8 Antiques Con (9 page)

Petey Pecans said, “Or it could be fulla rat poison! But, uh . . . what
is
it, anyway?”

Like a mother informing her four strapping, mischievous sons what was for dinner, I said, “Linguine with clams, veal piccata, and chicken Parmesan. And for dessert, cannoli and tiramisu. Oh, and garlic bread,
naturalmente
.”

Fabio’s lower lip extended into a pout. “What, no baked ziti?”

“Oh, that’s in there, too. Just an oversight in reporting my inventory.”

It would have been disastrous to have forgotten baked ziti! Seemed like on
The Sopranos
Tony’s wife, Carmella, served that dish whenever she wanted something, which she then usually got.

Petey Pecans asked, “Where’s it from?”

“Coppola’s,” I said.

Fabio, licking his lips, said, “They got some good gravy, over at Coppola’s.”

For those of you with basic cable: “gravy” is Italian for marinara sauce.

“
And
they got truly righteous cannoli,” Big Kitty added, then made a kissing gesture with his mouth and fingers.

Johnny Contralto was holding back his culinary approval, studying me with sharp, tiny eyes. “You ain’t answered us yet, lady. . . .”

“Call me Vivian, please.”

“Okay, Vivian. Nice to meet you, Vivian. Thanks for wheelin’ in the meal wagon, Vivian. But
why
are you doin’ us this generous thing? We ain’t never seen you before. Which makes me think there’s something that you want from us.”

“Very perceptive, sir. I can see why you’re in charge.... You
are
in charge?”

Johnny Contralto nodded. He was studying me shrewdly.

I continued: “But why don’t we talk about that while we eat? The food will get cold. Strike now while the takeout is hot! And we won’t even have to fire up the ol’ microwave.”

Johnny Contralto was still studying me.

“If you’re worried it’s been poisoned,” I said with a dismissive shrug, “I’ll be happy to taste everything first. But, please, for gracious’ sakes . . . let’s eat already! I’ve had to smell this wonderful feast all the way here in a taxi.”

Big Kitty looked woefully at Johnny Contralto. “Boss, cut us a break, will ya? I’m starvin’! I ain’t had a bite since lunch. You need a taste-tester, I’m your man. Heck, hand me a darn spoon and I’ll dig into the gosh-darn stuff.”

(Something else I should mention—I will be substituting the saltier language with less offensive alternates, so as not to offend you, gentle reader. Not to mention Walmart. I wonder if they will
ever
carry our books.)

Johnny Contralto shrugged. “Fair enough, Kitty. Let’s put on the flippin’ feedbag.
Then
we’ll talk, capeesh?” To the others, he ordered, “Get some dishes.”

And faster than the St. Valentine’s Day massacre, the table was cleared, plates and utensils were brought, and cold beer was fetched from a fridge. Then we passed the dishes around and dug in, just one happy family (get it?).

In between bites, I filled my new friends in on a little background, chiefly that I live in a small town called Serenity.

“Never heard of it,” said Big Kitty through a mouthful of linguine. “Where is dat, anyway?”

“As I said, I’m from Iowa, and our little jewel of a town is nestled along the banks of the majestic Mississippi.”

“What’s it like, living there?” Fabio asked.

“Have you ever seen a Frank Capra movie?
It’s a Wonderful Life
?
Mr. Deeds Goes to Town
?”

There were nods all around. Capra was one of theirs, after all.

“Well,” I said, “like that, but . . . not as well directed.”

“Aw, that’s a make-believe world,” Petey Pecans grunted, a red dot of gravy on his pug nose. “No such thing nowhere.”

“
Au contraire
. There are plenty of good jobs, a wonderful public education system, and everyone looks out for everybody else.”

Johnny Contralto, chewing, said, “I don’t believe it. A river town? That close to Chicago? You got crime. Don’t tell me different.”

“Well, yes, but practically none. Of course, we’ve had the occasional murder . . .”

Johnny Contralto smiled smugly and nodded, spooning pasta.

“. . . but those were crimes of passion. And what
other
crime there was in sleepy Serenity, some gang violence, for example, has disappeared in recent years. All thanks to one man.”

“The mayor?” Big Kitty wondered, a kid in class who hoped he’d stumbled onto the right answer.

I risked a healthy swig of beer—not really advisable on my medication, but, in this instance, needed to bolster my nerve.

