by Joanne Pence
Rebecca noticed additional bowls with remains of ice cream next to Richie and Vito, plus an open bag of Cheetos which explained the orange tinge on Nina’s mouth, fingers, and clothes.
“Cheetos? Really? You three should all be fired,” she said.
“All these foods were all my favorites when I was a kid,” Richie said. “And I turned out all right.”
“Me, too.” Vito said.
“How are you feeling?” she asked Richie.
“Fine. Shay gave me some super pills.” He raised his eyebrows and slightly shook his head. “And I’m feeling no pain.”
“I called Carmela,” Vito announced woefully to one and all. “If his mother heard he was shot, and nobody told her about it, she’d have all our heads.”
Richie put a hand over his eyes. “Oh, God! That’s all I need. Leave me more of those pain pills, Shay.”
Rebecca made no comment, but chuckled to herself as she went and got some wet paper towels to clean up Nina before the girl’s grandparents arrived.
Vito and Shay took that as their cue to leave.
Rebecca had just finished with Nina when the doorbell rang. It was the Larkins, who must have set the land-speed record for Santa Rosa to San Francisco travel. Rebecca could see why. They couldn’t stop their tears from flowing as they hugged the little girl and kissed her. Nina obviously knew her grandmother, and hugged her back. It was all Rebecca could do not to cry as well.
Rebecca gave them the letter from Yuri so they would know what he was planning. She also told them a little about Karen’s last days so they knew she was trying to do good when she was killed.
“Rebecca,” Richie said, “there’s an envelope on the lamp table by the door. Would you give it to Kenneth?”
She was surprised, but did as he asked. Kenneth opened it. “It’s a letter from the Heritage Insurance company.” He read it aloud. “For her service in the identification of the jewel thieves who burglarized Marin County residences, which will lead to the retrieval of the stolen jewelry, Heritage Insurance authorizes Karen Larkin’s heirs to receive a reward within thirty days, in the amount of ten percent of the value retrieved and not to be less than seven hundred thousand dollars. I don’t believe it.” Kenneth looked up at them. “It appears to be signed by the Vice President of the company, and dated yesterday. Is it real?”
Rebecca turned to Richie and mouthed, “How?”
He shrugged, then winced at the pain it caused him.
She then remembered that he left Belvedere right after the arrest yesterday with Vito and Shay … as if they had something they needed to do. She smiled. “You can believe it,” she said to the Larkins. “I’ve met the man. That money should help pay for Nina’s schooling and upbringing.”
Faye looked at Kenneth. “And it will free up some of our own funds to help Yuri however we can. Our daughter gave up so much because she loved him, and saw much to value in that young man, we need to get to know him and, if possible, to give him a chance at a fresh start in this country.”
“We’ll do that,” Kenneth murmured.
They hugged Rebecca and shook hands with Richie, thinking it best not to ask what had happened to his arm. Rebecca put the toys in a shopping bag and gave it to Kenneth to take home for Nina.
Soon after, amid more tears and thanks, they left.
Rebecca was blinking hard. “It’s done,” she murmured, turning her head so Richie couldn’t see her eyes.
“Hey.” He sat upright, the pain pills clearly making him groggy and unsteady. “It’s okay to shed a few tears over a little happiness going to that sad family.”
She wiped her eyes and gave him a small smile. “You’re right, we did good.”
“We make a good team, Inspector,” he said.
Her smile broadened. “Lay back down, those pills are making you loopy.” She took a deep breath. “I should probably get going, too,” she said. “I’m sure Carmela will be here any minute, and I suspect, knowing I’m a cop, she’ll blame me that you got shot. I might have to agree with her.” With those words her smile vanished. “You’ve been too easy for me to lean on when I needed help, and for doing that, you could have been killed. I don’t know what to say, except that I’m so, so sorry.”
“But I wasn’t, and in a couple days, I’ll be fine,” he said. “You don’t have to leave. I’ll tell her to go home.”
