by Mary Leo
It was almost five o’clock now and my stomach begged for food. I stopped at a Starbuck’s and picked up a large hot tea with plenty of milk and honey, bought the most decadent pastry they had, a cranberry scone with icing, had them warm it and applied three squares of butter. I figured I would need all the fat I could get to settle my chronically aching stomach. Having to deal with Jimmy would only make it worse.
I ended up eating two entire scones and topped them off with another hot tea for good measure.
I was loaded for bear and ready to take on anything Jimmy could throw at me when I parked around back of his bar, La Bella, in a private tight parking area that I only knew about because Lisa and I had used it as a shortcut to get to school when we were kids. It had recently rained giving the cement street, walls and buildings a brown glow. The rain would curb our picking abilities, which meant the olives would hang on the trees longer. But at the moment, that was Federico’s headache, not mine.
A damp chill sent a shiver deep into my bones, and I was wishing I’d worn a coat when I spotted Jimmy’s BMW parked in tight between a foul smelling open Dumpster and the back of the building that housed both Jimmy’s bar and his upstairs apartment.
My stomach did a couple swirls as I stepped out of my pickup and headed to the back door of the building. The musky scent of damp city filled the air as I crept around his car and headed for the back door.
I phoned Lisa.
The call went directly to voicemail. I hoped she would actually listen to the message this time. “I’m at Jimmy’s bar. I know I’m on the right track. My mom pointed me in his direction and told me to get Federico’s help, which I did. Jimmy’s here. His car is parked out back. Get here quick. Federico should already be here, although I don’t see any sign of his Nissan, but I have a feeling we’ll be needing your kind of backup support. Okay, girlfriend, I’m going in.”
I snapped my phone shut, slipped it into my pants pocket along with my keys and walked up to the back door, leaving my purse behind in my locked truck. I didn’t need any extra baggage. This could get ugly.
The door was unlocked and I slipped in hoping no one would be around so I could check out Jimmy’s office before I went up to his apartment. I was hoping to find some hard evidence that might link him to Dickey’s murder, like perhaps Dickey’s pinky finger hidden in a desk drawer or a filing cabinet, but I knew I was being too optimistic.
His office was a large room a few steps from the back door, and handy for me, there was no one around. I could hear voices coming from the kitchen area, so I figured I had to snoop fast.
The office contained a bank of filing cabinets, a large wooden desk, a round table with two chairs, and a brown leather sofa, complete with a decorative pillow and a blanket. I could only imagine what happened on that piece of furniture.
I opened drawers, fished through files, even searched a junk drawer on his desk. As it turned out, Jimmy was a neat freak, and everything was in perfect order, including his junk drawer which contained three Bic lighters of various colors, several packs of gum, Orbit, various sizes of Post-Its, an unopened pack of cigarettes, Winstons, three pens, two pencils, an open box of condoms, and a copy of Girly Girls’ Guide to Bad Boy Survival, Lisa’s latest book.
The woman was a great equalizer when even ex-Mafiosi were interested in what she had to say about dating bad boys. I opened the book, curious to see if he had marked a passage or dog-eared a page, wondering what this sleaze thought was important. I fanned the book. Nothing. No marks of any kind. It appeared as though the book had never been read. I stopped on the title page and there was Lisa’s flowery autograph written under the title in bold black ink. The date under her name was for this last Wednesday, the day she’d signed at Readers Books in the village. But the book wasn’t addressed to Jimmy.
It was addressed to Federico.
“What?”
“I said hello,” a voice said behind me. I jumped, slammed the book shut, closed the drawer and turned to face Federico.
“You scared me,” I told him.
“I should have. What are you doing poking around in Jimmy’s stuff?”
“I, umm, was looking for a pen.”
He took a few steps closer, reached around me and I swear my heart stopped, and came up with a cup filled with pens.
“Take your pick,” he said, grinning.
“Thanks,” I said, my mouth suddenly dry.
