Carlucci's Edge

by Richard Paul Russo

  Christiano’s was one of Paula’s favorite places, with good food and good people, a real neighborhood place. As they waited just inside the front door, she looked around for familiar faces. In the back, at a small table next to the kitchen door, was Pascal, the neighborhood scrounger, sitting alone and drinking coffee with his see-through arm. Three years ago Pascal had replaced his perfectly healthy right arm with an artificial limb sheathed in some kind of clear material so that all the inner workings were visible. Word on the street was that he’d done the same thing with his cock, but Paula wasn’t about to check it out for herself.

  Jeff and Robert were at a table by the front window, holding hands, Robert batting neon lashes at any man who walked by. Paula liked them both a lot, and waved when she caught Jeffs eye. Jeff and Robert waved back, smiling. Deena sat with three men Paula had never seen before, which worried her a little, but Deena seemed all right; Deena could usually take care of herself.

  Isabel returned with menus and led them to a booth against the left wall. Carlucci sat facing the front of the restaurant, which left Paula with a terrific view of Pascal and the kitchen door. Carlucci glanced through the menu, then looked at her. “Any recommendations?”

  “Everything’s good,” Paula said. “I go for the chile rellenos myself. But whatever you get, have an order of their black beans. They’re great.”

  When Isabel came by again, Paula ordered three chile rellenos and black beans; Carlucci ordered polio con arroz, a side of the beans, and a bottle of Diablo Negro beer.

  Paula made a face at him after Isabel left. “God, you can drink that stuff?”

  Carlucci smiled. “Sure. Why not?”

  Paula just shivered. It was foul-tasting beer, very high alcohol. She had gotten tanked on Diablo Negro once, and she’d been sick for days. She’d never touched it since. Isabel came by with the beer, poured half the bottle into a glass, and left. Carlucci picked up the glass and raised an eyebrow at Paula. She gave him a sick smile, and said, “Go right ahead.” Carlucci drank deeply; he seemed to actually enjoy it. Paula shook her head.

  She picked up a tortilla chip and nibbled at it. “You wanted to talk,” she said. “So let’s talk.”

  Carlucci scanned the restaurant, checking the people around them, and Paula wondered if he thought coming here was a mistake. But there was so much noise between the music, conversations, and the shouting and cooking sounds from the kitchen, she didn’t think he had to worry. She couldn’t make out the conversations of anyone nearby; it was all just babble. Carlucci apparently came to the same conclusion, because he shrugged and looked back at her.

  “I told you,” he said, his voice just loud enough for her to make out. “This case is making me paranoid. We both have to be careful of what we say, and where. I just don’t like any of this.” He paused, turning his beer glass around and around on the table. “Look, I want you to think damn hard about whether or not you really want me looking into this. If I go ahead, I’ll be sticking my neck out, but it’s going to put you at risk as well. I’m sure of it. Believe me, I’ll be damn careful, but I can’t guarantee anything, for either of us. I’ve got no idea how dangerous it could be, but we should assume the worst.” He picked up his glass, stared at it, put it down without drinking, and looked back at Paula. “If you want me to just forget about the whole thing, I’ll drop it right now. Let the case close, let them bury it.”

  “So they are trying to bury it,” Paula said. She hated it, but it felt good to hear Carlucci say it, to know she’d been right.

  “Yes,” Carlucci said, nodding. “And that might be the smartest thing to do, let them.” Then he shook his head. “No, it would be the smartest thing. Certainly the safest.”

  Paula scooped salsa onto a chip, put it into her mouth, and chewed on it as she watched Carlucci. She was trying to figure what his real feelings were on all this. Was he simply trying to warn her of real dangers and risks, or was he trying to scare her off?

  “What about you?” she asked. “Do you want to look into it? Forget about me for a minute. If you were on your own, would you be trying to find out what happened?”

  “How am I supposed to forget about you?” Carlucci said, smiling. “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t even know about the damn thing. There’d be no decision to make.”

  “You know what I mean,” Paula said.

