The Spia Family Presses On (23 page)

It was sweet to see such chivalry. These ex-Made Men were hiding a murderer, and one of them had probably tried to run us off the road today, but they were quick to show sympathy to a woman with underwear issues.

I glanced around at the group. I could tell that most of the men had fantasies going on. Satisfied smirks grew on their faces. If Lisa was making this up, she was a better storyteller than I gave her credit for. If she wasn’t, the girl clearly had some intense shopping issues.

The room fell silent after her revelation and stayed that way for what seemed like forever. Probably due to the intricate fantasies . . . which gave me a slightly creepy feeling.

Then, just when I was about to give up on anyone in this tight-lipped group of ever saying anything that I might use as a clue, the chocolate-brown-haired guy spoke.

“My name is Giuseppe,” he said in the Italian dialect I could understand. His long hair was styled in that slicked back mob fashion the Sopranos made popular. Up until that program, most of my family never slicked back their hair. After the first season, most of them followed the Soprano style. Even Uncle Ray enhanced the gray on his temples so he could look like Paulie. I wondered if mobsters throughout the country took on the Soprano style, or was that just my slightly demented family.

“Welcome, Giuseppe,” we said in unison.

Giuseppe leaned forward, tugged on his tie like he had a deep aversion to it, glanced over at me for a moment and, I swear, all the air went out of my lungs. Not only did he look familiar, but the man was disturbingly handsome, especially with that scruffy beard. More like he stepped out of a daydream of what a thirty-something Italian man should look like. Thoughts of Adonis and Apollo swept through my mind
—
even though they were clearly Greek, I couldn’t help thinking of a Greek God while staring at Giuseppe.

“Breathe,” Lisa said. “You’re turning blue.”

I turned to her and mouthed, ohmygod!

“Yeah, but he’s obviously mobbed up, girl, so get control,” she cautioned.

But I couldn’t. It was as if I was hit by cupid’s arrow and I saw only Giuseppe.

What the hell was wrong with me?

Just last night I had sex with my ex-boyfriend who continued to lie to me, and now I was attracted to a gangster, an imported gangster, at that.

I needed serious therapy.

“I came here to do a job, but I found out today that my job was already done for me. So now I come here tonight to make peace with the family.” He switched to English. “But I no can make peace with the family in Calabria until I show that the man I came to, shall we say, erase, is,” he shrugged, “erased.”

His Italian was what my relatives referred to as old Italian. Different regions of Italy had slightly different dialects, thus the reason why I couldn’t always understand book-learned Italian-Americans or Northern Italians. To my family, anyone who lived in a town even slightly north of Calabria was considered a Northern Italian.

Calabria, where this latest import was obviously from, was known for heavy mob activity, and for the ‘Ndrangheta, the most notorious, secretive, and ruthless of all Italian Mafia type organizations. Unfortunately for me, most of my family and honorary family could trace their criminal roots to this region of Southern Italy. My dad was born in a little town called Cariati Marina. He lived there until he was sixteen and told me stories about how he helped his dad pick olives in the local groves and how his mom would clear land for the rich mob boss. Of course, he never actually said the owner was a mob boss, but even as a little girl, I knew how to read between the shrugs and story omissions. My grandfather eventually hooked up with the owner and my dad didn’t have to pick any more olives and my grandma didn’t have to haul rocks.

I guessed that being born a girl I broke the venerated mob chain.

A short silence, feet shuffled, chairs creaked.

“My name is Hetty, and I’m an alcoholic.” My aunt’s voice was deep and loud, and what she said was a complete revelation to me. It explained a lot of her reclusive and nasty behavior.

“Welcome, Hetty,” we chanted.

“I just want to say, I’m glad the bastard Dickey is dead. I know I shouldn’t feel that way, but I can’t help myself. I’ve hated him for a lotta years, and that devil finally got what he had coming. I think now I can let some of my pent-up anger go. I’m working on it by meditating for fifteen minutes in the mornings. I heard about it on Oprah, and I gotta say, after a couple days of the stuff
—
and the fact that the louse is finally dead
—
I’m feeling a lot less like I should hit something.”

Silence.

I so needed to get Hetty alone after the meeting. The woman reeked of information.

“My name is Maryann, and I’m a user.”

This I knew.

“Welcome, Maryann.”

She continued. “I’m very sad that Dickey’s dead and that his body has gone missing. At least if I knew where he was buried I could pay my last respects with a proper accordion sendoff. I have friends who also play, and we have an entire concerto planned for just this occasion. But, this way, I can’t get closure and it’s making me cry all the time, play sad songs and even, God forbid, think about drugs. If somebody knows where he is, and I have a strong feeling somebody in this room does, please let me know so I can send him off, proper like. You have my solemn promise I won’t rat you out if you tell me.” She held up her right hand, oath style.

No one moved. Everyone seemed to be staring at the floor.

“Oh, and I want to say that I’m sorry if I caused the family any grief when I phoned that nice Leonardo Russo to invite him to Dickey’s party. I thought I was doing a good thing for our Mia. He’s been really working hard at becoming a better person. Even sees a shrink every week, at least that’s what I heard. I had no idea he would bring that nosey cop, Nick Zeleski. I had nothing to do with the cop joining him. And that’s all I’m gonna say on the subject.”

Zia Yolanda filled the room with a forlorn, sniffly sob and I felt as though I should join her.

Leo was actually trying to be a better person. Great news. But the man was still a liar. I wondered if there were Liars Anonymous meetings because those might actually do him some good.

“My name is Jimmy, and I gotta get something off my chest.” Uncle Benny cleared his throat. Jimmy shuffled his feet and his face went pale. “I mean, I’m an alcoholic, but I’m doin’ good. Thanks.”

