Lady Killer (10 page)

M
ary had been on so many blind dates that it was a pleasure to be with a man who had a medical excuse for not being attracted to her. She couldn’t pass or fail the date and she hadn’t even bothered freshening her makeup. No matter how hard she tried, Anthony wasn’t falling in love with anyone but the waiter.

“This is fun,” Mary said, and Anthony raised a glass.

“To Italian-American studies.”

“
Cent’anni.
” Mary raised her glass and they both sipped their wine, which tasted cold and great. She knew nothing about wines, but Anthony had selected it from a bewildering array on the leather-bound list. She said, “Nice choice, sir. That wine list was harder than the bar exam.”

“You could have picked a bottle. It’s not as difficult as people think.”

“Like the Freedom of Information Act.”

“Exactly. You answered all my questions on the way over.” Anthony grinned, his eyes crinkling photogenically. He had on a dark cashmere blazer with a white shirt and khaki slacks, and his smile was as warm and friendly as last night, if even handsomer in the candlelight, which lent his eyes the rich warmth of dark chocolate.

“Were you ever a model, Anthony?”

“No.” He grinned crookedly. “Why?”

“You’re so hot.”

“Thank you.” Anthony smiled, a little surprised.

Mary eyed the menu, feeling the wine affecting her, already. She hadn’t eaten all day and was always a cheap drunk. Giulia, Brinkley, and even Trish floated farther back in her mind. The restaurant, a casual bistro, was dark and uncrowded, and the menu was completely in French. She stumbled over the béarnaise and mumbled, “Why is the menu never in Latin?”

“What did you say?” Anthony leaned over his menu. “You like Latin food?”

“No, forget it.”

“I cook very good Cuban. I learned it in South Beach from a Cuban friend.”

“I feel inferior, with no Cuban friends. I know people from Jersey, however.”

Anthony laughed. “I even went to Havana with him. What a city. Very wild.”

“I’m sure. I saw
The Godfather
.”

“I memorized
The Godfather
. I even read the book.”

“That’s hardcore.” Mary smiled. “What’s your favorite line?”

“‘Leave the gun, take the cannoli.’”

“Good one. Mine’s ‘Fredo, you broke my heart.’” Mary smiled again. She was buzzed. Anthony was fun. Gay men were always fun. She wished suddenly that all men were gay. “So you’re a good cook?”

“Excellent. I love to cook. My idea of a perfect night is a wonderful dinner.”

“Me, too. You know, it’s too bad I didn’t know you in high school. The only boys I knew were the ones who needed tutoring.”

“Not me. I studied hard, I was a good boy. In fact, I was an altar boy.” Anthony smiled, and Mary laughed.

“You’re like the male version of me. It’s really too bad we didn’t know each other.” Her thoughts turned to Trish and the boy she did know in high school. Not a good boy, decidedly a bad boy.

“What?” Anthony asked. “Your face just fell.”

“It’s a long story.”

“So, tell me. The waiter’s never coming back anyway.”

“He’d better.” Mary checked her watch but it was too dark to see it. “I have to go back to work and this thing that’s exploding. If you saw the TV news today, you know that Trish Gambone is missing.”

“How do I know that name?” Anthony asked, with a slight frown.

“High school.” So Mary told him the story, and his expression darkened.

“It’s a terrible thing,” he said, after she had finished the story. “I don’t get some men.”

“Me, either.” Mary didn’t elaborate.

“Wait a minute. Why is this your problem? You and Trish weren’t friends, were you?” Anthony cocked his head. “She was so conceited in high school, and he was a dumb jock.”

“She came to me for help.”

“So she’s your client?”

“Not really.”

Anthony arched an eyebrow. “Then if you ask me, I think you did plenty. You found the diary and you told the police. This is their job now. Let them do it. They’ll go forward with their investigation, even though Giulia went on TV.”

Mary nodded. It was exactly what Judy would have said. “Still, I hate doing nothing.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s time for the police to take over. You’re not responsible for everyone from the neighborhood.”

Yet it was exactly how Mary felt. “But that’s what a community does. That’s what it is, to me. Take Dhiren for example, who lives next door to your mom.”

“I’ve seen him. Nice kid.” Anthony sipped his wine.

“He needs help, but I can’t find a psychologist who can test him because everybody’s too busy.” Mary knew that she had just divulged confidential information, but she was a little drunk, so it was permissible under the Tipsy Exception. “Nobody feels the remotest responsibility for others in this world. It’s all the bottom line and the schedule and it’s-not-my-table, and a little boy hangs in the balance. Even the cops have their issues between Homicide and Missing Persons, and Trish falls through the cracks.”

Anthony set down his glass. “You’re not a big drinker, are you?”

“Does it show?”