“There’s a pad of paper to your left.”
“Great.” I turned and scribbled down my social security number for lack of anything better, tore off the paper and shoved it into my pocket.
I turned back to face Federico and tried to understand what his name was doing on that book in Jimmy’s drawer.
“Wasn’t that Lisa’s latest?”
“Sure was,” I told him.
“Did you get to her signing at Readers the other day?
“No. Something came up.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I couldn’t make it either. Jimmy picked up a copy for me on his way over to the party. That must be my copy.”
Total relief saturated my very pores. “Yeah, it’s made out to you.”
If Federico had been in the village getting a book signed then he had lied about his not leaving the property for three days, and if he had lied about that, what else had he lied about?
I believed him, but for some reason I wanted to double check it with Lisa.
Where was she, anyway?
“I’m sure he’ll give it to me later. We don’t want him to know you were snooping. We’ll keep that our little secret. So, why did you want me to meet you here? You sounded a little stressed on the phone.”
If I was going to use him to help me trap Jimmy, I had no choice but to tell him the truth. “I think Jimmy killed Dickey and possibly Carla DeCarlo.”
He smirked, walked over and sat down on the sofa. “What gives you that idea?”
“A lot of things, mostly a strong hunch. I think he was in love with Carla and killed her when he saw her kissing Dickey.”
Another smile. “When did this happen?”
“The morning she was killed. The morning Babe called you asking for a ride from the airport. You were in Texas so you sent Jimmy.”
“Huh, I don’t remember that. But at any rate, what proof do you have that Jimmy is our killer? What I mean is, do you think he killed Dickey as well as Carla?” He slipped a small leather pouch from his pants pocket, unsnapped it and pulled out a brown pipe.
“Yes. I think he stole the ring from my dad, for whatever reason, then gave it to Carla and when he saw Carla giving it to Dickey he freaked, and . . . ”
A chill went through me and I stopped talking. As I stared at Federico, my father’s younger brother, I thought of how he must have felt when his dying father gave his big brother a ring, and didn’t give him anything.
“And what?” Federico asked.
“Excuse me?”
“You were saying something about Jimmy freaking when he saw Carla giving Dickey the ring.”
“I was?”
My head was suddenly bogged down with conflicting emotions.
“Yes. You were. What ring are you talking about?”
He coughed and I was able to focus again. “The one Dickey wore the night he was killed.”
“The one you’re wearing around your neck?”
“But how . . . ?” I instantly looked down to see if it had popped out over my shirt, but it hadn’t.
“I felt it poke me last night when we hugged at Cougar’s, and I took a chance that you were still wearing it today.”
He pulled out another leather pouch, and dug his pipe inside, packing it with tobacco.
“But what made you think it was Dickey’s ring? It could have been anything.”
“Not likely. A woman likes to display her jewelry, not hide it under her dress.”
This was getting weird. My neck was beginning to tighten, and my gut was telling me something wasn’t right here, but I push
ed my apprehensions aside and kept on talking.
I decided to play him a bit. “That ring has some kind of history that I can’t figure out yet. My mom told me grandpa Spia gave it to my dad. Do you remember that?”
He shrugged. “Not really . . . ya know, now that you mention it, I do remember something about a ring going missing. He was pretty upset about it. Do you think Jimmy took it?”
I nodded, but for some reason my theory wasn’t feeling right. Wasn’t holding up. Something was clearly wrong.
He smiled while he patted his tobacco down in his pipe.
“That’s a pretty big theory. One that can get Jimmy put away for life, or were you thinking of not turning him over to the cops, and sending him off to Italy instead? Like some of our other relatives that couldn’t go clean.”
I shook my head. “You must be kidding. The guy is a cold blooded killer. He needs to be behind bars, and soon. Problem is I don’t have any evidence against him other than theory. I can’t seem to find that one thing that he screwed up on. So what we need is a confession. I’ve got my phone in my pocket. It records. Maybe if we work together we can get him to brag about what he’s done. I figure at some point, I’ll pull out the ring and bait him with it. You think Jimmy will go for it?”
