The Vendetta Defense raa-8

by Lisa Scottoline

  “Sorry, babe,” she said. The truck leaped forward with a kick she hadn’t felt since a certain kiss, and she was off, careering through the wildflowers and grasses of the meadow, setting the swallows into panicked flight and the gnats dancing in the high beams, then finally heading for the open road.

  Judy checked the digital clock on the truck. It was 2:14 in the morning. The DiNunzios must have known she was coming, because all the lights were on in their brick rowhouse in South Philly. She felt terrible that they were awake at this hour, then realized why. Frank must have called them from his cell phone. She wondered if his ankle was okay and worried fleetingly that auto theft wasn’t the best way to begin a relationship.

  Judy passed the DiNunzio house, circling the block as a precaution, and when she didn’t see any black Caddys or guys with broken noses, double-parked the truck at the end of the street. No harm in playing it safe. She hurried down the street toward the lighted house with the scrollwork D on the screen door and was about to knock when it opened.

  “Judy!” Mr. DiNunzio said. His few wisps of hair had gone awry and he was wrapped in his plaid bathrobe like a fat homemade cigar. “Come inside!”

  “Thank you,” she told him, and meant it, as he tugged her into the living room, gave her a warm hug, and led her by the hand past the unused living and dining rooms and into the tiny kitchen, which was the only room the DiNunzios spent time in.

  Judy could see why. She loved it, too. It was as close as she had to home. It was warm and clean, with white Formica counters that cracked at the corners and refaced cabinets that reminded Judy of Pigeon Tony’s. Easter palm aged behind a black switch-plate, and a prominent photograph of Pope John hung on the wall, so colorized it looked like Maxfield Parrish had been in charge of Vatican PR. A photo of Pope Paul hung next to him in a lesser frame, and Pope John Paul didn’t even rate a photo op. Apparently, Pope John had been a tough act to follow.

  “Judy, come in!” Mrs. DiNunzio called from the kitchen. She shuffled in plastic slip-ons to meet Judy at the threshold. She had thick glasses with clear plastic frames and teased white hair, which looked undeniably like cotton candy because of her puffy pink hair-net. She hugged Judy warmly despite her frailty, and the aromas of her kitchen—brewing coffee and frying peppers—clung even to her thin flowered housedress. Judy realized she hadn’t eaten all day, which made her Guest of Honor at the DiNunzios.

  “I’m hungry, Mrs. D!” Judy said, smiling as she broke their embrace. “Feed me, quick! I could starve if you don’t!”

  Mrs. DiNunzio laughed and patted her arm. “Come, sit, you! Come!” She pulled Judy by the hand into the kitchen, where Mary sat at the table in her chenille bathrobe, improbably awake before a fresh cup of percolated coffee. She was sitting up, a big step in her recuperation.

  “Jude, you’re just in time to eat!” Mary said. “What a surprise! We always eat at two in the morning!” Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she was wearing her glasses instead of contacts. Behind them her brown eyes looked bright. If Mary was in pain, she was hiding it well, and Judy hated seeing her like that. She went over and gave her a careful hug.

  “Hugging and eating,” Judy said. “It’s round-the-clock, which is why we love it here. Sorry to get you all up so late.”

  “No problem.” Mary looked at her with concern. “I hear you were dodging bullets. This is not a good thing.”

  “I tried to play nice.” Judy pulled up her chair next to Mary, so her friend wouldn’t have to talk loudly. “How’d you hear about it? Frank, right?”

  “Among others. The news, the cops, our boss, and your new boyfriend. I love a man with a cell phone.”

  Judy smiled, though her face felt hot. “Wonder how he knew I’d come here.”

  “He knows you like to eat.”

  Judy thought about it. “He’s smart, you know.”

  “Oh, yeah. He’s a genius. He invented fire. So, you enjoying your work?”

  “What a great case. It stimulates me like no other.”

  Mary snorted. “Really fascinated by the legal issues, huh?”

  “Hubba hubba.” Judy laughed, while Mr. DiNunzio set a fresh cup of coffee before her, on a mismatched saucer, and Mrs. Di-Nunzio brought her silverware and a plate heavy with green peppers, sliced potatoes, sweet onions, and scrambled eggs, all fried and mixed together. The first time Judy saw this combo, she thought a dog had thrown up on the plate. Now she loved it. Presentation was highly overrated.

