Cook's Night Out (8 page)

“My heart bleeds. Three hunnert.” A hundred-dollar bill shifted hands.

“But Brother Tweeler,” Hodge said, cautiously tiptoeing around the desk toward the man, “we're trying to do good here. If you take that…it's stealing.”

Tweeler struggled until all the bills were in one hand, then he put them in the breast pocket of his flannel
shirt. Sharp eyes peered at Hodge, but then he said, not so sharply, “Huh?”

“Stealing's wrong, especially from a rescue mission. A
religious
rescue mission. You'll pay for it later…somehow…sometime when you least expect it. Zap!”

Tweeler's eyes widened. “Zap?”

“That's right. You've got to do good things in the eyes of the Lord, Brother Tweeler.”

“I do good things!”

“Taking this money?”

“Well…”

“Brother, if you do good, good things will come to you. This is a mere five hundred dollars. But if you're a truly good man, you'll get far more than this. You'll have more riches than you can count.”

“I don't need more. I had trouble countin' to five hunnert.”

“Don't ruin your life, Brother. Within you live dreams and hopes and a blessed assurance of your own rightness. Don't let these few shackles prevent you from finding the real you.”

He gently took hold of Tweeler's arm and maneuvered him so that he faced a blank wall, and then he passed his hand along the line of the wall, as if creating a broad mural. “You could travel, Charlie. Just imagine taking a plane—or a train, if you're afraid to fly, like I am—to someplace far away. Someplace warm and friendly.” His hand was like a giant paintbrush. Angie found herself staring at the blank wall as though at passing scenery. “You could buy a new suit there if you wanted one—not that there's anything wrong with your overalls, of course. You could buy a hat—a ten-gallon one, even. On your pinky finger there'd be a gold ring with a big square diamond. And when you pulled out your roll of money, that ring would flash and simply dazzle everybody! You'd go strutting down the street
dressed to the nines, and the women—the women, Charlie—they'd notice you. They'd surround you, hanging on your every word. They'd do it first because of the money. But you know what, Charlie? You know what?”

Tweeler shook his head, staring at the wall, trying hard to see the paradise Hodge was describing.

“After a while,” the reverend said softly, soothingly, “they'd hear nothing but your words. They'd look into your heart, and they'd be after you for yourself. For
you
. Rich ones, poor ones, all wanting you. You'd choose a rich one, of course, and spend your life in a soft bed, with all the sex and the Johnnie Walker Red Label you could ever hope for.”

“You think so?” Tweeler whispered.

“Have faith, Charlie. Have faith that your will—and the power you have to change your life—are going to make a difference. You could become whoever you were always meant to be.”

“Yeah,” Tweeler whispered, smiling hard at the wall, looking as if the vision painted there was so real he could all but taste it. “Oh, yeah!”

Hodge plucked the five hundred dollars from Charlie's breast pocket. “God be with you, Brother.” He whisked Tweeler out of his office and locked the door.

He turned around, took a wobbly step toward his desk, then fell over in a dead faint.

 

“Do you feel better now, Reverend Hodge?” The reverend sat on the floor, his back to the wall, feet straight out before him. Against his head he held a cloth Angie had found in the kitchen and dampened with cold water.

He moaned, then whispered mournfully, “Thank you.”

Angie knelt down beside him. “Who was that horrible man?”

“He's a very troubled soul,” Hodge replied. “A compulsive gambler who's lost everything. He thinks everyone is stealing from him. Now he's even blaming the mission.”

“He was talking about the numbers racket,” Angie said. “Paavo's been talking about numbers, too. Maybe Tweeler is right that something is going on somewhere near here.”

“Maybe so, but certainly not at the mission. Anyway, last week, he was complaining about poker. The week before that, craps.”

“But numbers—”

“He lies, Miss Amalfi, I'm sorry to say.”

“Oh. I thought we were on to something,” she murmured, disappointed that the potential lead had fizzled so quickly. “But you handled him wonderfully. I had no idea you were so clever. Your talk turned him around completely,” Angie said, still a little dazzled by the way the reverend had dealt with the situation. Until he passed out, at least.

“We must take the good with the bad in this kind of work,” Hodge said.

An image of the many troubled and sad cases the reverend must see in this line of work came to her. “Why do you do it?” she asked suddenly.

