The Secret Life of Damian Spinelli

by Carolyn Hennesy

  “I don’t need three, doll,” I said. “Two will be fine.”

  Elizabeth flipped on a light.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  I went to pull my mask off my face.

  “Keep your hands up!”

  “Then how can I show you who I am?”

  “All right, but go slow.”

  “Bet you don’t say that to all the guys,” I said, liftin’ off the Lycra.

  “Spinelli? What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” I said, lookin’ around the room. “ ’Cept I think I already know.”

  “So what? So, you’ve come here to judge me? Who sent you? How did you find out?”

  “Whoa . . . slow down, sister,” I said. “Why don’t you do us both a favor and put down the rod, all right? Wouldn’t want it goin’ off accidentally, would we? Someone might get hurt.”

  “WHY ARE YOU HERE?”

  “Easy . . .”

  “This is none of your business,” she said, lowerin’ the gun a little. “It’s none of anyone’s business.”

  “That’s right,” I said, taking a step closer. Wrong move. Elizabeth brought the gun back up, but fast.

  “I’m not doing anything wrong . . .” she said, her eyes becomin’ like a coupla swimmin’ pools.

  “I know,” I said. Then I saw her hand startin’ to shake, so I took a chance and edged a little closer.

  “Stay where you are! I’m not doing . . . I’m not doing anything . . . wrong!” she yelled, but she was shakin’ so badly that I grabbed the roscoe out of her hand just like I took little Chippy Dox’s ice cream cone back in the third grade. Elizabeth tried to fight me, but I pinned her hands behind her. Then she collapsed, sobbin’, into a heap.

  “Whoa there, doll,” I said catchin’ her and sittin’ her down on the Bowflex. I talked real soft and slow. “No one said you was doin’ anything wrong. You’ve just started living the high life, is what, and Lucky was gettin’ suspicious. He saw all the bright, shiny objects you’ve got now and he was nervous, see? Nervous about where you might be gettin’ ’em, and from whom.”

  “Lucky’s out of my life,” she said, then she really turned on the Niagara. She was like some of those pansies online when Mistress Elizabeth would tell ’em they only had five more reps, when really it was more like twenty. I hadn’t seen it for myself . . . but I knew the deal.

  “Come on, kid. He may be gone, but he’s not gone. You know it and he knows it. He still loves you . . . always will. That’s why this little side business of yours is such a big deal.”

  Her eyes went real wide.

  “Does he know what I’m doing?!”

  “Nope. He asked me to find out . . . and then tell him.”

  “Oh God . . . please don’t, Spinelli. I’ll do anything. It would break his heart . . . and his spirit, to know that I’ve been exercising behind his back. And to know that I’ve been dominating others to get them into shape. Lucky couldn’t get me to run up the stairs. Exercise was just too much trouble for me. I let myself go a little bit and I think it’s one of the things that broke us apart. If he finds out that I’m actually taking care of myself just to make money, it will kill him. I just thought I could give the kids . . . a . . . a better life, you know? Oh, God . . . what was I thinking?!”

  “Maybe that’s just the point,” I said, stashin’ the heater in my utility belt. “Maybe you wasn’t thinkin’. Not with the fully actualized, conscious part of your noggin, that is. Seems to me, you was lettin’ your superego control your ego, which then started takin’ orders directly from your id. That’s how you got yourself in such a goulash.”

  “You know the works of Carl Jung?” she asked.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, doll,” I replied, tryin’ not to laugh, “but that was pure Siggy Freud. Of course, if you got a dream or two that needs explainin’, I can handle the horse, so to speak. The point is, you have to figure out what’s inside of you that makes you think this kinda prancin’ about, lookin’ like a copper or schoolmarm, is jake, see? It’s fine for some, but not for the Maternal One. You got class, see? You’re a contender. You’re a somebody. You need to get that through your pretty little thinker.”

  She was silent for a bit. I get antsy when dames get silent.

  “I think I need to talk to somebody,” Elizabeth said finally, snifflin’.

  “Hey, you been talkin’ to somebody.”

