“How is Larry?”
The sculptor shrugged. “Need you ask? The man has the most even disposition in the hemisphere. A little ray of sunshine. They shit all over him at the hospital, and I, being me, have done the same on occasion myself. Sado-mas: it’s too trite for words.”
“Sounds like true happiness.”
“I guess. Chin up a little, please. Good. Yes, happiness. Yet one wishes to be surprised on occasion. I’m never surprised any more. And how is your marriage, dear?”
“Low-key, as a matter of fact. He’s out of town and I’m fairly immobile. I had a dishy cop up here last night who was about to hit on me, but I spurned him, which was my romance for the month.”
“A cop?”
“Yeah, it turns out that Marlene is on the trail of a vicious killer. A busman’s pregnancy leave, so to speak.”
“How exciting! Tell us more!”
“Uh-uh, it’s too early and … it could be anyone. Even you.”
He laughed. “No, not me. I only kill with a kiss.” He worked in silence then for nearly forty-five minutes and then tossed his instrument aside with a metallic clatter. “You know what?” he said. “I think this little number is soup now. I have that familiar feeling of wanting to fuck with it forever, which is the signal to stop.”
Marlene rose from the couch and stretched, then walked naked over to the turntable. Franciosa spun the clay model slowly. “Well, what do you think?”
“I’m gaping with admiration. It’s funny and sexy at the same time, and it looks … soft, like flesh, like she’s going to get up and scratch her crotch.”
“It’s all in the wrist,” said Franciosa, wriggling his. “Well, my dear, a million thanks.”
“What do you do with it now?”
“We add sprues for the pour, then plaster it and after the plaster cures we cut it apart and take it down to the foundry and pour bronze into it and patina it and then sell it for lots of money.”
“Sounds good,” said Marlene. “Maybe someday it’ll be famous and grandparents will buy bookends of it for high school graduation. Like ‘The Thinker.’ ”
“My devoutest wish,” said Franciosa. Marlene dressed and headed for the shaft. “Don’t forget your medallion,” he called.
In reply, Marlene squatted down, made a chicken sound and seemed to pick the golden object off the floor beneath her crotch.
Franciosa grinned in delight. “Now, that’s surprising,” he said.
When Marlene arrived back in her loft, Ariadne Stupenagel was just leaving a message on her answering machine. Marlene snatched up the phone in time to catch her. After the usual pleasantries, Marlene invited the reporter to lunch.
“Lunch? Well, dear, it’s short notice—”
“Stupe, I know how busy you are, and I’m a mere housewife, but I need some help and there may be a major story involved for you.”
“Ah, you said the magic words. Where at? I’m Midtown.”
“No, it has to be here,” said Marlene. “The kid isn’t moving far from home these days.”
“Home cooking, eh? OK, it’s eleven-fifteen now. Say one? But the story better be what happened to Jimmy Hoffa. What’s the address?”
That accomplished, Marlene ran through the rest of the message tape. The machine had answered the phone a dozen times, but the callers had left no message. Odd—maybe the machine was on the fritz? She reset the tape, threw on disgustingly soiled maternity jeans, a sweatshirt, and Karp’s blue duffel coat, tossed the bagged trash and the bagged laundry down the lift shaft and left the loft.
She picked up the bags from the bottom of the shaft, threw the trash in an industrial dumpster, dropped the laundry off at a Chinese pound laundry on Mott off Grand, and went to shop in Lucca’s on Grand.
She bought a pound each of calamari and sweet pepper salad, a loaf of Tuscan bread and chunks of Bel Paese and asiago cheese for lunch, which would go well with a bottle of good verdicchio she had in the fridge. On impulse she bought the makings of a sausage lasagna—fresh pasta and two kinds of sausage, plus pancetta, with fresh ricotta and mozzarella cheese.
While this was being wrapped, a gravelly voice behind her said, “What did the Nazis use Italians for in concentration camps?”
“What?” she asked without turning around.
“Every thousand Jews, they used to run an Italian through to grease the machinery.”
Marlene turned around and scowled into the leering face of Raymond Guma. “Guma, that’s disgusting,” she said. “What are you doing lurking around here? Why aren’t you in court fighting crime?”
