Dopplegangster Page 4

  “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 emergency 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!”

  “What’s real?” I asked, still wiping up the spilled water on his table.

  He grabbed my arm with clutching fingers and pulled me closer to his red, sweating face as he said hoarsely, “My double.”

  “Your what?”

  “My double! My perfect double!”

  I tried to pull away from him. His grip tightened ruthlessly on my arm.

  Hoping to distract him enough to free myself, I said, “What are you talking about?”

  His eyes wide and anxious, he croaked, “I looked into my own face. My own eyes looked back at me.”

  “That’s called a mirror, Charlie.” I started trying to pry his fingers off my arm.

  “No, this was a real thing! My double, I’m telling you, my double.”

  “You mean someone who looks like you?” I had to agree it was a distressing prospect in Charlie’s case.

  “No! He was me. He is me,” Charlie raved. “Ain’t you never heard of this?”

  “Heard of what?” I asked as I looked around for help.

  Charlie needed an ambulance and, I now suspected, restraints. And I needed my left arm back.

  “La mia propria faccia nel viso di un altro!” he cried, lapsing into Italian. I’d noticed before that some of the older wiseguys did this in moments of high drama. “La faccia della morte! La morte!”

  “What?” I was still looking around.

  “Are you paying attention?” Charlie shook my arm. “To look into the face of this thing is to be cursed with death!”

  There was no help in sight at the moment. Lucky Battistuzzi hadn’t arrived for dinner yet, and the other two tables in this section of the restaurant were too noisy and boisterous to pay any attention to me and Charlie. We were in a quiet alcove, but I nonetheless hoped another staff member would notice my problem before I had to make a scene and possibly push Charlie over the brink into a heart attack—or a violent psychotic episode. Meanwhile, I kept trying to loosen his grip on me.

  “Death? Oh, ‘la morte’—okay,
now I get it,” I said. “Charlie, you’re hurting—”

  “Okay? It’s not okay, you stupid broad! Don’t you get it? I’m a dead man!”

  “You will be if we don’t get you to a hospital,” I agreed.

  “A hospital can’t change what’s going to happen to me!”

  I had a sudden bright idea. “But you said maybe a priest could? St. Monica’s is just around the corner. Why don’t we go see the priest there, Charlie?”

  “You mean Father Gabriel?” he asked with a frown.

  I had no idea who I meant, but since the suggestion had created a pause in Charlie’s ranting about death and a double, I said, “Yes. Father Gabriel. Let’s talk to him. Maybe he can help you.”

  “You think there’s an exorcism for un doppio?”

  “A dope?” I asked in confusion.

  “A double. Don’t they teach your people nothin’?” He suddenly let go of me and made an exasperated gesture. I staggered backward and rubbed my left forearm as Charlie said, “Ain’t Jews got this, too? From the old country? Wherever that was for you guys.”

  “Got what?” I asked.

  “You see your perfect double, a thing that looks and walks and talks and dresses exactly like you . . . And it means you’re gonna die by nightfall.”

  I stared at him, surprised and perplexed. “You’re telling me you’ve seen—”

  “Ain’t that what I been saying?” A look of dark fear contorted his fat features. “I seen my perfect double today. I been cursed. I’m marked for death.”

  “Charlie, you saw someone who looks like you,” I said. “Or maybe you’re having some heart trouble. That’s why I think we should go to the hospital—”

  “No!”

  “—or to St. Monica’s,” I said quickly. “To see Father Gabriel. We’ll go right now.” And while the priest was talking to the gangster, I’d call 911. “We’ll tell Father Gabriel what you’ve seen, and we’ll ask him what it means.”

  “I know what it means.” Charlie shook his head and added with a haunted expression, “I just don’t know who sent it.”

  I heard the tinkling of breaking glass, a sharp whistling sound, and a soft thud. I looked around for a second, wondering what it was. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I said, “So do you want to go now?” No answer. He just sat there with a stunned expression on his face. “Charlie?” Still no answer. “Charlie?”

  That was when I saw the huge red stain blossoming on his chest.

  “Charlie!” I screamed.

  Without even blinking, he slid out of his chair, fell to the floor, and lay there dead.

  3

  It was a confusing crime scene, because all the wise guys who’d been at Bella Stella when Chubby Charlie got shot had immediately fled, while others arrived for dinner afterward—and decided to hang around on the street to annoy the cops.

  I was sitting in a corner of the restaurant, dizzy with shock. Stella Butera, a voluptuous woman, sat next to me, holding my hand and occasionally patting my back.

  Stella’s hair, an improbable shade of gold, was teased and curled into a dramatic fall of riotous waves. She wore heavy mascara, her pink fingernails were very long, and her clothes were usually tight and always shiny. Ever since her lover, Handsome Joey Gambello, had gotten killed here five years ago, she’d had plenty of offers for nocturnal companionship, but she’d reputedly remained faithful to his memory. (In fact, she was having a quiet affair with her accountant, but the public pretense of untouchable celibacy suited her complicated relationship with the volatile Gambellos, several of whom perpetually competed to take over Joey’s side of her bed.)

  “I can’t believe Charlie was killed in front of me,” I said. “Right in front of me!”

  I hadn’t liked him, but I certainly hadn’t wanted to watch him die.

  “There, there, sweetie.” Stella patted my back.

  I stared with dazed eyes at Charlie’s corpse, which still lay on the floor. A police photographer was taking pictures of everything, while a veritable army of Crime Scene Unit personnel moved purposefully around the restaurant, gathering evidence. A young patrolman with an awkward expression on his face was watching over me, and two detectives were standing nearby, talking into their cell phones.

