The Dark Side of Town

by Sasscer Hill

  “Yes,” I said. “That is exactly what I need.”

  “Muy bueno. I am in the lobby.”

  “Five minutes,” I said, before heading to the bathroom, where I fluffed my blond wig, reapplied lipstick, and sprayed on a light touch of perfume.

  When the elevator arrived in the lobby, the door slid open to reveal Calixto, wearing a black linen suit, his pants’ cuffs draped perfectly over polished leather shoes. A square of red silk gleamed from his breast pocket. At his wrists, the gold of his double-C cuff links winked from beneath the sleeves of his jacket.

  I was blindsided by the heat that flashed through me. For a moment, I stared at his strong cheekbones, his thick lashes. Those damn lips. The growing warmth inside me slid south. I hoped I wasn’t blushing.

  The corners of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. “Querida, let us have a drink at the bar and decide where to dine, yes?”

  “Sure,” I said, surprised my voice sounded normal.

  We sat in red damask chairs in the lobby bar, and ordered drinks. The atmosphere seemed almost magical, but then Calixto got right down to business, and it broke the spell.

  “You have stirred up a swarm of hornets. Our friend, Meloy, speaks of fierce activity and anger among the Pizuttis. It might be amusing to visit their nest.”

  “Why?” Was he crazy? “How do you propose to do that?”

  “Have dinner at Zutti’s Café.”

  Our waiter came back with our drinks, and leaning forward, I clutched my glass of vodka and took a sip.

  “You’re kidding.”

  He spread both palms in a classic Latin shrug. “You are disguised, obviously rested, and what better time to observe the enemy than when they are distracted?”

  He’d turned into a cop. Suddenly on the job and more interested in the Pizutti family than me. The realization was like a cold shower. I would never know where I stood with this man. I opened my mouth, closed it, and took another sip of liquor.

  “So, querida, are you game?”

  “Of course.”

  We finished our drinks, left the hotel in fading daylight, and walked along Broadway to the green awning of Zutti’s Café. Inside, the same dark-haired maître d’ greeted us and led us past the refrigerated cases filled with pastries, cheesecakes, and chocolate concoctions layered with whipped cream. This time, they didn’t appeal to me.

  The high heels of my gold sandals clicked on the glossy wood floors as we were led to the same table, set with a starched white cloth and a vase of fresh-cut flowers. Like before, Calixto ignored the chair on the opposite side of the table and slid onto the upholstered banquette, close enough that I felt the heat of his thigh near mine.

  While he ordered wine, I glanced around the restaurant and then to the back, where the latticed screen partially hid the table where I’d seen Rico with Alberto Rizelli the last time we’d come.

  I grew quiet. Rico was hunched over the table, smoking a cigar. I felt my lips compress. “Why isn’t Rico Pizutti in jail? Please, at least tell me that Alberto Rizelli is behind bars?”

  Calixto’s gaze sought the secluded table where Rico, who remained as free as a bird, was polluting the atmosphere with his smoke.

  “Yes, querida. Meloy told me they picked up Rizelli today. The FBI has him on tape telling Tony Rizelli to get rid of you. They have taped conversations between him and Tony about abducting Lila.”

  “The FBI had their phones bugged?”

  “Yes, of course. Which reminds me…” He reached into his pocket, withdrew my cell, and placed it next to me.

  I was glad to see it. After dropping the phone into my gold bag, I turned back to him. “So Rizelli’s finished?”

  “Yes. He has violated his parole, broken many federal laws. He will be imprisoned for life.”

  “Good. But why is Rico free? He was at the races today. Look at him back there, drinking wine and enjoying a cigar.”

  “Unfortunately, the FBI did not catch Rico with their phone taps. He is very clever, and now, Alberto will not give him up.”

  “Too bad the FBI didn’t have that table bugged,” I said, staring at Rico. I was not surprised that a mobster like Alberto Rizelli would not give up a family member. We were both silent a moment. Calixto’s steady gaze on me was slightly unnerving, and I cast about for something to say.

  “What about the jock today that used the buzzer on Stay the Course? No way he can slide out of this one. Right?”

