The Spia Family Presses On

by Mary Leo

  Then, just when I was about to give up on anyone in this tight-lipped group of ever saying anything that I might use as a clue, the chocolate-brown-haired guy spoke.

  “My name is Giuseppe,” he said in the Italian dialect I could understand. His long hair was styled in that slicked back mob fashion the Sopranos made popular. Up until that program, most of my family never slicked back their hair. After the first season, most of them followed the Soprano style. Even Uncle Ray enhanced the gray on his temples so he could look like Paulie. I wondered if mobsters throughout the country took on the Soprano style, or was that just my slightly demented family.

  “Welcome, Giuseppe,” we said in unison.

  Giuseppe leaned forward, tugged on his tie like he had a deep aversion to it, glanced over at me for a moment and, I swear, all the air went out of my lungs. Not only did he look familiar, but the man was disturbingly handsome, especially with that scruffy beard. More like he stepped out of a daydream of what a thirty-something Italian man should look like. Thoughts of Adonis and Apollo swept through my mind—even though they were clearly Greek, I couldn’t help thinking of a Greek God while staring at Giuseppe.

  “Breathe,” Lisa said. “You’re turning blue.”

  I turned to her and mouthed, ohmygod!

  “Yeah, but he’s obviously mobbed up, girl, so get control,” she cautioned.

  But I couldn’t. It was as if I was hit by cupid’s arrow and I saw only Giuseppe.

  What the hell was wrong with me?

  Just last night I had sex with my ex-boyfriend who continued to lie to me, and now I was attracted to a gangster, an imported gangster, at that.

  I needed serious therapy.

  “I came here to do a job, but I found out today that my job was already done for me. So now I come here tonight to make peace with the family.” He switched to English. “But I no can make peace with the family in Calabria until I show that the man I came to, shall we say, erase, is,” he shrugged, “erased.”

  His Italian was what my relatives referred to as old Italian. Different regions of Italy had slightly different dialects, thus the reason why I couldn’t always understand book-learned Italian-Americans or Northern Italians. To my family, anyone who lived in a town even slightly north of Calabria was considered a Northern Italian.

  Calabria, where this latest import was obviously from, was known for heavy mob activity, and for the ‘Ndrangheta, the most notorious, secretive, and ruthless of all Italian Mafia type organizations. Unfortunately for me, most of my family and honorary family could trace their criminal roots to this region of Southern Italy. My dad was born in a little town called Cariati Marina. He lived there until he was sixteen and told me stories about how he helped his dad pick olives in the local groves and how his mom would clear land for the rich mob boss. Of course, he never actually said the owner was a mob boss, but even as a little girl, I knew how to read between the shrugs and story omissions. My grandfather eventually hooked up with the owner and my dad didn’t have to pick any more olives and my grandma didn’t have to haul rocks.

  I guessed that being born a girl I broke the venerated mob chain.

  A short silence, feet shuffled, chairs creaked.

  “My name is Hetty, and I’m an alcoholic.” My aunt’s voice was deep and loud, and what she said was a complete revelation to me. It explained a lot of her reclusive and nasty behavior.

  “Welcome, Hetty,” we chanted.

  “I just want to say, I’m glad the bastard Dickey is dead. I know I shouldn’t feel that way, but I can’t help myself. I’ve hated him for a lotta years, and that devil finally got what he had coming. I think now I can let some of my pent-up anger go. I’m working on it by meditating for fifteen minutes in the mornings. I heard about it on Oprah, and I gotta say, after a couple days of the stuff—and the fact that the louse is finally dead—I’m feeling a lot less like I should hit something.”

  Silence.

  I so needed to get Hetty alone after the meeting. The woman reeked of information.

  “My name is Maryann, and I’m a user.”

  This I knew.

  “Welcome, Maryann.”