  “Can’t I leave now?” I said plaintively to the patrolman.

  “Just a minute, ma’am.” He went over to speak to the detectives.

  I had given my statement to this patrolman, then to another patrolman, and then to the two detectives. Now I just wanted to go home, pull the covers over my head, and try to forget what I had seen.

  Above all, I wanted to get out of the restaurant and away from Charlie’s staring corpse.

  “I feel like he’s looking at me,” I said to Stella. “I should have listened to him! He said he was marked for death!”

  “Of course he was, honey,” said Stella. “He was a Gambello capo. Living to a ripe old age ain’t a standard part of their benefits package.”

  The patrolman returned to my side. “I’m sorry, ma’am, you’re going to have to give another statement.”

  “Another?” I said, fighting tears of exhaustion, revulsion, and guilt.

  Stella stepped in. “What’s the matter with you people? Can’t you see she’s had enough?” she bellowed.

  “Er, Detective?” the patrolman said anxiously, backing away from Stella.

  One of the detectives glanced out the restaurant window and said to the patrolman, “OCCB just arrived. They’ve got to talk to her.”

  The young patrolman said to me, “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “Don’t call me that,” I snapped.

  “Yes, ma’am. Er, sorry . . .”

  Two more cops entered the restaurant. I jumped to my feet as soon as I recognized one of them.

  “Esther,” Lopez said, his features creased with concern. “Jesus, I was hoping you weren’t here when it happened.”

  I went straight into his arms and clung to him.

  “You’re the witness?” he said against my hair.

  I nodded.

  “Shit.” His arms tightened around me.

  “Hey, sweetie!” Stella said jovially. “This must be the guy, huh? The cop everyone’s been talking about?”

  I didn’t answer. I just burrowed. Lopez felt wonderful. Strong and safe. I wanted to stay in his arms the rest of the night.

  But not in the same room with Charlie’s dead body.

  “Can we please go outside?” I mumbled against Lopez’s jacket. “I can’t look at Charlie anymore.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Come on.” With one arm still around me, he turned so that I wouldn’t see Charlie again as we made our exit.

  The cop who had come in with him said, “This is our witness?”

  “Yeah,” Lopez replied. “I know her.”

  “So I gathered,” was the dry response.

  “Esther, this is Detective Peter Napoli,” Lopez said. “He’s going to be lead investigator on this case.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  Lopez told Napoli, “I’ll get her statement.”

  “I’ll get it,” said Napoli.

  Lopez nodded but didn’t loosen his hold on me. I was relieved he wasn’t just going to abandon me to Napoli. If I had to repeat again what it was like to watch Charlie Chiccante die, I’d at least like a comforting face to look at while I did it. And, as I glanced at Napoli, I didn’t think he looked at all comforting. A pale, brown-eyed man who was mostly bald, he had a sardonic, suspicious expression.

  As soon as we got outside, where it was nighttime by now, a familiar voice called, “Esther! Are you okay, kid?”

  I looked around. “Lucky?”

  Bright lights blinked briefly in my face. I was confused for a moment, until I realized it was flash photography. I held a hand up to shade my eyes and squinted. I saw two photographers in the crowd. Not cops. Media. Taking pictures of me.

  “Miss Diamond!” one of them shouted. “Hey, over here, Esther!”

>   “Great, they know your name already,” Lopez muttered.

  I ducked my head, suddenly depressed. I dreamed of being photographed as a successful actress at the Tony Awards, not as a waitress who’d witnessed a mob hit in Little Italy.

  “Esther!” Lucky called.

  I lifted my head again. “Lucky! Where are you?”

  “Don’t, Esther,” Lopez said. “This is a zoo. We’d better take you to—”

  Another flash went off in my face. I saw spots and stumbled. Only Lopez’s supporting arm kept me from falling.

  A hand from the milling crowd reached for me. I flinched, but then I saw Lucky’s face and returned his grip.

  “Grazie a Dio!” Lucky tore me out of Lopez’s grasp to hug me. “Thank God you’re all right, kid! They wouldn’t let me inside, and no one knew for sure if you was okay!”

  I hugged him back and babbled, “Chubby Charlie’s dead! He was shot right in front of me! I thought he was having some kind of stroke or psychotic fit, but then . . . Oh, Lucky!”

  Napoli snapped at Lopez, “Can’t you keep your witness quiet?”

  Lopez said, “Esther—”

  “Hey, buddy, back off!” Lucky warned him, sweeping me to his side and stepping between us. “Her boyfriend’s a cop.”

  “I’m a cop,” Lopez said, trying to retrieve me. “And I’m her . . . I mean . . .”

  Our eyes met.

  I said, “I thought I’d have a chance to explain to you, before you heard about it from someone else, that, um, I’ve been telling the guys around here—”

  “Lucky, relax!” said Stella, who’d followed us outside. “This is Esther’s boyfriend.”

  “Oh? Oh. Hey!” Lucky turned friendly. “You’re the boyfriend?”

  Napoli said to Lopez, “Whoa! The witness is your girlfriend?”

  Lopez looked at me, as if thinking I might know the right answer to this question.

  I said, “It may seem as if things between us moved forward without you actually being here, but I—”

  “Well, okay, then, pal! Glad to meet you!” Lucky grabbed Lopez’s hand and pumped it in greeting. “Any friend of Esther’s is a friend of mine!”

  Lopez said to me, “You’re friends with Lucky Battistuzzi?”

  “Hey, you know me?” Lucky sounded pleased.