“Hey! I’m on my lunch hour, all right? I’m Italian, I could go to Little Italy for lunch? Also, I heard you were going to drop your kid in Lucca’s salumeria this afternoon, and I thought I’d come down and catch the show. I hear you took the razor blades out, the kid won’t get scratched or anything.”
“That’s so typical of you, Guma, a vicious and unprovoked attack on a helpless pregnant lady. OK, just for that, you’re gonna help me schlep this stuff back to the loft.”
Guma looked around as if she had addressed someone else. “Me? What, I got a medallion on my ass now? I’m a cab?”
Marlene said, “And that’s good because I can pick up a bunch of heavy stuff now like milk and beer and canned—and don’t say another fucking word to the person who helped you pretend that you were her own brother at her wedding so you could go on schtupping a Supreme Court judge, who, in case you forgot, at this moment is still only a phone call away.”
A strenuous half hour later, Guma was sitting on Marlene’s couch, breathing heavily through his mouth between sucks on a can of Schaeffer. “I’m having a heart attack,” he gasped. “Let me teach you a new word—‘elevator.’ How the fuck does Karp let you live on top of the fucking Statue of Liberty?”
Marlene, kneeling on the floor in front of the refrigerator, distributing groceries, shot him a sharp look over her shoulder and said, “Karp has nothing to say about it. So tell me, what’s happening back at the courthouse?”
“The usual horseshit. Everybody’s talking about bailing out. Bloom’s got Ehrengard in there as acting chief.”
“Shelly Ehrengard? But he’s a nincompoop.”
“Yeah, like Connie says, the laziest white man in North America. It’s true he can’t find his ass with both hands, but on the other hand he has the personality of a dog turd. The guess is Bloom put him in as a fumigator. He wants all of Butch’s gang out of there.”
Marlene shook her head and began to lay out the lunch she was going to give to Ariadne Stupenagel, while Guma chatted to her about the decline of the Criminal Courts Bureau.
“You wanna hear the living end? I got this case: a mutt tries to rip off a car. What car? An unmarked police car parked in front of the Sixth Precinct with a fucking uniformed cop sitting in the passenger seat. The cop couldn’t believe it. He watched the guy hotwire the ignition and crank it up before he put the collar on.
“So of course, I figured I had a pretty good case. The kid had been boosting cars since he was ten, right? So I said, ‘Kid, the top count is grand theft auto and you’re gonna plead guilty, right?’ The kid says no way, he wants a deal. I laughed in his face. The Legal Aid practically laughed in his face.
“The punch line? I go to Ehrengard with the trial and he says, ‘No trial. See if he’ll cop to petty larceny and vandalism.’ ” He sighed. “Fuck me! I’m getting too old for this shit, you know? Hey, mind if I grab another beer? It’s not like I’ll need any advanced mental resources this afternoon.”
Marlene said, “Help yourself.” She finished setting the table, laid out the food, put the wine with ice in a big tarnished trophy cup that Karp had won in some contest, and went behind the screen that divided the bath area from the kitchen to dress and primp. She had chosen her only dressy non-office maternity outfit, a Chinese jacket in heavy crimson brocade with frogging, over loose silky trousers: a borrowing from her suburban sister Anna.
She
was just shrugging into the jacket when Guma said, “How come you got a picture of Frankie Mack on your wall?”
“Who?”
“This picture by the fridge. Frankie Mack, and that looks like Carlo Parmagianni behind him.”
In an instant Marlene was beside him, hastily buttoning her jacket. “You know these people?”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t say ‘know,’ but I know who they are.” He placed a pudgy finger on the chunky saturnine man standing next to the woman in the scarf. “This is Francesco Maccaluso, known as Frankie Mack when he was in South Philly. He calls himself Frank Mackey now.”
“He’s a Mafioso?”
Guma frowned at her. “No, he’s not a fuckin’ ‘Mafioso,’ Marlene. He’s just a guy who hung around with some hard guineas when he was a kid. Like we both did. Am I a Mafioso? Are you?”
“OK, enough! So tell me, what’s his story?”
