Lisa Scottoline - Killer Smile

Mary tried not to eavesdrop but she couldn’t help it. The woman’s voice bore the unmistakable inflections of South Philly – adorably warped o ’s and deliciously nasal a ’s, and with a name like Brunetti, she was clearly a paesana . And unwittingly, Toni was giving Mary a better idea than the one she’d had.

“Oh, yeah, and he bought an Ab-Doer, can you believe that? An Ab-Doer? How could I have been so stupid?” Toni gritted her teeth without smearing her lip liner. “Listen, I gotta go. I’ll call you back, I have to help someone here. Thanks. Bye.” She hug up, sniffed hard, and looked wetly at Mary, who felt a tug for her.

“You want to go freshen up?”

“No, I’m fine.” Toni blinked back tears. “I so wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.”

“I so understand,” Mary said, ramping up her accent, which had barely survived an Ivy League law school. “You’re from South Philly, aren’t you?”

“You got it. Sixteenth amp; Wolf.”

“Get out!” Mary grinned. “St. Monica’s? I graduated Goretti, too. What year were you?”

“We moved to Delco for high school. I went to Interboro.”

“It’s all good.” Mary smiled. Having traded both high schools and parishes, the two girls had just transferred billions of information-bytes faster than any Pentium chip. They had learned that they had everything in common, and in fact, might be the same person. “So what are you doin’ out here?” Out here could be west of Fifteenth Street, or Montana.

“My loser boyfriend was from out here.”

“He’ll get his,” Mary said, with a twinge. She felt bad, but she had a mission to accomplish, and she was hoping another white lie wouldn’t hurt. It was a venial sin, at worst. She summoned the frustration of her morning, her newfound hatred of tulips and a pathetic frown. “I can’t believe this, you and I have so much in common. More than you think. I’m in the exact same situation as you, with your boyfriend.”

“You are?” Toni’s damp eyes widened.

“Yes. That’s why I’m here. I’ve been seeing Justin Saracone, from Saracone Investments. The rich family with the mail drop here, at the end?”

“My God!” Toni’s manicured hand flew to her mouth. “I know that turd! He hits on me every time he comes in – and he’s married! He thinks that smile will get him anywhere.”

“I’m not surprised. He told me he wasn’t married when I met him, so now I’m dumping him.” Mary moved her empty box forward on the counter. “This is his stuff.”

“What is it with men?” Toni asked, bewildered.

“Don’t ask me.” If I knew any, I’d tell you. “He’s a pig.”

“A tool.”

“A dog .” All this name-calling was making Mary feel unaccountably better. But back to the point. “I came to leave his stuff in his mailbox, but I had a second thought. I want to take it to his house . And deliver it to his wife !”

“What a great idea!” Toni clapped in delight, as Mary had hoped she would.

“Why should these guys get off scot-free?”

“They shouldn’t!”

“We’re not gonna let them treat us this way, are we?”

“Hell, no!”

“We don’t have to take their crap!”

“No way!”

“We can fight back!” Mary raised her palm, and Toni slapped her five.

“We will fight back! Do it! Do it! Do it!”

“I don’t have his home address!”

“I do, it’s in the file!”

“Let me have it!”

Suddenly Toni’s triumphant smile faded and she lowered her hand. “I can’t. Saracone signed up for the lockbox and he pays the bill, but I can’t give you his address. I’m not allowed.”

Damn! Another casualty of a parochial education. A girl who followed the rules. Mary used to be that. Before Montana.

“Don’t you have his address?”

“No, he never gave it to me. He didn’t want me to know he was married.”

Toni bit her lip. “I really want to give it to you, but I can’t.”

“You sure? We’re homegirls.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, I understand. You’ve been through hell this morning.” Mary picked up the empty box. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Not at all. I’ll find another way to get his address.” Mary reached across the counter and gave Toni a warm hug. “And throw that guy out. He doesn’t deserve you.”

“Thanks.”

“Take care now.” Mary turned to go to the door, but Toni called out:

“Yo, wait a minute!”

Mary turned on her heel, with the box.

“Where you going after this?”

“To the office.”

“Where’s your office?”

“Center City.”

“Let me give you directions. I bet you don’t know the shortcut.” Toni beckoned her back to the desk with a polished fingernail, and Mary returned to the counter.

“Shortcut?”

“Yeah. I know a great shortcut back to the expressway.” Toni grabbed a pen and a piece of paper from her desk, then bent her spiky head over the paper and began drawing a wobbly line. “Go this way. It’ll save you half an hour, easy. And if you keep your eyes open on the way – God knows what you’ll find.”

Mary finally came up to speed, with a smile. She watched Toni finish the map, which was a long wiggly line, with no X to mark the spot. It was like a treasure hunt for Mensa members. How would she know which house was Saracone’s? “You think I can do this?”

“No worries. You’re from South Philly, so you’ll recognize it right away.” Toni slid the map across the counter, with a sly smile.

Not five minutes later, Mary was in her car, following a convoluted series of switchbacks that could qualify as a shortcut only if your destination were Mars. She drove through gorgeous countryside and passed her umpteenth rolling hill, still ponds with cattails not attached to cats, and immense new mansions, where the only neighbors were Canada geese. She eyed each house on the shortcut, but after six winding miles began to worry that she would never find Justin’s house, or that she had already driven past it by accident. Then she took a right turn as the road wound around a bend, glanced out the window at the house on the curve, and hit the brake.

Mary laughed out loud at the sight. Toni had been right. There would be no mistaking this house, not for a girl from Mercer Street. A huge wrought-iron gate spanned the driveway, and its black bars formed a mile-high, scrollwork S. The same as the screen doors on Mercer Street and every other street in South Philly, only about three billion dollars more expensive.

Mary pulled the car up a little out of the line of sight, found a sheltering oak tree, and cut the engine, eyeballing the house, which was situated near the street. Thank God that Saracone the Younger didn’t share his father’s obsession with privacy. He lived in a huge mansion, hewn of gray-and-black stone, with a sloping Tudor roof, genuine slate, with little iron stoppers so the cable guy didn’t slide off. A circular gravel driveway curved gracefully in front of a grand, gabled facade, and cars lined the driveway bumper to bumper, too many for one family. There must have been some kind of get-together going on, maybe associated with the father’s funeral.

Mary scanned the lineup of cars for an Escalade, but there wasn’t one. Whew . Then she reconsidered, wishing the Escalade were there. It would be better to know where Chico was at all times, rather than not. She suspected he had been sent out of the country, or at least the jurisdiction, after his attack on Keisha. And Mary hoped that he or Melania hadn’t talked to the maid about the funeral planner, because she didn’t want anyone in the Saracone camp to know what she was up to. It was only a matter of time before they did.