Paloma: A Laurent & Dove Mystery (13 page)

Her heart raced. The Catonis.  If they wanted her dead, fine, but she wouldn’t be chased and taunted like the poor innocent boy. She squared her shoulders and took a few steps. 

In the display window make-believe donuts and pies rested on dusty doilies. She peered beyond, scanning the interior. A young girl stood behind the cash register, filing her nails. An old woman in a wheelchair sat near by. The layout hadn’t changed. Stools ran the length of the counter. Old wooden booths lined the wall. She looked for either Tony or Joey. But the place was otherwise empty. Maybe they were tucked away in the kitchen or upstairs. 

Paloma took a deep breath, walked in and approached the cashier. All she had to do was ask for either Tony or Joey. She stalled. The girl looked up at her. “Whada ya want?”

Paloma’s legs felt rubbery.

The girl snapped her gum. “Haven’t got all day lady.”

“No, of course you don’t. I was wondering if –” Paloma was stopped by a loud moan.

The girl leaned to the side and peered around Paloma.  “Whada ya want now, Marie?”  

Paloma followed the girl’s gaze and looked at the woman in the wheelchair. Marie Catoni  But Marie had been a big woman with dark hair. This person was small, wrinkled, with sparse white hair. A lifeless left hand was curled on her lap. Straps crisscrossed her chest.

“Hell,” the girl said leaving the counter. “Look at you! You’re sliding down. That’s why these straps are so tight. Can’t you see I’m busy with a customer?”

Marie stared at Paloma.

Paloma froze. Yes, it was Marie. Her black penetrating eyes were unmistakable. Suddenly, the horror of those years returned. Paloma leaned against the counter, trying to keep steady. Mrs. Catoni had been a cruel, relentless boss. “Asses and elbows,” she had always said to Paloma, “that’s all I want to see.”

The woman groaned louder, not taking her eyes off Paloma.

The girl yanked the straps tight. “Stop that right now!”

The old woman’s arm swung at the young woman.

The girl reared back and scowled. “You bitch!” 

A male’s voice yelled out. “Stacy, what the hell’s going on?”

Paloma felt stricken. The voice was unmistakable. Tony!

He walked past her. 

“Mother, calm down. We have a customer.”

Except for the Italian horn on a thick gold necklace, he too was unrecognizable. Once a beefy, smoldering lady’s man, he was now rotund and with an overly dark hairpiece. A black velour jogging suit pulled at the seams. A bead of sweat traveled down the side of his bloated face.  

Paloma’s breath became shallow, certain that he’d look in her direction. But instead, he focused on the girl. “Stacy, take care of the customer.”

“How am I supposed to do two eff-ing things at once?”

“Shut up, you’re getting paid double.”

“Not enough.”

He glared at her.

The young woman turned on her heels and stomped behind the counter. “So lady, whada ya want?”

Paloma faced her. “Large coffee,” she said still listening to the drama behind her.

“What is it, Ma? You want to sit closer to the window?”

Another groan, then some slamming.  

“Jesus, Ma. What is it?”

Paloma snuck a glance. The woman’s good hand pounded the arm of the wheelchair as her feeble eyes flared at Paloma. Oh, my God. Marie knew her! Paloma whipped back around.

“Listen, Ma. If you don’t stop, I’m going to put you to bed. Just settle down!”

Stacy called out. “Now you know what I gotta deal with.”

“Stacy, stuff it.”

The girl thrust a cup of coffee in front of Paloma. The liquid spilled over the rim and onto the saucer. “A dollar.”

Paloma reached into her bag. Rummaging for money, her hands shook. The resolve to confront Tony was quickly dissolving. For one thing, this oaf couldn’t be chasing her. The guy was tall, slender. Wasn’t he?

More racket was heard. Metal on metal.

“Wheelchair’s locked,” Stacy said.

“How the hell do you unlock this piece of shit?”

Paloma gave a dollar to Stacy, who then stuffed it into her pocket.  

Cautiously, Paloma peeked behind to see what was going on.

Tony was now rolling the wheelchair away. “You’re going to the window.”  

Mrs. Catoni moaned excitedly.

“Stacy, get a donut to shut her up.”

“But she ate an hour ago.”

“Just do it.”

“I can’t feed her and do the register at the same time.”

