’ It’s what I was gonna ask you to sing.”
“But . . .” He
had
asked me to sing it. Tonight. Wondering if he was having some sort of ministroke, I asked, “Are you okay?”
“No! I’m starving to death! I got stuck in traffic. And now, I swear, I could eat the fuckin’ table!”
“But you just ate—”
“Maybe you should join me,” he said. “You look a little dizzy.”
“I . . . I . . .”
“Got a date? Got a boyfriend? Got a fuckin’ dental appointment? What?” he prodded.
“You asked about my boyfriend,” I said, studying him for signs of a mental breakdown. “Do you remember?”
“Yeah, I asked two fuckin’ seconds ago. What the fuck is the matter with you?”
“No, you asked
earlier
tonight,” I said. “I’m dating a cop. A detective. Remember?”
Charlie fell back a step, an appalled expression on his face. “You date a
cop
?”
“Yes.”
“A
cop?
”
Or maybe
I
was the one having a mental breakdown.
“Jesus.” He shook his head and muttered, “Dates a fuckin’ cop.”
“We
had
this conversation,” I said.
“When did we fuckin’ have this conversation?”
“Fifteen minutes ago.”
He squinted at me. “Does Stella know you’re doing drugs?”
“I’m
not
doing—”
“ ’Cuz she runs a clean place. If she finds out you’re into that stuff, she’ll can your ass. And I don’t fuckin’ blame her.” He wagged a fat finger at me. “If you want a good job at a nice place like this, you should keep your fuckin’ nose clean.”
This was just what I needed: to be lectured by a foul-mouthed killer.
“I’m going inside now,” Charlie said. “I’m fuckin’ starving. I could kill for some
pasta arrabbiata
.” At the door to Stella’s, he paused and looked at me. “You’re still a great singer, though. Even if you are all fucked up.”
“Such a tribute,” I muttered.
Lucky Battistuzzi exited the restaurant as Charlie entered it. When he saw me standing there, staring after Charlie with a frown, Lucky asked, “Was he bothering you again?”
“Not exactly. But I think something’s wrong with him.”
“
Yeah
, something’s wrong with him. He’s a schmuck.”
“Besides that.” I recounted the conversation to Lucky.
“Isn’t that strange?”
“Hmm. Like the evening was erased from his memory?”
“Yes,” I said. “Including the massive dinner he just packed away.”
“You’d think even a screwball like Charlie would remember that he just ate,” Lucky said, shaking his head.
“Especially since he said just a few minutes ago that he was stuffed.”
“He didn’t even remember you singing?” Lucky asked.
“No.”
“And he seemed to love that. You sounded great, by the way.”
“Maybe he’s having a ministroke?” I wondered if we should call a doctor before Chubby Charlie keeled over in the middle of Bella Stella.
“Maybe he was caught in a time warp or something,” Lucky suggested.
I blinked. “You’ve been watching too much SyFy Channel. I was thinking of something more prosaic. Could a myocardial infarction cause this behavior?”
“
What
kind of infection?”
“Um, a problem with his heart,” I said. “So that maybe his brain isn’t getting enough oxygen.”
“You think something’s wrong with his brain?” Lucky snorted. “I’d say
that’s
a given.”
“He’s a hundred pounds overweight, and he packed away enough food at dinner to kill a wildebeest,” I said. “I thought he looked a little red-faced when he left.”
“Red-faced? Well, sure.” Lucky shrugged. “He just found out he was makin’ the moves on a cop’s girlfriend.”
“I’m wondering if his behavior is a warning sign.” Chubby Charlie was a repulsive human being, but I’d nonetheless feel bad about just letting him drop dead tonight, maybe from a stroke or heart attack.
“Ah, Charlie’s always been strange, kid. Moody. Forget it.”
“But—”
“Look, if you’re worried about him,” Lucky said, “why not come to church with me?”
“Because I’m Jewish.”
“God don’t care about that. You could light a candle and pray for Charlie’s good health.”
“I was thinking of doing something more practical than that,” I said. “Like maybe warning Stella or calling a doctor.”
“What makes you think lighting a candle ain’t practical?”
“Spoken like a good Catholic.”
Lucky put his face against the restaurant’s window and peered inside. “Charlie’s already sitting down and yacking at his waitress. Seems perfectly normal to me. Have a look, Esther.”
Following his example, I spotted Chubby Charlie just in time to see him pinch his waitress’ bottom. “Perfectly normal,” I agreed.
“See? No reason to worry.”
“I don’t know, Lucky. What could explain his behavior?”
