Cement Stilettos

by Diane Vallere

  Nick stood up from where he rested against the desk. “Shhhhh,” he said. “Wow. You’ve been carrying around a lot of stuff lately.”

  “So have you. And you’re not talking to me and you of all people should know how I get when somebody keeps information from me.” I jerked a thumb over my shoulder toward the door. “That right there? You closing the door on me while you’re on the phone? That’s like a sign in blinking red lights that says, I NEED YOUR HELP.”

  “No, that’s me not wanting my new fiancé to hear about the surprise I have planned for tomorrow.”

  “You planned a surprise? In addition to the fundraiser at the fire hall?”

  His face fell. “How do you know about that?”

  “Connie di Sotto and Katie Caprero came by my office earlier today and told me about it. They asked if I would be able to help out.”

  “I didn’t know they came to see you at Tradava.”

  “Nick, I’m not trying to nose around in your business here, but you can’t shut me out—not when you need me. We’re supposed to be a team now, right? I’m on your side.”

  “I want to protect you from this.”

  “But I was there. I found Angela’s body. I’m already involved. Keeping secrets now doesn’t help me, and it doesn’t help you.”

  “What you’re suggesting is a little bit of a double standard. Ever since you moved to Ribbon you’ve had secrets.”

  “No, I didn’t. Those weren’t secrets. Those were situations I accidentally got involved in.”

  “And didn’t tell me about.”

  “I was trying to protect—” He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. “You know what? I’m not going to make excuses for my past behavior. Yes, I kept things from you, and yes, I now see that maybe I should have done things differently. But that was the old Samantha.”

  “And this is the new Samantha.”

  “Yes.”

  “Samantha 2.0,” he said, genuinely smiling for the first time in days.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Okay. Just don’t go changing too much. I want to be able to pick you out of a lineup.”

  “Not funny.” I gave him a friendly jab and then led him to the dining room.

  Dinner led to movie night. It was Nick Senior’s choice since he’d made dinner. He made it halfway through City Slickers before falling asleep in his chair. Out of a sense of gratitude (those were some good garlic twists), I maintained my silence through the balance of the movie and left shortly thereafter. For the first time in days, it felt like things were normal.

  The next morning I spent an extra fifteen minutes deciding what to wear. The fundraiser for Nick was after work, and if I wanted to get there early enough to help out, I wouldn’t have time to change. After the way the leopard ladies had judged my designer jumpsuit, I wasn’t going to take any chances. I made a point of always dressing appropriately, even if my definition was a little outside the norm for the rest of the world. I didn’t mind standing out—that was part of what fashion was for—but the idea that I’d somehow missed the boat was insulting.

  I settled on an ivory cardigan and pencil skirt, nude fishnets, and ivory pumps. Shades of white were empowering, mostly because ninety percent of the world wore black. I took extra care to blow dry my hair, and then smoothed it with a flat iron. Soft makeup and sheer pink lip tint left me feeling rather pretty. As long as I didn’t spill my coffee, I’d be good to go.

  My day was a blur of appointments with buyers to collect the samples for the photo shoot. Eddie had taken a much-needed day off, and the advertising offices were otherwise empty. The quiet of the office lent itself to a highly productive day, and I not only mocked up the layout for the upcoming photo shoot, but came up with additional editorial stories for the pre-fall catalog that encompassed handbags, shoes, and the rest of the accessories we carried at Tradava. I even dedicated four pages to the men’s business. Somebody had to tell them what not to wear.

  I left work at six and drove directly to the fire hall. The parking lot was mostly full. I drove past a row of freshly washed sedans, down a narrow aisle, and parked in a spot next to the chain fence at the edge of the property.

  A teenage boy who couldn’t have been more than fifteen (and that was being generous) sat in a chair in front of the door. “It’ll be five dollars,” he said.

  “I’m here to help out. Did Nick Taylor give you my name? I’m his fiancé.”

  “Bully for you. I still need five dollars.”

  I pulled out my wallet and handed the boy a five. “Does that go toward the fundraiser?” I was impressed. Katie had thought of everything.

  “No. It goes to me for sittin’ here watching all these cars.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me.”

  “You weren’t hired to work the fundraiser?”

  “Nah, my dad brought the food and I’m stuck here until it’s over. I’m making my own fundraiser.”

  I reached over and pulled the bill from his fingers. “My car’s twenty years old. It doesn’t need watching.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug. He sat down on the stool in front of the building and went back to playing with his phone.

  The scent of tomatoes and oregano hit me long before I entered the building. Row upon row of six-foot tables had been set up, and happy families sat, laughing, drinking, and eating. Frank Sinatra crooned over the loud speaker. I scanned the interior for a familiar face. Along the back wall, Angela’s half sister and aunts stood behind giant vats of spaghetti and sauce and trays of garlic bread. Each woman was dressed in a version of the same thing: tight black sweater, tight jeans, and an animal-print apron. Debbi’s was red, Connie’s was pink, and Katie’s was green. Debbi pointed at me and then waved me over. Her white chef hat was tilted at an angle on top of her streaked gray and white hair and she laughed loud enough to temporarily drown out Ol’ Blue Eyes.