“His story is, he was associated with the Scarfi mob in Philly, a little of this, a little of that. Not a made guy; he’s a Neapolitan anyway. Got sent up for some piece-of-shit federal charge. Did a year in Allentown, got out, decided he’d do better away from South Philly and moved to the City, it musta been, fifteen, eighteen years ago. Got into hauling, bought some trucks, made some dough, bought some real estate cheap in the sixties. He made out pretty good is what I hear. He’s got his own company, Mar- or Mol-something.”
“Hold on,” said Marlene and trotted down to her filing cabinet. She returned with the list of limo renters from Simmons’s funeral.
“Yeah, that’s it—the Morell Company,” said Guma. “So, you gonna tell me what’s this about?”
“In a minute. Do you know who the woman is?”
Guma peered at the grainy image. “I never dated her that I remember,” he said, then shook his head. “Could be the bimbo of the month. Frankie’s a killer with the women, is what I hear.”
“Could it be his wife?”
“I guess. Why?”
“Nothing, just a thought.” She quickly explained the connection between the blow-up and the murder of Marion Simmons.
When she had finished, Guma said, “And you think this lady was involved with the vic?”
“How do I know? I just want to find out who she is and why she was at the funeral.”
“Maybe Frankie’s a Hustlers fan.”
“Maybe,” Marlene said thoughtfully. The street bell rang. She said, “Oh, shit! She’s here. Look, Goom, I hate to kick you out, but I invited this old girlfriend of mine over for lunch, and …”
“Yeah, I get it. I’m not good enough to meet your fancy friends.”
“Fuck you, Guma,” said Marlene, smiling. “I really appreciate this information, though. It’s really helpful.” She gave him a generous kiss.
“A little more tongue on the next one and I’ll tell you who did the job on Simmons. And by the way, I wanted to say your tits haven’t sagged all that much, in case you were worrying.”
“Scram, schifezza!” said Marlene, shoving him toward the door.
The phone rang. Marlene answered it, and a woman’s voice said, “Is this Marlene Ciampi?”
“Yes, who’s this?”
“Did you go to St. Joseph’s in Queens?”
“Yeah, I did; who is this? Hello? Hello!”
The line was dead.
Irritated, Marlene slammed the phone down, and had no time to contemplate this mystery, because just then the bell rang and Ariadne Stupenagel waltzed in the door, knee-booted and dressed in a flowing black maxi-skirt and a man’s ruffled formal shirt. She carried a stained canvas bag and a gray Soviet army greatcoat marked with colonel’s flashes hung from her broad shoulders. “Champ!” she cried in greeting and enveloped Marlene in an enthusiastic hug and a cloud of Arpege. She briefly fingered Marlene’s jacket, palped her abdomen, assured her she looked gorgeous and whirled to take in the loft. “Great loft! It’s going to be terrific when you fix it up. Have you seen Diana Bullet’s place on Great Jones Street? No? She got Victor to do it for her.”
“Victor?”
“Yes, this marvelous faggot—he’s doing everybody in SoHo. All the Warhol people use him. So!” She flung her coat onto a chair and turned a bright gaze on Marlene. “Here you are—still preggers. I can’t believe it we’re back in contact again—little Champ from my long ago school days. Well, better you than me, darling.”
Marlene hung up the greatcoat on a bentwood coat-rack by the door and said, “I bet there’s a story behind this thing.”
“God, is there! Don’t ask, dear, I’m in enough trouble with the State Department. What’s for lunch? I’m starving, and please don’t let it be pregnancy health food.”
They sat at the table. Stupenagel pronounced the meal edible and dug in with both hands, talking between mouthfuls. She was still a voracious eater. Marlene recalled from her college dormitory days that her friend would arrive unannounced at midnight, fresh from some outrage or hilarious debacle, with a pizza or a load of Chinese take-out, there to sit on the floor, and gorge, and laugh, and wake half the hall.
A session with Ariadne was still exciting, like being caught in a sudden thunderstorm with a cheap umbrella, although ten years of hard experience had tempered Marlene’s enthusiasm for the other woman’s hectic personality. Charm does not season well. Still, she was able to value Ariadne as the only person she had yet encountered who could make Marlene Ciampi feel prim.
The plates empty, Stupenagel poured out the last of the wine, of which she had consumed three-quarters, and said, “You said a story. I’m all ears.”