“Absolutely, but it’s cute.” Anthony smiled softly, and their eyes met over the cozy table, in the candlelight’s glow. It would have been a romantic moment, if not for that pesky homosexual part.

“So, tell me about you,” Mary said. “Do you have a partner?”

“What kind of partner? I teach.”

“You know, a partner. A lifemate. A lover.”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“No. Oh, no.” Anthony started to smile. “You’ve been talking to my mother.”

“Your mother? About what?”

“Oh, no.” Anthony laughed, covering his face with his hands. “This is so embarrassing.”

“What is?”

Anthony looked up from his hands. “You think I’m gay.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No! Oh my God, no. Not at all. I’m not gay.”

“What?” Mary asked, puzzled. “Your mother said you were.”

“She thinks I am, but I’m not. She was always fixing me and my brother up, and I would never like any of the girls. Each one was worse than the next.” Anthony couldn’t stop chuckling. “So she decided that I’m gay because I like wine, good food, and books. The books alone will convict you in the neighborhood.”

Mary reached for the wine, dumbfounded. “Why don’t you tell her you’re not gay?”

“Because she’ll start fixing me up again. My brother Dom wishes he had the same scam, but nobody would believe such a slob is gay. She never asked me if I am, so I never lied to her. It’s don’t-ask, don’t-tell, only I’m straight.”

Mary laughed, incredulous.

“Now, we have a running gag. Dom and my sisters are in on it, too. He gives me Cher and Celine Dion CDs for Christmas. My sister took me and my mother to the Barbra Streisand concert last year. They think it’s a riot. I did, too. Until now.”

Mary blinked. “What about when you bring home a girl? Someone you’re seeing?”

“I say they’re my friends, because they are, and she assumes it’s platonic.”

“And when it gets serious?”

“I haven’t met anyone I wanted to get serious about, yet.”

Mary tried to wrap her mind around it. “The funny thing is, I only went to dinner with you because I thought you were gay.”

“Oh no. Are you seeing someone?”

“No, but I’m really sick of fix-ups.”

“Perfect.” Anthony raised his glass, his easy smile returning. “To no more fix-ups.”

Mary took a big swig of wine, suddenly stiffening, and Anthony met her eye in the candlelight.

“So you didn’t know this was a date?” he asked softly.

“Uh, no.”

“It is, and I hope it’s not the last.”

Mary’s mouth went dry.

“Is that okay with you?”

No. Yes. No way. Sure.
Mary felt a warm rush inside, but it had to be the alcohol. If Anthony was straight, her makeup needed freshening. She set down her glass. “Order for me, please,” she said, getting up and grabbing her bag just as her phone started ringing. She stepped away, dug in her bag for her cell, and slid it from its case while she fled to the ladies’ room.

“Yes?” she said into the phone, on the fly.

“Mare?” It was her father.

“Pop, hi.” Mary pushed the swinging door into a tiny ladies’ room. “Sorry I didn’t call you back. I spoke with Bernice.”

“That’s not why I’m calling.” Her father sounded panicky. “Can you come home right away?”

“What’s the matter? Are you okay? Is Ma?”

“She’s fine. Just get home. Hurry.”

Mary’s heart tightened in her chest.

“Hurry.”

T
he sun ran for cover behind the flat asphalt roofs, and Anthony pulled the Prius in front of her parent’s rowhouse. “I’ll park and be right back,” he said, and Mary thanked him. She got out of the car in front of her two older neighbor ladies, who were standing close together on the sidewalk. They turned and looked at her, oddly hard-eyed in their flowered dresses and worn cardigans.

Mary ran up her parents’ steps. “Hey, Mrs. DaTuno. Mrs. D’Onofrio.”

“Hmph.” Mrs. D’Onofrio sniffed, uncharacteristically chilly, but Mary didn’t have time to deal. She shoved her key in the front door and hurried inside, where a small crowd filled the dining room.

“You’re just in time,” her father said, upset.

“Dad, where’s Ma?” Mary asked, and just then, the sound of a commotion came from the kitchen.

“Oh, sweet Jesus!” Her father took her arm and hustled her back through the crowd, as fast as he could on bad knees and slip-ons. They all frowned at Mary as she passed, but she didn’t understand why.

Her father was saying, “Thank God we got the heads-up from Cousin Joey. That’s when I called you.”

“It’s okay, Pop, I’ll handle it,” Mary said, but when they reached the kitchen, she wasn’t so sure.

An angry Mrs. Gambone stood on one side of the kitchen table, an older version of Trish, too much makeup, deep crows’-feet, and tiny wrinkles fanning out from her lips. Stiff black curls trailed down the back of her long black jacket, which she wore with black stirrup pants and black half-boots. Mary’s mother stood near the oven, distinctly Old World with her puffy hair, smock apron, and flowered housedress, and she held a clear plastic bag in her hand. Christening dresses blanketed the kitchen table, as if she’d been interrupted while she was wrapping them.