  “Eat, Judy!” Mrs. DiNunzio said, resting a hand on her shoulder.

  “I’ll force myself. Thank you, the D family,” she said, grabbing an oversize fork and digging in. “Why didn’t you tell me about Frank?” she asked Mary, with her mouth full. “I would have shaved my legs.”

  “Why? Is it Sunday?”

  “For him I’d make an exception.”

  Mary smiled. “You like little Frankie? I didn’t think he was your type.”

  “What, are you blind?”

  “Despite his physical charms, I mean. He won’t let you push him around.”

  “I know. He’ll get over it.” Judy ate hungrily. The green peppers were limp with olive oil, the sliced potatoes were limp with olive oil, the sweet onions were limp with olive oil. Nothing could kill the eggs. In short, it was the perfect meal. “He wants to protect me.”

  Mary laughed. “Lotsa luck, Frank.”

  “Can you imagine?”

  “No. I don’t even want to feed you.”

  “Your mother does.”

  “She feeds all strays.”

  “Good! Good for Frankie!” announced Mrs. DiNunzio, sitting down across from Judy at the circular table of gold-speckled Formica. Mrs. DiNunzio’s English was only slightly less impressionistic than Pigeon Tony’s, and Judy remembered that the Di-Nunzios were almost as old as he was, because they had had Mary and her twin sister, Angie, so late in life. Mary always said they were an accident, but her mother preferred Gifts from God. “We know Frankie when he was baby,” Mrs. DiNunzio went on. “Judy, you could have a good man protect you!”

  “I protect me!” Judy said, for the record, but Mary was waving her off.

  “Don’t go so fast. You may need the reinforcements. Bennie called three times today.”

  “She’s a witch!” Mrs. DiNunzio said, raising an arthritic finger, and Judy stifled a smile. The DiNunzios blamed Bennie Rosato for all the trouble she and Mary got into, and Judy had failed to disabuse her of that notion. Last thing Judy had heard, Mrs. DiNunzio had put the evil eye on their boss. Judy could only hope it worked.

  “Bennie called, here?” Judy asked. “What’d you tell her, Mare?”

  “That I don’t know you.”

  “She believe it?”

  “No. I think she may actually be concerned for your health and welfare.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Also she said something about the antitrust article.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Hnph!” Mrs. DiNunzio said, which Judy knew was Italian for she-should-burn-in-hell. She was shaking her head, which trembled with age. “She no care about you, Judy. She no care about nobody but her!”

  “I know, Mrs. D.” Judy kept eating. “She expects me to work for my paycheck. She’s evil and mean.”

  “Yes!” Mrs. DiNunzio pounded the table with a hand that wasn’t as delicate as it looked. “Yes! She’s evil. Evil!”

  Judy finished the last of her eggs and hoped for seconds. She knew from experience that the thought alone would transmit an instant telepathic message to all Italian mothers in the universe, and one of their representatives would materialize any moment with plates of steaming food. Who needed e-mail? “Bennie just wants to talk to me so she can fire me.”

  “No,” Mary said. “That’s not it. She gave me her proxy. You’re fired. And stop getting my mother riled up.”

  “Why? I want her to get her voodoo in high gear. Stick pins in something. Light candles and cast spells. I need an extension of time f
or that dopey article.” Judy smiled, but Mrs. DiNunzio was in the zone.

  “That witch, she’s lucky to have you girls work for her. Lucky! I go to her! I tell her!” Mrs. DiNunzio picked up a serving fork and jabbed the air for emphasis. Judy, who had seen her in action only with her wooden spoon, was properly intimidated. Extreme situations called for extreme utensils.

  “You smart girls!” she went on, brandishing the fork. “Very smart girls! You work like dogs! You sacrifice for her! My Maria, a bullet they shot at her!”

  Mary looked sideways at her mother. “Ma, please put down the fork. And Bennie’s not that bad.”

  “She’s a devil!” Mrs. DiNunzio said, quivering with emotion, and Mr. DiNunzio patted her arm heavily.

  “S’allright, Vita. S’allright.” His eyes were soft with worry.

  “Mary’s gonna be okay. Judy, she’s gonna be okay, too. Right,

  Judy?”

  “Right.”

  Mr. DiNunzio sighed. “I don’t know if you should stay on Pigeon Tony’s case, Judy. Me, I’m responsible. I asked you to do it. Now look what’s happening.”

