by Charles Ayer
“Look, Matt, I know you took on that other job because you needed the money. So please take this and don’t argue with me,” she said, handing me the check. I held it in my hand, but I didn’t look at it. “We, my kids and I, can’t afford to have you dividing your time. Please take this and promise me that you’ll do nothing but look for David until you find him.”
“That’s a promise I can make, Doreen,” I said, pocketing the check without arguing.
“Thank you,” she said. She reached up on her toes and gave me a kiss on the lips. I think in the old days they would have called it a chaste kiss. But it was still kiss on the lips. “Now, get yourself out of here and get to work.”
She put her arm around me and walked me to the door, and gave me another kiss before I left.
I barely remembered the drive back to the house. My mind was too crowded with images of Doreen to notice the road. I tried to think of how much trouble I was about to get into, how much humiliation I was setting myself up for, but nothing could erase the feeling of her skin under my fingers, or the sensation of her lips on mine. Chaste, my ass. Luckily, I knew the area like the back of my hand, and I didn’t kill anybody on the way.
When I got home I pulled the check out of my pocket and looked at it. It was for $50,000.
I guessed Doreen didn’t expect me to find her husband anytime soon.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“YOU’RE KIDDING ME, RIGHT?” said my younger sister, standing in the kitchen and holding the coffee pot over my 1986 Mets cup. Nothing was sacred with her.
The morning had been going well until then, despite the fact that it was cloudy, and there was a foreboding touch of July humidity in the air.
I’d spent the night dreaming of Doreen, and I’d woken up feeling tired and disoriented. But a Sausage McMuffin and a large coffee from Mickey D’s had cheered me up considerably, and I was cheered even further when I went to the bank and deposited Doreen’s check.
Then Lacey ruined it all when she stopped by just after I’d gotten home and reminded me that I had to pay FICA and estimated income taxes on the money, and that I’d better pay off my credit card debt as well. I said I didn’t know how to do all that, and she looked at me like a pumpkin was growing out of the top of my head.
“Sorry,” I said.
“How did you do it the whole time you were practicing law?” she said.
“I kept all my receipts and bank records in a desk drawer, and at the end of the year I’d put the whole pile in a manila envelope and give it to Marianne’s tax accountant.”
“He must have loved that.”
“He always said it really didn’t make much difference one way or another, so he just took what I gave him and told me it was fine.”
“Oh, Matt,” was all she could say.
“So, what do I do?” I said.
“Give me a minute,” she said.
She poured herself her cup of coffee and sat down at the table. She pulled her laptop out of the satchel that I never saw her without, opened it up, and started tapping the keys. She asked me for my Social Security number, my bank account number, and my credit card information, and otherwise ignored me. In less than half an hour she looked up.
“Okay,” she said, “I’ve calculated your estimated federal and state income taxes and filed them electronically, and I also paid your FICA and cleared your credit card balance. When I get to a printer I’ll print off hard copies for you which you must, I repeat, must, file away and not lose.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Thank you.”
“And by the way, that $50,000 bank balance is now $28,795.”
“What!?”
“Welcome to the real world, Sherlock.”
“Thanks.”
“Speaking of the real world,” said Lacey, closing up her laptop and heading to the coffeepot for a refill, “how’s your case going?”
I told her about my altercation with Eddie Shepherd and his girlfriend. She laughed at the story, but then she grew more serious.
“You know,” she said, “I heard that Eddie’s wife divorced him and left town with their two kids last year.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, surprised to find myself meaning it. “Was there someone else involved?”
“Yeah, it was some state cop from Newburgh.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, ouch,” said Lacey. “I’m not saying that he’s not an asshole, but everybody’s got a story, you know?”
She grew even more somber when I told her that I’d gotten Eddie to send out the APB and the BOLO on David and his car; and she frowned as I recounted my visit to Doreen, and her revelations to me about the cash payments David had made to Allie over the years.
“I’m not surprised, Matt, but I am worried,” she said when I’d finished.
“So am I. I think David could be in big trouble.”
“I meant I’m worried about you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“Why?”
“Look, Matt,” said Lacey, putting her coffee cup down, finished with it for at least the moment, “you’re going to have enough trouble getting yourself established in your job, and the last thing you should be doing is falling in love with your first client.”
I thought I’d been talking about the case. I desperately tried to think back and recall anything I’d said that would have betrayed the feelings that I was developing for Doreen, but I came up empty. It wasn’t the first time Lacey had seen right through me, but I didn’t want to get into that discussion now, and not with my sister.
“What are you talking about?” I said, trying to sound shocked.
“Gimme a break, Matt,” said Lacey, glaring.
“Lace, shouldn’t we be talking about more important things than my love life, assuming there even is one?”
“Matt, if you start developing feelings for your client, it’s going to affect how you pursue the case. You can’t afford that, especially when you’re trying to get yourself up and going, that’s all.”
“Look, Lacey, Doreen and I go way back. I think I can manage my feelings and help her out at the same time.”
