I shut the door. “You ready?”
She looks awesome. She’s wearing black pants and the pumpkin-colored, silk blouse I bought her for Christmas last year. Even though we both have an olive complexion, she looks good in the color. I wouldn’t be seen dead in any shades of orange, brown, or gold. They make me look so washed out. Maybe it has to do with her hair being a milk chocolate shade of brown, and everyone thinks mine is black.
Izzie’s arms are crossed over her chest. Her foot’s tapping a groove into the tile. “You’re not supposed to be nice to him if I hate him. That’s the sister rule. What did he say about me?”
Whoa, paranoid much? And there’s some serious discord between these two. Weren’t they happy five months ago? She sent me a photo from their anniversary, and they were both smiling.
“Nothing. I didn’t give him the chance.”
Her foot stops. A half smile appears on her face. Hurricane Isabella has redirected itself. “Good. I’ll go get my purse.”
Her three-inch heels click-clack as she heads up front, and I’m reminded of her weird height issue. She’s five-four and insists on never standing below five-five. I don’t think she’s owned a pair of flats since junior high. Meanwhile I’m five-two and try not to wear anything higher than a sneaker. Heels are evil, gorgeous torture-devices. They trap you with their sexiness and leave you in pain. And while that may appeal to some in the bedroom, it’s not how I want my feet to feel daily.
I walk to the freezer, in my chunky-heeled, thigh-high boots, which are comfortable yet still rockin’, and stare at the stainless steel. It’s shiny, and it almost looks brand new. Ma knows how to sweet talk with a bottle of cleaner. I tug the handle and jerk the door. It opens with a soft whoosh. I shut one eye, anticipating a freezer full of walking stiffs. Nope. Nothing but trays of Ma’s lasagna and eggplant parm. Not a single dead person. Ma will be happy. Not that I plan to tell her though. The family knows I’ve seen ghosts walk around the deli, but at around age fourteen I stopped sharing. No sense in freaking out their dreams as well. As open-minded as the family is, I don’t think Ma would like to know that grumpy, old dead lady from church has been yelling at her every time she’s muttered damn all week.
I shut the door and sigh. I’m not sure if no deadies is a good or bad thing. Living above ghost plaza could get disruptive, but then again, I’ve been kinda hoping to put my skills to use, to help. I like the idea of having “Ghost Buster” engraved on my tombstone when I die. Although, “Master of Deliciousness Between Bread” will be okay too.
Someone has to invent the next greatest sandwich.
“Gianna, you’re staring at the freezer,” says Izzie. She should work for the CIA.
I shut the door and turn to her. “Ready? I can really use that one drink.”
“We need to make a quick stop first.”
I groan. “Does this have to do with Paulie?”
She pushes me toward the back door and shouts, “Bye, Pop. We’re leaving.” To me she says, “Nope. It has to do with our annoying brother.”
“Uh-oh. What’d he do?” I’d offered to be the designated driver tonight, so we walk across the gravel to my old silver Kia Rio.
“He snuck into the house last weekend, went into the basement while Alice and I were watching a movie, tripped the circuit breaker, and screamed like he was being gutted by a serial killer.”
I fasten my seatbelt and try not to laugh. I love her imagination. Knowing my sister, she screamed as well. Knowing my thirteen-year-old niece, she did not. That girl is so like me. My earlier reaction to Surfer Dude Billy doesn’t count.
“And what are we going to do?” I pull out of the corner lot and head east on Park Place.
“I went by his house this morning and unlocked the window in his spare room. We’re going to sneak in and pay him back.”
Oooh, a good old-fashioned Mancini scare. I’ve missed them. I’m so glad I’m home.
CHAPTER TWO
I was ten when I realized other families don’t hide in closets and jump out at their siblings. It’s something we’ve always done, even our parents. Ma says she’d do it with her sisters, but while Aunt Angela didn’t mind, Aunt Stella hated it. Maybe that’s why they never got along and Ma didn’t want to go to her own sister’s funeral.