  “No, I mean . . . for a long time. This is going to take more than a chat . . . even with you, Spinelli. But you opened the door for me. Now I have to find the strength to push it all the way open. I’m going back to Shadybrook. I’ll tell Lucky to keep the kids until I get back. Will you . . . will you check in on them every once in a while?”

  “ ’Course.”

  “And I have to let Abdomination Industries know that . . . that I am officially out of business.”

  “Why don’t you let me take care of that,” I said. “I’ve got a coupla things to say to a company that does a vulture tap-dance on the souls of decent folks. I can get you offline in a jiff.”

  “Thank you,” she said, gettin’ off the Bowflex. “I think I’d like to go pack now.”

  “I’ll drive you to Shadybrook, m’lady. If you’ll let me.”

  “That would be lovely, sir knight,” Elizabeth said.

  “And we can take your car.”

  She was almost out of the room, but she turned, a big grin on her face.

  “Would you like to keep the Mercedes until I get back? I’ve paid the first three months of the lease. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Only because you’re twistin’ my arm. Hey, lemme ask you somethin’,” I said. “I thought you were supposed to be at work until midnight. What made you come back?”

  “I was invited to a costume party several weeks ago and I didn’t have anything to wear. So I had borrowed a French maid’s outfit from one of the other nurses; I left today without putting it in the car. I needed to return it.”

  “Nothin’ to wear? You got a closet full of getups!”

  “I didn’t want to take a chance on being recognized, Spinelli. You have no idea the people in Port Charles that have availed themselves of my services. People in very high places.”

  “Do I know some of them?”

  “Can’t tell you.”

  I followed her into the living room and watched her walk up the stairs.

  “How about a hint?”

  “Nope!”

  “Just one?”

  “NO!” she said . . . but she was laughin’. The dame was gonna be fine.

  “Is one of them a burly torpedo with blue eyes? Or a swarthy Italian with dimples? Hey! I know . . . fast Eddie Quartermaine! Elizabeth? Elizabeth . . . ?”

  I heard her gigglin’ down the hallway. Yeah, this dame was gonna be just fine.

  Chapter 13

  Damian Spinelli

  and . . . There Are Those Who Enjoy It Uncomfortably Warm

  It’s never a good thing when a “family” moves into the neighborhood. Especially, if another family or two are already there.

  Sonny “Have I Met Your Daughter?” Corinthos and Ant’ny Zacchara were finally on a toleratin’ basis, even more so since old man Z had been driven out of Russia and had come back to Port Charlie with his tail between his legs. Ant’ny knew better than to pretend his operation was still in full swing, so he’d been layin’ low for a while, slowly puttin’ the pieces back together. But he was still a force.

  Then . . . seems like it was overnight . . . we all got someone new to contend with.

  The Cannalzettis.

  Basically, they were small time . . . or so we thought. Thugs and petty thieves. Runnin’ some numbers, stolen car parts. Nickel-and-dime stuff. Stone Cold Morgan, Corinthos’s torpedo and number-one ace-in-the-hole . . .

  “What did you just call Jason?” I asked, lifting my head up off the formica. It was heading toward 4:00 A.M. and by God if I wasn’t tired.

&n
bsp; “An ace-in-the-hole,” Spinelli answered. “Why? Is there something amiss?”

  “No. Not at all,” I said. “I just thought I heard you say . . . something . . . Never mind. Proceed.”

  . . . thought the Cannalzettis would figure out sooner or later that Sonny Corinthos had the town in his pocket. When they did, they’d pick up and amscray. And Stone Cold ain’t usually wrong.

  Usually.

  Morgan came home to the penthouse one evening, lookin’ more like a basset hound than usual.

  “If that’s even possible,” I laughed.

  He was down in the mouth about Sam McCall, his best gal . . . when he wasn’t keepin’ company with Elizabeth Spencer; but that’s another story.

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  I told him what he needed was some fresh air and a scotch, neat. Morgan agreed and said we should take a walk down by the harbor; Corinthos had a shipment comin’ in and his blues were as good an excuse as any to make sure everything was goin’ smooth. Fifteen minutes later, I had sea-salt cakin’ my ears, and Morgan was spillin’ his guts as we watched the longshoremen unload Sonny’s tanker.