“I know all about how far back you and Doreen go, Matt, and I’m not so sure.” She paused a moment and said, “You know, when I was in 6th grade, me and all the other girls wanted to be Doreen Carpenter. I mean, for chrissakes, she was the cheerleading captain, the Class President, the Prom Queen, the Homecoming Queen…”
“And she had the dreamiest boyfriend in the school, right?”
“Yes, Matt, yes she did. I might have been just a kid, but I could tell how much you liked her. I mean, she grew up two houses down from us. You grew up together. It must have been hard to accept the fact that she had feelings, the feelings you always wanted her to have for you, for someone else, especially when that someone else happened to be your best friend.”
“Okay, let’s say I don’t disagree with you. But I don’t see what that has to do with anything right now.”
“When’s the last time you got laid, Matt?”
“Jesus, Lacey,” I said. I could feel myself turning red. “I don’t think my sister is supposed to be asking me questions like that.”
“Well, somebody has to. So, how long?”
“I don’t know. A while, I guess.”
“How long?”
“Look, it’s been a couple of years, okay? Things haven’t been good between Marianne and me for years, but I didn’t want to be the one to break the promise.”
“I’m proud of you for that, Matt.”
“It’s not much to be proud of, but I still don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“Matt, if you haven’t already, you’re going to start imagining that she’s returning the feelings you have for her.”
“What if I’m not just imagining it?”
“Jesus, Matt,” she said, shaking her head. “Trust me. You are.”
“How do you know that?”
“B
ecause, dear brother, you are a man. All men are children when it comes to their feelings about women, and children have lively imaginations.”
“I think it’s pretty unfair to say ‘all men’ are like that.”
“Okay, I don’t know all the men in the world, so you could theoretically be right.”
I couldn’t think of any way to respond to that, so I just laughed.
“Matt, I’m trying to be serious. You’re starting a new life for yourself, both personally and professionally. Doreen Chandler is your client, a client who has paid you a lot of money to do a job for her. She is married to your best friend, and she loves him. Don’t screw this up by trying to make it into anything more than that, okay?”
“Okay, Lacey,” I said, “you’re right.”
“And besides, Matt, Doreen’s really fragile right now, and you don’t want to be exploiting that.”
That one hit hard. Lacey was right, and I knew it. “You’re right, Lace,” I said. “I really mean it; you’re right. I understand.”
She gave me a skeptical look.
“Good,” she said. “Now let’s get back to business.”
“Please, God, let’s.”
“So you think it’s possible that this money that David’s been funneling to Allie is about Kenny’s gambling?”
“I don’t know, but let’s just say I don’t find it unbelievable.”
“At least it’s a lead. You need to chase that down. If Kenny’s gotten himself into trouble with some bad guys, they may have found out where the money was really coming from and gone right to the source. David may be hiding from them.”
“It sounds like Doreen should be the one hiding from them, if Kenny’s gambling really is the problem here.”
“Yeah,” said Lacey, “except Doreen’s kept a pretty good lid on the money stuff. I think just about everybody really believes the ‘David Chandler, Prosperous Banker’ story.”
“You’re probably right. Do you think I should confront Kenny?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why not? I’m one of his best friends. Maybe I can get him to talk to me about it.”
“Gamblers are like drunks and dope addicts, Matt. They lie. They lie to themselves, and they lie to everyone else, especially their best friends and their loved ones. I don’t care how good a friend Kenny is. If he’s got a gambling problem he’s going to lie about it, to you and to everyone else, and talking to him isn’t going to get you anywhere.”
I knew my sister had learned that lesson the hard way, and I wasn’t about to argue with her.
“So what do I do?”
Lacey stood up and left the room without any explanation. I knew better than to follow. In a few minutes she came back.
“Are you hungry?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I said, are you hungry?”
I looked at my watch. I felt like I’d just left McDonald’s but it was already noon. My stomach started to grumble at the sudden realization.
“Yes, I’m hungry.”
“Good. Come with me.” She picked up her laptop, put it away, and headed for the door.
Having nothing better to do, I followed her.
“We’re taking your car,” she said, looking over her shoulder.
“Fine,” I said, meaning it. I always prefer to drive when I’m in a car, and I have a thing against being seen in 1993 Saturns.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ANTHONY FORNAIO STILL SMELLED FAINTLY OF RISING DOUGH.
Lacey and I had driven into town and parked close to Franco’s, now formally known as “Il Cuccina della Torino.” But instead of going in the front door, Lacey led me around to the back and knocked on a door to a service entrance near a couple of dumpsters. After a few seconds the door groaned open.
Anthony had a shy smile and a heavy beard; it was only noon and he already had a five o’clock shadow. He’d probably gained sixty pounds since high school, but he seemed to carry it well, and his dark hair was still thick and curly, giving him a certain boyishness. His eyes were lively, clear, and intelligent, exuding kindness and wit.
“I hope you don’t mind an uninvited guest,” said Lacey, giving him a hug and a little kiss on the cheek.
“A friend of yours is a friend of mine, Lacey,” he said, “even this guy. It’s good to see you Matt. It’s been a long time.” He extended a floury hand and I shook it.