  “Mr. D, I would have done it anyway. I wanted to do it.” Judy reached across the table and pressed his arm, and he grabbed her hand. He looked like he was about to burst into tears, and Judy panicked. She was way over her emotion quota for the year, in only one day. “Don’t cry, Mr. D. It’s going to be all right, like you said.”

  Mary smiled. “Don’t worry, Judy. He cries when the Phillies lose. He likes to cry. He’s not happy unless he’s crying.” She turned to her father. “Pop, get a grip. You’re upsetting Judy. She’s not used to people like us. She’s normal.”

  Mr. DiNunzio laughed hoarsely. “I’m allright, I’m allright. But I’m gonna help you, Judy. I heard about the pigeons, and I got it all figgered out.”

  “What do you mean?” Judy asked in surprise, and there was a soft knock at the door.

  “You’ll see,” he said, and got up to get the door, just as a second helping of eggs, peppers, and onions appeared on the table in front of Judy.

  Message received. Over and out.

  Chapter 21

  The full moon shone on an unlikely caravan threading its way through the city blocks. Old Chryslers, Toyotas, Hondas, and a battered Ford Fiesta snaked along in a line that lasted ten cars. If it wasn’t Raid on Entebbe, it was Raid on South Philly, and it went a good deal slower because it was staffed by septuagenarians, whose night driving wasn’t the best. Judy, in the lead, inched Frank’s truck down the skinny street, with Mr. DiNunzio navigating in the passenger seat and Tony-From-Down-The-Block and Tony Two Feet in the back.

  “Slow down, Jude, you’ll lose Tullio,” Feet warned, leaning forward. His glasses had been repaired at the bridge with a thick Band-Aid, which couldn’t have helped much with visibility.

  “Turn left on Ritner,” Mr. DiNunzio said, pointing. Judy turned slowly and braked to five miles an hour, the truck’s huge engine grinding in protest. It felt like walking a tiger on a leash.

  “Tullio’s still fallin’ behind,” Tony-From-Down-The-Block said, chewing on a half-smoked cigar that Judy had insisted he put out. Even unlit, it reeked. “It’s that friggin’ Fiesta he drives. I tol’ him to get rid of it. It’s a piece a shit.”

  “He don’t listen to nobody,” Feet agreed, and Tony-From-Down-The-Block nodded.

  “He breaks down, I ain’t helpin’ him.”

  “Me neither. He can walk, for all I care. I tol’ him the same thing. He’s a cheap bastard.” “God forbid he should pick up a check.” Feet clucked. “Never happen.”

  “Never happen.” Tony-From-Down-The-Block cleared his sinuses noisily. “You remember, he didn’t chip in for the judge’s gift at the Newark Futurity. You believe that? For the goddamn judge. God forbid he should open his friggin’ wallet.”

  “Never happen.”

  “Never happen. For the judge, even. So you tell me. How’s his loft gonna do the next race? You tell me. You think he’ll ever win a friggin’ race?”

  Feet clucked again. “You think that judge is gonna go out of his way?”

  “You think that judge is gonna forget the jamoke that didn’t chip in? Who didn’t even know what the present was? Never.”

  “Never happen.”

  “Never happen.”

  Judy rolled her eyes in silence. She had lost track of who was talking and she didn’t even care. “Is Tullio still with us, gentlemen?”

  Feet laughed. “He’s still alive, if that’s what you mean, Jude. In this crowd, you don’t take nothin’ for granted.”

  Tony-From-Down-The-Block snorted. “He’s movin’ now. Musta taken his Viagra.” He burst into phlegmy laughter, as did Feet.

  Mr. DiNunzio pointed right as they turned onto Ritner. “Stay on this for two blocks,” he said, and Judy nodded. On her own she would be lost. South Philly was a warren of rowhouses, beauty parlors, and bakeries. If you weren’t Italian, you had to drive around with them. “How long until we’re there, Mr. D?”

  Mr. DiNunzio looked over. “At this rate, three days.”

  Judy smiled, watching the Fiesta puttering in the rearview, and even so hardly delaying the rest of the caravan. Still she couldn’t fault them, even with their blocked nasal passages. They were members of the pigeon-racing club, each with his own loft, and they had volunteered to rescue Pigeon Tony’s birds in the middle of the night. They even had a chart that divided the birds equally among them, keeping them in their own lofts until Pigeon Tony could reclaim them. Judy felt confident the Coluzzis wouldn’t attack them in number, and the old men were all cooperating. The Bar Association should have this much collegiality.

