Cook's Christmas Capers (The Angie Amalfi Mysteries)

by Joanne Pence

  She stepped back and eyed Rebecca. "Who’s this? A new girlfriend, Richie? She’s very pretty."

  He took Rebecca’s hand and pulled her forward. "This is, uh, Becky May ... Mason. Becky, meet Anna Maria Respighi." Anna Maria grabbed her hands and welcomed her. Richie was glad Anna Maria kept her mouth shut about Rebecca's nose. Probably because she'd seen a lot worse than that being married to Punk Leo.

  "Is Leo here?" Richie asked.

  "He’s in the back, watching TV. I’ll go get him. Sit down in the kitchen. You hungry, Richie?" She patted his face. "You and your girlfriend, you want to eat something?"

  "No, sweetheart," he said. "We’re fine. Just got to talk to Leo."

  "Aspetti. You come to my house, you eat." She gave them both a glass of red wine and made up plates of leftover rigatoni and meatloaf still on the counter from dinner. While she zapped them in the microwave, she lit herself a cigarette and asked Richie in Italian all about his new girlfriend. He only prayed Rebecca didn’t understand as he sang her praises in the bedroom and the kitchen—the only places he could think of that really mattered. He decided she didn’t have a clue what he was saying since she neither blushed or shot him with the gun she was packing in that big black purse she lugged around everywhere. Come to think of it, she probably never blushed.

  With the cigarette smoldering in an ashtray, Anna Maria put a plate in front of Richie, and another before Rebecca. "Mangia," she said, then softly to Rebecca. "I hope you like it."

  She said it so sweetly, Rebecca found herself murmuring, "I’m sure I will." The smell of the spicy red sauce and the hint of garlic, onion and oregano in the warming meatloaf, reminded her that she was starving. The food was delicious.

  Richie, too, ate with gusto. "You’re looking too skinny, Richie," Anna Maria said.

  "I’m not skinny—just not so heavy anymore. I was letting myself go. The hell with that. I joined the gym. Run, box. It’s good for me. I actually feel better."

  "You were overweight?" Rebecca asked between bites.

  "For a little while," he murmured, then stuck his head further down toward his plate.

  "A woman," Anna Maria said in explanation to Rebecca as she stood by the open back door for the last few drags. "It's a long story."

  "And not one I came here to talk about, Anna Maria," he said, washing down a swallow with wine. "So anyway, where’s Leo?"

  Rebecca found the previous conversation interesting, however. "Was that Sheila?" she asked Anna Maria.

  "Sheila? No, no, no. It was Mary. She was—"

  "Enough already!" Richie shouted.

  Anna Maria smiled fondly at him, crushed the cigarette butt, patted him on the arm as if in consolation, and then headed down the hall to get her husband.

  Rebecca’s eyebrows were still high on her forehead, wondering what all that was about. "Seems like a lot of women in your life."

  He shrugged.

  She found herself strangely curious about him and was going to try to find out more when a big man walked into the kitchen wearing a satin robe patterned with Christmas trees and reindeer on a red background. Richie stopped eating and Rebecca nearly dropped her fork.

  Punk Leo’s bare legs looked like toothpicks below the robe, and his feet were shod in loose, floppy brown leather slippers. "’Ey, Richie, how’s it going?" His deep voice reverberated throughout the kitchen like a boom box.

  Leo sat down at the table. Richie introduced Leo and Rebecca, calling her his "acquaintance." Leo’s brows slanted downward as he nodded. Leo's nose, lips and ears were all oversized and blubbery. The only things small were his eyes and, it seemed, his intelligence.

  "We’re trying to find out who this guy is." Richie pretended not to know Cockeyed Lanigan as he showed Punk Leo the thirteenth Santa’s photo on the small computer screen.

  Leo no sooner looked at it then practically threw it back at Richie as he bellowed, "I don’t know him, and I don’t want to know him."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He’s trouble. I don’t have nothing to do with him. Nothing. Is that clear? I don't even want to hear his name in my house."

  "He’s dead, Leo," Richie said starkly.

  Leo's face darkened. "Dead? You show a picture of a dead guy to me? You do that in my house! Bring me seven years bad luck! Are you crazy?" He lunged, toppling Richie and his chair to the floor.

