The Spia Family Presses On

THIRTEEN

Will the Real Mobster Please Stand Up?

Jade phoned a little over an hour later saying she arrived home safe and Jay-Jay had picked her up at the bus drop off. She told me that she and Jay-Jay would stop by to pick up her car in a few days, when she was feeling better. She sounded tired, but happy to be back with her old boyfriend.

I had taken my pain meds so I was feeling a little woozy, and in need of a couple hours of sleep, but sleep would have to wait until after dinner.

Lisa filled me in on what Nick had to say about Dickey, which wasn’t much more than he’d already told us at the hospital.

“But,” she cautioned, “we won’t be able to hold him off much longer. That blood stain is making him nuts. He already contacted that worker your mom told him about who disassembled the millstone, but good thing for us, they’ve been playing phone tag. He may have caught up with him by now, and if he has, we could be royally screwed.”

“Not necessarily. My mom doesn’t lie, she sometimes leaves out important details, but she never flat out lies, at least I don’t think she does. The guy probably did cut himself so that’ll buy us a little more time.”

I filled Lisa in on everything Jade had told me over broccoli sautéed in our Artisan Blend along with a clove of garlic, and sprinkled with pine nuts. Broccoli sautéed in our Mission extra virgin olive oil was just what we needed after the day we had. The combination is rich in phenols, vitamin C and minerals. For our entrée I served grilled marinated scallops drizzled with a lemony-fennel dressing. I might not be able to drive us out of danger, but I could cook us out of an adrenalin overload anytime.

Lisa sipped a glass of Moscato Bianco from Jacuzzi winery, one of my favorites, a wine with floral aromas and a tropical note. I drank sparkling water with a lemon slice. I whole-heartedly craved a glass of Moscato, but I didn’t think I was quite ready to partake. More therapy was required before those fine fermented grapes touched these wanton lips. It was bad enough that I’d made love to Leo—I knew a glass of wine would clearly throw me into the danger zone. A place I’d seen many times before and intended never to see again.

“So, what you’re saying is that you think whoever killed Carla De Carlo, set up Dickey to take the fall. And now that same person killed Dickey and tried to set up your mom?”

I dunked a piece of crusty bread in a mixture of Mission EVOO, our white balsamic vinegar and fresh chopped herbs that grew in pots on my deck. “It makes perfect sense.”

I took a big luscious bite of bread. A burst of flavors reminded me why I loved our oils so much. There was simply nothing that compared to the mild grassy taste with a hint of pepper, basil, garlic and rosemary.

“But why?”

“Because I think Dickey figured out who that person was and he was going to do something about it. Remember, he told me he didn’t hold a grudge, he got even. I think he was here to get even, not to take the orchard back like the rest of my family thought, and the killer figured that out.”

“Okay, and did you figure out who?”

“No. we’re going to have to do some digging for that answer, and I know just where to get the shovels.”

The secret meeting took place exactly at nine p.m., which had given both Lisa and me enough time to catch a couple hours of much needed sleep.

By the time we were headed down the path looking for the out-building somewhere in the middle of our property, we were both ready to get back in the murder game. There were no designated roads that led to it, only a maze through the olive orchard, and if you didn’t know the correct turns it was virtually impossible to find, especially in the dark. I knew the roof was camouflaged with fake olive branches and leaves so no one could pick it out from the air. My mom had told me at least that much about it, but even she wasn’t privy to its location, nor did she want to be. Of course, that little conversation took place about a year ago. There was no telling what she knew now.

Lisa, wearing my best white sweater with a Donna Karen gray suede vest lined with a trendy lighter gray faux fur, and my barely worn Diesel jeans—which fit her ass much better than mine—along with her Dolce and Gabbana boots, had brought along a night scope that allowed us to find our way without too much tripping. She told me she never went anywhere without her night scope, a stun gun, a Swiss Army knife, three feet of heavy string, two feet of rope, a pack of gum, and candy red lipstick. She said I’d be surprised all she could do with gum, string and lipstick. The woman was nothing if not prepared.

I thought I could find my way to the meeting because I had secretly followed my cousin Jimmy a couple times. The first time we were both drunk, and he had trouble finding the location, and I had trouble concentrating. That blind-leading-the-blind episode turned into a big fat bust. The second time he led me right to it. I was stone sober. Of course, he never knew I was following him. Even a savvy Young Turk wasn’t on his game after four shots of scotch.

“Are you sure about this?” Lisa asked as we rounded what seemed like the same olive tree for the third time.

