McKinsey’s puss fell like it was goin’ over Niagara in a barrel.
“Sure . . . sure. Whatever you need. Who’s the new guy?”
“Scott . . . Robin? Please?”
McKinsey shut his trap and walked outta the OR. Just then, I tied off the last knot of catgut. Two of the nurses gave me a little applause. Real girly like, real sweet.
“That’s some of the finest micro-work I have ever seen, Doctor Spinelli,” said one.
“If your father doesn’t make a full recovery, Doctor Drake,” said the other, “well, I’ll just eat my thigh-high nylons.”
Then she gave me a wink.
I walked over to Drake as he was clampin’ off an artery.
“How’s things?”
“Because you were here, Spinelli,” Drake said, resetting a section of Morgan’s skull like it was a perfect piece of a jigsaw puzzle, “I had time to redirect part of his carotid artery to an avascular section of his cerebellum. His father has the same condition . . . not enough blood to one part of brain. I think it’s why Sonny behaves the way he does . . . lack of blood . . . and the fact that Sonny’s brain is slightly smaller than normal. Morgan could have ended up just like his father, but now, because of you, this little boy has enough blood flowing inside his cranium to let him lead a normal, productive life. As opposed to his father . . . who’s a thug. Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Drake.”
“I’m done,” he said, throwing his hands up as one nurse removed his gloves and another mopped his brow. I took a gander down at Morgan and at Drake’s sutures: perfect, each one of them. There wasn’t even gonna be a scar. Yeah, I was good, all right . . . but this guy was somethin’ else. And they call that somethin’ . . . the best.
“I have to go check on Robin, but after that, can I buy you a cup of coffee?” Drake asked.
“No thanks,” I said. “I should be gettin’ home. Been gone so long, Maxie will think I’m steppin’ out on her . . . which would really be a switch. And I gotta go tell a certain someone . . . that she was right. Another time.”
“Name it,” Drake said, putting on his white coat. “Thanks . . . Doctor.”
“It’s just Spinelli, Drake. Just Spinelli.”
I left the OR and couldn’t find Epiphany Johnson anywhere—until I looked straight across the corridor. People were runnin’ in between, rushin’ gurneys at the speed of light, racin’ back and forth with charts, and organ coolers, and pints of blood. But Epiphany was just standin’ there like an eye in the center of a doozy of a storm.
“I saw Doctor Drake coming out and he said you weren’t far behind,” she said. “I hear his daddy’s gonna be fine and the Corinthos boy, too.”
“It was touch and go there for a while. But it looks like this will just be a bad memory for both of them in a couple of months. How are you holdin’ up?”
“I’ve been on my feet for the last three hours and it looks like I ain’t getting off them anytime soon.”
“I can stay if you need me,” I said. If it was for the kids, two more hours wouldn’t make much difference now, and Maxie would understand. At least, I thought so.
“We’ve got it under control. Everyone made it just fine and it’s mostly mopping up at this point . . . and you’d just be in the way,” she said, tryin’ to look real serious.
“Yeah, well, we wouldn’t want that, now would we?”
“Okay, then . . . we’ll be seeing you next month.”
“You bet,” I said, waddin’ up my OR mask in my hand. “And . . . thanks. For thinkin’ of me . . . the way you did.”
“I may be a lot of things, Spinelli,” she said. “But wrong about people ain’t one of them.”
“I’ll see you later.”
I turned to walk out of the ER.
“Spinelli?” Epiphany said.
I turned back around.
“For the road.”
With a big grin, she handed me a brown paper bag and headed back into the storm.
I walked through the doors thinkin’ that maybe them Van Pattens is right: Maybe there is a reason for everything. I ain’t so high on myself that I think a broken stoplight and a dozen banged up rug rats was the reason for me gettin’ to . . . to . . . well, revisit a little something about myself, something I’d shoved under a fedora and a heater for the past few years: People matter, and you don’t get to walk away. Ever.
But that’s the way it worked out.
Coincidence? Hell if I know.
When I got out into the late afternoon sunshine, I opened the bag.
When Piffy was good, she was good.
It was a whole package of those oatmeal cookies . . . the ones with the striped frostin’ on top.