  “Absolutely not. And after he was caught, the rider told track officials that the trainer, Sefino, paid him to do it. But though Sefino is in deep trouble with the racing commission, he refuses to admit any connection to Mars or Rico. The man has a family and is not a fool.”

  “You’re saying, he’s willing to go to jail for a Pizutti so that he and his family won’t be murdered?”

  “Exactly. And his family will be taken care of financially.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” My stomach growled, and I wondered how I still had an appetite after talking about these people and the lives they lived, and what Rico had tried to do to me. But I was alive, and I was hungry.

  Our waiter arrived with a bottle of red. After Calixto tested it, I took a sip. Elegant, earthy, and full-bodied. We ordered poached lobster and salad, as another server placed Italian bread and a dish of olive oil on our table. I broke off a piece, dipped it, and bit into the warm flaky crust. I was not disappointed.

  Though the wine was excellent, I sipped slowly, determined not to drink too much. Chugging wine with a man as electric as Calixto was a good way to get scorched.

  “So, who is left in this gang of mobsters?” I asked.

  “There are four or five of them up here.” He stared toward the kitchen. “It would appear a new one has arrived. If you look now, you will see him.”

  I glanced past Rico and his cigar. The swinging door was open, as a waiter, carrying a large tray of dishes, followed in the wake of a busboy with a pitcher of ice water. Behind them, I saw a thin, older man in a sleeveless T-shirt. He had ropy muscles on long, powerful-looking arms.

  “Who is that?” I asked, not liking the man’s hard face or the long jagged scar that disfigured his neck.

  “Gio Rizelli. He was an enforcer for Alberto back in New York.”

  “He looks like he still is.” The door swung shut and it was fine with me I could no longer see him. “I wonder why he came to Saratoga. You’d think they were under a bright enough spotlight they wouldn’t bring anyone new into town.” I paused a minute and an idea surfaced. “Maybe he’s been here a few days,” I said. “Maybe he’s the guy who helped Tony abduct Lila?”

  “He could be,” Calixto said. “The man was wearing a turtleneck. No one would have seen the scar on his neck.”

  We were silent a moment, thinking about Gio. Then Calixto said, “I wonder who else is back there?”

  Right on cue, the kitchen door swung open again and Gio Rizelli and another man, also dressed as kitchen help, stepped out. I grabbed my bag, held it up as if rummaging for something. I lifted my phone, just enough to snap pictures, as Gio leaned over the table and spoke to Rico. The third man gestured excitedly with one arm. Rico rose from his chair, pointed his cigar at them and herded the two men into the kitchen. The door swung shut.

  “Got ’em!” I said, placing my bag back on the banquette. “Hopefully Lila can identify him.”

  “If he’s the one,” Calixto said. But he raised his glass to me. “A beautiful woman is a dangerous thing.”

  “And so were those guys. Did you recognize the newest one?”

  “No. But send the pictures to me, and I will forward them to Meloy. If he doesn’t know, he will find out.”

  “No doubt,” I said as our waiter brought dinner.

  The meal was excellent, but I stiffened halfway through when Al Savarine walked into Zutti’s. He stood near the front door, talking to the maître d’.

  “Interesting,” I said, “that the owner of Ziggy Stardust and the questionable
hedge fund is here. He appears to be dining alone.”

  “I don’t think he’s here to dine,” Calixto said.

  The maître d’ left Savarine up front, passing by our table quickly. As he went through the swinging door to the kitchen, I looked, but didn’t see Rico.

  “It appears,” Calixto said with an amused glint in his eye, “that the owner of a hedge fund is searching for a member of the mob.”

  I nodded, realizing I’d been so distracted by Stevie and Lila, and the Pizuttis’ role in their torment, I’d stopped concentrating on the hedge fund as Gunny had ordered me to do. I hadn’t focused on the murder at my mother’s house, either. Not the way I should have.

  My thoughts slid back to the night at Joan’s house. Closing my eyes a moment, I let my memory drift through that evening. I’d seen Joan in the kitchen, the Rastafarian, Onandi, Percy, and Rich. Something clicked into place.

  “I heard him on the phone!”

  “What are you talking about? Heard who?”