“Yes. It should be only a few more feet.”

“That’s what you said a half-hour ago. It’s been a long day and I’m overdue for a bed.”

“I thought you were a survivor. Isn’t this all part of it?”

“I tell all my survivors to get their rest after an adventure. Eight hours of sleep is your most important weapon. Without the right amount of sleep you cannot function at top speed. No matter what the danger, you must find a safe and secure environment and get your eight.”

“You’ll just have to add an addendum in your next book. If the adventure continues and you can’t get your eight, buck up and try for a second wind.”

She didn’t say a word for several minutes. She merely followed. I could hear her doing a deep-breathing routine behind me.

I was tired as well, but I wasn’t about to give up now. This meeting could be key. I knew that if Dickey didn’t show up in the next twenty four hours, he would automatically turn into a missing person. Once that happened, Nick would be on our asses like wool on sheep. We had to name the killer by then or we’d all be in a whole lot of trouble.

We came around yet another row of trees and right ahead of us I saw a light coming from the small wooden building. I’d found it, which surprised even me. I stopped walking, frozen in my tracks. This was their inner sanctum, so to speak, and we were outsiders. I could only imagine what they would do if they caught us.

Lisa grabbed my arm. “Well, don’t just stand there. Let’s sneak in. Isn’t that what we came here for?”

“I thought you were tired.”

“I was, but now I’m not, so let’s go.”

“Admit it, my second wind theory worked.”

“Yes. Okay. You were right. I’ll give you credit in my next book. Now let’s go before we miss something juicy.”

We snuck up on the building like two cats stalking a bird.

“Now what?” Lisa whispered as we plastered ourselves up against the tan wood and stucco building.

“I don’t know. You’re the one who knows all about these things, I figured you’d know what to do.”

“Okay. Okay. Let me think. I wrote a chapter on breaking and entering, but I wrote it for an empty house, not for a room filled with ex-mobsters. This is an entirely different situation. Anyway, I wrote it in my first book. That was three years ago. I can’t remember all the details, but I think what we need to do is . . .”

Just then the tiny window right over our heads opened and Uncle Ray’s head popped out. “You girls want to step inside or do we have to come out there and get ya?”

And just like that, everything I had imagined about their secret meetings was turned on its head.

“My name is Mia Spia, and I’m a binge drinker,” I said in a clear voice while sitting on a black folding chair on the side of the crowded little room. From where Lisa and I sat, along with Jimmy and Maryann, we could see almost everyone.

“Welcome, Mia,” everyone chanted.

It seemed the “secret bi-monthly meetings” were actually Anonimo Cosa Nostra meetings, as in Mobsters Anonymous.

Who knew?

There were six rows of chairs with five chairs in each row. Most of them were occupied. I knew nearly everyone there, but a few men were complete strangers. However, they had that “extended family” look to them, and I was positive that in the next few months they would be working for my mom in some capacity like everyone else.

Coffee and hot water carafes sat on the far end of the room on a long folding table covered with a white tablecloth. Italian cookies, including cream filled horns, and Neapolitans were piled high on paper-doily-clad platters. Various types of domestic and imported cheese, cured olives, and Federico’s tapenade sat next to the desserts. There were several bottles of our award winning oils waiting to be poured. A tray of sliced Italian cold meats and several loaves of crusty Italian bread along with a large Caprese salad would tempt even the strictest of dieters, not that you could find one such person in this group. Good food was our life, and we had the bodies to prove it. Not that any of us was obese, but anorexia was not a disease anyone in this family would ever have to battle.

And of course, what Italian feast would be complete without several bottles of red wine? I counted fifteen, but I felt certain that was just for starters.

I sighed at the thought.

“I think I have my drinking under control, but lately I’ve been craving alcohol more than usual. No wonder, considering what’s been going on around me.” I decided to spill my guts a little, just to see if I could catch a tell from one of these rehab cases who might lead me in the right direction. “I just want to let the person who whacked Dickey and tried to run us off the road today know that I’m closer to finding you than you think.”

This was a total lie, but I figured it might make somebody a little nervous and that somebody might give me a clue to his or her identity.

Of course, I was taking a risk that the relatives who were visiting didn’t know about Dickey’s demise, and that my mom was somehow still in the dark, which was doubtful, but I figured my confession served as a future warning that murder was no longer an acceptable form of self expression.

