Doppelgangster

by Laura Resnick

  “Oh!” I smiled, too. “I like this plan.”

  “Good. I’ll pick you up at seven?”

  As a recent crime scene, Stella’s would still be closed down, and I wouldn’t be working. So I nodded. Then I brushed self-consciously at my face and added, “I’ll try not to still be blue.”

  “I like the blue, it flatters your eyes.” He stopped by the kitchen table to give me a quick kiss good-bye, then headed for the door. But he paused there and said, “Is there any point in asking you to stay away from Max and Lucky?”

  “Will you stay away from Napoli and your mother?” I replied.

  “That’s what I thought.” He left.

  8

  I got two phone calls late the following afternoon, both of them important.

  An old buddy from the Actors Studio called and told me about a role that he’d heard had just unexpectedly opened up after the actress who’d been cast in it had gone parasailing on Saturday and wound up in traction.

  Naturally, I phoned my agent.

  And while I was on hold on my landline, Lucky called my cell phone.

  “We got a big problem, kid,” he said. “There’s another doppelgangster on the loose.”

  “What?” I sat down with a thud. “Who? How do you know?”

  “We can’t talk on the phone,” he said. “Don’t they teach you nothin’ at acting school?”

  “But you just said there’s another dopp—”

  “Meet me in an hour at the place we met before.”

  I frowned. “The place we met bef… Oh! You mean the church?”

  He sighed in exasperation. “Yeah. The church.”

  “In an hour?” I glanced at the clock and thought about my date this evening. “How long will this take?”

  “It’ll take as long as it takes.” Lucky sounded terse. “And bring your friend.”

  “My friend?” I said blankly.

  “Your friend who’s an expert with this kind of problem,” he prodded.

  “Oh! You mean Max?”

  “Jesus, don’t use names on the phone!” Lucky snapped before he hung up on me.

  I closed my cell phone. Then I hung up the landline, figuring I’d call my agent again later. I doubted I’d have time to come back home before my date, so I called Lopez. I got his voice mail.

  “I have to go out,” I said. “So don’t come to my place. I’ll meet you at Raoul’s.”

  I was still a bit scratched and blue, so I was thorough about applying makeup. Then I dressed to kill, in a manner of speaking, and styled my hair. Hoping nothing would happen to muss me before my date, I took a cab to Max’s.

  As soon as I entered the bookshop and called Max’s name, Nelli trotted up to me, face and paws stained blue, tongue lolling, tail wagging. I grabbed her shiny new collar so she wouldn’t shed on my little black dress while I explained the situation to Max.

  “By all means, we must attend this meeting at once!” he agreed. “But, er, although your outfit is very attractive, it’s rather, uh… I mean to say, are you sure it’s suitable for church?”

  “It’s suitable for a date with the man who’s on his way to being my boyfriend,” I said. “Which is where I’m headed after this meeting.”

  “Ah! How is Detective Lopez?”

  “A little overworked. Come on, Max, I have a cab waiting outside.”

  He cast a look of undisguised horror toward the street. “A cab?“

  Max hated modern transportation—cars, trains, planes, elevators, escalators. They all terrified him.

  “It’ll be fine,” I said soothingly. “We’re only going to Little Italy.”

  “We could walk.”

  “Not in these heels,” I said. “Anyhow, we’ll barely get there in time as it is.” Recalling the way I had looked the last few times Lopez saw me, I had put real effort into my appearance today. So now I was running a little behind schedule.

  I grabbed Max’s sleeve and tugged. “Say an incantation or something, but let’s go. Come on.”

  “I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone,” he said to Nelli as I hauled him out of the bookstore. “Feel free to review some Latin texts if you get restless.”

  “So how’s it going?” I asked as we got into the cab. “With Nelli, I mean?”

  “Oh… there are some communication problems to work out.”

  “I’ll bet.” I told our driver where to take us, then asked Max, “Have you found any good source material on our problem yet?”