“Mrs. Gambone?” Mary asked, and Trish’s mother turned on Mary, her dark eyes flashing.

“You!” Mrs. Gambone said in a chain-smoker’s rasp. “What do you have to say for yourself? You let that monster take my daughter.”

“No, that’s not true.” Mary felt stung, and her mother stepped forward, shaking her fist holding the plastic bag and defending her daughter in rapid Italian.

“Don’t you dare talk to our daughter that way,” her father said, a running translation. “This is our home.”

“Don’t talk to me that way!” Mrs. Gambone yelled back, straining her voice and setting her neck veins bulging. “You’re scum, Mare, pure
scum
!”

“Mary’s a big shot now!” a man shouted from the dining room, and the crowd murmured in angry assent. All that was missing were the burning torches, and Mary felt like Frankenstein with a law degree. If she wasn’t Responsible For The Neighborhood, somebody forgot to tell the Neighborhood.

“Let me explain,” Mary began, but Mrs. Gambone cut her off with a hand chop.

“My daughter came to you for help. You coulda helped her but you didn’t! Now she’s
gone!
”

“I wanted to help her,” Mary almost cried out, as the words hit home.

“She knew he was gonna kill her and now he did. She’s
gone!
” Mrs. Gambone’s lower lip trembled. “I told her to go to you. She didn’t know what to do. She was too scared to leave him. But you didn’t lift a finger! You didn’t
care
what happened to her!”

“Mrs. Gambone, I did care. I wanted her to go to court and I went to the Roundhouse today—”

“Yeah, right, and you yelled at Giulia because she went on TV! She’s tryin’ to save my baby’s life. Why didn’t you help my Trish? If you had done something, she’d be home now. All safe.”

No, no.
Mary felt stricken. It was true. Once she set aside her lawyerly rationalizations, the fact remained that she was the one Trish had gone to for help.

“She called me, last night, but I musta missed the call. She left a message, she said he was gonna kill her, she said where she was, but it was all static.”

“What?” Mary couldn’t process it fast enough. “Please, slow down and tell me what happened.”

“What do you care?” Mrs. Gambone shot back. “I told the police, they know. She called me for help. She said he was with her, he was going to kill her. Then he grabbed the phone. She didn’t have time to talk, she said he was comin’ right back in the room.”

“What time did she call you?”

“It was around ten o’clock she called, but I didn’t get her message till today. I must not a heard the phone, sometimes it’s weird, it don’t get messages right away.” Mrs. Gambone’s voice broke, anguished. “I came here because I wanted your family to know what you did to my daughter. She’s all I had, all I had, and he
took
her! She’s
gone
!” Mrs. Gambone’s eyes welled up. “My beautiful, beautiful baby. My only baby, my little girl.”

Mary felt her heart break. Her father, her mother, and the crowd fell silent, stunned by the depth of Mrs. Gambone’s agony, raw and unvarnished, echoing in the quiet house.

“Can you know…what that feels like? To be a mother, and your baby…your baby’s gone?” Mrs. Gambone finally broke down, and her ladyfriends supported her as she sagged, still trying to speak. Suddenly, she banged her fist on the kitchen table in sheer frustration, and the force of her hand jostled a cup of coffee sitting next to the christening dresses. Before anybody could stop it, the cup tipped over and coffee spilled on the pristine white dresses.

“No!” Mary yelped.

“
Dio!
” Her mother plucked the tiny dresses from the table, but it was too late. The espresso soaked instantly into the soft cotton, even as she hurried them to the sink. Mary sprang to her side, twisting on the cold water.

“I didn’t mean it…I’m sorry,” Mrs. Gambone said, her tears subsiding.

“We’ll pray for you and your daughter,” her father said softly. He handed her some napkins from a plastic holder, and the ladyfriend accepted them for Mrs. Gambone, who turned miserably away and left the kitchen under support, followed by the crowd. They found their way out the front door, closing it behind them, and only then did Mary notice that her mother was chewing her lower lip in an effort not to cry.

“I’m sorry, Ma. So sorry.” Mary couldn’t do anything but stand by her mother’s side at the sink and hug her.

“S’all right, Maria, s’all right.” Her mother ran cold water over the soggy white clump until her knobby knuckles turned red, but the coffee stains had already set. All four dresses were ruined.

“Aww, Veet.” Her father came over and rubbed her mother’s back. “Maybe we put a lil’ bleach and it’ll come out?”

“No, no, no,” her mother said, shaking her head, washing the dresses and trying not to cry. “No, the dress, they no matter. I no like what they say about my Maria.
That
hurts my heart.”

“What’s going on?” came a new voice, and Anthony appeared in the kitchen, his dark eyes wide as he took in the scene.

