Secondhand Smoke

by Karen E. Olson

  Marty chewed on his lip thoughtfully. “I’ll take care of that. Let’s try to fill in the holes so we can make tomorrow’s paper, okay?” He went back to his computer like we didn’t have a big fucking story sitting in our laps.

  I saluted him. “Yessir!” I turned on my heel and went back to my desk, where my voice mail light was blinking rapidly at me. Oh, yeah, someone had tried to call me. I dialed my code and listened. But no one spoke. I just heard some static, then the call ended.

  I began typing up the stuff about the 911 call—this would have to be a sidebar to the story about LeeAnn—but my stomach interrupted with a loud growl. Kevin Prisley, the City Hall reporter, had come in while I was in the photo lab, and he glanced in my direction as he continued his phone conversation.

  It was just about noon, and I had a craving for a meatball sub from Frank and Mary’s Deli on Wooster Street. I also needed to warm up a little, so I slipped out of the newsroom, knowing that if I told anyone I was going out, someone would decide he wanted coffee and I’d end up having to take orders for Dunkin’ Donuts.

  Wooster Street is a menu in itself. The narrow street is home to the best pizza places anywhere: Sally’s, Pepe’s, Abate’s, Tony & Lucille’s. And tucked among the pizza joints are Consiglio’s and Tre Scalini, serving up delicious Italian fare, but with fancy linen tablecloths and candles on the tables.

  At Sally’s, you don’t even get a plate. They serve the pizza on large cookie sheets, give you a few napkins and some cutlery, and there you have it. You might wait two hours to get your pizza, but it’s so damn good it doesn’t matter.

  And then there’s Libby’s, in between Consiglio’s and Abate’s, where every kind of cannoli possible is sitting in the display. Libby’s also makes amazing Italian cookies—the green acorns with jam are my favorite—and their Italian ice is perfect on a hot summer day.

  But a hot cappuccino would be more appropriate today.

  I parked in front of my building, deciding to walk the rest of the way, and as I passed the snow-covered playground, a snowman watched my every move.

  Frank and Mary’s doesn’t seem much bigger than my walk-in closet, but their subs can’t be beat. I ordered a meatball and mootz (mozzarella, for anyone not from the neighborhood) and a Foxon Park white birch beer, a weakness of mine. Foxon Park sodas are made locally, in East Haven, and most of the Italian delis in the area carry them. You can’t get them in Stop & Shop.

  Since there are no tables at Frank and Mary’s, I headed toward my apartment but was too hungry to keep myself from peeling back the paper and eating the sub as I walked, holding my birch beer under my armpit.

  I came out onto Chapel Street, and Wooster Square spread out in front of me across the street. It was about a city block long and wide, circled by historic homes. The city’s Italians had settled here from the Amalfi region near Naples; they’d been poor and exploited. In New Haven, they found what they thought was the American dream. The statue of Christopher Columbus stood tall among the bare branches; iron benches sat empty throughout the park. Off to my left, I could see the remnants of Prego, its blackened walls like shadows against the white snow.

  I took another bite of my sub, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. Looking back up, I squinted, not seeing anything and wondering if I’d imagined it.

  I crumpled the sub paper into a ball and shoved it into my pocket, leaving the soda bottle on one of my building’s steps. It wouldn’t hurt to go over there. It might be Tom or even Jeff Parker.

  I crossed the street and moved down the sidewalk a little precariously, since some of the snow had turned to slush and then frozen over. When I got to the restaurant, I didn’t see anyone. Strips of yellow police tape were wrapped here and there, allegedly to keep people out, but I wouldn’t be contaminating the scene since all the forensics guys had been here and gone for at least twelve hours. I made my way around to the back door that led to the kitchen, and I peered in through the holes where the glass used to be. Everything was sooty, and the smell moved quickly into my nose and down into my lungs. I’d be coughing up black shit for days after all this if I wasn’t careful. But not breathing wasn’t exactly an option.

  “Are you looking for the chickens?” The voice startled me, and I turned to face that crazy old guy I’d seen here yesterday.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  He smiled, a toothless vision, but somehow it made him seem less crazy. “Mario.”

