Doppelgangster - Laura Resnick [10]
Chubby Charlie went rigid and looked at me with an appalled expression. “You date a cop?”
I nodded. I hadn’t seen Lopez since he’d left my apartment that Sunday night nearly two weeks ago, and we’d only talked once briefly by phone since then. But we were planning to have another date after he got back from Long Island. Meanwhile, telling customers that I was dating a cop was a quick-fix solution to men like Charlie Chiccante.
“A cop?” Charlie repeated.
“A detective,” I said helpfully.
Lucky said to him, “You want that a cop should hear you’ve been hitting on his girlfriend?”
“Jesus.” Charlie looked at me as if I’d nearly given him a case of the clap. “Dates a fuckin’ cop.”
“And he’s very possessive,” I said. “Wouldn’t like it if he found out you’d even flirted with me.” I smiled at him again. “But I was flattered.”
(Yes, I was hoping to encourage more good tips. I had bills to pay.)
Charlie’s shiny face got quite pink as he heaved himself to his feet. He dropped his napkin on the floor and said, “I was just being charming, you know? Didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Wouldn’t hit on a cop’s girl.”
“Of course not,” I said.
He gave a big belch and patted his massive belly. “Oof! I’m stuffed! I think I fuckin’ ate too much.”
“Oh, really?” Lucky muttered.
Charlie said to me, “Tell Stella the pasta arrabbiata was fuckin’ out of this world tonight.” He brought his hand to his mouth to kiss his fingers in an eloquent gesture of appreciation, then fastened his suit coat over his enormous stomach. The buttons looked strained. Charlie considered himself a snazzy dresser and often (misguidedly, in my opinion) called attention to his appearance. He dressed more formally than most wiseguys, almost always arriving at Bella Stella wearing a suit and matching accessories (socks, tie, and handkerchief).
After taking a satisfied glance in the mirror on the nearby wall, Charlie wished me good night and left the restaurant.
“What a schmuck,” Lucky said.
“Thanks for stepping in,” I said.
“I don’t like guys who try to take advantage.”
“Me, neither.”
“When’s your cop coming back, anyhow?”
“Friday.” I had told Lucky that Lopez was out of town, though I hadn’t said more than that. He was working this weekend (and so was I), so I wouldn’t see him then, but I hoped we could get together soon. I was looking forward to that foot massage. Or maybe I’d feed him some ice cream again, only this time . . .
“Friday?” Lucky said. “You mean tomorrow?”
Startled out of a very private reverie, I nodded. “Yes.”
Lucky said, “Well, good. It’s about time. He’s takin’ a risk, leaving a pretty young woman unattended for so long.”
I smiled and asked, “And how is it that you’re still unattended, Lucky?” Like most wiseguys, Lucky had married and had children. But Mrs. Battistuzzi had died a few years ago, and Lucky never brought a date to dinner. “Do you like bachelorhood?”
He shrugged. “A man gets lonely.”
“So you think you might settle down with someone again?” I asked as I started clearing Chubby Charlie’s table.
“Well, actually . . .”
When I glanced at Lucky, he lowered his eyes. I thought he might be . . . blushing.
“Hey, Esther, I got that.” Angelo, one of the busboys, came over to Charlie’s table and started clearing it. “Stella says it’s slow tonight, you can leave early.”
I nodded, then asked, “Lucky, can I get you anything else before I go?”
He waved me away. “Nah, I’m fine. Get out of here, kid.”
“This fuckin’ job,” Angelo said. “Such bullshit.”
Angelo Falcone was an aspiring young wiseguy. He had the social skills of a rabid squirrel, and he made sure the rest of us knew that working in a restaurant was way beneath him. When he wasn’t bussing tables, he was doing everything he could to make himself useful to the Gambello family, in hopes of achieving a full-time career change. Since I didn’t want to know anything about my coworker’s life of crime, I had told him, too, that I was dating a cop. (Though absent, Lopez sure was coming in handy lately.) And since Angelo wasn’t very bright, I had to keep reminding him about my cop