I turn onto Enzo’s street and switch off the headlights. It’s quiet. Most of the homes are dark. There are no dogs barking or traffic zooming by. It’s a great location. Enzo bought his first home a couple of months ago. He’s the responsible one who makes plans and follows through. He decided to join the police force when he was eleven. When he graduated high school, he enrolled in college, got his bachelor’s in criminal justice, and then started at the academy.
That’s not to say that Izzie and I are irresponsible. Just that our plans don’t always work out as we hope. Izzie got pregnant her senior year of high school and never went to college. I majored in psychology with no concrete plans for afterwards, and it shows. I’ve had one dead end job after another. If the ghost buster and sandwich maker gigs go south I could be a professional babysitter or dog walker.
I park three houses before Enzo’s, and we’re careful not to slam the doors.
“What if he locked the window?” she asks, sounding worried. Luckily this is a one-story home, ‘cause I’m not climbing trees and swinging on vines ever, but especially not in a mini dress. No one needs to know my love for cotton Hello Kitty drawers.
“We’ll figure something else out,” I say.
I take the lead, bend at the waist, and run along the side of the house in true Mission Impossible style. Enzo has no fence or bushes, nothing to block the front from the back. His neighbor to the right has a six-foot, white picket fence along the sides of their property, so we’re slightly hidden from prying eyes. Suddenly the tune of Hall and Oates’ “Private Eyes” fills my head. Ma’s a huge music fan. I know the lyrics of songs released before I was born more than what’s currently on the radio.
We get to the last window at the side of the house, and I take a deep breath and hold it. I push the window up. It doesn’t budge. What if Izzie’s right? How the heck will we pull this off? Then the wood around the glass gives, and the window rides up. I’m so excited that I almost laugh. I lift the pane as high as it will go and freeze. The nearest street lamp casts enough light into the room for me to see there’s a lump under the covers on the bed.
I crouch down and exhale slowly. Shoot.
Izzie’s by my side. “What is it?”
“Enzo’s in there.”
“Why is he sleeping in the spare room?” Her whisper becomes shrill.
I shrug. “Because he can? Maybe he christens each room by sleeping in it. Maybe he’s role-playing and he’s Goldilocks. Who knows? Now what?”
We’re silent for a second, and she says, “He’s a heavy sleeper. He won’t hear us.”
Is she crazy? I’d hear someone climbing through my window.
“Remember the time he slept through the smoke detector?”
That’s right. I was in junior high and they were in high school when Ma burned bacon on the stove. It was an early Saturday morning, and the darn thing rang for ten full minutes before it turned itself off. Enzo didn’t stir the entire time. Izzie and I stood in the doorway to his room, watching him sleep and waiting for Ma to air out the kitchen by beating the smoke with a towel. It became a running joke—how the house would burn down around him and we’d all be outside watching the flames.
We have a weird sense of humor.
“Okay, let’s do it.” I stand, plant my palms flat on the sill, and hoist myself up at the same time Izzie grabs my butt and pushes me forward.
I knock my forehead into the bottom edge of the window, and it takes all my will not to yelp.
“Sorry,” she whispers.
Thankfully, Enzo doesn’t have a lot of furniture yet, and this room only holds a bed. I lean forward and tumble toward the carpet. I give a quick prayer that I don’t snap my neck
and remember to tuck in my head. I land sprawled out in a very unladylike pose, exposing Kitty, and I freeze, listening for signs that we woke him.
Izzie perches halfway in and halfway out of the window in some delicate dancer-type pose. She took ballet as a child. I colored with my box of 96 Crayolas. I don’t think Burnt Sienna could’ve helped with my landing.
We both hold our breath. A door slams in the next house. A car horn honks in the distance. I return to breathing, and Izzie climbs inside, sans the awkward finale.
I get to my feet and take a step toward the bed.
Enzo’s on his back with covers over his head and one arm dangling over the side, although I can’t make it out due to the blankets. In that position though, it has to be his arm. He was never one to worry about the monsters under the bed. Izzie and I liked our limbs tucked beneath our magical blankets, ‘cause we knew that nothing could harm us under them.
Izzie whispers in my ear, “I’ll find the fuse box.”