“No, dear,” I said. “I’m speaking of our former police chief—a fine public servant who shares your colorful ethnic heritage.”

“Yeah?” Petey Pecans asked. “Who? Maybe I heard of the guy.”

“Maybe you have,” I said casually. “His name is Anthony Cassato. Tony?”

Forks on the way to mouths froze in midair. As if a cop on a TV show had said, “Freeze!” Oh. I used that one already. Sorry . . .

Johnny Contralto asked, “This visit of yours today? It’s about Tony Cassato?”

I nodded. “I came here to urge you to remove the, uh, I believe the term is
contract
that, uh, certain associates of yours appear to have taken out on him.”

Johnny Contralto sat back, smug again. “And that’s how you think it’s done, huh, lady?”

“Vivian, please. Vivian.”

“You just waltz in with some pasta and gravy, and we ask you what you want in return? That it?”

“The food was meant as a . . . peace offering. An icebreaker. Friends break bread together, and—”

“We break a lot of things,” Fabio said.

“Fellas. Boys.” I held up a peacekeeping palm. “I can well understand that when Tony was working in your province, he was probably in your hair. . . .” I glanced at the balding Johnny Contralto and added, “Figuratively speaking.... But what harm might he do you when he has relocated to the faraway Midwest?”

The four looked at me. It would have been quite sinister had they not all had gravy on their faces.

I continued: “Serenity needs Tony back. The town depends on him. Otherwise, Old Man Potter will take over Bedford Falls!” I was still working the Capra angle, if a little desperately.

“Look, Vivian,” Johnny Contralto said, his manner calm, his voice almost friendly now, “even if I
wanted
to cancel that supposed contract you mention . . . I couldn’t.”

I frowned. “Why not? Aren’t you the head of the New Jersey family?” That’s what the Internet had said, anyway.

He shook his head. “Vito Corleone is still the Don.”

(Again, I am protecting myself by substituting a fictitious name, which I’m borrowing from
The Godfather
, an excellent book and even better movie!)

“I thought he was retired,” I said. (Internet again.)

“He is what you call semiretired,” Johnny Contralto said. “But he’s still chairman of the board.”

I thought Frank Sinatra was chairman of the board, but maybe Vito had taken over after Frank’s passing.

Shifting in my chair, I asked, “Can you arrange for me to have a meeting with him?”

“Ain’t likely,” Fabio said, shaking his head vigorously, though not a lock of that pompadour was able to make a break for it. “The Don’s in a old folks home in Teaneck, and he sees nobody but his son.”

I sighed, disappointed. “Well, that’s that, I guess.”

Petey Pecans said, “Sorry you come all this way for nothin’. But the food was a nice gesture, Viv. Okay I call you Viv, doll?”

“I feel honored, Petey.” (Again, not his real name.) “But perhaps I could ask another favor? Or I should say, a different one?”

Johnny Contralto said, “You want we should call a cab for you?”

“No, I want you should call Gino Moretti for me.”

“Who?”

I smiled. “Please, we’re friends. Friends don’t insult each other.”

Fabio said, “Not without risk, they don’t.”

I ignored that, and kept my eyes on Johnny Contralto’s interesting face. “We all know that Gino is part of the Jersey family.”

I knew this not from the Net, but from eavesdropping on Sal Cassato talking with one of his men, when I’d gone back to the crime scene to give the detective a keycard to our suite.

I continued. “Obviously Gino isn’t here. Perhaps you’ve got him squirreled away somewhere. Holed up?”

Johnny Contralto smirked. “And why would we do that, Vivian?”

“To keep him from being questioned in the death of Tommy Bufford.”

Petey Pecans asked menacingly, “Who
are
you, lady?”

I shrugged. “I’m an honored guest of the Bufford Con . . .
and
the one who found Tommy’s body. And I’m someone else, too. . . .”

Fabio said, “And who would that be, Viv?”

“Why, the only one who can
clear
Gino.”

The men exchanged looks that were equal parts confusion and skepticism.

I went on: “The police know Gino had an argument with Tommy, and that Gino threatened to kill him. That puts Gino on the top of their suspect list.”

I paused, then asked, “By the way, do you know who’s in charge of the Bufford investigation?” Not waiting for an answer, I said, “Sal Cassato—Tony’s
brother
. Now, I ask you, how fair a shake do you think Gino will get?”

A few seconds passed as the men sat there as frozen as . . . custard? Make that an Italian ice.

