Reluctant Smuggler

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

  Tony chuckled and swept her close.

  “Why don’t you two lovebirds stay in for supper? I’ll make linguine.”

  They turned toward Mama Gina, standing in the kitchen doorway.

  “Sorry, Mom. I’m taking my best girl out. The reservations are made. Their linguine isn’t as good as yours, but the atmosphere is just what the doctor ordered.”

  Mama Gina sniffed. “Go on, then. I was tired of being your best girl anyway.”

  Tony strode over and planted a kiss on his mothers cheek. “You’ll always be my other best girl.”

  “Get out of here.” She swatted his arm.

  Desi’s shoulders sagged. “We can’t go.”

  “Why ever not, cara?”

  “Are you worried about me?” Tony asked. “Im fine. We’ll make it a short date.”

  “This is not a cliché when I say I have nothing to wear.”

  “You look dressed to me.”

  “Tony-y-y! You’re in a suit and tie, and I’m wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Other than this and a couple of outfits for work, I’m a little short in the wardrobe department.”

  “So am I. I’ve got a closet full of suits and almost nothing casual to lounge around in.”

  Desi shook her head. “Guess we’ll have to take Mama Gina up on her offer to feed us. Her kitchen doesn’t have a dress code.”

  “Nonsense, bambini.” The older woman smacked her hands together. “Mama Gina to the rescue.” She cocked a brow at Desi. “Did you forget I picked up your dry cleaning yesterday? The clothes that have been there so long they were about to donate them to Goodwill? It seems to me I saw a snappy black sheath that cries out to be worn on an occasion such as this.”

  Forty-five minutes later Desi’s at opposite Tony at a candlelit table for two beneath the low-beamed rafters of a private alcove. Divine, spicy aromas wafted around them. Conversations were low-voiced, the clink of silverware and glasses muted. A single red rose floated in a bowl in the center of the linen tablecloth. Desi’s lipped off her work pump—dress shoes weren’t in fairy godmother Gina’s power—and ran a nylon-clad toe up the calf of Tony’s leg.

  A lazy smile spread across his face. “You are a dangerous woman.”

  “You have no idea, Mr. Lucano.”

  His eyes flared hot, and he reached across the table and twined their fingers.

  Desi leaned toward him, then stopped on a gasp. “Is that Steve Crane and Lana Burke at a table across the room?”

  “No doubt.” Tony didn’t turn his head.

  “You knew they’d be here?”

  “Not really, but this is one of their favorite places. Stevo’s the one who told me about it.”

  “He’s got better taste than I imagined. But you’d better not tell him I said that.”

  “No worries, babe. And were not going over to greet them either. This evening is for you and me.”

  “Convenuto.”

  Tony chuckled. “My mom is rubbing off on you.”

  “Italian mama, Italian restaurant, Italian fiancé. A girl’s got to go with the flow.”

  Tony’s hearty laugh turned heads at nearby tables. “The day you go with the flow, my darlin, I’ll turn in my badge, because we’ll both be ready for retirement.”

  She lifted her glass. “To a long and feisty life together.”

  He clinked his against hers. “Convenuto.”

  Unable to eat another bite, Tony laid his fork across his half-empty dessert plate. He watched Desi place a spoonful of tiramisu on her tongue, then close her eyes, tilt back her head, and smile. Good thing they were getting married soon if just watching her eat turned him teenage hormonal.

  Desi dabbed her napkin to her mouth. “I need to visit the ladies’ room before we leave. A guy with a fatigue crease between his eyebrows needs to get home and grab some beauty sleep.” She sashayed toward the back of the restaurant, leaving him with his mouth open.

  He shut it as Stevo’s bulk overshadowed the table.

  “Lana headed for the little girls’ room, too. Swanky place, huh?”

  “Excellent recommendation, pal o’ mine.”

  Stevo chuckled, then sobered. “Lana and I are gonna follow you home.”

  “I’m not tired enough to be dangerous on the road.”

  “Not thinking about you being dangerous.”

  “What are you planning to do, Stevo? Follow me around for the rest of my life?”

  “Just until you tie the knot and leave town for parts unknown—except to your faithful ex-pard. Or until you’re operating at top capacity for yourself. Or until somebody catches up with a certain bad a—er, guy. Whichever comes first. Smile, here come the women.”