Then I gave the entire room my best evil eye, a sort of squint mixed with tight lips and a slight furrow on my forehead. My dad had taught me this technique when I was a kid. Some of the women in my family could no longer do it because of all the Botox they’d had injected. That stuff should come with a warning label for Italians: After use of this product, the evil eye is no longer possible.

I waited and watched, but no one moved or coughed or even blinked for that matter.

And just as I was about to give up, I saw a guy on the far end of the third row shuffle his feet and rake his fingers through his long dark-chocolate hair. Then, as if someone had given the all clear signal, everyone moved or coughed or twitched. My plan had completely failed except for the guy I couldn’t quite make out. Could he have been the killer? I tried to get a better look, but Uncle Benny was blocking my view.

Suddenly Lisa spoke. “My name is Lisa Lin and I’m a lingerie junkie.”

“Welcome, Lisa,” the group echoed. I turned and stared at her. This was total news to me.

“I have drawers and drawers filled with expensive underwear and I can’t stop buying it.”

She shrugged. I continued to stare at her, fascinated by this revelation.

The only way Uncle Ray and Uncle Benny had agreed to let us in was if we participated. Apparently, Lisa took them seriously. The one rule Uncle Ray insisted we follow was the rule that all AA meeting attendees abide by: what’s said in the AA meeting stays in the AA meeting, or in this case the MA meeting.

All my relatives listened as Lisa spoke, especially the men, who seemed to be especially focused on her every word.

“It’s like every time I pass a Victoria’s Secret or the lingerie department in Bloomingdale’s I have to check it out. And once I step inside I turn into another person. I lose all control. I now own an abundance of fancy underwear, from lacy thongs with real pearls embroidered on the tiny bit of fabric on the backside, to silky bras with crystals stitched across the tops of the cups. I have so much of the stuff that most of it still bears the price tags. I simply don’t know how to stop myself.” Big tears rolled down her cheeks, and Uncle Ray reached across the aisle and handed her his white hankie.

It was sweet to see such chivalry. These ex-Made Men were hiding a murderer, and one of them had probably tried to run us off the road today, but they were quick to show sympathy to a woman with underwear issues.

I glanced around at the group. I could tell that most of the men had fantasies going on. Satisfied smirks grew on their faces. If Lisa was making this up, she was a better storyteller than I gave her credit for. If she wasn’t, the girl clearly had some intense shopping issues.

The room fell silent after her revelation and stayed that way for what seemed like forever. Probably due to the intricate fantasies . . . which gave me a slightly creepy feeling.

Then, just when I was about to give up on anyone in this tight-lipped group of ever saying anything that I might use as a clue, the chocolate-brown-haired guy spoke.

“My name is Giuseppe,” he said in the Italian dialect I could understand. His long hair was styled in that slicked back mob fashion the Sopranos made popular. Up until that program, most of my family never slicked back their hair. After the first season, most of them followed the Soprano style. Even Uncle Ray enhanced the gray on his temples so he could look like Paulie. I wondered if mobsters throughout the country took on the Soprano style, or was that just my slightly demented family.

“Welcome, Giuseppe,” we said in unison.

Giuseppe leaned forward, tugged on his tie like he had a deep aversion to it, glanced over at me for a moment and, I swear, all the air went out of my lungs. Not only did he look familiar, but the man was disturbingly handsome, especially with that scruffy beard. More like he stepped out of a daydream of what a thirty-something Italian man should look like. Thoughts of Adonis and Apollo swept through my mind—even though they were clearly Greek, I couldn’t help thinking of a Greek God while staring at Giuseppe.

“Breathe,” Lisa said. “You’re turning blue.”

I turned to her and mouthed, ohmygod!

“Yeah, but he’s obviously mobbed up, girl, so get control,” she cautioned.

But I couldn’t. It was as if I was hit by cupid’s arrow and I saw only Giuseppe.

What the hell was wrong with me?

Just last night I had sex with my ex-boyfriend who continued to lie to me, and now I was attracted to a gangster, an imported gangster, at that.

I needed serious therapy.

“I came here to do a job, but I found out today that my job was already done for me. So now I come here tonight to make peace with the family.” He switched to English. “But I no can make peace with the family in Calabria until I show that the man I came to, shall we say, erase, is,” he shrugged, “erased.”

His Italian was what my relatives referred to as old Italian. Different regions of Italy had slightly different dialects, thus the reason why I couldn’t always understand book-learned Italian-Americans or Northern Italians. To my family, anyone who lived in a town even slightly north of Calabria was considered a Northern Italian.