  I approached her. “The place looks fantastic. How did you do this?”

  “Honey, we sent the men in this morning to set the place up. Jimmy made the food last night and brought it by earlier today. The kids will clean up when we’re done.”

  “Jimmy? Jimmy from Brother’s Pizza?”

  “Yeah. Jimmy does all of our fundraisers.”

  “But does he know this one is for Nick?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Jimmy’s not going to say no to a job we ask him to do.”

  That wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear to remove my worry. “What can I do to help?” I said.

  “You’re practically one of us. Grab a ladle. Nicky’s busy with the guests, but I’ll tell him you’re here.” Debbi looked at my white outfit. “You bring an apron?”

  “No. I thought this was a party.”

  “It is a party. With spaghetti.” She pulled her red leopard-print apron off from over her head and transferred it over mine. “It’s going to be a little big in the chest area, but if you tie it tight, probably nobody will notice.” She handed me a ladle. “You’re on sauce.”

  She picked up a giant clear jug with the word TIPS written on the side and set it on the end of the table, then walked away, leaving me and my carefully chosen ivory party outfit moments away from a tomato-sauce stain.

  For the next hour, I kept busy ladling sauce onto plates of pasta. The crowd was festive. Men who probably shouldn’t be dining on plates of spaghetti and giant meatballs gladly threw bills into the tip jar. Katie, Debbi, and Connie weaved up and down the aisles with a tray of cream-filled pastries. Since giving me her apron, Debbi had put on a blue leopard print one. Between the three of them, prints from all major members of the cat family were represented in varying hues. Did they buy these things in bulk?

  Connie stopped by twice to check in with me. She didn’t mention the sauce splatters on my sweater, but I couldn’t help noticing I was the only one of her helpers who didn’t get a five-minute break.

  It was clear from the festive atmosphere that the peopl
e in the room weren’t strangers to each other. Children ran up and down the aisles freely. A card game had started at a table toward the back of the room, and men in suits shed their blazers and pulled up chairs to join in or watch. I watched Connie maneuver Nick through the tables, introducing him to this person and that. Nick had always been comfortable mingling in social settings. His relative ease at this one troubled me.

  The fundraiser appeared to be a success, which would go a long way toward helping him repair his showroom and offset the potential loss of business. On the other hand, something about the entire event, from the kid outside scamming people out of five dollars apiece to the layer of fifty dollar bills floating on the top of the tip jar seemed dishonest. I couldn’t shake my sense that this event was more than it seemed. It wasn’t anything obvious, but the sum total of too many things for me to ignore.

  I went to the kitchen for a glass of water. A chipped wooden table was filled with uncorked bottles of Sangiovese, and a large olive drab trash can lined with a shiny black bag was overflowing with empty bottles of the same. I picked up one of the bottles. The last time I’d bought wine, this one had been out of my price range. The bottles in the trash can indicated the organizers had already been through several cases.

  I set the bottle back down and uncapped a green glass bottle of Pellegrino. I drank directly from the bottle and opened the back door for a breath of fresh air. A group of kids were huddled around a pile of cards face down on the sidewalk. A girl, probably about eight, stood next to the boys with a wad of cash in her hand.

  “What are you doing?” I asked one of the boys.

  “Playing three-card monte.”

  “Do your parents know you’re out here?”

  “Who do you think gave us the cards?” He held his hand out. “Lady, you in or you out?”

  “I’m out.” I went back inside and searched the room for Nick. I finally spotted him, surrounded by men in well-tailored suits, by the dessert station. When he failed to notice my flailing arms across the room, I cut through the crowd and grabbed the lapel of his sport coat. “Excuse me, gentlemen, I need to talk to my fiancé.” I stepped away from the group, then grabbed his hand and pulled him out the front door.

  “Are you having a good time?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. How do you think it’s going?”

  “I think it’s a success. The ladies won’t tell me how much they made in ticket sales, but judging from the empty cans of tomato paste, they’re really going through the marinara.”

  “They won’t tell you figures?” I asked.

  “No, but they must have raised enough to replace the front window, and that’s the priority.” He seemed pleased by the turnout.

  “You don’t see it, do you?”

  “See what?”

  “Look around you. They’re serving Clemenza’s spaghetti sauce and Francis Ford Coppola wine.”

  “So?”

  “So wake up and smell the cannoli, Nick. You’re in bed with the mob.” Nick put his hand over my mouth and I pushed it away. “I don’t mean to be rude, but how blind can you be?”

  His eyes shifted from side to side and he maneuvered me away from the building. When we rounded the corner to the south-facing exterior, he looked straight into my eyes. “Kidd, I’ve been in business with the mob for years. I’ve been hoping you’d never find out.”

  16

  Wednesday night

  “You knew?” I said. I flung his hands off me and put mine palm side up in full defensive mode. I stepped backward. “So, Angela’s murder? That wasn’t random, was it? All this time you’ve known what was going on?”

  “Kidd, calm down and lower your voice. We can talk about this later.”