  “Do you have a last name?”

  He shook his head. “You’re with the newspaper,” he said flatly.

  I nodded. “And what about chickens?”

  Mario’s face fell. “They must be dead.”

  “But why would they be here in the first place?” I asked.

  “I shouldn’t say. When people talk, look what happens.” He waved his arm toward Prego’s remains.

  “You can tell me,” I tried in my best conspiratorial voice.

  But Mario just started mumbling under his breath. Fortunately, I’ve had to deal with a lot of weirdos in my job and could hold my own with the best of them.

  “Nothing will happen if you tell me about them,” I promised.

  He cocked his head, his eyes searching my face, and I saw a glimmer of clarity. “Don’t bet against the chickens. You’ll lose. Ask your father.” And with that, he scurried off around the building and out of sight.

  By the time I rounded the corner, he’d vanished. I had no clue what he’d been trying to tell me. And what did he know about my father? Did he even know who my father was?

  I made my way back to my building, where I picked up the soda bottle I’d left on the steps. When I opened my apartment door, a flash of white on the floor caught my eye, and I picked it up.

  It was another vegan recipe, courtesy of Amber. I’d been finding recipe clippings under my door for about a month now. I didn’t say anything, though, because I thought if I ignored it, maybe she’d stop. So far, no such luck.

  I crumpled the clipping and tossed it in the trash along with my sub wrapper, Mario’s words swirling around in my head. Ask my father. Since I had no other options at the moment, I would have to do just that.

  But when I dialed and waited for him to answer, I realized I couldn’t do this on the phone. He wouldn’t answer me, and I couldn’t see his reaction.

  “Hello?” I heard noises in the background, but I couldn’t identify them.

  “Hey, Dad, what’re you up to?”

  “Hold on a minute, okay?” I heard him tell someone he was going on the porch, and then, “That’s better.”

  “Where are you?”

  “An old friend’s. We’re catching up, haven’t seen each other in a while.” His voice was light. “Are you still at work?”

  “I came home for lunch, but I have to go back.” I paused. “I’m heading to Mom’s for dinner. Do you want to come?”

  “That sounds great. What time?”

  The sad thing is that despite Suzette, my father still loved my mother. My mother is the one who ended their relationship, choosing to move on to law school and a very lucrative career. She insisted that she’d fallen out of love with him, but I wasn’t convinced. My father had a roving eye, and I think it was more a matter of pride for her to get out while she believed he was still faithful. I never wanted to delve too deeply into their personal shit, so I don’t know whether he ever cheated on her or ever would have.

  I told my dad what time to be there, and I knew I’d have to call my mother so she’d be prepared. At least with another table setting.

  “I’m bringing someone tonight,” I told her when I got her on the phone.

  “Oh, Annie, really?” Her voice sounded strange.

  “What’s up, Mother?”

  “Nothing.” She paused. “It isn’t that policeman, is it?”

  “No, Mom, it’s not a date.” I debated whether to tell her. If I did, she might try to find a way out of it. If I didn’t tell her, she could see him and then tell ev
eryone that I tricked her, it wasn’t her idea. That would be the best way.

  “Who?”

  “Just someone, okay? You might want to set another place.”

  “Well, Annie, since we spoke last, our dinner has gotten a little larger.”

  Oh, Christ, another dinner party. Now I would have to get dressed up. “Bill Bennett isn’t going to make it after all, is he?” I asked. That’s all I would need, my father and Bill Bennett in the same room. My father would chew him up and spit him out. Then again, that might not be a bad idea.

  “No, Bill can’t make it. But I’ve invited a few other people.”

  While I didn’t like the idea of a dinner party, having a bunch of other people around meant I wouldn’t have to deal too closely with my mother. I tried to look on the bright side of this situation.

  My cell phone started to chirp inside my purse. “Fine, sure, I’ll see you later,” I mumbled as I hung up and rummaged through my bag until I found my phone.

  “Annie”—it was Marty—“I just got a call from a friend who works over at the medical examiner’s office.”

