Lisa Scottoline - Lady Killer

Anthony smiled back. “You have time before work?”

“Work is Tuesday, so yes. Is that a newspaper?”

“Yes, and it’s good news.” Anthony opened the paper and handed it to her, headline first: A MOTHER’S JUSTICE, it read, and Mary held her breath until she turned the page and skimmed the article, which reported that Mrs. Gambone had allegedly confessed to killing the mobster who had abused her daughter for years.

“They’re with her.” Mary gathered that Bennie had leaked the story already, before she’d had a chance. “If public opinion goes with Mrs. Gambone, the D.A. will be more likely to give her the deal.”

“I’m sure, and who’s gonna object? Ritchie and his father? Is the Mob gonna stand up for law and order?”

“Good point, but he does have a family.” Mary skimmed the article again, but there were no quotes from Rosaria. “On the other hand, Mrs. Gambone will do time.”

“The punishment will fit the crime. It’s fair.”

“I guess that’s right.” Mary’s eye caught the sidebar. “The neighborhood will be behind her.”

“They already are. My mother called this morning.”

“What’d she say?”

“You can imagine, they’re with Mrs. Gambone. Hell hath no fury like an Italian mother, and she took down a Mob guy.” Anthony hesitated, and Mary saw doubt flicker across his features.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

Anthony paused, eyeing her frankly. “There’s talk about you.”

“Oh no,” Mary said, her heart sinking. She set down the paper. “What now?”

“It’s gossip.”

“Tell me.”

Anthony shifted over on the bed, touching her arm with a warm hand. “Rumor is that you turned Mrs. Gambone in.”

“I would have, but so what? What’s the point?”

“That it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right. You know, you snitched on somebody from the neighborhood.”

“All over again?” Mary gulped her coffee. “I can’t take these people. They’re impossible to please. They hate me when I lose Trish, they love me when I find her, they hate me again when I take her mother in.” Mary felt the caffeine kick in, making her angrier. “They’re unprincipled.”

“Right.”

“Emotional.”

“Exactly.”

“They don’t have all the facts.”

“Not in the least.”

“And they’re laymen, on top of it. They’re not lawyers. They don’t know.”

“Of course they don’t.” Anthony cocked his head, his smile sympathetic. “So why let them bother you?”

“Who said I’m letting them bother me?” Mary almost wailed, then heard herself. “Okay, I am, but I can’t help it.”

“Of course you can. Why can’t you just consider the source?”

“Because the source is my client base.”

Anthony scoffed. “That’s not what’s bothering you. You’ll always get business from the neighborhood and you know it. You’re our girl.”

“I’m not too sure about that.”

“The problem, if I may say, is that you want them to love you. You want them to approve.”

It struck a chord. “Okay, I do. Guilty.”

Anthony eyed her, his brown eyes soft. “You need to stop being guilty, and you need to understand that it’s your opinion that matters and not theirs. Not anybody else’s. Not even mine.”

Mary listened, and Anthony’s tone was tender enough that she didn’t hit him.

“Are you proud of what you did, babe?”

Babe? Mary couldn’t let herself be distracted by any instant replays. “Yes.”

“You think you’re in the right?”

“Yes.”

“Then let it go, let it all go. Some people will agree, some will disagree, and the ones who stay with you are the ones who count.”

Mary considered it, and Anthony leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

“For what it’s worth, I agree with you and I’m staying. If you’ll let me. Will you?”

Mary looked at him, touched. He was staying. And she was happy about it, she could feel it inside. She didn’t hesitate before she kissed him back. Slower.

And after another kiss, Anthony slid the coffee from her hand and set it on the night table.

M ary and Anthony dropped by her parents’ for a quiet dinner, but the first clue that something was different was the music playing when they opened the front door. They got inside and stood mystified by the sight: octogenarians packed the living room, their gray heads and bald pates bobbing as they fox-trotted or stood in groups, talking, laughing, and drinking beer. Mary was astounded. It was getting crazier and crazier at her parents, and she suspected AARP was behind it.

“What’s going on here?” Mary asked, but no one even noticed they were inside. The dining room was full, too, even though it was usually reserved for Christmas, Easter, or another occasion when something really good had happened to Jesus Christ.

“Ma?” Anthony asked, and from the middle of the crowd, Elvira Rotunno turned around, brightening behind her glasses. She had on a pretty blue dress, worn without an apron, and held a green bottle of Rolling Rock beer.

“Ant! What’re you doin’ here?”

“Maria!” Mary’s mother emerged with open arms. “Maria, I was so worry.”

“Honey!” Mary’s father materialized at her mother’s side, dressed in his Sunday best. “I’m so happy to see you.”

Both parents threw their arms around her, and when they broke up their clinch, everyone had turned to watch, their smiles a sea of dentures. Mary spotted the Elmo-red comb-over of Tony-From-Down-The-Block, the Mr. Potatohead glasses of Tony Two Feet Pensiera, and the tiny, tanned head of Pigeon Tony. But she was surprised to see Bernice Foglia, hoisting a bottle of beer. In the background, Frank Sinatra launched into “Just in Time.”

“How do you like our mixer?” Her father beamed, gesturing at the crowd with his heavy hand. “It’s the Sinatra Society and the Dean Martin Club. We did it together.”

“You’re kidding.” Mary laughed, delighted. “How did that happen?”

“I knew you were busy with Trish Gambone and all, so I figured I’d pick up the phone and call Mrs. Foglia myself.” Her father grinned, and behind him, Mrs. Foglia came forward with Tony-From-Down-The-Block. You didn’t have to be an amateur sleuth to see the new warmth between them.

“It’s like this,” Mrs. Foglia said, wagging a finger. “Tony said he was sorry to me and Frank, and that’s good enough for me.”

Tony-From-Down-The-Block nodded. “Then she apologized for what she said about Dean. Now everything is copasetic.”

Mrs. Foglia looked over sharply. “You apologized first. Then I apologized.”

Mary interrupted before the truce collapsed. “I think that’s terrific. No more litigation, no more fighting. Peace is better than war, and love came just in time.”

“I did good, huh, Mare?” her father asked, grinning, and in response she gave him another big hug.

“I love you, Pop.” Mary hugged him one more time, then her mother, and just when she thought the hugfest was over, Anthony threw his arms around her and gave her a big kiss.

“You’re amazing,” he said, looking down at her, his dark eyes warm, and suddenly from the crowd, came a gasp. Elvira Rotunno stood aghast, her forehead creased with bewilderment and her eyes focused on her son.

“Ant’n’y, honey? What are you doing, kissing Mary like that?”

For a minute, Mary didn’t understand, then she remembered.

Anthony smiled. “Ma, I have something to tell you.”

The room fell silent except for Frank Sinatra, and everybody held his breath.

“Ma, I’m not gay. I never was gay and I’m never going to be gay.”