She leaves the room, and I just stand there waiting.
And waiting.
This is the part of the plan that makes no sense. How is she going to find a small metal box without turning on a light? Granted, Enzo will probably sleep through that too. Some cop he makes. I’ll forget to tell him that though.
I think a carefully laid plan would be great if we were stealing the Hope diamond, but surprise is always best with a scare. Hasn’t Izzie learned that by now? She’s always been an eye-for-an-eye kinda girl though.
I, however, want to…
Without a second thought, I charge toward the bed, leap as high as I can, and let out a war cry that would make Spartacus proud, especially if I had one of those nifty little loin-cloth-type outfits.
This time I land with precision—hands on both sides of his head, legs straddled across his thighs.
Enzo doesn’t flinch, but I know I surprised him. He had to wake up to that.
“I got you, Enzo,” I say and pull the cover off his head.
I gasp. It’s not him.
A pasty-faced plastic chick with painted-on blonde hair, brown eyes, and a huge red open mouth stares up at me. Hey, that’s my lipstick shade—Cherry Jubilee.
Izzie’s voice and Enzo’s laughter comes from the hallway. When they reach the spare room, Enzo flips a switch, and the bedside lamp zaps away all the shadows. And I’m left straddling a blow-up doll.
Damn brothers.
“Gianna meet Dolly.” Enzo holds his stomach as he leans against the door, chuckling like an idiot. It takes him a few seconds to control himself. “There was a retirement party for one of the Sergeants. He shoved Dolly into my car after. He didn’t want his wife seeing it.”
Izzie curses under her breath while I detach myself from an embarrassing picture-worthy moment. Thank goodness Enzo isn’t clutching his phone.
I don’t blame him. It is funny, but Izzie isn’t amused, and I’m spending the next few hours with her, so I hold back my laughter.
“You’re such an ass,” Izzie says and not-so-playfully slugs him in the arm.
It makes him laugh harder. “You think you’re cool coming over this morning wanting another look around because you love this house so much. I’m not dumb, sis. I knew exactly what you were up to when I opened the door.”
Izzie can be pretty obvious. She didn’t inherit the sneaky gene.
“You’ll never get me back,” Enzo says. “I’ll always be waiting for you.”
I grab Dolly and give her a hard smooch on her cheek. Yep, the shades match.
* * *
I pull down the visor at a stoplight just before Lindy’s Bar on Atlantic Avenue. I touch up my lipstick, flip one of my long, dark brown curls to the other side of my part, and wipe a black mascara dot from under my eye.
I glance at Izzie. She’s still seething about Enzo. Is it really that big a deal?
“We’re going to get him,” she snaps. Since she’s the oldest, she believes she should be in control and win every time. I was never one for the competitiveness. That was her and Enzo. I was just happy talking to the dead.
I pull into the parking lot and toss my lipstick back into my purse. “I know. But you have to admit that was clever.” I wait for her to implode on me for taking his side.
But instead she lets out a deep breath. “Maybe.”
Wow, she didn’t take my head off. I can’t imagine her annoyance is solely directed at Enzo. I’m sure seeing Paulie started her snarkitude.
“Let’s go. I want to unwind with a drink. It’s been a long day.” And since I only get one for the whole night, I’m anticipating delicious magic in a glass.
“This will be fun.” She plasters a smile on her face. I can’t tell if it’s genuine or falsely creepy.
We get out of the car and walk across the parking lot. In college this was my favorite place to hang. Admittance for ages eighteen and up, cheap drinks, no cover charge before eight, a small dance floor, and free darts. What else could a living-at-home, nineteen-year-old with a part-time job in a deli want? Besides a photographic memory for acing tests and a loyal, devoted boyfriend who looks like The Rock.
I yank open the heavy wooden door as some guy rushes out. I see a blur of plaid and denim charge toward me, and I freeze. I’d be great in a disaster. Luckily he stops before plowing me down, and we do that weird, embarrassing sidestepping dance together.
I smirk at the awkwardness and look up into his face, but his Yankees’ cap is down too low, so I can’t make out his eyes.