“And then she’ll hate me for the rest of my life. No. Someone once told me that no matter how old your children are, if you see them hurt, you want to care for them, and you’ll do anything and everything you can to help them. You’re her one and only. She needs to be here, and you need to let her.”
He nodded. “I guess, but it doesn’t mean I’ll like it.”
“I’ll call you later,” she said. Much as she didn’t want to walk away from him, she picked up Spike and headed towards the door. But then, she felt his hand on her shoulder. She turned. “What are you doing? You shouldn’t be up!”
He lifted Spike from her grasp and put him on the floor, then he put his hands on her waist and slowly stepped closer as his arms spread across her back, capturing her against him. “Don’t blame me about this,” he murmured. “I’m all doped up and have no idea what I’m doing.”
She didn’t have that excuse as she wrapped her arms around his neck, being careful of his arm. She had held him in the past, even hugged him a time or two, but this was different. The way he looked at her, the way she felt about him, were more. Much more. She could have easily stopped this as she had so many times before. A joke. A quick turn. But she didn’t want to.
Slowly, cautiously, he bent his head to hers. She shut her eyes as their lips met. Finally, she thought. But a sweet kiss wasn’t nearly enough. Her arms tightened around him, as his did around her. His hands slid up and down her back, pressing her close, closer, as the kiss became a head-turning, mouth-open, desire-filled kiss—as if all that had happened earlier between them was like gasoline poured atop kindling, and his simple kiss was a match. A conflagration roared as, much more than she had ever imagined, Richie knew how to kiss.
She soon felt every bit as woozy and dopey as he said he was, and she didn’t care. She wanted him, and had for a long time. The fingers of one hand curled in his hair, while the other traveled over his body, needing—
“Richie! Madonna mia! I was scared you were dying!” Carmela’s voice cut through her senses.
His hold loosened, and he drew in his breath, but his eyes never left Rebecca’s. “I am, Ma. But not the way you mean.”
Rebecca kept her hands on his shoulders as her heartbeat came back to earth. She had often wondered how it would be between them, and now, not only did she know how it felt to be in his arms, but knew her imagination hadn’t come close to the real thing. She stepped back slightly, hating to leave him, but knowing she must.
He held her a little longer. “Soon,” he whispered. And then he let her go.
The End
RICHIE’S ITALIAN DIALECT
In many Italian neighborhoods throughout the U.S., a unique and colorful Italian dialect can still be heard. It originated with the early twentieth century immigration of people from Sicily, Calabria, and Naples, and is a mixture of the dialect of those areas—words and phrases used more than a century ago—that have continued to survive. The dialects are unwritten, so the spelling is completely arbitrary. Also, the pronunciation differs slightly in different parts of the country; that heard in the East Coast will differ a bit from what is spoken in Chicago or San Francisco. These differences pale, however, compared to differences with the Italian used today in Italy.
Many people in the U.S. are attempting to create a ‘glossary’ of this dialect so it is not lost forever. One of the biggest and best sites is http://xeroth.wordpress.com. If you go there, be sure to look at the numerous comments where a great many additional words and phrases are given.
Most of these words come from memory and familial recollection. I remember my Calabrian grandparents
using many of them, and offer the words and translation here for your enjoyment. Words not listed here (e.g., perché = why; salute=health) are standard Italian.
Aspett’! (ah- SPET)– Wait!
Basta! (BAH-stah) – Enough!
Che brutt’! (KAY broot) – How ugly! or How vile!
Che schifozz? (KAY ski-FOTZ) – What’s that disgusting thing?
Che za deech’? (KAY za DEECH) – What’s up? (Literally, “what do you say?” as a greeting)
Goomba (GOOM-bah) – an Italian guy “from the neighborhood” who gets what the neighborhood is all about.
Lasciami! (la-shah-MI)– Leave me alone!
Ma che bell’! (mah KAY bell) – What a beauty!
Ma che cozz’u fai? (Ma KAY kotz-oo fah-ee?) – What the heck are you doing?