  “Did they finish up with LeeAnn’s autopsy?”

  “You won’t believe this.” He paused.

  “What?”

  “She didn’t die from the fire, Annie. She was shot. A single gunshot to the chest.”

  Chapter 10

  Marty got it from his source that LeeAnn’s wound couldn’t possibly have been self-inflicted because of the angle of the trajectory. Which meant someone else had pulled the trigger.

  I tried calling Tom for an official comment, but either he wasn’t answering his cell phone because he had it turned off or he knew it was me and opted to ignore it. Probably the latter. So I had to change my strategy.

  I needed to get in touch with Mickey Hayward, get a comment from him. But where the hell would he be? He didn’t have a job anymore since his place of business had burned down. I called his house after finding his number in the book, but he wasn’t home and didn’t have an answering machine.

  Maybe Mac would know where he was. I should talk to her again about Sal anyway, and I could even get a couple of quotes from her about LeeAnn. I went back out into the cold and crossed the park to her house.

  Just my luck, Mrs. DeLucia answered the door. Her glare accused me of being the hussy she thought I was, the hussy her son hoped I would be. I straightened my posture. I was a grown woman, and I couldn’t let myself be intimidated. For Christ’s sake, I’d seen dead bodies. This should be nothing.

  “Hello, Mrs. DeLucia. I’d like to talk to Mac for a few minutes, if she doesn’t mind.” I didn’t wait for an answer—I knew I didn’t have a lot of time—so I moved through the foyer and into the living room.

  Mac was on the couch in a green flowered housecoat, her eyes puffy, her gray curls a little flat in the back where her head had been on the pillow.

  “Hi, Mac. I hope you’re doing okay.” I plopped down in the chair across from her. “I have some news,” I started, and both Mac’s and Mrs. DeLucia’s eyes rested on my face. It was a little disconcerting, but I reminded myself about the dead bodies and forced myself to continue. “We heard about the autopsy. LeeAnn Hayward was shot. That’s how she died. Not from the fire. Gunshot to the chest.”

  Mac frowned. “What?”

  I repeated my news. Mac snorted. “I knew that Mickey Hayward would kill her one of these days.”

  “So you think Mickey killed her?”

  “They fought like cats and dogs all the time, it was just a matter of time.”

  Mrs. DeLucia was nodding in agreement. I hated to admit it, but the more I thought about it, the more I also wondered whether he killed her. It wouldn’t be out of character with their relationship.

  “I heard LeeAnn was Dominic Gaudio’s niece,” I asked.

  They exchanged a look, then Mac smiled tightly at me. “That’s right. Dominic asked Sal if he could give her a job. She was a hard worker, at least when she and Mickey weren’t fighting.” She toyed with a curl near her ear. “She was a big help to Sal with the books. She put everything on computer for him. Of course, Sal had trouble working that thing, so she would put all his numbers in the computer after he did them by hand. She could’ve done something with that, her computer skill, but she wanted to stay at the restaurant.” She paused. “She was a smart girl, but stupid when it came to Mickey.”

  “Why did Sal keep him on?” I asked. “If he caused so many problems with LeeAnn?”

  Mac smiled. “The man was a genius in the kitchen, Annie. We’d had chefs before who were trouble, but they couldn’t cook like Mickey. His pasta fagioli was like nothing I’d ever tasted, and he’s not even Italian. When he was in the kitchen, he was a different man. Too bad he couldn’t stay in the kitchen all the time.”

  “So LeeAnn was pretty involved with restaurant business?” I was treading on thin ice, but while I was here, I might as well get what I could. “Did she know what the FBI was looking into?”

  Again they exchanged a look, and Mac frowned. “She wasn’t killed over that.” She said it as though she knew it for a fact. And by saying it, she was telling me that she knew exactly what Jeff Parker was nosing around for.

  “Is it the chickens?” I asked. “Did LeeAnn know about the chickens?”

  Mac started chuckling. “Annie, everyone knows about those stupid chickens.”

  Everyone but me.

  “Mario said the restaurant burned down because someone knew about the chickens.”