  She continued. “I’m very sad that Dickey’s dead and that his body has gone missing. At least if I knew where he was buried I could pay my last respects with a proper accordion sendoff. I have friends who also play, and we have an entire concerto planned for just this occasion. But, this way, I can’t get closure and it’s making me cry all the time, play sad songs and even, God forbid, think about drugs. If somebody knows where he is, and I have a strong feeling somebody in this room does, please let me know so I can send him off, proper like. You have my solemn promise I won’t rat you out if you tell me.” She held up her right hand, oath style.

  No one moved. Everyone seemed to be staring at the floor.

  “Oh, and I want to say that I’m sorry if I caused the family any grief when I phoned that nice Leonardo Russo to invite him to Dickey’s party. I thought I was doing a good thing for our Mia. He’s been really working hard at becoming a better person. Even sees a shrink every week, at least that’s what I heard. I had no idea he would bring that nosey cop, Nick Zeleski. I had nothing to do with the cop joining him. And that’s all I’m gonna say on the subject.”

  Zia Yolanda filled the room with a forlorn, sniffly sob and I felt as though I should join her.

  Leo was actually trying to be a better person. Great news. But the man was still a liar. I wondered if there were Liars Anonymous meetings because those might actually do him some good.

  “My name is Jimmy, and I gotta get something off my chest.” Uncle Benny cleared his throat. Jimmy shuffled his feet and his face went pale. “I mean, I’m an alcoholic, but I’m doin’ good. Thanks.”

  “Welcome, Jimmy.”

  He slouched in his chair next to me. Something was definitely up.

  “What the—” Lisa quietly mouthed.

  “We need to talk to that man,” I whispered.

  “And fast,” she said.

  Giuseppe coughed and stood up this time, his right side facing me, making hand gestures as he spoke. “I think I got one more thing I need to say,” he said in English. “The family in Calabria, they send me to America to reclaim something from Dickey, but he would not part with this something, which I am very sad about. But now, because things they have changed, I need this something as the proof that Dickey—he’s not gonna show up somewhere still making the trouble. If I can have this proof I would be always grateful. Please, I mean no disrespect, but it is very bad for me if I can not have the proof. Mili grazie.”

  He sat down.

  That’s when I suddenly recognized him. Giuseppe was Leo, not the real Leo, but he looked enough like the real Leo that I’d mistaken my Leo for the Giuseppe-Leo. It was the beard that threw me. This was the guy on my Leo’s porch arguing with Dickey. This was the guy who probably phoned Dickey for a meeting, a meeting that Dickey arranged someplace public. That explained Leo’s wine on the table at my mom’s party. It all made sense now.

  How could I have been so stupid? I could see now that he wasn’t as tall as my Leo, his hair was a little lighter, and his body . . . well, I didn’t want to dwell on his body . . . but what was even worse, I had accused my Leo of lying when it had been this faux Leo all along.

  I truly had to do some major sucking up to my Leo tomorrow night at the Martini Madness Ball, which I was suddenly truly looking forward to.

  Giuseppe reverted to Italian. His face flushed and he went deadly serious, his voice going up an octave. “If I cannot get this something I was sent to retrieve, let me make myself perfectly clear, the family in Calabria will not take this news well. It will be bad for me, but it will be worse for your family. This I can promise.”

  My mom let out a small groan.

  Uncle Ray, Uncle Benny, Uncle Federico and Jimmy stood, a couple of their chairs falling to the floor behind them. Giuseppe spread his legs apart, and clasped his hands in front of his body.


  The mobster stance.

  Two shady looking associates, both dressed in fitted business suites, stood on either side of him. Young buffed Turks. All three of them poised for action.

  Lisa grabbed my hand. I shut my eyes knowing this could get really ugly. I waited. She waited. We all waited. I could hear their heavy breathing, like bulls trapped in a ring apprising the matador, getting ready to charge.

  Just as the tension was about to ignite, Maryann began singing a Louie Prima tune, That Old Black Magic, accompanying herself on her accordion.

  I was never so grateful for Maryann and her accordion as I was at that very moment. And just like that, the men smiled at each other, albeit somewhat tepid smiles, but smiles nonetheless. The young Turks backed off, and I could see the fight leave their bodies.