He grips my shoulders hard to pin me down and runs around me. As he lets go, I wince and watch him head across the street.
“How rude,” Izzie says. “Wonder where his fire is.”
“Who cares? Come on,” I say and make my way inside.
The place is relatively empty and quiet. Since when? It’s Saturday night. We have our pick of seats at the bar, and there are even several available tables. I’m a bit dumbfounded. I’ve never seen it like this. A lot changes in a few years.
We take seats at the wraparound bar and only have to wait three seconds before the cute bartender sets cocktail napkins in front of us. “What can I get you?” he asks. He can’t be older than me, with a shot of thick brown hair and light blue eyes. He smiles, and a couple dimples appear. He’s gotta be a heartbreaker.
I glance at Izzie. Has she changed too? “A couple of margaritas on the rocks, please.” When she doesn’t ask for a different drink, I sigh in relief. Nice to know some things stay the same.
When he sets the drinks in front of us, I ask, “Why is it practically empty in here?”
He shrugs. “Everyone’s probably at Mitch’s Tavern.”
I stir the red straw in my glass. “That dive in the East End?”
He nods. “They have live music now.” A customer calls him over, and he walks off.
“That’s where Paulie likes to hang.” The only reason I think Izzie says it without choking on venom is because she’s already sipped a quarter of her drink.
“Because of the music?” I ask.
She shakes her head, and her long, wavy hair sways against her shoulders. “Because it’s a dive. He fits right in.”
Ah, there’s the venom. Right on schedule.
I take a sip of my ‘rita for liquid courage and go in, praying I come back out with all my limbs. “So what’s going on with you and Paulie? Why are you and Alice staying at Ma and Pop’s?”
She glares at me in her peripheral, and I hold my breath. Maybe I should’ve waited until she was on her second or third drink. “He’s cheating on me.”
Whoa.
My body and mind stop moving for a moment. I never expected her to say those words. Not Paulie. He’s one of the good guys. They’ve been married for four years. Alice was nine when they met, and he loves her as if she was his own. Alice’s biological douche walked out on them when Izzie was still pregnant—immediately following high school graduation. So Paulie stepping up and making sure Alice was okay with him gave him
huge points in my book.
“How do you know?” I ask, hoping she didn’t walk in on him. That has to be fifty shades of disgusting.
She shrugs and takes another sip, more like a gulp. “I just know.”
I lay my hand on her arm. “Wait. You don’t have proof? Maybe it’s not true then.”
“We’ve only had sex twice in the past month,” she says and signals the bartender for another. “And when he comes home, he’s always tired and immediately wants a shower. A wife knows.”
I roll my eyes. That’s it? “Maybe he’s tired from work, and I’d certainly want to bathe after dealing with the sick and dying all day.”
I get another glare. We keep this up, and I’ll need to invest in some protective gear. She downs the remains of her drink. “What are your plans now that you’re back?”
I guess that’s the end of that conversation. Now onto one almost as stomach-turning. “I’m not sure. Live in the apartment, work at the deli, spend time with the family.”
“Oh yeah, that’s a great plan.” She winks at the bartender when he places down her second drink.
“What’s wrong with it? It’s solid.”
“And boring. What happened to the girl with dreams of being a doctor, a lawyer, a teacher?”
“I wanted to be a lot of things as a kid, like a spy and a professional candy taster too. None realistic.”
“A doctor, lawyer, and teacher are realistic.”
“Yeah, if I want to spend another ten years in school, spend my days buried in briefs and law journals, or be underpaid. Besides, I don’t want to be those things anymore.”
She pokes an ice cube in her glass with her finger. “Okay, then what do you want to be when you grow up?”
I sigh. I’ve thought of this a hundred times, and I always end up back at the beginning. I don’t know. I majored in psychology because I had to pick something. I’ve worked in various jobs to see what I like and to pay the bills. None of them I want to return to. On the other hand, I don’t get the rush to have my entire future mapped out right now. “Do I have to grow up?”
Jennifer Fischetto - Dead by the Numbers 01 - One Garish Ghost & Blueberry Peach Jam Page 2