  Anna Maria started shrieking for them to stop.

  Using his arms and legs, Richie was trying to shove the big man off him. Rebecca avoided where she looked as the two scrambled on the floor and the bathrobe lifted, revealing more of Leo than she’d ever wanted to see.

  Rebecca made one attempt to pull Leo off Richie, who looked like he was in danger of being smothered, and got an elbow buried in the stomach for her troubles, doubling her over to gasp for air. The gun she had in her purse tempted her, but it would give away that she was a cop, and Richie had warned her not to. She could use some of the karate she’d learned, but she didn’t like the idea of breaking anyone’s bones on Christmas Eve.

  Anna Maria solved the dilemma by grabbing a dust mop and shoving and shaking the head of it between the two men, bopping first Leo then Richie in the face. Clouds of dust billowed with each smack. When the men started coughing, she swung the mop even more forcefully, hitting their noses and foreheads, then chest and shoulders. With each swing, more dust flew, making them pant more, which meant they had to take bigger and bigger gulps of air and only managed to get even more dust in their mouths.

  Finally, they let go of each other and rolled to their sides, eyes watering and choking.

  Cold-cocked by a dust mop. Rebecca tried not to laugh, but as she looked from Punk Leo to Richie gasping from their exertions, she couldn't help herself. The thought struck that in some crazy way, despite everything, this madness around her was funny. Her gaze settled on Richie, and she realized she hadn't been around such a provocative but interesting man in a long, long time. God! Where had that thought come from? The crack on her nose must have been harder than she'd thought.

  "Cover yourself, Leo!" Anna Maria yelled, still wielding her mop. "What’s wrong with you two? It’s Christmas Eve! You should be ashamed!"

  As Anna Maria helped Leo struggle off the floor, Rebecca held out a hand to Richie.

  "You get that filth out of my house!" Leo roared, facing Richie again. "I don’t know Cockeyed Lanigan and I don’t give a damn that he’s dead!"

  "Do you know what he was up to this morning?" Richie asked, stubborn as usual.

  Leo went beefy red. "What are you, some kind of cop? I don’t know nothing! Get the hell out of here, Richie," he said. "And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll go home and forget about all this."

  "The cops will find out what happened, Leo. Homicide's on the case, and you know how stubborn, pig-headed, and worse than a dog with a bone, those people are," Richie said with a glance at Rebecca and wearing a lopsided grin. "After all, Cockeyed Lanigan's dead."

  "Yeah?" Leo adjusted his robe. "Then that means there really is a Santa Claus."

  Chapter 6

  THE SANTAS WERE STANDING outside the Fior d’Italia restaurant waiting to meet the woman Joe the Pistol had phoned. To their surprise, as they cheerfully wished Christmas greetings to passers-by, people kept handing them money.

  They took it.

  Then, a little boy and girl went walking by. The boy looked about seven and the girl six. They stopped, glared at the Santas and stuck out their tongues.

  As they started to walk away, Guido Cucumber limped after them. "What’s the matter with you kids?" he yelled. "Don’t you know better than to treat Santa Claus that way?"

  "We hate Santa," the boy said.

  "Yeah, we hate you," the girl chimed, but her blue eyes filled with tears.

  "Hey, what’s wrong? Santa didn’t do nothing to you," Guido protested.

  "You aren’t coming to our house," the boy said. "Daddy’s sick and can’t work. We wanted bikes, but Daddy said no
way. Santa doesn’t give things like that to poor kids. Seems to me, the rich kids could get their parents to pay for things, so it’s the poor ones Santa should help."

  The Cucumber nodded. "Well, your Daddy may be right most of the time, but there’s twelve of us Santas here, and maybe we can work something out. You tell me where you live, so I won’t have trouble finding the right house, and maybe between the twelve of us, we’ll be able to help you."

  The kids looked wary. "I thought Santa Claus knows where everybody lives," the boy said.

  "Well, yeah, but look at us, we’re getting old. You know old people are forgetful sometimes."

  The kids gave their address, and all the Santas wished them Merry Christmas as they left.

  "What are we gonna do?" one of the Joes asked.

  "Think guys. Who do we know who can help?" Guido looked from one to the other.