Tony placed the wheelchair into a patch of sunlight. “Now Ma isn’t this better? You’ll be warm here.”

The girl slid open the display case and dug her nails into a filled donut.

Paloma couldn’t back off now. She’d come this far. If Tony wanted her dead, she needed to know, face her fears. She turned. A puff of fresh air brushed against her cheek. She looked toward the door. The shock took her breath away. Not again! Paloma spun back around.

“Hey, Tony,” said Max.

Paloma grabbed onto the counter. She was about to collapse.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Tony said.

“We need to talk.”

The only way out was through the kitchen. Paloma leaned toward the girl. “I need to use the lavatory.” 

The girl shrugged. 

Paloma looked toward the back of the donut shop. Thirty feet. But what about her limp? She had no choice and led with her right foot. Each step was like walking in quicksand. Stay calm. Walk slowly. Finally, at the rear of the shop, she slipped into the kitchen. 

Seconds later, she was out the side door and running the best she could. 

***

Max leaned against the door jamb. “You don’t seem happy too see me.”

“Don’t get comfortable, Laurent. I got my hands full.”

Max considered Mrs. Catoni. After several strokes, she had become a shadow of her former self. Still, he felt pity. “Where can we talk?” he asked.

“You blind? This isn’t a good time.”

Marie’s eyes settled on Max. A guttural noise came from her throat. 

“Can’t you see you’re upsetting her…Stacy, where’s that damn donut?”

Max turned. A young woman scurried toward them. “Right here.” 

“About time. Now feed her.”

“Why don’t you?”

Tony eyes flashed to Max, then to the girl. “Listen, just do it.”

The girl ripped the donut apart and shoved a piece in Marie’s face. 

Mrs. Catoni stiffened in the chair, tightening her lips together. Getting her to eat was going to be yeoman work.

Max smiled. Their little drama was amusing. But he didn’t have time to mess around. His conversation with Curtis had put everything in perspective. Whether Agnes wanted help or not, he was going to do whatever he could. He didn’t need to live the rest of his life with more guilt than he already had. “By the way I need to see your brother too. Is he in the kitchen?”

Tony ignored the question and walked away. 

Max stayed with him. “Joey must be in the back. Wasn’t that how he got paroled? Said that he had to care for his mother and the donut shop. Well, there’s your mother and here’s the shop. So where is he?”

Tony stopped dead and faced Max. “He’s at church.”

Max snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“What’s this about anyway?”

“Just need to ask you a few questions.”

“Yeah, like what kind of questions?”

“Listen,” Max said, “let’s go into the kitchen. It’s a private matter.”

Tony sneered. “Last I heard you were retired. Which means I don’t have to answer anything.”   

Max would have preferred a private spot. But since the place was virtually empty, he’d have to make an accommodation. He glanced at the two women. Both were facing the window. He turned toward Tony and lunged for his necklace, grabbing it and yanking down. Tony jerked forward. Flailing, Tony tried to loosen Max’s iron grip. Max twisted the chain tighter.

Tony gasped. “What the hell you doing?”

Max towered over the squirming bowling ball with bulging eyes. He hissed in Tony’s ear. “You tell me?”

The piglet’s face was turning beet red.

Max loosened his grip.

Tony panted. “I’ll call the cops. This is assault.”

“Yeah, and I’ll call the parole board.” Max let go and shoved Tony onto a stool. “Before calling anyone, let’s do the civilized thing and talk.”

“Talk? I got nothin’ to talk about.”  

 Max watched closely. “Agnes López.”

Tony’s eyes flickered. “Yeah, what about her?”

Max grabbed the velour collar and pulled Tony close. Between clenched teeth, Max said, “You tell me.”

Tony tried to wrestle free. “Let go. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Shut up and listen, listen good. If anything happens to her, I’m coming after you. You’ll fry along with that shit brother of yours.” Max pointed Tony in the direction of his mother. “And who’ll take care of Marie then?”

Sweat beads formed on Tony’s forehead. Nice plump ones that were about to drop.

“Understand?”

Tony nodded.

Max let him go. “And one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ll take a couple of Bavarian creams.”

“Go to hell.”

Max walked out. Just as well. He’d been told to watch his cholesterol.