  One good thing we had on our side was that Made Men didn’t like to show their aggression in front of their women. Some kind of unwritten law of the streets, and at the moment I was tremendously appreciative of that unwritten rule.

  Within moments the entire group was up on their feet, reciting the daily AA prayer, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

  “Amen,” Uncle Ray said.

  Soon the men were patting each other’s backs and looking as if they all loved one another. Uncle Ray and Giuseppe were hunched over whispering to each other, smiling as if everything that Giuseppe had said had already been forgotten.

  But I knew better.

  Coffee was poured, wine bottles were opened, cookies, cheese, and sliced meats were served. The Spia clan was a model of all that was good, but everyone knew Giuseppe was serious about his threat and I, for one, had that sick scared feeling in the pit of my stomach. Someone here, other than the killer, had the ring, obviously the ring that Giuseppe was sent here to fetch.

  What was up with that ring? It hadn’t looked that special to me, at least not special enough that someone would kill for it, and that a family would send one of their own from Italy to fetch it.

  Was I missing something here?

  Suddenly I was feeling completely inadequate.

  Who was I to think I could resolve this murder? Could help keep this family honest? Could keep my mom out of danger? I was kidding myself. These Wise Guys were serious about their vendettas. My own father was probably a victim of one of those vendettas.

  My shoulder began to throb, and my knees went weak. A glass of wine would go down so easily, and would help with the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  I walked to the end of the table toward the now open bottles of wine telling myself that one glass wouldn’t make me a binge drinker. That I was ready to drink again. That I needed it. That I could handle it. That . . .

  “Let’s get out of here,” Lisa said, standing between me and my quest. “Jimmy just left. We should try and catch up with him.”

  “Not yet,” I said as I tried to get around her. “I need a glass of wine.”

  “No you don’t.”

  She placed herself in front of me, cutting my view of the bottles of wine. I wanted to shove her out of the way, tell her that she was intruding in my life, but when I looked at her I could see the concern on her face. Lisa was on my side. She believed I could shake my temptation. That alone was worth giving myself another chance.

  If I drank a glass of wine, I would be giving up on Lisa’s friendship, on my mom’s innocence, on finding the killer, but most of all I would be giving up on me.

  But the bottles of wine were so close I could reach out and touch them. A glass was waiting to be filled. Almost everyone around me was drinking, enjoying themselves, imbibing in the my forbidden fruit. Why couldn’t I?

  “Is it really worth it?” Lisa asked.

  “You bet it is,” I said, then tried to reach around her for a glass. She stood her ground. Never moving. Never flinching.

  I hesitated and slowly pulled my hand back from the fire. “I’ll have some later.”

  Lisa’s head bobbed. “Good idea.”

  Having some later was my way of telling that crazed partier inside me that I wasn’t going to totally deprive her of getting completely shitfaced. I was simply putting it off until some future time, which I thoroughly believed and planned for . . . someday.

  “How long ago did you say Jimmy left?” I asked.

  “A couple minutes at most. If we hurry, we can probably catch him.”

  We left through the side door just as Uncle Benny straightened his gray tie, and lifted his shoulders in pure gangster fashion. A sure sign the room was getting too small for both he and Giuseppe to occupy at the same time.

  FOURTEEN

  Ring-a-ding-ding

  We caught up to Jimmy in the parking lot next to my mom’s house. He was just about to take off in his black BMW Roadster. The man always had great taste in cars.

  I grabbed his attention through the windshield, and he rolled down the window.

  “Yeah?” he asked, looking all pissy. “What’s up?”

  “What’s up with you?” I said, trying to sound concerned.

  Lisa and I walked up to his window and for a moment I caught the sent of sweet berries. The same berry scent that I’d smelled on Dickey. I took a step closer to the open window and inhaled, but the scent was gone, overpowered by the stale scent of cigarettes. Jimmy was a pack-a-day smoker.