Macarun cu poip (mah-cah-ROON cu POI-puh) – heat garlic and red pepper flakes in olive oil, then add cooked spaghetti and stir it all together. Sometimes parsley, anchovy, or parmesan are also added.
Mamaluk’! (mah-mah-LUKE) – Idiot!
Scorciamend’! (Scorch-ah-MEND) – Pain in the a--!
Find out what happens next in the lives of Rebecca and Richie when the clock strikes THREE O'CLOCK…coming in 2015
o0o
Rebecca and Richie met and shared their first mystery/adventure in the novella The Thirteenth Santa. Their first full novel adventure took place in One O'Clock Hustle. If you missed it, here's chapter one:
ONE O'CLOCK HUSTLE
At 1:05 A.M. on Sunday morning, after working twenty-four hours straight on the capture of an armed suspect in the murder of a liquor store clerk, Inspector Rebecca Mayfield sat alone at her desk in Homicide.
She was exhausted. But just as she finished writing up her notes on the tension-filled arrest, ready to head home for some much-needed sleep, the police dispatcher called: a shooting, one fatality, reported at Big Caesar's Nightclub.
Rebecca had heard of the club, located in San Francisco's touristy North Beach area. She was the first investigator to arrive at the scene, and flashed her badge at the uniformed police officer at the door. “Mayfield. Homicide.”
“Good news,” Officer Danzig said, all but beaming. “We're holding the killer. The bouncers caught him. He clammed up right away, but you'll find him in the manager's office.”
Rebecca's eyebrows rose. She had never had witnesses capture the suspect before. “Interesting. And good; very good.” Maybe she would get some sleep tonight after all.
“His name is …” the officer pulled out his notepad and read from it, “Richard Amalfi.”
Rebecca was suddenly jolted wide awake. “What did you say?”
“Richard Amalfi. He's well known at the club, apparently comes here frequently. Everyone calls him Richie.”
It can't be. Her mouth went dry. “I see.” There are a lot of Amalfis in this city, she told herself. “Did you see him?”
“I did. Not quite six feet, medium build, black hair, late thirties or early forties.”
Damn. That sounded like the Richie Amalfi she knew. He was quite a character to be sure, but a murderer? The thought jarred her. She shook her head, needing to focus on the crime, on doing her job. “What do we know about the victim?”
“No name yet. Female, in her thirties, I'd say. We only know she was a customer. Apparently she came in with the man who killed her.”
“Allegedly killed her,” Rebecca automatically added.
“Allegedly,” Danzig repeated. “Although they said he was caught in the act. The body's in the bookkeeper's office.”
Caught in the act … The words reverberated round and round in her head as she tried to listen to a run-down of the club's layout—the ballroom straight ahead, the coat closet and restrooms to the left, and beyond them, cordoned off with yellow tape, the corridor with the manager's office where Richie was being held, and the bookkeeper's office where the murder took place.
“Was the victim connected to the bookkeeper in some way?” she asked.
“No one has said. The bookkeeper isn't here this time of night.”
Rebecca would have been shocked if he was. Nine-to-fivers liked their beauty sleep.
Danzig went on to assure her that he and his partner had immediately shut down the club and no one had been allowed to enter or leave.
She thanked the officer and stepped away from him, drawing a deep breath as she thought of all that was to come.
If Homicide were a family, Richie Amalfi would be a close relative. Rebecca's favorite co-worker, Inspector Paavo Smith, was engaged to Richie's cousin, Angelina Amalfi.
From Paavo, she knew Richie could come up with just about anything that anyone might want. Need something big, small, expensive, cheap, common, or rare? It didn't matter. Cousin Richie could provide. Many people seemed to “know a guy who knows a guy.” Well, Richie was that guy—the one people went to when they needed something. She didn't want to get into what that “something” might be, or the legality of how he got it. But that didn't make him a killer ... she hoped.
She entered the elegant ballroom with white cloth-covered tables forming a semi-circle around an empty dance floor. She had never been there before—beer and pizza were her speed; jeans, turtleneck sweaters, black leather jackets, and boots her style.