***

After slamming the hotel room door, Paloma leaned against the wall and slid to the floor. In the forty minutes it took her to get back to the hotel, she had scurried down streets like a lost dog on a freeway. Her bad leg now ached worse than ever. She unbent it slowly, then stretched it out. Wracking pain traveled up through her hip to her back. She shook her head. God, she was sick of herself. Not only of her inability to stick to a course of action, but of who she was – spineless. Forget the Catonis. After tomorrow she’d go to the bank, then split. As for Max, to hell with him too. He was more dangerous than any madman. 

As her breathing deepened and slowed, another troubling thought gathered steam – in a matter of days, not once had he looked in her direction, not once had he found anything to attract him. 

Suddenly, tears blinded her vision. 

Chapter Twelve

After meeting with Tony Catoni, Max drove madly around the city. First he followed a route from the cemetery to downtown, then backtracked and continued north. Later, he made a sweep east and west. By eight in the evening, showing the ragged picture of Agnes, he had visited the airport, bus terminal, train station and ten hotels within walking distance of Curtis’s home. With his batting average in the toilet, he returned home, threw his keys on the kitchen table and pounded down a double shot of Hennessy. The familiar burn was welcomed. Better to erode his stomach with top shelf liquor than frustration. He slipped in a Frank Sinatra CD. During
Come Fly With Me
, Max made a tactical error and followed the double with another. Before the sun went down, the day lost its hard edge, and for the rest of the night, Max, forgetting most of the words, crooned off-key with Frank until he collapsed onto the couch.

At 8 a.m. the following morning Max was woken by the phone. It was Tank. “Hey Maxo just confirming our lunch date.”

Max rallied his senses. Monday?

“Can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me. I’m your bro, man.”

Max laughed. “What are you talking about?”

“That Dove woman is a looker. You sure know how to pick’em.” 

Max felt a tinge of jealously, like that made any kind of sense. “You found a picture?” 

“Yeah, copped it from the
Times
morgue. An auction, black tie affair.”

“Hmm…” Max tried to sound indifferent more for his sake than anyone else’s. “When was it taken?”

“Last month.”

“Pretty recent.” Max hadn’t seen Agnes since February. At that time she was bundled up in a winter coat. “What’s she wearing?”

“Call it your basic black dress, but it doesn’t look all that basic. 

Max rubbed his face. Tank wasn’t describing Agnes, was he?  

“Maxo, you there?”

“Yeah. Just waking up. Listen. See you at noon.”

“Way to go. See ya in a couple.”

“Sure thing.”

Max hung up the phone and got ready for the day. 

As the coffee brewed, he settled down at the kitchen table and unfolded a city map. A bird’s eye view often worked wonders. Grabbing a pencil, he X’ed the two hot spots where there’d been Agnes sightings – Curtis’s home and the cemetery. He then put a question mark over the library.                 

Paloma. What was her mind set? She was a woman with no past, a woman who lived a solitary life, and, most importantly, a woman who’d want to keep it that way. Suddenly, he realized where he’d made a critical error – most hotels would ask for a credit card. He reconsidered the map and circled the three skid-row hotels located downtown. Back in business, he swallowed four aspirins with a gulp of coffee and headed out the door.

The Villa Cannes had seen better days. But for as long as Max could remember it was a flophouse for the disenfranchised – end-of-the-line druggies, drunks, pimps, prostitutes. And while the Villa’s exterior – whitewashed brick with Mediterranean blue trim – held a distant appeal, any further resemblance to the French Riviera ended there. 

Max stepped up the wooden wheelchair ramp and entered a dark vestibule that smelled of Pine-Sol and urine. Chipped black and red flecked linoleum squares led him down a short, narrow hall, where a booth had been constructed with a caged window. Access to the inner sanctum could only be gained by passing through this bottleneck area. Max walked to the window and peered in.

Ari Retsurko, the owner who milked dollars from dirt, was sitting on a chair the height of a bar stool. A cigar hung from the corner of his mouth.

“What’s up, Ari?”

Behind a cloud of smoke, Ari glanced up from the newspaper. “Well, if it isn’t Maxie.”

Max grinned. The guy looked like Moby Dick, a big, whalish hulk with a really bad comb-over. Max had ambivalent feelings about Ari. He was friendly but terminally shady.

“How you doing?” Max said.   

He smiled showing a gold tooth. “Not bad for an old guy.”

“Glad to hear it. Is Lola around?”

“Lola? She in trouble?”

“No.”