  Carlucci nodded. “Yeah, I do.” He drank more of his beer, then poured the rest of the bottle into the glass. “Probably,” he said. “I’d be digging into it, yes. Friends of mine are being screwed over by this case. I’m not going to go into details, or tell you any names. You don’t need to know any of that, and we’re both better off if you don’t know.”

  “I think I can guess one name,” Paula said. “Besides, you don’t really know how much you can trust me, right?”

  “There is that,” Carlucci said. “It’s not personal.”

  “I understand,” Paula replied. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I don’t. I have your phone number, but I don’t know where you live. I don’t even know what you do for a living. You at least know that about me.”

  Paula smiled. “Most of the time I don’t even know what I do for a living.” She shrugged. “Mostly, I manage the Lumiere Theater, which gives me very irregular paychecks. And I play bass in slash-and-burn bands, which makes me pretty much no money at all.”

  “Slash-and-burn?” Carlucci raised an eyebrow. “Like Chick.”

  “Yeah, like Chick. We played in the same band, Pilate Error. As in Pontius Pilate. We played together off and on for a lot of years. And I play in an all-woman band called Black Angels.”

  “How old are you?” Carlucci asked.

  “Thirty-nine.” She watched him, waiting for the question, but Carlucci didn’t say anything. He made a grumbling sound and drank from his glass. “You aren’t going to ask me if I don’t think I’m too old for slash-and-burn, rock and roll?” Paula asked.

  Carlucci smiled and shook his head. “Not me. I’m not touching that one.”

  Paula smiled back at him. She was beginning to like Carlucci, no doubt about that. Maybe Mixer wasn’t so crazy after all. She let the smile fade.

  “So, are you going to look into it?” she asked him.

  “Do you want me to? I was serious about the risks. Someone with heat wants this thing buried, and we both could get scorched but good.”

  She’d thought a lot about it before she’d even gone to Carlucci; she’d known from the beginning that it wouldn’t be easy. “I’m willing to risk it if you are,” Paula said. “I trust your judgment. I think.”

  Carlucci frowned. “Yeah, you think. Well, like I said before, no promises. I’m willing to dig around a bit, stick my neck out a little, but I’m going to be damn careful, and if it looks like I’ll get my head chopped off, I’ll pull the plug. I’m not willing to sacrifice everything I’ve got for this. Understood?”

  “Understood.” She nodded. “I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

  “Good enough.”

  “So,” Paula said. “What’s next?”

  “I want to get together with you for a couple of hours so we can talk about Chick, the people he knew, anything you know about what he was doing, that kind of thing.”

  “All right. When?”

  “I’ve got another case I’m working on, but I’m off this weekend. Either Saturday or Sunday, any time.”

  As Paula was thinking about it, their food arrived. Isabel warned them about the hot plates, asked Carlucci if he wanted another beer. He said no, and she left them alone.

  “Sunday would be best,” Paula said. “If we can do it early, say eight or nine in the morning. We’ve got a Final Films Festival this weekend at the Lumiere, and I’ve got to be there and make sure the thing doesn’t completely fall apart.”

  “Final films?”

  “Yeah. Final films of the great directors. The last films of Malle, Maxwell, Scorsese, Godard, Herzog, Blanchot, Fassbinde
r.”

  Carlucci nodded. “I know Malle. Elevator to the Gallows.”

  “Sure, one of his early films. You’ve seen it?”

  “No. I just know the soundtrack. Miles Davis. Great music.” He smiled. “I’m a jazz and blues man myself.”

  “Really? Do you play?”

  “A little. Trumpet.”

  Yes, Paula thought, she was going to like Carlucci just fine. “So is Sunday morning all right?” she asked.

  “Yeah, probably. I’ll call you in a couple of days, confirm it, and we can decide where.” He looked down at his plate, then back at her. “Right now, how about we eat while it’s still hot?”