The popular nightspot had been designed to look like a glamorous nightclub from the forties, the sort of place where Sinatra, Tony Bennett or Dean Martin might have sung, where women dressed in glittery gowns, men wore black or white jackets with bow ties, and “dancing cheek-to-cheek” referred to the couple's faces, not other parts of the anatomy. No hip-hop, rap or, God-forbid, country-western would ever be performed at Big Caesar's.
She could absolutely see Richie in a place like this—as absolutely as she couldn't see him killing anyone. Yet he was “caught in the act,” the police officer had said.
As much as she didn't want to believe it, she needed to put aside her personal feelings. She had no more reason to believe he was innocent than she did anyone else accused of a crime. And yet …
And yet, she couldn't help but remember the day, last Christmas Eve, when she worked alone in Homicide and he came in looking for Paavo for help with a problem. Paavo was off duty, so she ended up helping, and had spent the day and well into the night with him, finally heading home in the early hours of Christmas morning. Their time together hadn't been long, but it had been intense, including chases and shootouts, and the kind of life and death struggles—crazy though they were—that left emotions raw and defenses down. To her amazement, she had enjoyed being with him.
She then used the next several days wondering if she'd been stupid to have spent so much time with him.
Not that anything had “happened” between them. Heaven forbid! After all, from the moment she first met him, she knew he wasn't her type, and he clearly realized the same about her. Still, from time to time, she couldn't help but wonder …
In any case, he never contacted her again—which told her that the only thing stupid was to have wasted any time whatsoever thinking about him. Of course, if he had called and asked her out, she would have refused to go. She wondered if he hadn't realized that. He was, she had discovered, curiously perceptive.
The band now jauntily played “The Best is Yet to Come,” but a sullen, wary mood blanketed the room.
When she left the ballroom, she found that her partner, Bill Sutter, had arrived. He was taking statements from the bouncers. Rebecca walked around to get a quick feel for the nightclub's layout and exits, both doors and windows.
Despite wanting to see and question Richie, she would save him for last.
From her several years of experience in Homicide, she knew that the more she learned about a situation the better her first questions would be, and the better she could judge the veracity of a suspect's answers. Since she knew the alleged “perp,” she was going to have to be even more by-the-book in this case than she normally was.
She ducked under the yellow crime sce
ne tape. A cop stood at the door of one of the offices.
“Homicide,” Rebecca said as she put on latex gloves and entered the office. The victim lay face up in the center of the room.
She appeared to be in her early thirties and to Rebecca's eye the sort of blonde—beautiful, slim, and expensively dressed—that fit easily in a classy place like Big Caesar's; the sort of woman she could imagine Richie going out with.
A gunshot had struck her heart. Death was most likely instantaneous or close to it. Blood soaked the carpet beneath her.
Rebecca surveyed the rest of the room. The window was open wide, bringing in blustery, cold air. Piles of papers lay in a wind-tossed jumble across the desk where a brass nameplate read “Daniel Pasternak.” Behind it hung a sappy Thomas Kincaid painting of little sparkling pastel-colored cottages ready-made for Disney's seven dwarfs. On the floor near the body lay a small satin handbag.
Rebecca picked it up and opened it. The bag was empty except for two twenties and a lipstick. No cell phone; no credit cards. That was surprising, and odd.
Just then, the medical examiner, Evelyn Ramirez, arrived. She wore a red sequined blouse, black silk slacks, and diamonds. Her black hair was pulled back tight and pinned up in a sleek chignon. She had obviously been called away from some big shindig and intended to return to it soon.
The ME quickly took in the body and its surroundings. “Well, this'll be fast.”
Rebecca watched Ramirez do the preliminary examination to make sure no big surprises turned up—such as the corpse had actually been dead for twelve hours before someone found her, not twenty seconds like everyone said. The entry wound indicated the shot had been fired at close range, a few feet away, which was consistent with the killer and victim being together in the room.
With the exam concluded, the time had come for Rebecca to face Richie.
She took a deep breath and opened the door to the office of the nightclub manager.