“Ma, it’s okay, it’s all okay.” Mary gathered her mother in her arms, meeting Anthony’s eye. Surprisingly, his pained expression mirrored her own.

Half an hour later, the four of them were sitting at the kitchen table, trying to get back to normal. The christening dresses soaked in the cellar in a pot of cold water and Clorox, and the kitchen table was set with spaghetti, hot sausage, and meatballs. Steam from the plate, carrying the comforting aromas of fresh basil and peppery sausage, warmed Mary’s face. She was trying not to be bothered by the fact that Anthony was sitting in Mike’s old chair, or that her parents seemed overly happy it was filled again.

Her father twirled his spaghetti against his plate. “So you and Mare were out to dinner, huh?”

“Yes,” Anthony answered, suppressing a smile. “This is one of the more unusual first dates I’ve ever had.”

Mary smiled, uncomfortably. He was a sweet guy, but she didn’t know if she was ready for him to sit in Mike’s chair. Or maybe she was upset at everything that happened. The image of Mrs. Gambone, weeping, would stay with her always. She’d already called Brinkley and left two more messages for him, hoping that he wasn’t boycotting her. It made her feel guilty to be enjoying a meal. What had she been thinking, going out to dinner while Trish was still missing? The neighborhood was judging her, no more harshly than she judged herself.

“Mary doesn’t see anybody,” her father said, and Mary looked up.

“Pop. Please.”

“It’s all right. I don’t either.” Anthony stabbed a meatball with a fork. His sport jacket hung over the back of the chair, and he tucked a napkin in his collar, as if he’d eaten here before. He turned to her mother, who’d finally sat down to her meal. “These meatballs are great, Mrs. D.”

“
Grazie molto,
” her mother said, brightening.

“Prego.”
Anthony caught Mary’s eye, and she faked a smile. He didn’t know her mother well enough to be calling her Mrs. D. Judy didn’t call her mother Mrs. D until she’d known her for a year, or after twenty-seven spaghetti dinners.

“Parli Italiano, Antonio?”
her mother asked, cocking her head.

Mary couldn’t shake her disapproval. Her parents were practically offering Anthony the house keys.

“Si, si,”
he answered.
“Ho insegnato all’Università di Bologna per tre anni.”

“Excuse me,” Mary interrupted, rising with her BlackBerry. “I want to call the Roundhouse again.”

“Sure, Mare,” her father said, and she could feel his puzzled gaze on her back as she left.

She entered the darkened dining room, pressed Redial for the Homicide Division, and listened to the inevitable busy signal while the conversation resumed in the kitchen. She was in no hurry to go back into the light and the warmth and the family around the table, with all the chairs filled. For the time being, she sat alone in the dark.

Beep beep beep,
went the busy signal.

It wasn’t until ten o’clock that Mary and Anthony got back to Center City and the silvery Prius cruised to a stop on her skinny back street. Her end of the street was dark, and everybody was inside, the windows aglow. Unlike South Philly, nobody here hung out on stoops talking or trading gossip, and everyone had quit smoking. Center City was just off the business district, revitalized by the city’s young professionals. It was a neighborhood, too, but one formed by gym memberships and gourmet muffins, both less constant than church parishes and blood ties. Mary had been trying to feel at home here for years.

Anthony pulled up the emergency brake and looked over with a tight smile. “Was it something I said?”

“Why? What do you mean?” Mary felt her face flush.

“You’ve been so quiet and well-behaved.”

“This, from an altar boy,” Mary shot back, more harshly than she’d intended. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “It’s just that this was such an awful night.”

“In some ways. But in other ways, it was great. I got to know you.”

Mary smiled, but somewhere inside she felt like crying.

“No, really, going to your house, it felt like home. It was wonderful. It was…real.”

Mary heard a soft, masculine note in his voice that she liked, even though she wasn’t ready to like it yet.

“Your parents were terrific, the food was delicious, and we’re in agreement on my sexuality.”

Mary reached for the door handle and saw Anthony’s eye catch the movement. If he was even thinking about kissing her good night, which it was way too early for anyway, she’d head it off with her patented going-for-the-door-handle move.

“I’d love to see you again. Okay with you?”

No.
“Yes.”

“Are you free this weekend?”

Yes.
“No. Maybe next, I’m not sure. Gimme a call.”

“Okay, well—”

“See you later and thanks for everything. ’Bye.” Mary grabbed her bag and got out of the car, closing the door. Through the glass she could see the corners of Anthony’s mouth turn down, and superimposed on his troubled expression was her own reflection, frowning back at her. She couldn’t begin to deal with him. She couldn’t make it better for him. She couldn’t even make it better for herself.

She turned away and escaped to her building, let herself in and grabbed her mail without looking at it, then climbed the stairs to her apartment. She was unlocking her door when she heard her phone ringing inside.

She burst through and flicked on the living room light.