  Mac’s eyes flashed. “Mario? That man can’t keep his mouth shut, even now.”

  “What happened to the chickens, Mac? Did they die in the fire?”

  “Sal wouldn’t let anything happen to them,” Mac said, obviously believing that I was privy to whatever was going on. “I’m sure if he could have, he would’ve gotten them out.”

  “So where is Sal, Mac? Where is he hiding?”

  Mac sat up straighter. “I have no idea where my husband is. I’ve hired Vinny DeLucia to find him.”

  Mrs. DeLucia was strangely quiet during this rant, and I watched her.

  “What else did Mario tell you?” she asked quietly.

  I shrugged. “Not much.”

  I was just about to get my ass out of there when Mac stood up and pointed her finger at me. “You better not tell that policeman about any of this. That’s all I need right now, more questions from the police about those damn birds when I’m worried sick about my husband.” She clutched her chest.

  “You wouldn’t by chance know where I could find Mickey now, would you?” I looked from Mac to Mrs. DeLucia and back to Mac again.

  “Try Café Nine,” Mrs. DeLucia said. “He and Pete said they were going over there an hour ago.” As she spoke, her hand was under my arm, herding me out. Once on the doorstep, she stopped, her eyes boring into mine.

  “Don’t listen to Mario. He lost his wife and his house, and he’s not right in the head.”

  “But he was concerned about the chickens,” I said.

  She chuckled, which surprised me. “Those chickens have been here a long time. No one paid any mind to them before, but one person loses and all hell breaks loose.” She eyeballed me again. “Vinny was pretty good. He beat them once.”

  Jesus, what the hell was going on? Beat them at what?

  “You shouldn’t see Vinny,” Mrs. DeLucia warned me.

  “It’s just business,” I insisted, but she shook her head and gave me a sad smile, like I had a big “L” for “Loser” on my forehead.

  The rock salt on the steps and sidewalk was hard under my boots as I left.

  I FOUND MICKEY HAYWARD at Café Nine on State Street. He was drowning himself in shots and beers, telling anyone and everyone how much he loved his wife and how much he missed her. I moved closer and saw Pete Amato on the bar stool next to Mickey. Pete looked as if he’d had more than his share, too.

  At night, a bar comes to life when the band is cranking out tunes, people have to squeeze
between and around one another, and everyone and everything is hot. But now, in the middle of the day, my stomach turned with the smell of stale beer, cigarettes, and body odor. The light coming in from the window bounced off Mickey’s face, giving him the haggard look of someone who’s just got to have a beer at two o’clock in the afternoon in order to get through the rest of the day.

  “Hey, Annie.” He spotted me before I was ready, but I collected myself and made my way over to the bar. “Can I get you anything?”

  I shook my head. “A little early in the day for me, Mick,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. From his reaction to seeing me, it was clear he hadn’t heard yet about LeeAnn being shot. I’d been the bearer of bad news before, and it was never easy. But I knew from experience that the first quote was always a good one, even though killing the messenger was always a possibility.

  I was glad Pete was here. Even drunk he could be a good buffer.

  “Hi, Annie.” Pete raised his glass to me.

  Pete Amato was a carbon copy of his father: medium height, a little on the heavy side, black hair, eyes that could be brown or green depending on the light, a nose that was a little too long for his face. He was a couple of years behind me in school, one of those football players who was too busy being an asshole to get good grades or have a steady girlfriend. He’d gone to college for a couple of years but dropped out and went to work for his father—but not in the kitchen. Sal taught him the business side of the restaurant, and Pete helped him run it. He’d done well there. He had a flair for marketing; he was the one responsible for the classy exterior and sign, and it was his idea to update the interior, taking down the dated 1970s wood paneling and Thomas Kinkade paintings and replacing them with a soft eggshell paint and copies of old photographs depicting New Haven and Wooster Square in bygone years, giving Prego a place in history and the community. Unfortunately for his personal life, he still hadn’t moved out of his parents’ house, and since he was thirty-six, that would send warning signals to any single woman.

  I nodded back. “Hi, Pete. You okay, you know, after the accident and all?”