  Light poured into the car from the fixture above the barn door. He seemed more agitated up close. His hands rested on the steering wheel while his thumbs tapped out the rhythm of some imaginary tune.

  “Nothin’. Just in a hurry to get the hell outta here.”

  “This will only take a few minutes.”

  “If it’s about Dickey, you can forget it. I got nothin’ to say.”

  His thumbs tapped harder.

  “Actually, it’s about that new dude, Giuseppe,” Lisa said. “You know anything about him?”

  Jimmy gave her the once over, as if he was trying to get a make on her. The way I saw it, he never quite got over her. I could see it all over his face, or maybe he was simply having some sort of sexual fantasy about her underwear. I couldn’t tell which.

  “Not much. Just that he’s still hot. Still connected. Gotta be careful what a person says in front of somebody like that. He could cause us a lotta trouble. Hey,” he leaned out of the window to get closer to Lisa. “You want to come over to my place and sign some of your books? I’m your biggest fan, sweet cheeks.”

  She ignored him. “What kind of trouble?”

  “Your loss, sweetheart.” He moved back inside the car. “The kind that ain’t too good for seeing your next birthday. He’s not somebody you girls should be asking questions about. Just watch your own backyard and everything will be okay. You get what I’m saying?”

  His face went all serious, complete with nostrils flaring and forehead wrinkling.

  “Yeah, we get what you’re saying,” I said, “but we also know that sometime tomorrow the cops are going to start hunting for one missing Dickey Spia. Got any ideas what they might find?”

  “No. Do you?”

  I thought I’d take a chance. “Did you know his killer tried to set up my mom?”

  The color drained from his face, and he stared out the front window for a moment. Then he turned back to me.

  “No, and that’s low, way low, but this matter ain’t your concern. You got no business sticking your nose where it don’t belong. You too, Lisa. This won’t end good if you two keep digging around. Like the saying goes, forget about it. Now I gotta book on outta here. I got somebody waiting for me in the city.”

  He turned the key in the ignition and his car roared to life.

  “One more question,” Lisa said, leaning in closer. “Got any idea who might have hired Giuseppe to burn Dickey?”

  He smiled. “A guy like that? A lotta people. Dickey’s got a long history of double-crossin’ people. And don’t forget the guy grew
up in Calabria. Probably made some important enemies who want their own piece of him. Probably somebody in Italy put Giuseppe up to it, like he said, or maybe somebody here. I don’t know, but I can’t talk about this no more. You girls need to stay clear of this one or you’ll get more than just a little car chase that Lisa here can handle with her eyes closed. The person behind this thing is serious, so keep out of it.”

  He looked directly at me for a moment then he jammed the gas pedal and backed up his car on the gravel, his wide tires scattering the new gravel my mom had just put down a few weeks ago. “Wait a minute,” I yelled.

  He stopped.

  “What now?”

  I jogged up to his window, not wanting any lurking family members to hear me. “Any idea who might want the ring that was on Dickey’s finger—other than Giuseppe?”

  “You mean the one you girls are hiding?”

  Anger welled up inside me. “Where’d you get that idea?”

  “Stands to reason. You two found the body, so you must have the ring. Take my advice. Get rid of it. That damn thing’ll just get one or both of you killed. Look, I may not be Lisa’s wet dream or your idea of a good time, but I don’t want to see either one of you burned. Just get the word out that you want to dump the ring and everything will go back to normal.”

  “But we don’t have it.”

  He stared at me for a moment, rolled his eyes, pursed his lips and said, “Then whatever happens ain’t my fault. I warned you.” And he took off.

  “What was that?” Lisa asked, walking up behind me and sounding as upset as I felt.

  “I’m thinking it was either a warning or a threat depending on how you want to take it.” I folded my arms across my chest, suddenly feeling a deep chill.

  She spun me around to face her. “Wait a minute. Let’s not jump to conclusions. He may not be the warmest guy in the group, but I don’t think he was really threatening us.”

  “What the hell else could he have meant?” I shouted, flailing my arms.

  “I don’t know, but we need to calm down.”