Lou Manfredo - Rizzo's Fire

“Get your grandfather to help you clean that shit up, Joe,” she said, smiling and returning Rizzo’s wink.

THE MAGIC Massage Emporium stood in a double storefront in the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn, a few blocks from the New York City Aquarium.

Rizzo and Jackson stepped into the dimly lit interior and crossed to the small reception area. An attractive middle-aged woman at the counter smiled as they approached. Rizzo flipped his shield case open, briefly displaying its contents.

The woman’s smile broadened.

“So,” she said cheerfully, “now they are to send the mean-looking police and the pretty one, too?” Her words held a distinct Russian accent.

Rizzo glanced over his shoulder at Priscilla, then back to the woman.

“Yeah,” he said, leaning both forearms on the countertop. “Now that you mention it, she does look sorta mean.”

The woman gave a genuine laugh, bending and placing her own forearms onto the counter, positioning her face level to Rizzo’s.

“I am Nadia,” she said, her beautiful violet eyes shimmering in the dim lighting. “How is it for me to be of ser vice for you, Sergeant?”

“Well, Nadia, I’m Sergeant Joe Rizzo, this here is Priscilla Jackson. Detective Priscilla Jackson. Are you the owner of this establishment?”

“Ah, Sergeant,” she said, moving her face a bit closer to his, her musky perfume dancing around his nostrils. “That is very complicated in America, yes? In America, only sometimes the lawyers can figure it out who is owner.”

“But-it’s possible-you may be one of ’em,” Rizzo said with a smile.

Nadia shrugged. “Is possible,” she answered pensively.

“Yeah. Well, who can I speak to who can help me out?”

Her eyes twinkled. “It is to be my plea sure, Sergeant. I will help you out.”

Priscilla sounded a derisive laugh from behind him. “You need me to go get you a bottle of wine here, Joe?”

He glanced over his shoulder at her and winked, then turned back to Nadia, producing a photo of Robert Lauria. He laid it down on the counter, turning it to face the woman and sliding it closer to her.

“Take a look, Nadia,” he said. “Then tell me.”

She looked at the photo, then raised her eyes to Rizzo. “I do not like to discuss the business of peoples, Sergeant. This man, this man in the picture, he is an American, no? He has all the rights, no?”

“Yes, he does,” Rizzo said pleasantly. “Now how about you weigh his rights against your business license, take another look at that picture, then tell me.”

Nadia bobbed her head. “Ah, yes,” she said. “I remember him now. His name is Robbie. He has been here three or four times a year, since around time we open.”

Rizzo smiled. “And when was that?”

“Three years, almost. Two and half.”

“What’s his story?” Priscilla asked.

Nadia glanced at Priscilla, still smiling, then cupped her chin in the palm of her hand and moved her eyes back to face Rizzo. He caught the sweet scent of peppermint permeating from her mouth when she spoke.

“Very nice man, very nervous,” she said sweetly. “Always want same girl. If she not here, he leave and come back tomorrow. If she busy, he wait for her.” Nadia let her smile deepen and her violet eyes widen. “She give very good massage, I think,” she said to Rizzo playfully.

“Yeah, I bet,” he said. “Who is this girl, what’s her name?”

“Name Bogdana. Is Ukrainian name.” Nadia glanced at Priscilla. “Means ‘given by God,’ ” she told her.

“He ever come in here with anyone else?” Priscilla asked. “A buddy, maybe?”

“No. Alone all time. Nice man, very quiet. Not like some to come to here. Have respect for place. Nice man. But always come alone.”

Rizzo interjected. “Anybody else ever work this counter, Nadia?”

“Just is me or Efim only.”

“Efim?” Rizzo asked. “Is that a male?”

“Yes, is male.” She smiled. “Like you.”

“Is he here?”

“Yes, in back, with the meal before he start to work. I leave now soon for the day.”

Rizzo nodded. “I’d like to speak to him, and to the girl. What was her name? Bogna?”

“Bogdana,” she said. “Yes, she is too here. I will get them. But you tell me, okay? Why are you asking these about Robbie?”

“Well,” Rizzo said, “I’ll tell you all about that. After I talk to the two of them.”

Nadia straightened up and turned to leave. “Okay, Sergeant. I will get them.” She paused at the doorway leading to the rear, turning over her shoulder and smiling warmly at Rizzo.

“Be nice please to Efim,” she said. “He is husband to me. Very jealous.”

She fluttered her lids and then left the room.

Rizzo turned and looked at Priscilla.

She shook her head, her lips pursed.

“Women,” she said. “Jesus H. Christ.”

THAT EVENING, seated on the recliner in his home, Rizzo opened the FedEx package which had arrived at the house late that afternoon. Marie had obtained a copy of the play.

Rizzo smiled at the handwritten note from his daughter that accompanied it. Although he had not asked her to, he was glad Marie had gone the extra mile and FedExed the package to him.

“Good kid,” he muttered, opening the bound copy and beginning to read the three-act play.

The story was set in modern-day Atlanta, Georgia, and centered around an old-money family headed by an aged patriarch. His two sons, his wife, and the daughter of a family friend who was romantically involved with both brothers rounded out the cast of characters. The father’s emotional, physical, moral, and legal corruption drove the plot. The older son was complicit in the business and personal ambiguities of the father. This, and the idealism and alienation of the younger son, combined with the ultimately tragic love triangle and the quiet desperation of the unhappy matriarch, completed the drama.

When Rizzo finished reading the play, his head ached slightly. He had a vague, nagging feeling that the story was familiar: characters, setting, plot, all of it. And not from anything Lauria had written, since Rizzo hadn’t yet read his copy of Lauria’s A Solitary Vessel . No, Rizzo thought. It wasn’t Lauria.

“Damn,” he said aloud with sudden realization. “It’s Tennessee Williams.” Reincarnate a thirty-year-old Paul Newman, and he could play either brother, Rizzo thought. An equally young Joanne Woodward or Elizabeth Taylor could be the female lead.

Jennifer entered the room, her hair tied behind her head, flannel pajamas loose about her body.

“Coming to bed soon, Joe?” she asked.

He glanced at the small clock on the table beside him. “Wow, I didn’t realize so much time had passed.”

Jennifer moved closer and sat on the arm of the recliner, placing a hand on his shoulder and peering down at the play on his lap.

“It must have been pretty good to hold your interest,” she said. “The last thing I saw you reading was…” She thought for a moment. “I can’t even remember.”

“Not really,” he said. “Reminded me of some old movies I’ve seen. But, according to Cil, the critics loved it, and it’s a sure thing for the big awards. They can’t print the tickets fast enough on Broadway. Probably make a friggin’ movie in a couple a years.” He shrugged. “Like I said, sounded a little old to me, familiar. Sorta like, ‘Screwballs on a Hot Tin Roof,’ if anybody asks me.”

Jennifer laughed. “Well, I don’t think anyone will ask you.” Her smile faded. “And once more, just for the record, I’m against this scheme of yours. If these two cases are connected, you should report it to D’Antonio. Let him make the call on it. Cover your butt.”