Calabria, where this latest import was obviously from, was known for heavy mob activity, and for the ‘Ndrangheta, the most notorious, secretive, and ruthless of all Italian Mafia type organizations. Unfortunately for me, most of my family and honorary family could trace their criminal roots to this region of Southern Italy. My dad was born in a little town called Cariati Marina. He lived there until he was sixteen and told me stories about how he helped his dad pick olives in the local groves and how his mom would clear land for the rich mob boss. Of course, he never actually said the owner was a mob boss, but even as a little girl, I knew how to read between the shrugs and story omissions. My grandfather eventually hooked up with the owner and my dad didn’t have to pick any more olives and my grandma didn’t have to haul rocks.

I guessed that being born a girl I broke the venerated mob chain.

A short silence, feet shuffled, chairs creaked.

“My name is Hetty, and I’m an alcoholic.” My aunt’s voice was deep and loud, and what she said was a complete revelation to me. It explained a lot of her reclusive and nasty behavior.

“Welcome, Hetty,” we chanted.

“I just want to say, I’m glad the bastard Dickey is dead. I know I shouldn’t feel that way, but I can’t help myself. I’ve hated him for a lotta years, and that devil finally got what he had coming. I think now I can let some of my pent-up anger go. I’m working on it by meditating for fifteen minutes in the mornings. I heard about it on Oprah, and I gotta say, after a couple days of the stuff—and the fact that the louse is finally dead—I’m feeling a lot less like I should hit something.”

Silence.

I so needed to get Hetty alone after the meeting. The woman reeked of information.

“My name is Maryann, and I’m a user.”

This I knew.

“Welcome, Maryann.”

She continued. “I’m very sad that Dickey’s dead and that his body has gone missing. At least if I knew where he was buried I could pay my last respects with a proper accordion sendoff. I have friends who also play, and we have an entire concerto planned for just this occasion. But, this way, I can’t get closure and it’s making me cry all the time, play sad songs and even, God forbid, think about drugs. If somebody knows where he is, and I have a strong feeling somebody in this room does, please let me know so I can send him off, proper like. You have my solemn promise I won’t rat you out if you tell me.” She held up her right hand, oath style.

No one moved. Everyone seemed to be staring at the floor.

“Oh, and I want to say that I’m sorry if I caused the family any grief when I phoned that nice Leonardo Russo to invite him to Dickey’s party. I thought I was doing a good thing for our Mia. He’s been really working hard at becoming a better person. Even sees a shrink every week, at least that’s what I heard. I had no idea he would bring that nosey cop, Nick Zeleski. I had nothing to do with the cop joining him. And that’s all I’m gonna say on the subject.”

Zia Yolanda filled the room with a forlorn, sniffly sob and I felt as though I should join her.

Leo was actually trying to be a better person. Great news. But the man was still a liar. I wondered if there were Liars Anonymous meetings because those might actually do him some good.

“My name is Jimmy, and I gotta get something off my chest.” Uncle Benny cleared his throat. Jimmy shuffled his feet and his face went pale. “I mean, I’m an alcoholic, but I’m doin’ good. Thanks.”

“Welcome, Jimmy.”

He slouched in his chair next to me. Something was definitely up.

“What the—” Lisa quietly mouthed.

“We need to talk to that man,” I whispered.

“And fast,” she said.

Giuseppe coughed and stood up this time, his right side facing me, making hand gestures as he spoke. “I think I got one more thing I need to say,” he said in English. “The family in Calabria, they send me to America to reclaim something from Dickey, but he would not part with this something, which I am very sad about. But now, because things they have changed, I need this something as the proof that Dickey—he’s not gonna show up somewhere still making the trouble. If I can have this proof I would be always grateful. Please, I mean no disrespect, but it is very bad for me if I can not have the proof. Mili grazie.”

He sat down.

That’s when I suddenly recognized him. Giuseppe was Leo, not the real Leo, but he looked enough like the real Leo that I’d mistaken my Leo for the Giuseppe-Leo. It was the beard that threw me. This was the guy on my Leo’s porch arguing with Dickey. This was the guy who probably phoned Dickey for a meeting, a meeting that Dickey arranged someplace public. That explained Leo’s wine on the table at my mom’s party. It all made sense now.

How could I have been so stupid? I could see now that he wasn’t as tall as my Leo, his hair was a little lighter, and his body . . . well, I didn’t want to dwell on his body . . . but what was even worse, I had accused my Leo of lying when it had been this faux Leo all along.