  "Santa's dead," Peewee said remorsefully. "We know all about it."

  "Where's Santa's bed?" Frankie, formerly "the Ear," shouted. "I'm ready to lay down. All this is a lotta work!"

  They ignored him, as usual.

  "No problem. I know someone," Joe the Pistol said with a big smile. "Big Leo's kid, Punk Leo. He sells toys and all kinds of stuff. I’m going to his house tomorrow for Christmas dinner. We can call him."

  Joey Zoom stared at him, annoyed. "Did you tell him we was all coming here today? We weren't supposed to tell no one."

  "What's the big deal? He’s expecting me," the Pistol argued. "His wife’s aunt’s husband was my wife's brother-in-law, God rest his soul, so we're related. I told Punk Leo not to worry, that we was all dressed in Santa costumes so nobody’d recognize us."

  "I hope you’re right," Guido Cucumber said, "and I hope he knows enough to keep his mouth shut."

  "Sure he does. Let’s go find a pay phone. I’ll call him. You’ll see. Punk Leo’s a nice guy, despite what everybody says about him. He’ll get some bikes and deliver them to those kids. No problem."

  "Hey, wait a minute," Lorenzo the Slug said, his bushy eyebrows knitted with suspicion. He'd come in late to the conversation since he was using the snazzy facilities at Fior d'Italia. "If you talked to Punk Leo, how come you didn’t know Big Leo’s dead?"

  Joe the Pistol shrugged. "I ain’t talked to Big Leo since the summer of eighty-three. We had a fight. I was gonna ask Punk Leo about him when we got together. Don’t need to now."

  "What was the fight about?" Lorenzo asked.

  Joe looked remorseful. "Damned if I can remember."

  o0o

  "You were talking about Stonestown," Richie said after a long silent period punctuated only by curses as more time elapsed without a van sighting. It was nearly seven-thirty. "I remember that Punk Leo runs an import-export business. Furniture, toys, all kinds of stuff. I'm pretty sure his warehouse is right by Stonestown."

  Rebecca’s head snapped toward him. "That means he probably ships furniture around the country, or the world. He would have access to large crates, easily big enough for a body."

  "Exactly," Richie said.

  The more Rebecca thought about it, the more sense it made. Wrap the body up good, pack it in a furniture crate, put on a sticker to Madagascar, and then pay a few bribes once it arrives. Who’d know? Or, even simpler, ship it to Las Vegas and pay some friends down there to create another lump out in the desert far from town. Easy. But, why?

  And, if someone were trying to get Cockeyed Lanigan’s body to Leo’s shop, what if they freaked out at all the security around the mall due to Christmas, dumped the body and took off?

  "Let’s go check the place out," she said.

  "I don't think so." Richie looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. "My guys won’t be at Leo’s business."

  "How do you know?" she retorted. "He acted more than a little suspicious. He clearly knows more than he’s saying."

  There was more under-the-breath muttering about women and cops. "All right, Inspector. We’ll take a quick look, then we’re out of there and back to North Beach. I’ve got the feeling they aren’t far away."

  Stonestown was almost completely deserted since it closed early on Christmas Eve. They found Punk Leo’s import-export business, then drove to the loading dock area in back of the building. All the lights were out. It looked quiet and empty.

  Richie parked along the side of the building, then they tried the doors, hoping to find one open and something going on in the warehouse. They didn’t.

  "Well, it was worth a try," Richie said, dejected. "I should give this up. I don’t know where else to look, what else to do. I guess it’s time for me to face the music."

  "Which means what? Are you in trouble? We’ve spent the whole day searching, Richie, and I don’t even know why."

  For a moment, the way he gazed at her, she thought he might open up. He didn't. "You don’t want to know. Trust me. I’m supposed to deliver them somewhere. That’s all there is to it."

  They started to walk back to his car. "Well, maybe they’ll go there on their own," she consoled.

  "They don’t know where it is. It’s a secret." He glanced over his shoulder a moment. "I’m sure they expect someone will help them, but I can’t if I don’t know where they are."

  "That makes no sense," she insisted.

  "It doesn’t, except that they’re old guys who are used to others looking out for them."

  "As in, they’ve been in jail most of their lives?" Rebecca asked suspiciously.