Chapter 8
Damian Spinelli
. . . Back in the USSR
The former Union of Soviet Socialist Republics has some fine points. They say parts of it are beautiful, like no place you’ve ever seen on earth. You can get a good bowl of borscht . . . not like the Russian Tea Room in Manhattan, but still. And you can see one of their former big-wigs in his coffin right in the middle of Moscow . . . and he’s been there for years, no mold, nothin’. That’s kind of a bonus. And let’s not forget about all that art . . . all the stuff the Sovs decided to take with them when they marched outta Paris during the war—the big one. Even if nobody gets to see it, Russia still has it all stuffed away in that big building in St. Petersburg, and possession is nine-tenths . . . and whatnot.
But it ain’t no place to raise kids. It’s cold. Even in the summer, the place is an icebox. And most of the people suffer from a slight depression at the fragility and bleakness of their lives . . . which still ain’t worth a nickel with the higher-ups. Not ideal for rug rats.
Maybe that’s why a lot of ’em get snatched up and shipped over here. Takin’ a kid out of a bad Baltic situation has become chi-chi and simple as Simon for good American folk with the dough to spend greasin’ a few palms at an orphanage or two. And the kids turn out okay, for the most part. Apple pie moms and pops get instant families, kids stay warm (unless you take ’em to Maine or Michigan), and the we-ain’t-Commies-anymore economy rolls along. Everybody wins.
Which is why I was kinda surprised to hear Olivia Falconeri’s voice on the other end of my squawk-box. I knew she and Johnny “My-Daddy’s-a-Real-Bastard-but-Look-Who-I’m-Keepin’-Company-With-So-Show-Me-Some-Respect” Zacchara had taken a red-eye to St. Pete’s just a coupla days before to pick up a few little ones. Just before they left, I had run into Olivia at the Port Charlie farmers’ market; Maxie was pickin’ out cukes and I was wanderin’ around, holdin’ the bag.
Outta nowhere, Olivia told me that she and Johnny are gonna adopt a pack of Muscovite minis and she’s over the moon about it. Then Johnny comes up . . . now he and I don’t ever get chummy over beers, but I’m always civil . . . and he’s lookin’ kinda scared and happy at the same time. Olivia goes to buy a churro, which left Johnny and me standin’ in the middle of the produce, starin’ at each other like we were the only two guys who didn’t get the joke.
“So . . .” I said, real friendly, “I hear you’re gonna bring home a few more citizens for the good ol’ U.S. of A.”
“Yeah,” he said, startin’ to look kinda queasy-like. “When Dante . . .” (Dante Falconeri is Olivia’s son by Sonny Corinthos; he’s a cop and a good-lookin’ guy, but seriously, she musta had him when she was three.)
“I know this already, Spinelli,” I said.
“I only wish to clarify for posterity, Caustic Counselor,” he said, “should these tales ever come to be in a time capsule, or before the, dare I hope, Pulitzer review board.”
“These are only notes, Jackal.”
“Certainly . . . I’m aware. But I have this meek and mild fantasy about being, one day, published. Of course this would not be the tome . . . not with the information contained herein.”
“I made it clear these notes aren’t going anywhere but onto my computer. Now, I believe John
Zacchara was saying that when Dante . . .”
“. . . came to Port Charles, Olivia was really thrilled at being a mom again, even if her son is a jerk. Her maternal instincts went into overdrive.”
“Somebody reset her alarm clock, huh?”
“Pretty much,” Johnny said. “Of course, there was nothing we could do about it, y’know, biologically. But I still want to make her happy, and we can afford it, and this particular orphanage made us a decent deal, so we’re headed out day after tomorrow.”
“Why Russia?” I asked.
“They contacted us,” Johnny said. “I was looking into places here, but you wouldn’t believe the red tape, the hoops they wanted us to jump through. And nearly every place wanted us to get married; can you believe it?”
“No kiddin’?” I said, slappin’ my own face. “That’s right outta the, y’know, last century . . . insistin’ the parents have morals and all.”
Johnny looked at me for a half-second, but I cut in before it could really hit home.
“So the Russians don’t mind, and you’re gonna have some kids without the sticky, fun part!”