  “Matt Percy. That night, before he was murdered. He was talking to the FBI. He had something he wanted to tell them. Said he was trying to do the right thing. Whoever he was talking to, insisted he come into the office the next day, and Percy wasn’t happy about it. Of course … he never made it.”

  I couldn’t suppress the image of Percy’s slit throat. The red spatter on the wall, his blood pooling slowly down the drain. I had to force myself to breathe.

  “Fia, what is it?”

  I inhaled once more and was able to continue. “Did Meloy ever say what that was about?”

  A frown crossed Calixto’s face. “No. I don’t believe Percy told them why he was concerned. Only that it was something about the hedge fund. Something he didn’t dare discuss on the phone or write in an e-mail.”

  “But Rich bought into that fund. Isn’t it possible that Percy provided investment money, too? Brian and I couldn’t find any connection between Percy and the hedge fund. But it could have been hidden.”

  “Go on.”

  “And if Percy bought in as a silent partner, he had access to information, maybe even finding something dirty. Isn’t it possible that whatever Percy knew, Rich knows?”

  Calixto stared at me. “Sí, es posible.”

  I paused for a small sip of wine, glad he’d chosen to sit so close to me. We could talk quietly, not be overheard. Besides, he made me feel safe.

  “Something was going on at Joan’s earlier this evening. Someone was there that made her afraid, and when I see her tomorrow I’m going to try and find out who. And why.”

  “No more risks, Fia.”

  “Who? Me?”

  Calixto’s eyes narrowed, and I thought I was about to receive a lecture. Before he could speak, the kitchen door swung open and the maître d’ reappeared, motioning for Savarine to approach. He did, moving quickly through the restaurant. As he passed by us, he still looked like a thug to me. But now, worry lines tightened his narrow face and lips, making his overbite seem more pronounced.

  “The man is wearing twelve-hundred-dollar shoes,” Calixto said.

  “Only you would know that.”

  The slightest twitch appeared on Calixto’s lips. Whatever his thoughts, they were interrupted when Rico emerged from the kitchen and Savarine stepped behind the latticework to join him at the table. They both sat, and the maître d’ spoke to a busboy before returning to his station.

  The busboy disappeared into the kitchen before coming back with an empty bus cart covered by a white tablecloth. He parked it on our side of the screen, making Rico’s table harder to see.

  I slid the chain of my little gold bag over my wrist, put my palms on the table, and stood, crab-stepping to get out of the confined area. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.”

  “More likely, you are up to no good. Recuerde, Fia, no risks.”

  “Of course not. Would I take a risk?”

  27

  The restrooms at Zutti’s Café were located at the back of the restaurant, down a hallway that opened a few feet to the left of where the busboy had parked his cart. Rico’s cigar smoke curled through the lattice and drifted into the room as I headed toward him. I could hear his low voice and Savarine’s, but not what they were saying.

  I walked to the back, stumbling slightly as if I was a bit tipsy. When I reached the entrance to the hallway, I stopped, blinking as if my eyes were bothering me. I lifted a finger to one eye and touched my lower lid.

  “Stupid contact lens,” I said, dropping to my knees in the direction of the bus cart and searching the wood floor as if looking for a lost lens. Scooting to the cart, I slid my phone, already set to record, under the cloth.

  Listening, I heard Savarine say, “I need your help, Rico. I had no idea—”

  “Stop!” Rico’s voice. Savarine had his back to me, but Rico had seen me before I disappeared behind the cart.

  “Found it!” I said, rising to my feet with a goofy smile, before heading for the ladies’ room, my hand closed around an imaginary contact lens. For good measure, I stumbled again and said, “Stupid shoes.”

  When I returned to Calixto, he looked like he wanted to strangle me. “How do you propose to reclaim your phone this time, leona?”

  No flies on Calixto. “When we’re ready to leave, a last drunken trip to the ladies’ should do it,” I said, ignoring his irritation. “They shouldn’t leave those bus carts around where people can stumble over them.”

  “Then you might as well play your part.” He took my full glass and slid his empty one before me, making it look like I’d already drained a glass. His hands moved so deftly, he could have been a magician.