He seemed surprised by the question. “It's…it's the angel on my bookshelf.”

She looked at the small carved wooden angel. “It looks very old and very special.”

“It is. It was given to me many years ago by a holy man as I sat by the shore at Galilee.”

“My goodness, really?” She was impressed and a little awed.

“He said to keep it with me as a reminder to do good
works. So here I am.” He caught her eye, then grinned. “Running a rescue mission, I can give people a serving of hope along with meat and vegetables when they come here.”

“That's very kind,” she said.

He nodded. “Cheap, too.”

Serefina Teresa Maria Giuseppina Amalfi
entered Angie's apartment as if she owned it, which in fact she did, since she and Angie's father owned the building that housed the apartment. Angie paid them a fair market rent. Almost.

“Angelina,
una tassa di caffè, per piacere
. I've had such a terrible night. I couldn't sleep. Now my head hurts.
Dio, aiuto!
”

“I'll get some,” Angie said, hurrying into the kitchen for some Italian roast. “Would you like to eat anything?” she shouted. “I've got lots of chocolate candy—dark chocolate truffles, white chocolate truffles, Grand Marnier truffles, ripple divinity, chocolate almond fudge—”

“Stop, please. No more chocolate! Do you have any more of Gina's biscotti I gave you the other day?”

Angie was getting really sick of hearing about Gina's wonderful biscotti. “I'll find some. They might be a little stale.”

“Non importante.”

“Now, tell me what's wrong, Mamma,” Angie said, carrying a tray with biscotti and coffee out to the living room.

“I finally found out what was bothering your father.” She sighed. “I knew that Frankie meant trouble. Those Tagliaros, nothing but trouble. Both start with
T
. What do you expect?”

Serefina picked up the coffee cup, took a sip, sighed again, then dunked the biscotti into her cup and watched the cookie grow soggy. She quickly lifted it to her mouth, chewed, swallowed, and then heaved yet another big sigh.

“Mamma, I've never seen you like this.” Angie, getting over her irritation about Gina, now was worried.

“I don't want to trouble you,” Serefina said woefully.

“It's no trouble.”

Serefina folded her hands. “Well…maybe you can help.”

That was a switch. “Me? Why, I'd love to help you if I can.”

“You're right. Not you.”

I should have known
, Angie thought.

“Paavo,” her mother said.

That was even more surprising. “Paavo? You're kidding.”

“It's your father who needs help.” Serefina pulled her lace handkerchief out of her purse and dabbed her eyes.

“Papa?” Now Angie was even more confused. “But Papa doesn't even like Paavo.”

“What can I say?” Serefina fluttered her handkerchief. “Anyway, Frankie Tagliaro owns a restaurant, the Isle of Capri, out in the Richmond district.”

“I've heard of it, but I've never eaten there.”

“I'm not surprised. It's not much of a place. At one
time he even used a Chinese cook. The food was good as long as you didn't care that your ravioli tasted like wontons.”

“That happens.”

“
Sì
. Anyway, this Frankie, he asked your father for money. Eighteen thousand dollars! He owes the money to some men, and if he doesn't pay them, he's got troubles.” Serefina lowered her voice and bent close to Angie. “I could tell, the more he talked, the kind of men he was talking about.”

Angie's eyes widened. “You don't mean…Mafia?”

“You watch too many movies. These are
crooks
.”

“Oh,” Angie said. Translation: these were WASP bad guys.

“He told your father he can't get any more money out of his business,” Serefina continued, her hand against her breast. “The restaurant isn't making it—maybe because he serves lousy food, who knows? But if he doesn't pay…” She drew her forefinger across her throat.

“This is crazy. It's not Papa's problem. And I got the impression Tagliaro hadn't talked to Papa for years.”

“True, but your father said Frankie sounded scared. Now he's worried.” Serefina shut her eyes a moment, pressing her hand to her forehead, and Angie could see the dark shadows under her eyes, the lines of strain around her mouth. Despite all Serefina's blustering, she was truly worried. “Your father can't let an old acquaintance who came to him for help be killed,” she said softly. “Even if he never liked the guy. It's a question of honor.”

“Honor? What's the honor in giving money away for no reason? I'll go meet this Frankie Tagliaro myself,” she said, “and order him to leave my father alone!”