Then Johnny Contralto withdrew his cell phone from a pocket and punched in some numbers.

For about an hour, I joined my new friends in a game of poker ($5 white chips, $10 reds, $25 blues). It was dealer’s choice and I opted for Chicago (high spade in the hole splits the pot) and the game caught on, everybody dealing it for a while. I had just won my sixth pot when someone new pushed through the swinging doors to join our little get-together.

Johnny Contralto gave me a nod that said,
Gino.

This was my first look at Bufford’s ex-partner, who wore a black jacket unzipped over a white shirt, blue jeans, and black boots. He had dark wavy hair, a large nose, and small eyes; but his sensuous mouth and cleft chin threw him into the “handsome” column.

“Cash me out, boys,” I said. I was up two Cs (that’s two hundred dollars). “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“Right here is fine,” Johnny Contralto said. “We’ll just take a break and grab a few brews. Out at the bar.”

They did.

With Gino to myself, I gestured to the chair next to me and he sat, slouched, eyes hooded. “What do you want, lady? I wouldn’t be here if—”

“If Mr. Contralto hadn’t told you to get your behind over to the Badda-Boom?”

He shrugged sullenly.

“And what I
want
,” I said, “is to help you avoid the hangman’s noose. But that attitude of yours isn’t helping.”

Of course nobody got hung anymore (actually,
hanged
), but I had no doubt a New York jury would give him a stiff sentence.

“Besides which,” I went on helpfully, “bad posture will only make you old before your time.”

He smirked and snorted a sort of laugh.

“Well, I’m glad I’m a source of amusement, anyway.” I pushed back from the table and stood. “Very well, I’ll take my leave,” I said, adding, “It is well-known that Vivian Borne never stays where she’s unwanted.” (Not precisely true....)

Suddenly, Gino straightened. “No, no, I’m curious—let’s hear what you got to say.” But his smirk remained. (I might have lectured him on the dangers of smirking, as I had recently done with Brandy; but smirking suited Gino’s face, and, anyway, if you’re a man, what’s wrong with looking like Bruce Willis?)

I sat down and folded my hands in my lap. “First, let me assure you most sincerely that I do
not
believe you killed Tommy Bufford.”

A fib—actually, Gino was my number one suspect. But all’s fair in love, war, and murder investigations.

I continued: “But you were seen arguing with him on the evening of the reception . . . even using the incriminating phrase, ‘I could kill you.’ ”

“Come on, lady, you know that’s a—what? A figure of speech!”

“Such a figure of speech can get you landed right smack in the slammer, young man—haven’t you ever seen
Perry Mason
?”

“Harry who?”

Don’t you think it’s just a travesty that these younger generations ignore our wonderful old TV shows? But I restrained myself from berating him.

“I understand,” I said, “that you and the late Mr. Bufford were quite close—even best of friends. And in spite of your acrimonious parting, would I be right in assuming that you still held him in high regard? Perhaps even loved him like a brother?”

Yes, that was a bushel of Iowa corn, but it brought the desired result.

Gino’s smirk disappeared, the defiant eyes softened, and the sensuous lips quivered just a little.

“I . . . do,” he admitted. “I
did
.”

“Then, dear,” I said gently, “why don’t you tell me about it?”

“Who are you? Why do you want to know these things?”

“I am an independent investigator,” I said, liking the sound of that, “who happens to have the ear of the detective in charge of the case. Detective Sal Cassato? I can
help
you.”

“All right.” He sighed deeply. “Tommy and me, we went to the same private school, but we didn’t hit it off right away.” He shook his head. “Two of us couldn’t have been more different—Tommy was a geek, and me, I was a jock—quarterback. Darn good one, too.”

Here Gino paused, enjoying the memory.

Then he went on, “We got thrown together in a math class where I was right on the verge, you know, of flunking out. And Tommy, he offered to help me . . . so I wouldn’t get thrown off the team. That’s when we found out that we both loved superhero comic books—you might say I was a closet comics fan all my young life. Anyway, we heard about the San Diego convention—the biggest one in the world—and made plans to go that summer together and share expenses.”

“An exciting destination for a pair of young comics fans.”

“Oh, it was a blast. But it was way the hell across the country, so Tommy and me began talking about starting our
own
convention. And there were things we didn’t like about San Diego—like how big it had got, and how un-user friendly it was for people attending.”