“Yeah,” he said. “We’re coming home with seven.”
“Seven?! You don’t say!”
“They sent us pictures of seven kids. We couldn’t decide, so we’re taking them all.”
“Lemme get this straight,” I said, feeling my tuna with ketchup on an English muffin go south on me. “You were lookin’ here, in the States. Hadn’t put out any feelers in Russia. And just like that, the not-so-Reds ring you up? Doesn’t that sound kinda, I don’t know, suspicious?”
“I don’t think so . . . It’s all very technical, Spinelli,” Johnny said, casin’ a nearby crate of parsnips, tryin’ like hell to look like he knew what he was talkin’ about. “Probably has something to do with the Internet.”
“Oh, well, sure,” I said as Olivia walked up with two churros and shoved one into Johnny’s pie-hole. “Yeah, that Internet . . . it’s all over the place. Well, I gotta run. Good luck!”
Maxie was at Mr. Yu’s veggie stand, waitin’ by the leafy greens.
“Hi, honey,” she says, handin’ me a bag of kale. “You were gone so long I got lonely.”
“Tell me you didn’t sleep with Mr. Yu?”
“Of course not, silly,” she said, slappin’ me on my arm. “I just let him feel me up a little. He gave me a nice big head of romaine!”
That night, I couldn’t tell which made me lose more sleep, Maxie playin’ patty-knockers with Mr. Yu, or the funny coincidence about the Russian orphanage. I decided Johnny was probably right; it was an Internet thing . . . and all orphanages are probably on some big list, right? If prospective parents get turned down by one, there’s gotta be a hundred others just dyin’ to get their hard-luck kids into a good Yankee home.
Which is why I was sorta caught off-guard by Olivia’s voice on the other end of the line. It was real low and real nervous.
“Spinelli & McCall, private eyes . . . If you can pay for it, the eyes have it. Spinelli speakin’.”
“Spinelli? Oh, thank God! I only have a few seconds. It’s Olivia and . . .”
“Olivia . . . how’s the baby heist goin’?” I said.
“Spinelli, shut up and listen!”
“Whoa, I’m sensing a tone here,” I said.
“Spinelli, they’ve got Johnny!”
I took a deep breath. I should know by now: When a dame is frantic on the other end of the phone, they don’t want chitchat, they want you to listen. Actually, that’s pretty much all the time.
“Slow down, doll,” I said. “Gimme the facts.”
“A car picked us up at the airport. We weren’t expecting it, but it had the name of the orphanage right on the car door. So we get in and nobody says anything at first. So Johnny starts talking to them . . . two bruisers, Spinelli, not orphanage men at all . . . Anyway, Johnny starts talking to these guys about the kids and when do we get to see them? Then one guy, right out of nowhere, smacks Johnny across the face. I don’t know what’s happening, but I lean over to see if he’s okay, and the other bruiser holds me back. Then they both pull out their guns and the one who hit Johnny says, ‘That was from your father. And there’s more where that came from if you don’t shut up.’ They brought us to a . . . I think it’s some kind of club. It’s gotta be a club . . . there’s been really loud music for the last two nights, but it’s quiet during the day. They separated Johnny and me . . .”
“Okay, Olivia . . . just be quiet a sec. How are you callin’ me?”
“I managed to hide my cell phone . . . someplace . . . someplace they didn’t think to look. Well . . . maybe they wanted to, but they haven’t yet. And they’ve been keeping me in a basement or a . . . a cellar for two days. But the only bathroom is on the ground level. So I’ve been real good, real cooperative ever since I got here, and today they let me come up here unescorted.”
“Room gotta window?”
“Yeah . . . hang on.”
I waited a minute, then she came back on the line.
“Okay,” Olivia said. “I got it open and I can see a little bit.”
“What street are you on?”
“The Nevskiy Prospekt.”
“What kind of music does this club play at night?”
“What does that have to do with . . .”
“Dammit, woman, answer me!”
“ABBA!” she whispered, then her voice cracked “Just ABBA. Help me!”
My voice woulda cracked too if I had to listen to “Waterloo” for two nights straight.
“Oh, God, I think someone’s coming!”
“Olivia, look across the street . . . What do you see?”
