Lisa Scottoline - Lady Killer

The air smelled damp and humid, and she walked to the restaurant with her head down against the wet mist, telling herself that Biannetti’s was a public place like any other and people from the neighborhood ate there all the time. She walked along and checked out the cars on the street, wondering if any FBI agents were surveilling the place, after the murder last night. There were no telltale white utility vans in sight, only an array of older American cars. The street seemed unusually parked up, with a full line of double-parking, which Mary couldn’t explain until she reached Biannetti’s door, pulled on it, and went inside. The place was dim, but the noise level came up before the light, the loudness of a packed restaurant abuzz with animated chatter and laughter.

At first Mary startled, thinking she’d walked into a party, but then her eyes adjusted to the scene. It wasn’t even noon, but all the tables were full, stocked with men and women yapping away, gulping coffee, and smoking despite the city-wide ban. Almost every table had today’s newspapers spread out on top of red-and-white-plastic tablecloths, and people mingled, reading the articles over each other’s shoulders. It was tailgating, at a mob murder.

She slipped on her sunglasses, just in case someone had seen her picture in the paper. On the right was a short bar, where a crowd stood riveted by a TV that blared the local news. On the screen, a bright red banner read MOB WAR, complete with gang-related crawl. The crowd talked through the broadcast, waving Pilsner glasses, mugs of coffee, and unfiltered cigarettes to make their points. At the bar, older men hunched over their shots, their backbones curved like bows under pressure. Mary couldn’t see their faces, but their bifocals disqualified them as Eyes. They weren’t mobsters; they were retirees, with a calcium deficiency.

She scanned the patrons, and none of them looked like criminals, either. They had lined faces that came from second mortgages, car payments, and Powerball losses, and they wore polyester sweatshirts, baggy pants, and pleather slip-ons. If anything, it looked like a roomful of people’s parents, none of them young enough to be a friend of Bobby’s, or even to drive at night. They gobbled pork sandwiches, an aroma Mary associated with Holy Communion lunches, Confirmation dinners, and wedding receptions. To the DiNunzios, any sacrament was a good excuse for a nice roasted pork.

No hostess came to seat her, so Mary chose the only open table and pulled out a chair that faced the door, so she could spot entering felons. She put her purse on the other chair and her newspaper on the wipe-clean plastic tablecloth, then opened her newspaper like everybody else. She turned a page for show, but stole a glance at the patrons on the far side of the room. Same thing. A table of painters in spattered white pants loudly discussed the murder with two Coke delivery guys in red shirts. The only exception was a table of four elderly women, looking at Mary with disapproving frowns. She wondered if she was paranoid or if they had heard gossip about her.

She looked away. None of these people was Eyes, it was obvious. What would she do now? How would she find him? Her gaze fell on the newspaper, and her own image stared back. It was the photo of her with Anthony, and she lingered on his expression to see if he really did have the look of love, suppressing the tiny quiver she felt inside. She remembered his voice, soft and tentative. She thought of the way the shadows fell on his face and back. She had told him everything last night, confided in him in a way she hadn’t anyone before, and he hadn’t judged her. On the other hand, he hadn’t called today. She pulled her BlackBerry from her purse and checked her call log, all of which were clients. She noted three e-mails from Judy and shot her back a quick I’m-fine, so she wouldn’t worry. Then she set the BlackBerry on the table in case Anthony called.

This is what happens when single girls stalk the Mob.

Mary got back on track, turning the pages and pretending to read a sidebar editorial, by one of the snarkier columnists whose byline she recognized. The headline alone scared her: THE PHILLY MOB: DEAD OR ALIVE? Her mouth went dry. Even though Biannetti’s seemed safe, she didn’t like tempting fate by reading about the Mob in a Mobbed-up restaurant.

“Coffee, honey?” a waitress asked, and Mary jumped.

“Sure, thanks.”

“You hungover?”

“What?” Mary didn’t understand.

“The sunglasses.” The waitress set down a red plastic menu, and on the front was a stereotypical Italian chef with a Mario Brothers mustache, holding a plate of steaming spaghetti and meatballs.

“Right, yes. Ouch.”

“The coffee will help.” The waitress plunked down a thick white mug and poured coffee into it from a Bunn glass pot. She had a pretty, if careworn, face, and was in her fifties, with brown hair in short, dark layers. She had on a casual blue blouse with Mom jeans and seemed approachable enough, so Mary gestured casually to the newspaper.

“Pretty weird, huh? Think it’s a Mob war?”

“Sure do.” The waitress nodded. “It’s been a while. You know what they say in The Godfather. It’s time.”

“But that’s a movie.”

“Oh yeah? Look around.” The waitress winked. “Try telling the fans that.”

“Is that really why everybody’s here?”

“After last night? You bet.”

“You’d think they’d avoid the place, if there’s going to be trouble.”

“No way. They wanna be where the action is.”

Mary shuddered. “But it might not be safe.”

“The Mob ain’t like those rappers, shootin’ the joint up. They only whack their own. Today, Biannetti’s is the safest place on earth.”

“So Mob guys really do hang here?”

“Why do you wanna know?” The waitress smiled slyly.

“I’m just interested. None of these men look like gangsters to me, unless AARP’s fronting.”

“This is the lunch crowd.”

“So at night is when the Mob guys come?”

“Midnight or later.” The waitress shifted her weight to the other hip. “You like the bad boys?”

No. “Yes. Does it show?”

“Please. You’re not the first girl to come in here, lookin’ to hook up.”

Yikes! “I’m not?”

“No way. Girls come in all the time, and they all look just like you. They got the Coach handbags, the cell phones, the nice suits. They’re like groupies. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“Ever since The Sopranos, business is crazy. The owner’s talking about opening for breakfast. I see it all the time. You professional types like to take a walk on the wild side.”

“Color me guilty,” Mary said, and they both laughed.

“My husband says, you got women’s rights and all, and you ladies give orders all day to your secretaries and assistants, and sometimes, you just wanna get ordered around in bed. Me, I’m married thirty-five years. I’m dead below the waist.”

Mary laughed, then turned to the front page of the newspaper and pointed at the photo of Bobby. “You know,” she said, “I used to hook up with this guy. Bobby Mancuso.”

“The one that got killed?” the waitress asked, in admiration.

“The very same.”

“He was made, wasn’t he?”

“No, just connected,” Mary answered, eager to try out her new lingo.

“Still, he’s so good-lookin’.” The waitress leaned over like a coconspirator. “Was it great?”

“Beyond great.” Mary suppressed a twinge.

“Too bad they whacked him.”

“It happens.” Mary paused. “You know, he always talked about this guy named Eyes, a friend of his. He said Eyes was a great guy.”

“Eyes?”

“Yeah. I’d like to meet him, but I can’t find him.”