“It's too late,” Serefina protested. “He got on his knees, begging for the money. He even cried. Your poor
father, how bad he felt! Eighteen thousand dollars! To a stranger! I cried, too, when I heard that.
Dio!
What are we going to do?” Serefina flung out her arms, and the biscotti flew from her fingers across the room.

Angie scrambled for the biscotti. “We could shoot him.”

“Angelina, you've been with your friend the cop too long.” Serefina drank more of her coffee. “But I know what we
could
do. Let's get Paavo to throw him in jail!”

“What?”

“Yes! If Frankie's in jail, then the crooks can't get him, and your father doesn't have to give him the money. It's a good idea, Angelina. Paavo can do it. He's smart.”

“He's in Homicide. He doesn't go around throwing restaurant owners in jail.”

“Maybe it's time for him to start.”

 

“Nothing like a little evidence to brighten one's day,” Yosh said cheerfully as he drove himself and Paavo out to Peewee Clayton's house. The “little evidence” was an annotation in Dennis O'Leary's numbers tally sheets that said simply “Peewee.” True, there might be more than one Peewee in the city. But O'Leary's patrons had identified this Peewee as being a regular.

“Look over there, Yosh,” Paavo said, pointing toward the left. “Our boy is about to take his evening constitutional.”

Peewee walked jauntily down the street to the corner, then stopped and waited at the bus stop.

“Hey, all right, pal.” Yosh swung the car into a driveway and out of Peewee's sight. “Let's see where he's off to.”

The bus soon came, and Yosh stayed a reasonable distance behind it. Peewee got off twice, each time run
ning into a mom-and-pop grocery store. The second time, instead of waiting for yet another bus to show up, he walked up to a black 1972 Firebird parked on the street, unlocked the door, and drove it to one pool hall, one bar, two liquor stores, and a doughnut shop.

“Nothing like following a numbers runner to find out who to turn over to Vice,” Paavo said with grim satisfaction.

“You think that's what this is, do you?” Yosh asked.

“He's not shopping for his mother,” Paavo said.

“He keeps this up, we might be able to follow him straight to the banker,” Yosh said.

“It couldn't be that easy. There's usually a switch somewhere. We've got to watch Peewee carefully—see where it's made.”

“I'm all eyes, partner,” Yosh said.

Peewee's journey was structured to look as though he were buying goods at each stop. Eventually, he parked the car in a lot and, carrying a Macy's shopping bag, disappeared into a BART station.

Paavo and Yosh did the same. They huddled on the stairway, trying to stay hidden while keeping an eye on him, since there was no place to hide on the train platform.

Finally, Peewee got on a Fremont-bound train. They raced down the stairs and jumped on at the last moment, making sure he stayed on it. They moved closer to the car he was on as the train moved. It wasn't too long before it zipped underneath San Francisco Bay, headed toward Oakland.

Paavo hated riding BART. As strange as it felt traveling in any subway's hole in the ground, traveling in a tube skimming the bottom of the bay was even worse. Too many submarine movies about water pressure and leaks sprang to mind. The underwater ride was only five minutes or so, but he felt as if he should hold his
breath the whole way. He'd rather face a murderer than a BART train headed for the East Bay.

But if he could keep track of Peewee, this might be the big break he needed in this case. The break that would give him some answers for Hollins.

They didn't see Peewee get off at the West Oakland or Eleventh Street stops, but just as the train began to pull out of the MacArthur station, they saw him sprint away from the tall, overweight woman who had shielded him from their view. He ran down the stairs. They tried to open the car doors, but it was too late.

They noticed, though, that Peewee no longer held his bag of goodies. The switch had to have been made on the train or at one of the stations. Getting the money from the runners to the counting house was the trickiest part of the numbers business. Other crooks, as well as the police, had an abiding interest in the cash-filled counting house location—the police to shut it down, and others to rob it. Since the easiest way to find it was simply to follow the runners, the runners had to be experts at quick shifts of money from one to another. Only the most trusted lieutenants of the banker made the final delivery.

Peewee had skunked them.

At the next stop, Yosh and Paavo got off the train, crossed to the opposite side of the platform, and spent a long, miserable return trip to San Francisco.