I truly had to do some major sucking up to my Leo tomorrow night at the Martini Madness Ball, which I was suddenly truly looking forward to.

Giuseppe reverted to Italian. His face flushed and he went deadly serious, his voice going up an octave. “If I cannot get this something I was sent to retrieve, let me make myself perfectly clear, the family in Calabria will not take this news well. It will be bad for me, but it will be worse for your family. This I can promise.”

My mom let out a small groan.

Uncle Ray, Uncle Benny, Uncle Federico and Jimmy stood, a couple of their chairs falling to the floor behind them. Giuseppe spread his legs apart, and clasped his hands in front of his body.

The mobster stance.

Two shady looking associates, both dressed in fitted business suites, stood on either side of him. Young buffed Turks. All three of them poised for action.

Lisa grabbed my hand. I shut my eyes knowing this could get really ugly. I waited. She waited. We all waited. I could hear their heavy breathing, like bulls trapped in a ring apprising the matador, getting ready to charge.

Just as the tension was about to ignite, Maryann began singing a Louie Prima tune, That Old Black Magic, accompanying herself on her accordion.

I was never so grateful for Maryann and her accordion as I was at that very moment. And just like that, the men smiled at each other, albeit somewhat tepid smiles, but smiles nonetheless. The young Turks backed off, and I could see the fight leave their bodies.

One good thing we had on our side was that Made Men didn’t like to show their aggression in front of their women. Some kind of unwritten law of the streets, and at the moment I was tremendously appreciative of that unwritten rule.

Within moments the entire group was up on their feet, reciting the daily AA prayer, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

“Amen,” Uncle Ray said.

Soon the men were patting each other’s backs and looking as if they all loved one another. Uncle Ray and Giuseppe were hunched over whispering to each other, smiling as if everything that Giuseppe had said had already been forgotten.

But I knew better.

Coffee was poured, wine bottles were opened, cookies, cheese, and sliced meats were served. The Spia clan was a model of all that was good, but everyone knew Giuseppe was serious about his threat and I, for one, had that sick scared feeling in the pit of my stomach. Someone here, other than the killer, had the ring, obviously the ring that Giuseppe was sent here to fetch.

What was up with that ring? It hadn’t looked that special to me, at least not special enough that someone would kill for it, and that a family would send one of their own from Italy to fetch it.

Was I missing something here?

Suddenly I was feeling completely inadequate.

Who was I to think I could resolve this murder? Could help keep this family honest? Could keep my mom out of danger? I was kidding myself. These Wise Guys were serious about their vendettas. My own father was probably a victim of one of those vendettas.

My shoulder began to throb, and my knees went weak. A glass of wine would go down so easily, and would help with the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I walked to the end of the table toward the now open bottles of wine telling myself that one glass wouldn’t make me a binge drinker. That I was ready to drink again. That I needed it. That I could handle it. That . . .

“Let’s get out of here,” Lisa said, standing between me and my quest. “Jimmy just left. We should try and catch up with him.”

“Not yet,” I said as I tried to get around her. “I need a glass of wine.”

“No you don’t.”

She placed herself in front of me, cutting my view of the bottles of wine. I wanted to shove her out of the way, tell her that she was intruding in my life, but when I looked at her I could see the concern on her face. Lisa was on my side. She believed I could shake my temptation. That alone was worth giving myself another chance.

If I drank a glass of wine, I would be giving up on Lisa’s friendship, on my mom’s innocence, on finding the killer, but most of all I would be giving up on me.

But the bottles of wine were so close I could reach out and touch them. A glass was waiting to be filled. Almost everyone around me was drinking, enjoying themselves, imbibing in the my forbidden fruit. Why couldn’t I?

“Is it really worth it?” Lisa asked.

“You bet it is,” I said, then tried to reach around her for a glass. She stood her ground. Never moving. Never flinching.

I hesitated and slowly pulled my hand back from the fire. “I’ll have some later.”

Lisa’s head bobbed. “Good idea.”

Having some later was my way of telling that crazed partier inside me that I wasn’t going to totally deprive her of getting completely shitfaced. I was simply putting it off until some future time, which I thoroughly believed and planned for . . . someday.

“How long ago did you say Jimmy left?” I asked.

“A couple minutes at most. If we hurry, we can probably catch him.”

We left through the side door just as Uncle Benny straightened his gray tie, and lifted his shoulders in pure gangster fashion. A sure sign the room was getting too small for both he and Giuseppe to occupy at the same time.