  "As in ... you might be right about that. Whatever it means, I lost them, and I’ll have to pay the consequences."

  "You make it sound as if the consequences are dangerous." They parted and he walked toward the driver’s side, she to the passenger’s.

  He looked upward. The stars shone brightly in the clear night sky, the moon just rising over the mountains. "I'll find out," he said.

  He was maddening. It was like talking to a cipher. "Well, you might be wise to worry." She faced him over the top of the car. "A killer is out there somewhere. Maybe he’s hunting down your Santas—maybe not. But he’s there, and if you’re involved, you could be in danger as well."

  "Me? I never do anything dangerous. I’m allergic to it."

  Just then a shot rang out. Richie ducked after feeling the bullet whistle by his head. Rebecca dropped behind the Porsche. A dumpster was behind her and she ran to it, curled between the trash bin and the wall, waving for Richie to follow. He did.

  As far as she knew, Richie Amalfi wasn't armed. But she was. She slid the gun from the special pocket in her handbag. She thumbed the safety off and waited. One more shot, and she’d see where the shooter was hiding.

  "Cover me," he whispered.

  "They only do that in movies," she hissed and made a grab for him.

  She was too late. He sprinted off in the direction of the shooter and stood behind a telephone pole. Another building was beside the import-export loading dock, and that one also had a large parking area with pillars and ramps. Richie headed for it.

  With a curse, she followed. Spotting a smashed beer can, she grabbed and tossed the can far as she could toward her right, hoping the sound as it landed would draw fire and she’d be able to spot the gunman.

  It didn’t.

  She scrambled after Richie. She had no idea where he’d disappeared to, only that he needed some protection ... and she needed to catch a killer.

  She heard a "thump" then an "Oomph!" followed by another "whack, thump, blam." Quickly, she followed the sounds. Two men held Richie while Punk Leo pummeled him … again.

  She stretched out her arms, a two-handed grip on her gun. "Stop right now, Leo!" she shouted loud to make herself heard over the swearing, punching, and Richie’s grunts of pain. "I don’t miss when I shoot!"

  Leo’s arm was high when he looked over and saw the barrel of a powerful Glock facing him. It wasn’t some wimpy twenty-two. It was big. A cop’s gun.

  The two guys with him decided to show respect for a serious firearm. They let go of Ri
chie and ran. She let them go. It was Leo she was after.

  "So, your girlfriend’s a cop," he said, his voice sneering as he faced Richie who was sitting on the ground rubbing his ribs and stomach. "What were you thinking bringing a cop to my house? Here, to my business? I told you to keep away from me, but you wouldn’t listen! This isn’t over, Richie."

  "Yes, it is," Rebecca said, showing her badge. "I’m bringing you in for questioning about the death of"—she hesitated, but it was the only name she knew—"Cockeyed Lanigan. You’re not under arrest yet, but you come quietly or you’ll be charged with assault and battery."

  "I didn’t hurt Lanigan! I was trying to stop him from ..." Suddenly, he shut his mouth. "I know nothing. I want to talk to my lawyer. I won’t answer any more questions."

  She knew enough about the law and lawyers to know there was no way she was going to be allowed to interrogate Leo on Christmas Eve after he’d asked for a lawyer. Probably not Christmas Day, either. She didn’t have enough probable cause to go after an arrest warrant. Not yet, anyway. "You’ll have plenty of chance for that," she said. Let him stew awhile, she thought, as she turned her attention on Richie. "Are you all right? Do you want to go to a hospital?"

  "I don’t need a hospital." He got up and walked to her side as he felt the damage done to his bleeding lip. "I just need my handkerchief back. And I want Leo to tell me where the old Santas are." He faced Leo. "I know you know about them."

  "Sure," Leo said eying the two. "I just got a couple of kid’s bikes and I need to make a delivery for them. That’s why I’m out here and saw you two sneaking around my warehouse. Why?" Slowly the light seemed to dawn. "Is that what this is about? You’re trying to find them? You’re the transport, right? And you lost them." He chuckled. "I was wondering about that. Well, I’ll be damned!"

  "Where are they?" Richie demanded again.

  Leo folded his arms. "No way, Richie. You ruin my Christmas, I’ll ruin yours."