  “I tol’ him,” Feet was saying, “sell the friggin’ car, on the Internet. They got eBay, it’s free! You don’t even hafta put an ad in the paper. My kid told me—eBay, it’s called.”

  “You’re shittin’ me. You can sell a car on it?”

  “Goddamn right. And I tol’ him, it’s free for nothin’, Tullio, you cheap bastard.”

  “But he don’t have a computer.”

  “No way does he have a computer! They cost money, computers. They ain’t givin’ those babies away.”

  “You think he’s gonna buy one?”

  Never happen, Judy wanted to say, but didn’t. She checked the rearview mirror. The Fiesta now trailed three car lengths behind. She braked again, with a sigh. “If this keeps up, Feet, I want you to take the wheel from Tullio.”

  “Gotcha, Jude. We’ll do like a Chinese fire drill.”

  Judy winced. “You’re not allowed to say that anymore, Feet.”

  “It’s against the law, nowadays?”

  “In a way.” She watched the rearview. The Fiesta might as well have been in reverse. The pigeons could die of old age before the cavalry got there. “Chinese people don’t like it.”

  Feet shrugged. “So I won’t tell ’em.”

  “I don’t even know any Chinese people,” said Tony-From-Down-The-Block, and they all cruised forward under the moon.

  It was almost four in the morning by the time the last of Pigeon Tony’s birds had been stuffed flapping into cages, and the cages were stowed in the ancient cars. It wasn’t an effortless fit. The old men crammed birdcages on Honda floors, on the consoles of Chryslers, and even on the dashboard of Tullio’s Fiesta. The pigeons panicked the whole time, beating their wings and giving Judy an education on just how loud a pigeon could squawk.

  The noise and commotion woke up many of the neighbors, who came in pajamas to their windows and doors to watch the spectacle. None of them said anything, nor did any help, and one of them clapped as the old men shuffled out of a demolished row-house bearing pigeon cages, green sacks of pigeon feed, cardboard boxes of pigeon vitamins, and empty spray bottles for disinfecting lofts. The Old Man, which Judy had been told was Pigeon Tony’s special bird, hadn’t shown up and at this point wasn’t expected to. Five more birds had returned. Judy hoped Pigeon Tony would be happy.

&n
bsp; She stood outside the front door at the curb and kept an uneasy watch on the dark and quiet street. She was armed with her cell phone, ready to call 911 on speed dial and have the cops arrive an hour later. She had to admit that the authorities weren’t exactly on the case. Thirty-odd old men had just emptied a house of its contents, and nobody had said boo.

  Short of petty larceny on the part of some very old men, absolutely nothing went wrong. No Coluzzis, no guns, no baseball bats. Not even a rolling pin. Still Judy began to breathe easy only when the last car door slammed and the two Tonys and Mr. DiNunzio climbed into the truck and flashed her a thumbs-up. Judy flipped the StarTAC closed and hoisted herself into the driver’s seat after them. After all, they had only accomplished the first leg of their daring night raid. The second leg was of her devising, and they had agreed. In fact, at Frank’s instigation, they had insisted.

  Judy started the F-250’s engine, which roared in hope but ended up idling in disappointment. She fed it only the slightest bit of gas, and it crept forward, the caravan crawling behind them like a sleepy caterpillar.

  Judy’s heart leaped up at the sight. Her green VW Bug sat under a streetlight, parked outside the combine’s clubhouse, and it had remained untouched. She’d expected to find it the victim of a Louisville Slugger, but it looked as shiny and new as when she bought it. “Wow! Will you look at that!” she exclaimed. Every time she saw the car, she got happy. She couldn’t help it.

  “It looks okay,” Mr. DiNunzio said, surprised.

  “Okay? It looks beautiful!” Judy cut the truck engine and opened the door, but Mr. DiNunzio stopped her.

  “Wait a minute,” he said, his hand on her arm. “You never know.”

  “You never know what?”

  “It could be a trap.”

  “A trap? Mr. D, it’s only a Bug!” Judy said. She was thinking this secret-agent thing had gone too far.

  “He’s right, Jude,” Feet said, in the backseat, and Tony-From-Down-The-Block nodded.

  “You can’t trust the Coluzzis, Judy. Could be a bomb in it.”