  “No, I’m not going to calm down! All the times you’ve told me I should be careful—stay away from trouble, let the cops handle crime—all the times you got mad when I didn’t tell you I was involved in a homicide investigation, you were involved with the mob? Don’t you think maybe you should have mentioned that before you asked me to marry you?”

  “You’ve got it all wrong—”

  I cut him off. “No, I don’t think I do. Does Loncar know?” Nick stared at me. “I don’t believe this.” I shook my head and stormed away from the fire hall.

  “Where are you going?” he yelled after me. I ignored him.

  Anger, shame, frustration, and adrenaline fueled me. I reached the fence that separated the parking lot from the two-lane road out front. The road curved around to the left and right, making it difficult to see if traffic was heading our way. I pulled my phone out of my skirt pocket and scrolled through my contacts until I reached the police.

  “Loncar,” the detective answered.

  “This is Samantha Kidd. Do you need an informant? Against the mob? Because I just found out I’m on the inside. These people trust me. I’ll get whatever information you need but I’m going to need protection.” The other end of the phone was quiet. “Hello? Detective, are you there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Okay, listen. I’m at a fire hall about half a mile from the factory district. The place is swimming with them. You come out here, pretend you’re a patron. Park in the lot. Pay at the door and you can see everything for yourself.”

  “What is it I’m supposed to see?”

  “Organized crime! They’re all right here at the fire hall and trust me, this thing is organized like nobody’s business.”

  “You heard them planning something?”

  “No. I’ve been stuck behind the marinara pot since I’ve been here, but they’ve got to be planning something.”

  “Ms. Kidd.” Funny how he said my name, not like a greeting or a pleasantry, but a burden. “I’m going to need a little more information. Where are you?”

  “The fire hall at Bingaman and Sixth.”

  “Why are you there?”

  “Fundraiser for Nick Taylor’s window.”

  “What illegal activity have you witnessed?”

  “Nothing yet. Well, there’s a boy scamming people out of five dollars to watch their cars, and behind the building a couple of kids are playing three-card monte.”

  “Kids.”

  “Well, yes. The adults are inside eating Clemenza’s spaghetti.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’ll see when you get here.” I looked behind me to make sure I wasn’t being eavesdropped on. “You are coming, aren’t you?”

  “Is Mr. Taylor there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me talk to him.”

  “I can’t. He’s inside. He’s one of them. I had no idea.”

  Loncar cursed. “Ms. Kidd, go back inside, do whatever it is you did to get them to trust you in the first place, and wait until I get there.”

  “Okay, good. Sounds like a plan. Look for me by the cannoli.”

  “Is that supposed to be some kind of code?”

  “No, it means I’m tired of serving marinara sauce.” I hung up.

  As tempted as I was to get in my car and drive away, I couldn’t. The kid who’d wanted five dollars to watch my car had had the last laugh by parking me in. Until the lot cleared, I was stuck at the fire hall.

  I survived the rest of the spaghetti fundraiser with only minimal marinara damage. The stains seemed somehow symbolic. I’d shown up dressed in white, an innocent bystander to something I hadn’t wanted to see. And now, the marinara had tainted me, just like the knowledge that Nick had an association with criminals. The only thing that kept me motivated to stay was the morbid curiosity of an outsider who accidentally gets a backstage pass to the concert of the year.

  The biggest violation came from Nick. I’d trusted him with my life and I’d accepted his promise of a future. But this world didn’t hold my future. Whatever I accomplished, I wanted to do it on my own because I worked hard and proved that I could, not because somebody was presented an offer they couldn’t refuse.

  No matter how I looked at things, I couldn’t figure out when
this had happened. How it had happened. And the biggest question: why it had happened. Why Nick had gone from boy scout to made man.

  Debbi, Katie, and Connie stood by the kitchen talking. They looked up at me. I forced my face into a smile. Until Loncar arrived, I had to pretend everything was normal. I retied the apron over my outfit and returned to my station. The marinara vat was almost empty, and a guy I hadn’t met picked it up and took it away.

  “Are you bringing more?” I asked.

  “Nah,” he said over his shoulder. “Party’s winding down. Ran outta wine ten minutes ago. Once we move the cannoli, we’re through.”

  “Where are we moving it?”

  “Move it. Give it away. You know, move the goods.” He laughed at me and then carried the empty marinara vat into the kitchen.

  Without an assigned task or a giant possibly bullet-proof pot to stand behind, I felt vulnerable. Nick, who was standing by the door saying goodbye to people as they left, caught my eye across the room. The discoloration under his eye from Jimmy’s assault had faded to pale purple. My heartbeat sped up just standing there, wondering if everything I thought I’d known about him had been a lie.

  As the last of the patrons left, he pulled himself away from the exit and came over to stand with me. “It’s not what you think,” he said.

  “You don’t know what I think.”

  “After what you said out front, I’d say I have a pretty good idea.” He attempted a smile and the corners of his eyes crinkled.

  “Don’t joke about this.”

  His expression changed from stern brows and strong jawline to regret. Sadness took over his eyes.

  The men assigned to clean-up had carried the empty trays to the kitchen and had moved on to breaking down the six-foot tables.