“Go for what?” Jimmy appeared in the open doorway. “Did somebody mention my name?”
I instantly stood. “Yes. No. What I mean is. . .”
“. . . we were just talking about you,” Federico said.
“Hope it was good.”
“Nothing but,” I squeaked out.
Jimmy gave me a quizzical look. “What’s wrong with you? You’re as jumpy as a rabbit. And what are you doing here, anyway? You haven’t stepped foot in my bar since you stopped drinking.” He stared at me for a moment. “Oh, I get it now. You’re drinking again, ain’t ya? And you came here to get away from the rest of the family, right?” He walked in closer. “Well, little cuz, whatever happens in my bar, stays in my bar. Got it?”
He put an arm around my shoulder, and pulled me in closer.
“Perfect,” I mumbled.
Federico was busy working on lighting his pipe while I was in the arms of a killer. Wasn’t he supposed to be helping me?
“What can I do ya for? Bourbon? Scotch? Vodka?”
“I think she’s more of a tequila drinker. Am I right, Mia?” Federico told him.
I so needed Lisa to pop in and break this thing up. I felt as if I was being forced to drink by my own stupidity. And what was Federico doing promoting it? I thought he was on my side. “Yes, but—”
“Well, let’s get to it. The day’s young. You got a lot of catchin’ up to do,” Jimmy said taking my hand and escorting me out to the bar area.
I had no choice but to follow him out.
In the meantime, Federico walked close behind, and I could hear him puffing on his pipe.
As we walked toward the bar, the strong scent of sweet berries permeated the air. The same exact scent I had smelled on Dickey when I was lying on top of him on the barn floor. At first I thought it was coming from something in the bar, until I realized the scent was coming from Federico’s tobacco.
My heart raced up to my throat. Everything finally made sense. My mom had tried to warn me, but I couldn’t or wouldn’t hear her. Jimmy wasn’t the killer, it was Federico. The man who practically raised me. The man who had taken care of my mom and me when we needed him most. The man who had taught me how to shoot a gun was a cold blooded killer, and I was walking right into his trap.
Where the hell was Lisa when I needed her?
TWENTY-TWO
A Hell of a Place to Spend the Night
The fall woke me from my head fog, not to mention the hard thud of contact. Thankfully, I was able to land sideways on, of all things, a mattress. After all, if you’re going to get pushed out of a window—Jimmy’s second-story apartment window—isn’t it everyone’s dream to land on something soft or, as in this case, at least relatively soft? The mattress had seen better days thus the reason for it being in a Dumpster. Plus it was a little on the thin side, but at least I didn’t hit pavement. I was thankful to the person who tossed it.
My immediate thought upon landing was that Lisa would be proud of me, that is if I lived long enough to tell her.
Living seemed to be the problem at the moment. As it stood now, I was either extremely drunk or someone had drugged me, either way my consciousness was teetering on the edge of darkness. I knew the feeling quite well, but this time I wanted no part of its drowsy effect.
I kind of remembered the conversation with Lisa’s Emergency Room doctor and survival mode kicked in. I desperately tried to concentrate . . . something about flip-flops and Dumpsters and cut toes and stinky fish made you vomit.
That was it! I needed to vomit.
No easy task considering my hands had somehow been loosely tied behind my back so the old finger down the throat routine was out of the question. Willing myself to vomit had never been part of my repertoire. That was more in the bulimic realm and I was never one for chucking perfectly good food. No, the only thing I could think to do, considering I was surrounded by foul smelling garbage was to inhale something really disgusting.
I thought about my chances of finding a jar of pickled herring, like the good doctor’s mother-in-law had used on the doctor’s nephew, but the chances of finding anything pickled, much less fish, in North Beach was doubtful.
Of course, I had to remove whatever was covering my mouth first.