  Seems Sam hadn’t been returnin’ Morgan’s phone call for a day or two. He’d gone by her place; her car was in the garage, but the lights weren’t on and the mail was pilin’ up. She’d skipped out, he was certain.

  “And it’s all my fault.”

  “How d’ya figure?” I asked.

  “Because she wants to get married so badly and I just can’t bring myself to ask her. I keep wondering what the rest of my life would be like if I had to be responsible to anyone other than Sonny, you know? What it would be like to wake up and see that beautiful face lying next to me, then realize that I’d have to be careful and cautious in everything I did from the time I got up until I went to bed.”

  “Well, when you put it like that . . . it don’t sound like your kinda life,” I said. “But you’re forgettin’ one thing. Sam is like . . . well, like you . . . only stacked. She’s loyal and tough and smart and fearless. She’s everything you . . . you . . . could want in a dame. And dames like her don’t come along that often. And you ain’t gettin’ any younger.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m just sayin’,” I said.

  “I’m still not sure,” Morgan said. “But I’d like to know where she is.”

  I opened my mouth to say that, if it was only a matter of a little legwork, I was already on it . . . when . . .

  Kaboom!

  We heard the first explosion and hit the deck. It came from a pier two down from the Corinthos ship. A second blast followed. We were only down for a moment, but when we got up, the longshoremen had disappeared. We hightailed it to the burning boat. And what to our wonderin’ eyes should appear but two rival gangs, one far and one near.

  The ship belonged to Zacchara and his men, some of them high in the organization . . . we knew the faces, had run up the pier from the burnin’ hunk of steel. Now they were trapped, caught in a group and surrounded by at least six mooks with tommy-guns. Most of them I’d never laid eyes on, but Morgan knew instantly.

  “Cannalzettis,” he said.

  “You sure?”

  “Yep. Look.”

  Walkin’ slowly from the shadows was a man in a camel-colored vicuña coat. And this face I had seen: newspapers and wanted posters. But not for a long time. This face was older than I remembered.

  Don Enzio Cannalzetti.

  The flames were dyin’ down just a bit and the wind carried his words to the crates where Morgan and I were hidin’.

  “Waste ’em all.”

  The sound of tommy-guns ain’t one you forget, not no way, not no how. When the rat-a-tat-tat had finished, all of the Zacchara men lay in a heap and there was blood drippin’ into the water. I knew we had to stay put for as long as possible. But Morgan decided that while the Cannalzettis were goin’ through the pockets of the dead was the best time to vamoose. Naturally, I wasn’t a bit surprised when he accidentally knocked over a crate. All heads turned, and we were fingered like the only man in an all female lineup.

  “It’s Morgan!” shouted Enzio C. “And the scrawny fella! After ’em!”

  I’ve never run so fast, and Stone Cold was outstrippin’ me by a good six, seven feet. It’s like we’d been born in Kenya; I thought my Buster Browns were gonna fly off my feet, I was movin’ so quick. We ran past the car and hid in a Dumpster about a quarter mile away from the water. We waited a good ten minutes, and I thought we’d lost them when suddenly I heard two of Cannalzetti’s men not three feet away, talkin’ how even if they didn’t find us that night . . . they knew where we lived. The word was gonna spread: Morgan and Spinelli were dead men.

  The contract on both of us would be out by midnight.

  “Spinelli, this will never work!” Morgan whispered as we walked down the train platform.

  “Watch it,” I said outta the side of my mouth. “My name’s Danielle, remember? We’re incognito, got it?”

  “We’re gonna get made!”

  “Nonsense,” I said, gigglin’ and flippin’ my fan at him, then yankin’ him over to the side of the train. “Look, Morgan . . . this was the best idea I could come up with and it may just save our asses. I’m the only one in Port Charlie who knows you play the piccolo and I haven’t brought out my trombone in years, so folks may have forgotten. It’s just lucky I happen to have a friend in a musical booking agency. Now this setup is perfect: Masone’s Mello Musicales on their way to Florida for a two-week gig. A band that just happened to need some extra wind, and that’s us, see? We lay low until Sonny can take care of this Cannalzetti mess you got us into, and I can lose this girdle. Then we come home.”