“Welcome, Jimmy.”

He slouched in his chair next to me. Something was definitely up.

“What the—” Lisa quietly mouthed.

“We need to talk to that man,” I whispered.

“And fast,” she said.

Giuseppe coughed and stood up this time, his right side facing me, making hand gestures as he spoke. “I think I got one more thing I need to say,” he said in English. “The family in Calabria, they send me to America to reclaim something from Dickey, but he would not part with this something, which I am very sad about. But now, because things they have changed, I need this something as the proof that Dickey
—
he’s not gonna show up somewhere still making the trouble. If I can have this proof I would be always grateful. Please, I mean no disrespect, but it is very bad for me if I can not have the proof. Mili grazie.”

He sat down.

That’s when I suddenly recognized him. Giuseppe was Leo, not the real Leo, but he looked enough like the real Leo that I’d mistaken my Leo for the Giuseppe-Leo. It was the beard that threw me. This was the guy on my Leo’s porch arguing with Dickey. This was the guy who probably phoned Dickey for a meeting, a meeting that Dickey arranged someplace public. That explained Leo’s wine on the table at my mom’s party. It all made sense now.

How could I have been so stupid? I could see now that he wasn’t as tall as my Leo, his hair was a little lighter, and his body . . . well, I didn’t want to dwell on his body . . . but what was even worse, I had accused my Leo of lying when it had been this faux Leo all along.

I truly had to do some major sucking up to my Leo tomorrow night at the Martini Madness Ball, which I was suddenly truly looking forward to.

Giuseppe reverted to Italian. His face flushed and he went deadly serious, his voice going up an octave. “If I cannot get this something I was sent to retrieve, let me make myself perfectly clear, the family in Calabria will not take this news well. It will be bad for me, but it will be worse for your family. This I can promise.”

My mom let out a small groan.

Uncle Ray, Uncle Benny, Uncle Federico and Jimmy stood, a couple of their chairs falling to the floor behind them. Giuseppe spread his legs apart, and clasped his hands in front of his body.

The mobster stance.

Two shady looking associates, both dressed in fitted business suites, stood on either side of him. Young buffed Turks. All three of them poised for action.

Lisa grabbed my hand. I shut my eyes knowing this could get really ugly. I waited. She waited. We all waited. I could hear their heavy breathing, like bulls trapped in a ring apprising the matador, getting ready to charge.

Just as the tension was about to ignite, Maryann began singing a Louie Prima tune, That Old Black Magic, accompanying herself on her accordion.

I was never so grateful for Maryann and her accordion as I was at that very moment. And just like that, the men smiled at each other, albeit somewhat tepid smiles, but smiles nonetheless. The young Turks backed off, and I could see the fight leave their bodies.

One good thing we had on our side was that Made Men didn’t like to show their aggression in front of their women. Some kind of unwritten law of the streets, and at the moment I was tremendously appreciative of that unwritten rule.

Within moments the entire group was up on their feet, reciting the daily AA prayer, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

“Amen,” Uncle Ray said.

Soon the men were patting each other’s backs and looking as if they all loved one another. Uncle Ray and Giuseppe were hunched over whispering to each other, smiling as if everything that Giuseppe had said had already been forgotten.

But I knew better.

Coffee was poured, wine bottles were opened, cookies, cheese, and sliced meats were served. The Spia clan was a model of all that was good, but everyone knew Giuseppe was serious about his threat and I, for one, had that sick scared feeling in the pit of my stomach. Someone here, other than the killer, had the ring, obviously the ring that Giuseppe was sent here to fetch.

What was up with that ring? It hadn’t looked that special to me, at least not special enough that someone would kill for it, and that a family would send one of their own from Italy to fetch it.

Was I missing something here?

Suddenly I was feeling completely inadequate.

Who was I to think I could resolve this murder? Could help keep this family honest? Could keep my mom out of danger? I was kidding myself. These Wise Guys were serious about their vendettas. My own father was probably a victim of one of those vendettas.

My shoulder began to throb, and my knees went weak. A glass of wine would go down so easily, and would help with the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I walked to the end of the table toward the now open bottles of wine telling myself that one glass wouldn’t make me a binge drinker. That I was ready to drink again. That I needed it. That I could handle it. That . . .

“Let’s get out of here,” Lisa said, standing between me and my quest. “Jimmy just left. We should try and catch up with him.”

“Not yet,” I said as I tried to get around her. “I need a glass of wine.”

“No you don’t.”

She placed herself in front of me, cutting my view of the bottles of wine. I wanted to shove her out of the way, tell her that she was intruding in my life, but when I looked at her I could see the concern on her face. Lisa was on my side. She believed I could shake my temptation. That alone was worth giving myself another chance.

If I drank a glass of wine, I would be giving up on Lisa’s friendship, on my mom’s innocence, on finding the killer, but most of all I would be giving up on me.

But the bottles of wine were so close I could reach out and touch them. A glass was waiting to be filled. Almost everyone around me was drinking, enjoying themselves, imbibing in the my forbidden fruit. Why couldn’t I?

“Is it really worth it?” Lisa asked.

“You bet it is,” I said, then tried to reach around her for a glass. She stood her ground. Never moving. Never flinching.

I hesitated and slowly pulled my hand back from the fire. “I’ll have some later.”

Lisa’s head bobbed. “Good idea.”

Having some later was my way of telling that crazed partier inside me that I wasn’t going to totally deprive her of getting completely shitfaced. I was simply putting it off until some future time, which I thoroughly believed and planned for . . . someday.

“How long ago did you say Jimmy left?” I asked.

“A couple minutes at most. If we hurry, we can probably catch him.”