  His face brightened. “Yes! A colleague in Jerusalem is sending me some rare texts. They should be here within a day or two. Federal Express is a most remarkable innovation.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And my colleague assures me I may keep the volumes as long as I need them,” Max said, “since doppelgangerism is not a common problem in the Middle East.”

  “Well, it’s good to know there’s at least one problem they don’t have there.”

  I was about to mention the cops’ theory that Chubby Charlie had been having a manic episode, but I realized there was no point in talking just now. Max was clutching the door handle in terror and flinching every time the cab swerved. By the time we reached West Houston Street, he was muttering in a language I couldn’t identify.

  When the cab pulled up outside St. Monica’s, I paid the driver, got out, then opened Max’s door and extracted him from the vehicle. His legs buckled briefly, and I clutched him until he seemed steady enough to walk on his own.

  “All right?” I said after a moment.

  “Yes.” He straightened the fedora he usually wore when he left the shop, then adjusted the way his long duster was hanging on his rather short body. The coat had been bequeathed to him by a gunfighter long ago, and he wore it with pride. With his long white hair, white beard, and odd clothing, he made a memorable first impression. Lucky Battistuzzi, however, had seemed quick to recognize the expertise that lay beneath the eccentricity.

  Max gestured to the door of the church, which was open to the warm May breeze. “After you, my dear.”

  I preceded him into the serene and hallowed interior of the old church. It seemed very dark compared to the bright afternoon sunshine outside. I blinked a few times, waiting for my eyes to adjust.

  Somewhere in the soft, dim shadows, a woman screamed horribly.

  Moving vehicles are just about the only kind of danger Max shrinks from. He responded immediately to the woman’s screams by rushing down the center aisle toward the sound of her voice. I dashed after him like a lemming. But my high heels were made for seduction, not sprinting, and I still couldn’t see that well. Predictably, within a few steps, I fell down.

  “Agh!” I hit the stone floor of the church with a splat that knocked the wind out of me.

  I lay there for a moment, stunned and gasping for air. By the time I hauled myself laboriously to my feet, leaning on a pew for balance, I realized that the screams I heard were not, as I had thought at first, cries of pain or terror.

  Elena Giacalona was enraged, not scared or hurt. I could see her now that my eyes had adjusted to the dim light. And I could see her companions, too: Lucky, Father Gabriel, and a well-dressed, middle-aged man whom I didn’t recognize.

  “Stay away from me!” she shouted at Lucky. “How many times must I tell you? How dare you even speak to me! Have you no shame?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” said Lucky.

  “You’re still speaking!” the Widow Giacalona shrieked.

  I glanced around and saw Max then. He, too, had realized that the lady didn’t need his help, and he was hanging back now, obviously reluctant to intrude on this scene.

  Lucky said, “But, Elena—”

  “Are you deaf?” said the man whom I didn’t recognize. “She don’t want nothin’ to do with you, you jerk.”

  “You stay out of this!” snapped Lucky.

  As Lucky’s body language got menacing, Father Gabriel tried to intercede. “Now, gentlemen,” the priest said, �
��let’s all remember where we are.”

  “Harassing a woman in church is where you are, you piece of garbage!” Lucky snarled at the stranger.

  “Sticking your nose where it don’t belong is where you are, cretino!” shot back the other man.

  “If I ever catch you bothering her again…” Lucky warned.

  “Look who’s talking!” was the smirking reply.

  “Madonna! Can’t I even pray in peace?” Elena screeched.

  She turned on her heel and stormed down the aisle of the church, stalking past Max without even a glance. Her stride was so brisk that the ornate cross around her neck was bouncing.

  Since I had met her before, in a manner of speaking, and since she seemed very upset, I felt an obligation to say something as her hurried steps brought her closer to me.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  The intense, long-lashed eyes met mine. “Men are such pigs!”

  The thrice-widowed woman stalked past me and exited the church.

  Lucky and the other man had already turned on each other, uttering standard masculine threats, the gist of which was that each of them wanted the other to stay away from the Widow Giacalona.

  Father Gabriel tried several times, without success, to calm them down.