“Maybe he was pulling your leg,” Lucky suggested. “Havin’ some fun with you.”
“And eating dinner twice in a row tonight?” I said skeptically.
As we continued peering through the window, Charlie looked up and noticed us. He gave us the finger.
That’s when I decided it wasn’t my problem if he was having a major medical incident. Okay, so I’m not as compassionate and selfless as I could be.
Lucky scowled and stepped away from the window.
“Stronzo
,
”
he muttered. “Is that any way to treat a young lady?”
I looked at Lucky. “I think you’re right. He was pulling my leg. And his digestive system defies all norms of human physiology.”
He nodded in agreement. “Okay, then, I’m heading to St. Monica’s.”
It was a church around the corner, between Mulberry and Mott streets, that some of our customers frequented. “Evening Mass?” I asked.
“I might stay for that, depending.”
“Depending on what?”
He lowered his head and shuffled his feet. I thought he might be . . .
blushing
again. “Well, uh . . . um . . .”
“So if you don’t go for Mass, what do you do there?”
“I light candles for all the dead guys I know. Especially the ones I liked. And, well, there’s, um . . .”
“Have you lost many people?” I asked sympathetically.
“I didn’t
lose
’em, I whacked ’em.” Lucky shrugged and added, “But the ones I liked, I’m sure they knew it was strictly business.”
Since I couldn’t think of any response to that, I said, “Well, good night, Lucky.”
“You don’t want to come with me? It’s good for the soul.”
“I want to go home. My feet hurt,” I said truthfully.
“There’s a weeping saint at my church,” he coaxed. “Well, sometimes, anyhow.”
“A weeping saint? Do you mean there’s a good person crying at your church?”
“
Was
a good person. Long time ago. Now it’s a statue.
Saint Monica.”
“A weeping Saint Monica? I thought it was the Madonna that always weeps.”
“At our church, it’s the saint.” He shrugged. “It’s still a miracle, y’know, either way.”
“Little Italy is full of the strange and the wonderful.” Thinking of Charlie again, I said, “Especially the strange.”
“Well, maybe next time,” Lucky said.
“Maybe next time,” I agreed, realizing he was a little lonely.
As I walked toward the subway station, I opened my cell phone again and dialed my agent’s phone number.
I
needed
an audition.
 
Two days later, Chubby Charlie Chiccante wasn’t very hungry, and he didn’t want a song.
After requesting a table in a secluded alcove at the back of the restaurant, he only ordered one plate of food for dinner. And when I put his meal in front of him, he just picked at it. Dressed in a tight brown suit, accented by a bright green tie, bright green handkerchief, and (yes, I checked) bright green socks, he looked distracted as he pushed his
spaghetti Bolognese
around his plate with his fork for ten minutes.
This was so unprecedented that, despite his rudeness the other night, I felt I had to ask if he was all right.
“Er, Charlie?”
“Argh!”
I fell back a step in surprise as he flinched, cried out, and knocked over his water glass. A few diners glanced our way, then went back to shouting and laughing as they indulged in generous quantities of house wine.
Red-faced and breathing hard, Charlie snapped at me, “
Don’t
sneak up on me like that!”
I frowned at him. I had simply walked up to his table. No sneaking involved. “You seem a little tense,” I observed.
“Goddamn right, I’m a little fuckin’ tense!”
I pulled a cloth out of my apron pocket and started mopping up the mess he’d made. “What’s the matter with you?” I said irritably.
“What the
matter
with me? I’ll tell you what the fuck’s the matter with me!” He looked around, his eyes rolling a little wildly, then leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “I been cursed.”
“You mean someone used bad language? And that bothered
you
?”
“What?
No
.” He scowled at me. “I been
cursed
. You know—someone’s put the evil eye on me! I’m under a cloud. Cursed!”
That clinched it. “Okay, you really do need to see a doctor.”
“I don’t need no doctor, you moron! I need a . . . a . . .” He waved his arms around. “I dunno. Maybe a
priest?
Could a priest help me, do ya think?”
“I think an e
mergency room
could help you,” I said. “I’m calling an ambulance.”
“I ain’t sick!”
“I think you may be having a stroke,” I said. “Or mini-strokes. You need a doctor.”
“No!”
“Or maybe you need a psychiatrist.”
“I ain’t crazy! This is for real! I saw it! I saw it with my own eyes! I
spoke
to it, Estelle!”
“Esther,” I corrected.
“And
it
spoke to
me
,” he said in rising hysteria. “I’m telling you, it’s real! I didn’t imagine it!”
BOOK: Dopplegangster
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