  “Absolutely.” Paula dug her fork into one of the chile rellenos, brought it to her mouth. The egg coating was light and fluffy, the chile had a sharp bite, and the cheese inside was hot and smooth. Wonderful. She looked up at Carlucci, who seemed to be enjoying his own food. She thought about the letters Chick had kept, and Carlucci showing up at the apartment, saying he would look into Chick’s murder, and now delicious food in a place like this. The day had turned out all right after all.

  SIX

  CARLUCCI SAT IN the dark basement of his home in the Inner Sunset, trumpet in hand, one of his old Big Eddie Washington discs playing on the sound system. Eddie Washington—a great blues guitarist with a harsh, haunting voice. Washington finished singing a verse of “Devil Woman Blues,” and Carlucci brought the trumpet to his lips. As Washington began his solo, Carlucci broke in, counterpointing Washington’s guitar with his own solo trumpet.

  After his family, this was Carlucci’s love—jazz, yes, but most of all the blues. Listening to it, and playing it. It took him away, not in escape, but into a world that seemed to mesh with his gut and with his heart; it brought up sadness and pain, but in ways that were somehow beautiful, and affirming.

  He had been in the basement for over an hour, listening and playing. Christina, their younger daughter (not so young anymore, seventeen), had been the only one home when he came in after taking Paula to her apartment. Christina said that Andrea had called from the office and wouldn’t be home until nine or ten; then she had taken off to meet Marx, her boyfriend, for a night of bone-slotting down in the Marina. Which had left Carlucci the house to himself.

  The song ended and’Carlucci sat back in the old sofa, resting the trumpet on his thigh, thinking about Caroline, his other daughter. Caroline, who had just turned twenty and wouldn’t live to see thirty. Right after the Gould’s Syndrome had been diagnosed, Caroline had moved out of the house, and they hardly saw her anymore. Carlucci thought he understood, and he didn’t hold it against her, but knowing she didn’t have that many years left, he wanted to see her as much as possible. Instead, they only saw her once or twice a month, and didn’t even talk to her much more than that.

  The next song’s solo began, and Carlucci played a few notes, then stopped, returning the trumpet to his thigh, thoughts moving for some reason from Caroline to his old blues band. Death on his mind, he guessed. When he was younger, a lot younger, he had been part of a quartet with three other cops. Right after Caroline had been born. They’d called themselves the Po-Leece Blues Band, and they’d been good enough to play in some of the clubs around the city; not regularly, but often enough to stay fresh and tight. Then Baker, the bass player, and Johnson, the drummer, had both been killed in a race riot in front of City Hall, and that had been the end of the band. Carlucci had never tried to put together another, and he had contented himself over the years with playing alone in his basement, playing along with the old greats and the new.

  There were three more songs on the disc, but Carlucci just listened to them, eyes closed, silently pumping the valves with his fingers. Then the disc ended, and Carlucci remained motionless in the dark, listening to the near silence.

  Sometime later he heard the muted sounds of the front door, then footsteps overhead. Andrea was home.

  By the time he got upstairs, she was already in the shower. Carlucci knocked on the door, stepped into the bathroom. “It’s me,” he said. He watched her moving behind the shower door, her image distorted by the wedge-cut glass.

  “I hope it’s you,” Andrea said. “Were you in the basement? I didn’t hear any music.”

  “Yes.” Carlucci closed the toilet lid and sat on it, leaning back against the tank. “I was listening to music earlier. Then I was just thinking.”

  “Sitting alone in the dark again,” she said. “Brooding, I’d bet.”

  Carlucci didn’t reply. He listened to the way the water sounds changed as she moved beneath the shower head. “How was your day?” he asked. She was an attorney at a firm that specialized in environmental law. She only worked three days a week, but they tended to be long days.

  “Terrible and way too long.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. It was her standard answer. Andrea never wanted to talk about work when she got home. The next morning would be different, and she would tell him all about it over breakfast. But he always asked.

  Andrea turned off the shower. “You want to hand me a towel?” she said. “Please?”