  Finally, the other man capped the escalating exchange of insults by saying, “What makes you think she’d even waste saliva by spitting on you, asshole? You killed her husband, for chrissake!”

  “Don’t take the Savior’s name in vain in here, you putz!” Lucky shouted back.

  “You killed her husband?” I blurted.

  All three men spun around to look in my direction with identical expressions of surprise on their faces.

  “Esther!” Lucky said. “Why didn’t you say something? I didn’t know you was here. You’re late.”

  No wonder he was so sure, when I had asked about it, that Elena wasn’t killing off her own husbands.

  “You killed her husband?” I repeated.

  He shrugged. “Just the second one.”

  “Gee, Lucky,” I said, “do you think maybe that’s why she doesn’t like you?”

  “She got over it,” he said defensively. “She remarried.”

  “Who the fuck are you?” said the other man. He turned to Father Gabriel. “Who the fuck is she? Oh! Excuse me, Father. I mean, who is the young lady?”

  “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Esther.” Father Gabriel smiled at me, then gestured to Max. “Did this gentleman come with you?”

  “Yes, Father.” I wobbled toward the men, wincing a little. I had turned my ankle when I fell. Max removed his fedora and gave a courteous little bow as I made the introductions. “Dr. Maximillian Zadok, Father Gabriel.” I looked at the stranger. “And I’m Esther—”

  “Hey, I just got it!” The man snapped his fingers. “I seen your face in the Expose. You’re the chorus girl who saw Charlie Chiccante get whacked.”

  “Chorus girl, you schmuck?” Lucky said. “I’ll have you know, this young lady is a fine classical actress who also happens to sing like an angel, which is why Stella gives her a job whenever her talents don’t happen to be in immediate demand on the stage.”

  I beamed at Lucky. Maybe the Widow Giacalona should cut him some slack.

  “And you, sir?” Max said politely to the stranger. “May we know your name?”

  “Sure.” The man stepped forward to offer Max a handshake. “Buonarotti. Michael Buonarotti.” He smiled and added, “No relation.”

  “To Lucky?” I said.

  Buonarotti scowled. “Jesus, no.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Lucky said. “We’re in chu—”

  “I mean,” Buonarotti said, “no relation to the Buonarotti.”

  I frowned. “To the don of the Buonarotti family?”

  “I am the don,” Michael Buonarotti snapped. “Don’t you know nothin’?”

  “Then who—”

  “I believe he means Michelangelo Buonarotti,” Max said.

  I was still confused. “Michelan… Oh! That Buonarotti?”

  “No, no, really,” said the don modestly. “No relation, I assure you.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Whatever. Lucky? We need to talk.”

  Lucky was frowning at me. “What are you wearing? You can’t come into church dressed like that!”

  “I have a date,” I said tersely. “Anyhow, there’s nothing wrong with the way I’m dressed.” I was wearing a sleeveless black dress with a beaded bodice that showed some cleavage, complimented by a silky, translucent wrap that was currently slung over my arm. It was my sexiest dress, and it had been too long since I’d had occasion to wear it. Okay, it wasn’t what I would choose to wear to temple, on the two occasions per year that I go so that my mother won’t nag me, but it certainly wasn’t indecent.

  “Of course there’s nothing wrong with it,” said Father Gabriel. “I think you look lovely, Esther. Your date is a lucky man.”

  “Thank you.” I smiled at the handsome priest. Lucky frowned at me and stepped on my foot.

  “Nothing wrong at all,” Buonarotti agreed. “You look classy. A real eyeful.”

  “Ain’t you got nothin’ else to do with your time?” Lucky said, glaring at Buonarotti.

  “Oh, I guess I can find something to occupy me elsewhere.” Buonarotti rolled his eyes. “After all, I wouldn’t wanna intrude on you and your doctor and your fine classical actress, now would I?” He chuckled at his own wry wit. “No, definitely not. So I guess I’ll be leaving.” He turned to the priest. “Always a pleasure to see you, Father.”

  “You’re always welcome here, Michael.”

  “Now get lost,” said Lucky.

  “Someday, Lucky,” Buonarotti said with a cold look, “you’ll go too far.”