  Tony stood and adjusted his suit jacket. “The Lord’s got you cleaning up your language.”

  “The Lord and Lana,” Stevo answered out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Good influences.”

  “You got that right.”

  The ladies joined them, laughing. Lana held up Desi’s ring hand. “Isn’t it gorgeous?” She twinkled at Tony. “You have excellent taste.”

  Tony caught a black scowl from Stevo. Now what was eating the guy?

  They headed for the door with Desi and Lana in the lead, chatting like family.

  Lana stopped suddenly. “I’m sorry, everyone. I left my lipstick in the ladies’ room. Wait for me by the maître d’s desk, would you?”

  “I’ll go with you,” Desi’s aid.

  “Nonsense, dear.” She hustled off.

  Tony placed a hand in the small of Desi’s back. She stepped ahead of him, and Stevo brought up the rear. Beyond the maître d’s desk, a group of customers departed, inviting a brief rush of cool air that flickered candle flames. Shadows wavered on the walls.

  A lone man at a nearby table stood, lips peeled back. White teeth flashed in a dusky face. The man’s arm rose, a bulky object in his fist.

  A shout rasped from Tony’s throat. He shoved Desi to the floor. A gun spoke and glass shattered. She screamed and wriggled, but he pinned her beneath his body. Steve’s bellow melded with another blast. Something hit Tony in the back. Heart throbbing, he waited for the pain or for heavens light to take him.

  Twenty-One

  Pain came, but only the complaint of his still-tender incision. And no bright light or heavenly scent, only the bitter tang of gunpowder.

  “To…ny.” Desi’s voice carried above the screams of patrons. “Are you…all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Could you…get off me? I can’t…breathe.”

  Women sobbed, and excited voices buzzed. Tony raised himself on hands and knees. Salt and pepper shakers and silverware littered the floor. One of those items must have struck him. A few feet away, the bottoms of a man’s shoes pointed toward the ceiling.

  “You can get up now, pard.” Stevo said. “Desi’s safe. Everybody’s safe.”

  Tony gripped a table’s edge and stood. Beyond an upended chair lay a man’s inert body. He looked to be in his midtwenties. Dark wetness stained his white shirt, and a thin trail crept across the floorboards. One hand gripped a dock pistol; the other lay across his chest as if he were napping. The index finger was longer than the middle finger.

  Stevo gestured with his snub-nosed Smith & Wesson. “This guy won’t give you any more trouble.”

  Tony reached down and helped Desi up. She clung to him, touching his face, running her hands over his chest, his arms. He chuckled. “I’m really okay. You?”

  “Bruised but wonderful.”

  “I need to ask if you recognize the shooter.”

  She turned as if fighting a strong current. Her expression hardened, but she shook her head. “Only the hands. I never saw his face.”

  A commotion started behind them, and they whirled to see Lana shove past bystanders, white face focused on Steve. The man stuffed his gun under his jacket. Lana buried her face in his shoulder, and he patted and cooed while she wept. Tony gaped. Now heel seen everything. King Misogyn
y is dead. Long live Mr. Sensitivity.

  Soon the place swarmed with city cops, and then FBI and evidence recovery technicians as the federals took over the investigation. Desi and Lana went to sit at a table and wait for their turn to give a statement.

  Tony stuck out his hand to Stevo, and they shook. “Good thing you’re legal to carry a concealed weapon in Massachusetts, buddy.”

  “You know it.” He grimaced. “I hate packing when I’m with Lana. Makes her uncomfortable. Speaking of which, you showed me up with that rock on Desi’s finger. How am I gonna propose with nothing but the dinky solitaire I can afford on my pension?”

  “No wonder you were ready to punch me out.” Tony glanced at the women. “From the way Lana’s eyeing you, I figure you could hand her a pebble, and she’d say, ‘Where’s the preacher?’”

  “Really? I was afraid she’d be disgusted because I killed a guy.”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s why she would’ve decked anyone who stood between you two after it was over.”

  “Initial reaction.” Stevo stared toward his shoes.

  “I don’t think she sees a shooter, Crane, but a man who risked his life for his friends.”