  Carlucci stood, got a dry towel from the rack, then brought it to the shower. Andrea opened the door, stuck her head and arm out and took the towel from him. “Thank you.” Before she had a chance to retreat, Carlucci leaned forward and kissed her, getting his mouth, cheek, and nose wet. Andrea dried his face with the towel. “How was your day?” she asked as she pulled the door shut and began drying herself.

  “About like yours, I imagine. Terrible.”

  “The mayor’s nephew, or that other matter?” The “other matter” was Paula Asgard and Chick Roberts. Carlucci had told her the night before about his talk with Paula at The Bright Spot.

  “Both,” he said. “And they’re both getting worse, in their own ways.” He stood in front of the sink, watching the water drip from the faucet. He still hadn’t gotten around to replacing the damn washer.

  Andrea stepped out of the shower with the towel wrapped around her head, and Carlucci gazed affectionately at her nude body. She was about five foot six, and no longer as slender as she once had been. In recent years she had put a little weight on her hips, a small pot had formed on her belly, and her breasts had begun to sag a bit. She was absolutely beautiful.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said.

  Andrea smiled, then waved at him to leave. “Go on, let me do my things.”

  Carlucci walked out of the bathroom, leaving the door partway open, and lay on the bed, listening to the sounds Andrea made at the sink.

  “How bad is it?” she asked.

  “Which one?”

  “The one the woman came to you about.”

  “Worse than I’d thought it would be.” He turned onto his side, facing the bathroom door, and watched her shadow move across its surface. “Ruben’s being forced by McCuller and Vaughn to stay on the case and bury it.”

  “Frank, I thought they couldn’t do that.”

  “So did I,” he said. “This is the first time I’ve heard of it.” He sighed heavily. “He probably could have fought it and won, but he’s afraid. He’s got too much to lose.”

  Andrea’s face appeared in the doorway. “Does this mean they could do it to you, Frank?”

  “I don’t know.” It was the only answer he had for her. That was another reason he was willing to take risks and dig into this thing. If the honchos got away with it this time, they would be more likely to try it again, maybe even with him.

  Andrea slowly shook her head, then returned to the sink. “What are you going to do?”

  “A little digging. I hate what they’re doing to Ruben. And to Toni Weathers. But also for self-preservation. I don’t want them even trying something like this with me.”

  She didn’t ask any more, and Carlucci lay on the bed in silence, listening to her, watching the shadows, and thinking. After a while he closed his eyes, not trying to sleep, just to
stop the burning.

  “Frank?”

  He opened his eyes, and she stood in the doorway, the towel now draped over her shoulder, her wet hair falling free. “Yes?”

  “Why don’t you get undressed and get into bed?”

  “It’s too early.”

  “No it’s not,” she said.

  He knew that tone in her voice. “Ah,” he said, smiling. “Aren’t you tired?”

  “Not even close.” She smiled back at him. “I’ll be out in a couple minutes.”

  Carlucci sat up on the bed and began to undress. He could hear the hair dryer going now. When he was completely undressed he pulled back the covers and lay naked on the bed. It was too warm to cover himself with even a single sheet.

  The dryer stopped, and Andrea came out of the bathroom without the towel. She got onto the bed down near his feet, and he lay there motionless, waiting for her. She kissed her way up his legs until she came to his cock, which she gently took into her warm, wet mouth. He was hard within seconds.

  A minute or two later Andrea resumed her movement upward, along his belly and chest, then lay fully across him, her face just inches from his.

  “Hi, there,” she said, smiling.

  Carlucci wrapped both arms around her and squeezed. “Hi.” They kissed deeply, then Carlucci moved his hands up across her shoulders, her neck, then to the sides of her face, holding her head gently in his fingers. “I love you,” he said.

  “I love you, Frank.”

  Carlucci wrapped his arms around her once more and pulled her tight against him, wanting to never, ever let go.

  Near midnight Paula sat on the recliner in her bedroom and watched one of Chick’s homemade music videos on her TV. The track was a Pilate Error song Paula had written, “Love at Ground Zero,” a rare slow piece, slow and melancholy, a kind of slash-and-burn blues song. She wondered if Carlucci would like it.