  “You can count on it.”

  Buonarotti’s glare grew threatening. Then with a suddenness that I found chilling, he banished the look and turned a cheerful smile on me and Max. “Miss Diamond. Dr. Zadok. A pleasure to meet you both.”

  As we watched Don Michael Buonarotti leave, Max murmured doubtfully, “That man comes here to pray?”

  Lucky snorted. “He comes here to hit on the widow. Ever since his wife got sick of his skirt chasing and dumped him.”

  “The Widow Giacalona doesn’t exactly strike me as a ‘skirt,’ ” I said.

  “Of course, she ain’t! But Buonarotti wants a new wife,” Lucky said with a dark scowl. “In addition to his skirts.”

  “And he’s pursuing her in church?” I said.

  “I don’t question why people enter the house of God,” Father Gabriel said. “I just give thanks that they do. Especially in this neighborhood, where there has been so much bloodshed over the years. Such as the other night.” He took my hand and gazed at me with concern. “I can only imagine how distressing the events at Bella Stella must have been for you, Esther.”

  Those events were worse for Charlie, obviously, but I nodded and said, “I was very upset.”

  “To see a man killed in cold blood right in front of you…” The priest shook his head. “How dreadful for you.”

  I didn’t want to keep reviewing Charlie’s murder, so I changed the subject. “Lucky says there’s a weeping saint here?”

  Taking my cue, the priest smiled and gestured to the stone statue of Saint Monica. “Yes, we’re very proud of it. Of course, only Elena Giacalona has seen the saint’s tears so far. She’s very devout, you know.”

  “Prays to Monica twice a day, every day, I gather,” I said.

  “Elena’s life has been plagued by tragedy and loss,” the priest said sadly.

  I glanced at Lucky. “Indeed.”

  “She’s had three husbands,” the hit man muttered. “I only killed one.”

  “All the same, Lucky, you don’t think it’s maybe a doomed courtship?” I said. “And also not in the best possible taste?”

  Father Gabriel looked at the ceiling and remained tactfully silent. As did Max, whose two marriages,
centuries ago, had left him with a strong preference for bachelorhood. Which was just as well, since, for mystical reasons that weren’t entirely clear to me, his vocation encouraged celibacy. Much like Father Gabriel’s vocation, I realized.

  “Elena will come around,” Lucky said. “I just need to give her time. But never mind that now.” Glancing from me to Max, he said, “I got someone you need to talk to.”

  “And I should prepare for vespers,” said Father Gabriel. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  After the priest exited through a side door, Lucky took my arm. “Let’s take a walk.”

  “Oh, good. We’re going to sit in the pews?” My feet hurt. I don’t usually wear high heels.

  “Not this time, kid. We gotta talk in the crypt.”

  “The crypt?” I tried to pull my arm out of his grasp. “I don’t want to go into the crypt. Could you possibly suggest a creepier meeting place?”

  “A perfectly understandable reaction,” said Max, nodding. “An underground vault, with all the inherent fear of suffocation and smothering that such places naturally engender in mankind.”

  “You’re not helping, Max,” I said.

  “And there’s no denying that a crypt is a shadowy and mysterious chamber rife with negative mythology,” he added. “Not to mention the atmospheric hint of dark rituals far older than Christianity itself!”

  “Nah, it’ll be fine,” said Lucky prosaically. “They got electricity down there and everything.”

  “Why can’t we talk up here?” I demanded.

  “Because whatever’s going on, we gotta be discreet,” said Lucky. “Or whoever’s behind this situation might figure out that we’re sniffing him out.”

  Since this made a certain amount of sense to me, I sighed and agreed to go into the damn crypt.

  “Watch your language,” Lucky said. “You’re in church.”

  9

  St. Monica’s was more than one hundred years old, but the crypt was less intimidating than I had imagined. Possibly because there were about one hundred folding chairs stored there, along with a piano and a rack of costumes from the Easter play that the parish children had performed last month. No room looks very murky and mysterious with a dozen pink bunny costumes in it.