  “Yeah?” Stevo’s head lifted. “I can handle hero.” He swaggered toward the women.

  Tony shook his head. Some things changed; some things didn’t.

  A few minutes later, statements given, Desi appeared at Tony’s side. She curled her fingers around his. “Lets blow this joint. We’ve got a wedding caper to pull off.”

  Tony tugged the sleeves of his tux and rolled his shoulders. The mirror said he looked like a groom. Good thing, because that’s what he’d be in a few days. Anticipation rippled through him. The salesman approached, smiling.

  Tony nodded. “I don’t think more alterations will be necessary.”

  “Excellent, sir.”

  Tony went to the dressing room. As he shrugged out of his jacket, his cell started to play “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” He flipped it open. “Lucano.”

  “It’s Polanski. Breaking news. We ID’d the funny-fingered gunman from the restaurant.”

  Tony grinned. Nothing like the breakthrough. “Only took four weeks? Fast work, team.”

  “Oooh, I’m laughing, boss-man.”

  “I was serious. It’s a bear to process and cross-match DNA and fingerprints internationally.”

  “Yes, well, lab evidence didn’t do the trick. Our dead guy is the mystery man who was at the scene of the murder of Esteban Corona’s wife. He wore one of Señor Corona’s shirts when he clobbered the wife, hence the incriminating blood spatter on the husbands shirt. Plus Corona touched the murder weapon when he fund his wife lying on the floor, unwittingly helping to frame himself. Corona’s been released, by the way. Unfortunately, connecting funny-fingers to that murder didn’t tell us who he was.”

  “So what did?” Tony settled on the chair in the dressing room.

  “We traced this guys movements from Boston back to New York, which was his point of entry into the United States. He used aliases to book flights, rent cars, et cetera. The authorities in Mexico picked up his trail in Mérida but lost it. We figure he originated from the jungle headquarters of El Jaguar.”

  “He’s too young to be the Jaguar. The gang leaders been active since this guy was a snot-nosed kid.”

  “True, but he appears to be the Jaguar’s finger man, not to overuse a term.” She gave a dry snicker. “He directed the attack on the Grey-becks’ Mercedes, then went to Boston to finish what bomber Myles started. Blam! End of the road for him in an upscale Italian restaurant.”

  “So who is he already?”

  “His names Fausto Guerrera, Albon Guerreras great-nephew. We can thank old-fashioned legwork for that information. While we and the federales were banging our heads against a wall, the Mexico City police had the brainstorm to show his picture around the area where the old antiquities dealer lived. And bingo, we find out all kinds of nifty things! Orphaned Fausto stayed with his Uncle Albon for a couple of years as a boy. Nasty piece of work. Got hooked up with a bad crowd, disrespected his uncle, and finally ran off. No one saw him for years, and then about the time Esteban Coronas wife was killed, he showed up at Albon’s apartment. The old man went missing shortly afterward.”

  Tony stood and started unbuttoning his dress shirt. “The senior Guerreras too old to be the Jaguar, despite Desi’s suspicions about him. Macho gangs like the Fraternidad wouldn’t follow a twisted-up wreck. And I sure can’t see him as lover to a thirty-year-old bombshell like Angelina Hernández. But he’s a good fit to broker the exchange of antiquities as collateral for drugs and human contraband. When the Mexican authorities find El Jaguars jungle hideout, they’ll probably find Guerrera too.”

  “Right on all counts but one,” Polanski said. “Guerreras body was discovered in a Mexico City sewer last night. Hes been dead for weeks. Just another loose end tied up for a gang boss getting ready to disappear.”

  Tony slapped the wall. “And another dead end for us. At least Desi’ll be relieved Guerreras no longer a threat, but I’d feel a lot better if we knew the identity of the animal still loose out there. Rumor says hes taken off for Brazil. Or maybe hes lying low in his jungle lair. If the Mexicans don’t find that place, we haven’t shut him down, just set him back.”

  Polanski sighed. “Sometimes that’s the best deal we get.”

  Desi stared at herself in the mirror and adjusted the veiled hat to a rakish tilt over her sable curls. The white felt derby sported a curved brim and a hatband of seed pearls. The fine netting of the veil gathered at one side into a gauzy flower shape.

