Lisa Scottoline - Running From The Law

“Yeh.”

“I like this song.”

“Your mother, she liked it, too.”

Out of left field. “Did she like music?” I had no idea.

“Loved it.”

“Really?”

He nodded.

I wondered. “What else did she like?”

“She liked to dance. She never sat still. She liked to go, your mother.”

I guess. “That why she left, you think?”

He nodded again.

“Go where, though?”

“Anywhere. She liked action.”

“Action?”

“Attention, like.”

I considered this. A Canadian blonde among the dark Italian butchers, grocers, and bakers, like a yellow diamond on a coal pile. A woman who liked to go, married to a man who wanted only to stay. “She didn’t really fit in, did she?”

“Like a sore thumb.”

“She never would have stayed, would she?”

“Not for long. Vito was the only one who didn’t see it comin’.”

It hurt inside. For my father, then for me. “You don’t think I’m like her, do you?”

“Nah. You got dark hair.”

So he wasn’t Phil Donahue. Morrones weren’t known for their introspection. “I meant her personality, not her looks.”

“Nah.”

“Not even a little?” I almost hit a Saab in front of me for watching him, but Sal’s only reaction was to shake his head. “Uncle Sal?”

“Can you turn up the radio, Ree?”

I laughed. “Is this the end of the conversation, Unc?”

He nodded, then smiled. “She was a wise guy, too.”

Our highway entrance came up suddenly, City Line Avenue onto the Schuylkill Expressway, and I turned onto the on-ramp. I thought about pressing him on the subject, but let it go. It was the longest talk I’d ever had about my mother, and somehow it was enough. More words wouldn’t make it any clearer, or any different. It was up to me to figure out anyway, for myself.

“The radio, Ree?” Sal asked again.

“Sorry,” I said, and cranked the music way up. The clarinet and horns blasted in the wind as Benny Goodman hit the chorus and we hit the open road. At this hour, rush-hour traffic was going the other way. “You can at least catch the end of the song, huh?”

“Yeah. I like the end.” The wind was stronger now that we had picked up speed. I pressed the button to close my window. Sal fished in his jacket pocket and found the Ray-Ban aviators I’d bought him, then slipped them on like a flyboy.

“Lookin’ good, Uncle Sal,” I shouted over the drums.

“You know, Ree, I kinda liked bein’ a lawyer,” he shouted back. “Maybe we’ll do more lawyer stuff.”

Like cheating and lying and perpetrating fraud? “Whatever you say, Mr. Livemore.”

He paused. “Ree?”

“What?”

“Can’t you make this crate move any faster?”

I smiled. Uncle Sal liked to go, too. Everybody did, a little. “Hang on, handsome. Hang on.”

And he did.

Sing, sing, sing.

Tobin had chosen an upscale sidewalk restaurant on Main Street in Manayunk, a town along the Schuylkill River, on the outskirts of town. Twenty years ago, Main Street was a gritty strip of shoe and textile wholesalers that served as the backdrop for a hilly clumping of brick row houses. But Manayunk, like all of us, hippened up in the nineties, attracting an annual bicycle race to its hills, restaurants like this one, and countless boutiques vending black clothes. Now there were twelve-cylinder Mercedeses lining the street and ponytails who dressed like Tobin.

“I love it here,” he said as he dumped ketchup onto a ten-dollar cheeseburger and a mound of french fries. “I got a loft down the street, above the interior designer’s.”

“We’re too old for lofts.”

“Speak for yourself, teach.” He dug into his burger with abandon and didn’t seem to mind being on display despite his table manners. More than one woman, walking by, cruised his Nautilus-powered Armani. “So, this is quite a little murder investigation you’re running.”

“You approve? That means so much to me.”

“I knew it would. What’s next?”

“I go motorcycle shopping with Herman tomorrow. We try to find out who bought that blue BMW motorcycle.” I speared a salad composed of greens apparently picked from the shoulder of I-95. I should have asked what a mesclun salad was before I ordered this thing.

“You going with a kosher butcher, on a Saturday?”

“He’s not that kosher.”

He nodded. “Neither am I. So, let’s see, you got Herman the butcher, you got Cam with one arm, you got your little Uncle Sal. It’s a Dream Team.”

“Watch it, pal. That’s my family you’re talking about.”

“Interesting family.”

“You don’t get to define it, I do.”

He wolfed down a canoe of a french fry. “Back off, I’m not criticizing. It’s a big case and it’s just starting. You should be getting your team together, before trial. Take all the help you can get.”

“I am.”

“Except mine.”

I considered this. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“I didn’t ask you to dinner to help you. I asked you to dinner to find out if you’re gonna marry Richie Rich.”

“Who?”

“That slice of white bread you bring to the Christmas party. I heard you live with him.”

I can’t say it took me aback, given his reputation, but I wasn’t prepared for it before the crème brûlée. “You’ll explain to me why this is any of your business.”

“I’m your partner.”

“So are thirty-five other people.”

“And they’re all talking about you behind your back. Is she really gonna marry the judge’s son? They don’t think you can do any better, but I do.”

I guessed from his smirk he was kidding. “You defend me from vicious gossip?”

“At every turn.”

“But then again, you eat Sno-caps for lunch.”

He scarfed down another french fry. “So?”

“So what?”

“So you’re not engaged or you’d have a ring.”

I felt a twinge. “Not engaged.”

“Not only are you not engaged, you’re fighting with him.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you ignored him at the preliminary hearing and he spent the whole fucking time trying to get your attention.”

I hadn’t noticed. “He did not.”

“And I hear you been together forever.” He sucked ketchup from a finger. “So I’m thinking either Richie Rich won’t marry you or you won’t marry him. And since it’s impossible for me to believe a man won’t marry you, there’s only one thing I want to know.”

Christ. “My favorite color is red, but I won’t tell you my age or weight.”

He looked at me directly. “What’s holding you back?”

“You’re right, it’s silly of me. Sexist, even. I’m thirty-two years old.” Roughly.

“You avoid commitment, like all the other girls?”

“All right, I’ll tell you. I weigh a hundred and five pounds.” Or would, if I worked out.

“Or maybe you don’t love him enough?”

Ouch. Maybe I do. “You’re not getting the message, Tobin. This is none of your business.”

“You want to tell me anyway?”

“Why should I?”

“Because despite the way I look or the way I act with my so-called partners, or the shit you’ve heard about me, I’m a pretty decent guy. And I’m very attracted to you.”

I avoided his dark gaze and watched the candle on the table flicker in its frosted glass. His words were having some effect; my female ego must’ve been bruised more than I thought. “I don’t want to have this conversation.”

“But you are having it.”

“No, I’m not.” I looked away, but the people on the street were walking so close to our table they could see the ragweed in my entree. “Let’s just drop it, okay?”