  He signaled our waiter, and my new glass was quickly filled. I grinned foolishly at the server and took a big sip. By now, he and the rest of the Zutti’s staff surely had pegged me as a lush.

  With an occasional sidelong glance, I kept watch on Rico’s table. Savarine was leaning toward the mobster. The bus cart hid his lower body, but the muscles of his neck and shoulders appeared bunched with tension. After about ten minutes, he threw one hand in the air as if frustrated, then slammed it on the table. He stood abruptly, bursting from behind the lattice, before turning back to Rico, his words just loud enough to hear.

  “If I go down, you go with me, Pizutti!”

  He strode past us, his hands clenched into fists, his overhanging front teeth pressed hard into his lower lip. Behind the screen, Rico tapped a number into his phone. A moment later he stood and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Showtime,” I said, scrambling off the banquette, moving quickly, but unsteadily, toward the ladies’ room. Moments later I stumbled wildly and dropped my bag on the floor by the bus cart. Sinking to my knees, I giggled and leaned toward the bag, managing to knock it under the cart. I crawled forward, slid my hand under the cart, and groped until I found my phone and slipped it inside my bag. Clutching the bag, and standing slowly, I straightened my dress.

  “Sorry,” I said to an appalled waiter and the people who stared from a nearby table. “Little too much vino.” Giggling once more, I disappeared into the ladies’ room.

  When I returned to Calixto, he couldn’t help himself. He was grinning. “You are a real … cómo se dice? Oh, yes, piece of work. You are a real piece of work, Fia.”

  “I am, aren’t I? Can we get out of here? I want to get to the hotel and play this recording.”

  We left the café, and when we stepped into the dark street, a sudden chill hit me. I began walking quickly down the sidewalk toward the Adelphi.

  Calixto put a hand on my arm. “I am as anxious as you to hear what they said. But short of running like maniacs to the hotel, we have to wait a while longer. Remember, you’ve had too much to drink, and,” he said, releasing his hold on my arm, “we should maintain the leisurely pace of lovers.”

  Did he have to use that word? It was unnerving. I swallowed my impatience, and zeroed in on another question. “These additional mobsters coming to town makes you believe
something’s up, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, pequeña leona, it does.” He surprised me then by closing his warm hand over mine. He stopped walking. “You are chilled.” He slid his jacket off and put it around my shoulders.

  It was filled with his heat and his scent. I pulled it close around me, and was suddenly more apprehensive about being alone with him at the hotel than the discussion that had taken place between Rico and Savarine.

  * * *

  When we entered the foyer of our suite, I caught sight of myself in the mirror, almost startled to see I was still wearing my wig. Slipping into the bathroom, I removed it and tousled my short hair, careful not to touch my ear. I looked so different from the blond bombshell I’d played all evening. The wig’s removal left me feeling more vulnerable, but clean and authentic.

  Calixto was sitting on the parlor’s gold and beige couch. I settled next to him, put the phone on speaker, and fingered the keys to bring up the recording.

  “You ready to hear this?” I asked. Glancing at him, I almost flinched from the intensity in his eyes.

  “I like you better without the wig.” He dropped his gaze to the phone I’d placed on the coffee table before us. “Yes, I am ready.”

  I hit the Play button and Savarine’s voice filled the room.

  “You had to have known about this guy and the money behind him. I feel like you’ve gotten me in bed with the worst kind of criminal.”

  “You came to me, Savarine. You aren’t stupid. You know the kind of connections I have.”

  “I need your help, Rico. I had no idea—”

  “Stop!”

  Rico’s voice, when he’d seen me disappear behind the cart.

  There was a moment of silence, the only noise the background clatter of the restaurant. Then we heard my voice. “Found it!” followed by more silence, then, “Stupid shoes.”

  “Yes,” Calixto muttered, while we waited for Rico and Savarine to continue. “A true piece of work.”

  Rico spoke. “You guys are all alike. You want the money, but you don’t want the dirt. Or maybe you’re simply a fool.”

  “I am not a fool.” Savarine’s sounded furious. “But I didn’t expect to be threatened by the business partner you set me up with. The stuff he’s doing is going to bring this whole thing down on us!”