“It’s good to see you, too, Anthony,” I said. “It’s quite a place you’ve got here.”
“What, you mean out front there?” he said, waving his arm vaguely.
“Well, yeah,” I said. “It certainly isn’t the Franco’s I remember.”
“It isn’t the Franco’s I remember, either,” he said.
“It seems to be doing great, though.”
“Oh, yeah, it’s doing great,” said Anthony, a little dismissively. “I can’t argue with the decision Pop made. We put a lot of money into the old place and hired a first-rate executive chef out of New York. It’s really worked out well for us. The town’s changed since we were growing up, Matt. A place like this wouldn’t have lasted a month back then. But now? We’re booked two weeks in advance all the time.”
“But you still miss the old place,” I said.
“Well, yes and no,” he said. “Come with me.”
He led Lacey and me down a dim hallway and into a small room off the main kitchen. It had just enough space for a pizza oven, a counter, and a few tables. It had no windows, but seemed to be well ventilated and was comfortably lit.
“This is my place,” he said. “I let Alphonse, the chef, run the front of the house. I manage the payroll and the suppliers and generally keep an eye on things, but that’s about it. This is my baby.”
“It smells like old times, Anthony,” I said, inhaling the aroma.
“Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?”
“Is that the original oven from the old place?” I said.
“Good eye, Matt,” giving me a surprised smile. “Yes, it is, and it still works like it was new.”
“Do you do a lot of business back here?”
“Eh,” he said with a shrug, “it’s not here for business, y’know? I don’t do take out and it’s not open to the public. It’s just my private place where I invite friends, like your sister.” He looked over at Lacey with soft eyes and a warm smile. I saw Lacey blush for the first time in my life.
“Then thanks for having me here,” I said.
He nodded and said, “So, can I make you a pie?”
“Oh, man, you sure can,” I said. “How about pepperoni, mushrooms and sausage?”
“The Holy Trinity,” he said.
“Could you put anchovies on half?” said Lacey.
“See?” said Anthony. “Your sister knows that anchovies are what make pizza a health food.”
“All I know is they taste good,” said Lacey, as she filled a glass with Coke from a drink dispenser.
“Put ‘em on the whole thing,” I said. “I love anchovies.”
“That’s right, you do,” said Anthony. “You were the only kid I knew back then besides me who always ordered anchovies on his pizza.”
“I guess I got out of the habit when I got married.”
“These things happen,” said Anthony, mournfully. Clearly a world that valued marriages over anchovies was a world gone mad.
“Yet another good reason for the divorce,” said Lacey.
“Why don’t you pour yourself a drink and sit down while I get to work,” said Anthony, tactfully not rising to Lacey’s bait.
We chitchatted back and forth while he went about his cooking, and in no time he put the steaming pie on the table, grabbed himself a drink, and sat down with us.
I bit into my first slice and was transported back to my youth. I’d lived and worked in New York City for years, and I’d eaten a lot of great pizza, but I’d never had anything that tasted like Franco’s pizzas, most of which Anthony had made, even back then. The
crust was superb: thin, but not hard like thin crusts can get. The mozzarella was fresh, moist and tasty, and the meats and tomato sauce were bursting with flavor. The anchovies were salty and tangy, tasting fresh from the sea but not fishy. I ate a quarter of the pie, and so did Anthony. My skinny sister ate the rest and finished about the same time Anthony and I did.
“I try as hard as I can to fatten her up,” said Anthony, “but I’m not making any progress.”
“Keep trying,” said Lacey, wiping her mouth with a napkin.
Anthony picked up the empty pie plate and reached over to the counter to deposit it. “Now,” he said, his expression gone suddenly serious, “we talk.”
“Matt,” said Lacey, “You have to understand that whatever is said here stays here. Anthony has agreed to talk to you because of our friendship, and because I promised him that he could trust you. It would be a personal betrayal if you ever repeated a word of what we are about to discuss. Do you understand?”
I looked at Anthony and for the first time noticed a hard intelligence in those soft eyes. Maybe we’d all been wrong about Anthony Fornaio.
I met his gaze and said, “I understand.”
He nodded and said, “I understand that you suspect your old friend Kenny Cooper may have a gambling problem, and that this may be related to the peculiar disappearance of your friend David Chandler.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve been looking for David for over a week, and so far it’s the only lead I’ve been able to come up with.”
“You must understand, Matt, that I’m not personally involved in the gambling business or in any other illegal activities. This place,” he said, waving his arm around the small room, his eyes resting on Lacey, “and the friends who come here, are my world. That’s all. Do you understand, Matt?”
“I understand.”
“Good,” he said. “But, Matt, I also have relatives. You were an NYPD cop, so perhaps you already know that.”
Oh. Those Fornaios. I should have made the connection long ago, but I hadn’t. I nodded like I’d known all along.
“Your sister has explained to me the amounts of money that have made you suspicious, and I think that if Kenny, or anyone else around here, was betting that kind of money, my relatives would probably know about it, especially my Uncle Tommy.”