“I . . . I see . . . huh? . . . You gotta be kidding me . . .”
“Clowns, right?”
“How’d you know, Spinelli?”
“It’s the State Circus. All right, it’s an annex; the school. The headquarters are on the Fontanka River. And never mind how I know. They’ve got you holed up in the Club Prokofiev. It’s run by the mob . . . I just never knew till now that it was the Zacchara mob. Hang tight, sweetheart, I’m on my way.”
I clicked off, but not before I heard the bathroom door openin’ on the other end and Olivia screamin’ “It’s occupied!”
“Stop it!” I said, flinging my pen down for the tenth time. “Stop it. You have never been on the Nevskiy Prospekt or in St. Petersburg, for that matter!”
“Your doubt of my veracity causes me no end of sadness, Brusque Barrister,” Spinelli said, doing a terrific basset hound impression. “But I can attest, most assuredly, that I was a prize student of the comical arts. Perhaps you’ll recall the Port Charles carnival of some months ago and how my ‘clune’ skills dazzled and delighted all who saw them?”
“I was away in Philadelphia on another case,” I said. “I wasn’t able to attend.”
“Well, let me assure you, I was indeed a hit. And you, Lady of the Law, must know by now that Port Charles has not been the first stop on my life’s sojourn. I have, to use the common parlance, been around.”
I honestly didn’t know why I even bothered to say anything.
The flight was right outta a Roger Corman flick. Didn’t get to sleep that night. All the way, the paperback was on my knee . . .
“Do not plagiarize Paul McCartney!”
“But it’s the truth!” Spinelli cried. “I was reading Love’s Reckless Rash and I didn’t pick it up once!”
“I may have to strike you at some point.”
I kept thinkin’ about what Olivia had said. Somewhere over Helsinki, things became pretty clear. Anthony “Ant’ny” Zacchara, a mobster whose only rival for “big” . . . ego, mouth, reach, operation, you name it . . . was Sonny Corinthos, was due to get out of prison any day. And business had become, shall we say, difficult in the States. So Ant’ny was movin’ the whole shebang to Blini-land . . . and he was gonna take his one and only son with him. He’d tricked Johnny into comin’ to St. P
ete’s, and now it was gonna take a helluva lot to get Johnny back out.
Olivia?
She was expendable, like the nameless, red-shirted crew members of the USS Enterprise that beamed down in every episode to an unknown planet with Kirk, Spock, and McCoy. You knew they weren’t beamin’ back up. And if I knew Pops Zacchara, Olivia didn’t have much time.
I had put in a call to Madame Blovotsky, my old clowning teacher at the State School . . . and a guy in drag if ever there was one. She was surprised to hear that I was comin’ back into town . . . asked if I would do a master class for some of her new students. I told her I would be honored, but it would have to be some other time. I filled her in but little and asked if I could land at the school and just stay for a day or two.
The cab turned onto the Nevskiy Prospekt and I told the driver to stop a good two hundred yards from the State School doors. I went around to the back entrance and ran into a pack of kids on a ciggie break. I wasn’t prepared for the reaction, especially since I had asked Madame Blovotsky to keep mum about my comin’ at all. I didn’t want to attract any attention.
“If you please, sir,” said one kid on stilts. “You are the great Spinelski, yes?”
“Uh, no, mac, you got the wrong . . .”
“Oh, but you are!” said a cute little bird perched on a high-wire strung across the back alley. “We see the Spinelski portrait in the Hall of Master Clowns every day! Teacher takes us there for inspiration!”
“Yeah, well . . . you pegged me, all right!” I said with a little laugh, brushin’ past another kid with a red bubble nose and a stuffed toy poodle who was starin’ at me like I was the Second Coming. “Uh . . . you kids study hard now. Do your mamas proud and keep makin’ with the funny!”
I hustled through the doors and down the hallway to Blovotsky’s office. Her secretary let me right in. She was suckin’ on her hookah with a bottle of vodka only inches away. Took me back: me practicin’ pratfalls with her coachin’ from the sidelines, glass of vodka in one hand, “Dancing Queen” pounding through the sewer pipes.
The Secret Life of Damian Spinelli Page 9