  “You’re wearing a girdle?” Morgan asked.

  “Jeez, never mind that!” I said. “Just try and act natural.”

  The whistle blew and we joined a group carryin’ instruments at the far end of the platform. Sandra, the band leader, was callin’ out names.

  “Danielle Spinkler?”

  “Here,” I chirped.

  “Jas . . . ?”

  “Here,” Morgan said.

  “There you are,” she said, handin’ over our tickets. “Glad you could fill in at the last minute. I just have three rules: no booze, no cards, and . . . say it with me, the rest of you . . .”

  “. . . be punctual!” they all called out.

  “Speaking of which,” Sandra said, “where’s the other new kid? Sam? Sam McConnolly? McConnolly?”

  “Here!” came a breathless voice from way down the platform. We all turned to see Sam McCall . . . McConnolly? . . . carryin’ a tiny little bongo drum and walkin’ toward us in a way I thought had gone out with pencil skirts. She was sportin’ a platinum blonde wig and a deep red shade of lipstick, but there was no mistakin’ her. I looked at Morgan, his mouth dropped open like a clown gettin’ electro-shocked. Then I looked back at Sam. Neither of us had seen anyone move that way in real life.

  “Are you suddenly hungry?” I asked him, not taking my eyes off “the new kid.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “For Jell-O?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m here!” she called again. “Don’t leave without me!”

  She brushed past both of us, not knowin’ who we were.

  “Sorry,” Sam said to Sandra. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

  “Better not,” Sandra said. “You might be cute as a frontman, lady, but bongo-playin’ singers are a dime a dozen and don’t you forget it. We coulda left you here and found one tonight in Cape Coral, so you be on your best behavior, got it?”

  “Got it,” Sam said. Then she looked at Morgan and me and smiled real big. Not like she’d made us, just like we were all besty-westy friends.

  ’Round midnight, the band had a jam session in the club car as we cruised into Ol’ Virginny. Sandra was wavin’ her baton, I was playin’ sweet on the slide trombone, and Morgan was gettin’ the rust outta his piccolo. Sam was beatin
’ the bongo like she was backin’ up a ’60s poet in the East Village. Didn’t make any difference that the rest of us was playin’ Duke Ellington . . . Morgan and I just liked watchin’ her. Suddenly she shifted a little and a heater the size of a Packard fell onto the floor. Sandra stopped everything and picked up the piece, her face turnin’ all kinds of red.

  “I guess I should have made that four rules,” she said, loomin’ over the band. “No guns! Now whose is this? Speak up!”

  Sam was already on thin ice and everyone knew it. If Sandra found out that the piece was Sam’s, we’d be minus one bongo player and Sam would get to see the Virginia countryside, up close. I went to open my mouth, but Morgan pushed me aside.

  “It’s mine,” he said, takin’ the rod away from Sandra. “I’m so sorry. I won’t let that happen again. I thought I’d put it in my luggage. I didn’t know it was actually still on me. It was my father’s. I keep it for sentimental reasons. And . . . because . . . well, I’m very popular back home and it comes in handy. You understand, right?”

  And then he winked.

  And Sandra bit.

  “Of course,” she said, a little down at not being able to finger Sam. “Just don’t let it happen again.”

  “I promise.”

  “All right, everyone . . . from the top.”

  It was 2:30 in the AM when Sam poked her head between the curtains of our upper berth. I know because I had just asked Morgan for the time; neither of us could sleep in our getups, but we didn’t want to take ’em off. Número uno, we didn’t want to take a chance on somebody seein’ us, and second-o, they’d been too tough to get into the first time around.

  “Hi!” Sam said.

  She was wearing a little baby-doll nightie. I recognized it straight off. I’d helped Morgan pick it out for her birthday the year before. Morgan and I pulled the covers tight around our necks.

  “Hi there!” I said, with a little wave.

  “Hi to you,” Morgan said. “I mean . . . hi!”

  “Sounds like you’re coming down with a cold,” Sam said, laughin’. “Good thing I’m the singer, huh?”

  “Oh, you bet,” Morgan said.