  And the gown. What could she say? Every time she tried the creation on, she loved it more. But today was no mere fitting. She inhaled. Today was the real thing. She released the breath. Below the double-stranded rope of pearls that adorned her neck, the fitted bodice showed not a millimeter of cleavage, yet hugged every curve.

  Watch out, Tony, here I come! The reflection in the mirror returned her sultry smile.

  Bright voices and hurrying feet passed in the hallway outside the church dressing room. Time was short. She’d better get her makeup on.

  A rap sounded on the door, then Mama Gina slipped into the room. The fitted cut of her emerald-green suit complemented her tall, buxom figure. “Am I too late?”

  “Too late for what?”

  “Oh, good, you haven’t started with your makeup.” The woman set a shoebox on the table beside the hat. “You look fantástico. The most beautiful bride in history.”

  Desi laughed. “Aren’t we all?”

  “Some are beautiful on the inside, some on the outside, but only a few inside and out. And you, mia figlia, are the fairest among the few. My son should fall on his knees every day and bless the Lord for you.”

  Desi hugged her almost mother-in-law. “I thank God for sending me someone special like you to stand in for my parents.”

  Mama Gina’s lips took on a peculiar twist. “I think you will like what I brought.”

  Desi studied the scuffed shoebox that didn’t bear the least resemblance to a wedding gift.

  “Go ahead, cara. It won’t bite. Sting a bit maybe. In a good way.”

  Desi lifted the lid with thumb and forefinger. A singed photo of her birth mother stared at her atop a stack of what appeared to be photos, papers, and small memorabilia—like her fathers gold tie clasp, soot stained and slightly melted, but all the more precious.

  “Oh, my goodness!” She flapped her hands so hard her fingers snapped together. “How? Who? When?”

  “Tony hired a salvage expert to sift through the remains of your home. A few things survived beneath nonflammable debris.”

  Desi collapsed onto a stool. “I’m going to hug that man to within an inch of his life—right after I smack him. Here it’s my wedding day, and he turns me into a puddle. How am I supposed to walk down the aisle?”

  “With this.” Gina held out a velvet-covered jewelry case. “From Tony also
.”

  Desi flipped up the lid. A gold locket on a chain of white seed pearls shimmered at her. She lifted the locket and opened it. On the left, her birth mother smiled the sassy smile Desi knew from her own mirror. On the right, her father grinned back. Familiar mischief sparkled in his eyes. Clear as a bell, Desi heard him say, “The games afoot, my dear.”

  Laughter bubbled up, then tears, and then a sweeping combination that scoured her heart free of fear and sorrow. For a long time, she sat on that stool and rocked and laughed and cried.

  Someone tapped on the door, and Max hustled in. Her gown of midnight blue satin flowed in an elegant sweep to the floor. She stared at Desi, fists on hips. “Girlfriend, you are not goin’ in lookin like that.”

  Desi held up the open locket. “No, I’m going in escorted by both my parents.”

  Max clapped her palms to her cheeks. “No way! That’s amazin. Brilliant!” She whirled on Mama Gina. “Did Tony do this or you?”

  “You must blame my son for everything—the locket, the box, and the bride’s appearance, though I did warn him that the wedding day might not be the best time.”

  “We’ve got an emergency on our hands,” Max fired back. “I’m going to get my mother.”

  Within fifteen minutes, Desi’s puffy red eyes were iced into normalcy, her gown steamed free of wrinkles, and makeup deftly applied. Her head spun from three women bustling around her.

  “And now,” Mama Gina pronounced, “the crown.” She set the veiled hat on Desi’s head. Max and Lana clapped.

  Desi smiled. “I’m ready.” She touched the locket that replaced the double strand of pearls at her throat. “We’re ready.”

  No one could tell her that her parents weren’t smiling down on her from heaven, as real and as present as anyone seated in a pew. Her parents’ hopes and dreams were as much a part of the flow of her existence as her own. She wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t made brave plans for a life together. Even though their marriage had been interrupted and their days cut short by tragedy, their hopes lived on in her—and now in this new union about to be consummated.

  Desi closed her eyes. Lord, no matter what comes, please make Tony and me worthy of their trust,…and of Yours.