Marlene picked up her Simmons file with its photographs, which she had laid ready on a nearby bookshelf, and proceeded to fill her friend in on what she had learned in the past few weeks. Stupenagel made notes on a cheap steno pad.
When Marlene was done, Stupenagel said, “You’re figuring it for a triangle, huh? That’s why the blonde’s so important. I love it: Gang Lord Slays Blonde Bombshell’s Black Lover. Not exactly my line, actually. I start writing shit like that and I’m off the political pages and back to the women’s section. On the other hand, you say there’s a cover-up going down.”
“We don’t know, but it’s possible. We have the Queens D.A. in charge palling around with the team owner. We get warned off because of a big-time investigation that nobody else has ever heard of. Also, where does this John Doone fit in, and the bag of coke—”
“Speaking of which, do you mind if I do a couple of lines? I was up till all hours last night.”
“Ladies can do what they wish in my toilet,” said Marlene, attempting, not very successfully, to keep the edge out of her voice.
“You’re joking,” said Stupenagel. She had already taken a glass vial and a hand mirror out of her bag.
“’Fraid not, girl,” said Marlene, meeting the other woman’s eyes, in a manner that left no room to doubt her seriousness.
The journalist shrugged and replaced her paraphernalia. “OK, go on, then. What do you see me doing in this?”
“For starters, see Mackey’s wife. Cook up an excuse. You’re doing a story on, um …”
“Famous mobsters’ wives who fuck basketball players?”
Marlene laughed. “Yeah, that should get you in the door. No, something social: she’s rich, she’ll be interested in something. I don’t have to tell you how to barge in. Now, if she turns out to be the blonde in the photo, we’re home free. If not, we’ll have to punt.”
“Assuming it’s the wife, what do we want to know?”
“Well, obviously, whether there was any relationship, and particularly, if she saw him the night he died.” Marlene frowned and added, “Of course, there’s no reason for her to tell you any of that, is there?”
“No, but you’d be surprised what people spill to the press,” said Stupenagel briskly. “Or what they can be made to admit. Don’t give it a thought, dear: a rich bimbo like this, I can suck her brains into a jar without raising a sweat. And, if it is the wife, it makes a nic
e frisson, doesn’t it. He slays the boyfriend and accompanies the wife to the funeral. How Italian! I like it more and more. In fact”—she picked up the blow-up and studied the face of Frank Mackey—“he looks like a killer. And I’ve known a few.”
“I’m sure you have, but probably not as many as me. Let’s not get carried away here, Stupe. We just want to find out who she is for starters.”
“Fine,” said Stupenagel impatiently. “Just so I don’t have to say she has a right to remain silent. Anything else?”
“Yeah. The other thing is Leona Simmons, the dead man’s sister. She’s a junkie, so you two ought to get along real well.”
“I’ll ignore that. What does she know?”
“She might have some idea where the dope in Simmons’s car came from. For starters, we should take a look at her arrest record.”
“Surely you can get that easier than I can.”
“I could, but there can’t be any ties back to me or Butch. We’ve been warned off, remember.”
“Oh, yeah. You know, Champ, I can’t get used to you as the careful bureaucrat. This is your hubby’s influence, I gather. Don’t want to rock the career boat.”
Marlene laughed uproariously. “What’s so funny?” asked Stupenagel, disconcerted.
“Nothing, Stupe. It’s a long story. The idea of Butch controlling my behavior to advance his career just struck me as so weird.…” She wiped her eyes with a napkin and continued, “But you’re right, I guess, in a way. One mellows. Also, what most people don’t understand is that the job isn’t finding out who done it. It’s making a case, which is not the same thing at all. Usually they don’t confess in court, like on Perry Mason. In order to make a case you have to do things a certain way. One of the big rules is no overlapping investigations. It’s not just procedural. If it comes down to dark alleys, all the good guys have to know who all the other good guys are. We’re talking sudden death here.”
“I can dig it,” said Stupenagel. She made some final notes on her pad and put it away. “So what goes on here when you’re not crime fighting? I mean for fun. I mean, you don’t get out, do you? I’m in SoHo a lot and I never see you at the places to be seen at. I guess it’s just being wifey, now, hey?”
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