Minor details when you’re talking about your very survival.
I squirmed off the mattress and wedged myself in between the metal wall of the Dumpster and a particularly putrid smelling ripped bag of rotting food, pasta mostly, with anchovies if I had my stench right. But when I spotted the torn bag of soiled disposable diapers, I knew I’d hit pay dirt. The combination was horrifying, not to mention incredibly rank. Instantly, my stomach began to pitch as I shouldered off what had to be some kind of tape covering my mouth.
Lisa would be pleased with my survival efforts.
My only problem at the moment was I seemed to be functioning on slow speed and my stomach was now on a fast track of disgust. Lucky for me, the corner of the tape hadn’t exactly stuck, and I began to peel it off with the help of something poking out of another bag. It was dark due to a lack of any real street lights in what had to be an alley so I couldn’t make out what I was wiping my face against, nor did I want to, thank you very much.
When the tape was nearly off I took in a big dose of putrefied stink and in a great gush of tummy eruption, my grateful body heaved up the contents of my queasy stomach ripping the rest of the sticky blue tape from my mouth in the process.
After waives of nausea departed and the dry heaves stopped, I was feeling a bit more sober. That’s when my phone chirped in my pocket. I would have given almost anything to be able to answer it, but at the moment I was tied up . . . literally.
It was with those thoughts that I slowly lost all consciousness.
I woke up to the sound of a garbage truck in dreadfully close proximity. At first I couldn’t quite figure out where I was. Then the smells along with the dampness of morning provided a clear picture of a totally gross—stained with God knows what—Dumpster. In all my binge days, and all the strange places I’d awakened, never had I awakened in a more revolting place. It was enough to reaffirm my commitment to sobriety.
My mouth and throat felt thick. I was desperate for water, but no way would I go digging through the firmament to find a drink. I’d die first . . . at least that was my conviction of the moment. If another hour went by without rescue I’d probably have to reconsider.
It was at that moment of dehydration when a thought hit me: I had just spent the entire night inside a Dumpster. I supposed there were worse places to sleep, but at the moment nothing could top this one.
First order of business was to untie my hands before the truck arrived and carried me off to the closest city d
ump. With my throat dry and sandy, I didn’t think I could scream loud enough to alert the driver he was hauling away a human being.
I was feeling better—as good as anyone could feel who had been drugged, pushed out of a second story window, and spent the night communing with garbage. Now I needed something sharp, the lid from a can would be perfect. Except of course, if this neighborhood recycled I would be shit out of luck. I could only hope there were eco-criminals amongst the folk.
In situations like I was in, there was something to be said for those valiant people who weren’t eco-friendly!
Luckily, my feet weren’t tied and I was able to slip off my Uggs to free up my toes to go searching for the appropriate sharp instrument, hopefully not slicing my own feet in the process. After much searching there were no can lids to be found, but a crafty person has to make do. My trusty toes discovered a lifesaving bag of discarded S&M toys, appropriate for the neighborhood, and I was able to wedge some kind of a black strap dotted with metal spikes under a broken tricycle and poke holes in the tape around my hands enough times to then force a tear.
As I worked, I developed a new fondness for the kinky set.
All the while I poked, that damn garbage truck kept getting closer and closer.
Finally, just when the truck’s brakes squealed to a stop in front of my very Dumpster, the tape loosened and I was able to unbind my hands, push up through the bags of garbage that had been thrown in on top of me overnight and stand up to glorious freedom.
I smiled and waved to the driver while still standing inside the Dumpster.
“What the fuck?” he said, obviously startled by my presence. “You okay?” he yelled over the roar of the engine, leaning out the window.
“I am now,” I croaked, grinning while I climbed out of my entrapment. When I got closer I said, “You wouldn’t happen to have an extra bottle of water in there, would you?”
He looked me over and made a couple throaty sounds, shook his head, smiled and held up a lovely six pack of water. “How many you want?”
“Just one. Thanks.”