Doppelgangster - Laura Resnick [12]
“Isn’t that strange?”
“Hmm. Like the evening was erased from his memory?”
“Yes,” I said. “Including the massive dinner he just packed away.”
“You’d think even a screwball like Charlie would remember that he just ate,” Lucky said, shaking his head.
“Especially since he said just a few minutes ago that he was stuffed.”
“He didn’t even remember you singing?” Lucky asked.
“No.”
“And he seemed to love that. You sounded great, by the way.”
“Maybe he’s having a ministroke?” I wondered if we should call a doctor before Chubby Charlie keeled over in the middle of Bella Stella.
“Maybe he was caught in a time warp or something,” Lucky suggested.
I blinked. “You’ve been watching too much SyFy Channel. I was thinking of something more prosaic. Could a myocardial infarction cause this behavior?”
“What kind of infection?”
“Um, a problem with his heart,” I said. “So that maybe his brain isn’t getting enough oxygen.”
“You think something’s wrong with his brain?” Lucky snorted. “I’d say that’s a given.”
“He’s a hundred pounds overweight, and he packed away enough food at dinner to kill a wildebeest,” I said. “I thought he looked a little red-faced when he left.”
“Red-faced? Well, sure.” Lucky shrugged. “He just found out he was makin’ the moves on a cop’s girlfriend.”
“I’m wondering if his behavior is a warning sign.” Chubby Charlie was a repulsive human being, but I’d nonetheless feel bad about just letting him drop dead tonight, maybe from a stroke or heart attack.
“Ah, Charlie’s always been strange, kid. Moody. Forget it.”
“But—”
“Look, if you’re worried about him,” Lucky said, “why not come to church with me?”
“Because I’m Jewish.”
“God don’t care about that. You could light a candle and pray for Charlie’s good health.”
“I was thinking of doing something more practical than that,” I said. “Like maybe warning Stella or calling a doctor.”
“What makes you think lighting a candle ain’t practical?”
“Spoken like a good Catholic.”
Lucky put his face against the restaurant’s window and peered inside. “Charlie’s already sitting down and yacking at his waitress. Seems perfectly normal to me. Have a look, Esther.”
Following his example, I spotted Chubby Charlie just in time to see him pinch his waitress’ bottom. “Perfectly normal,” I agreed.
“See? No reason to worry.”
“I don’t know, Lucky. What could explain his behavior?”
“Maybe he was pulling your leg,” Lucky suggested. “Havin’ some fun with you.”
“And eating dinner twice in a row tonight?” I said skeptically.
As we continued peering through the window, Charlie looked up and noticed us. He gave us the finger.
That’s when I decided it wasn’t my problem if he was having a major medical incident. Okay, so I’m not as compassionate and selfless as I could be.
Lucky scowled and stepped away from the window. “Stronzo,” he muttered. “Is that any way to treat a young lady?”
I looked at Lucky. “I think you’re right. He was pulling my leg. And his digestive system defies all norms of human physiology.”
He nodded in agreement. “Okay, then, I’m heading to St. Monica’s.”
It was a church around the corner, between Mulberry and Mott streets, that some of our customers frequented. “Evening Mass?” I asked.
“I might stay for that, depending.”
“Depending on what?”
He lowered his head and shuffled his feet. I thought he might be . . . blushing again. “Well, uh . . . um . . .”
“So if you don’t go for Mass, what do you do there?”
“I light candles for all the dead guys I know. Especially the ones I liked. And, well, there’s, um . . .”
“Have you lost many people?” I asked sympathetically.
“I didn’t lose ’em, I whacked ’em.” Lucky shrugged and added, “But the ones I liked, I’m sure they knew it was strictly business.”
Since I couldn’t think of any response to that, I said, “Well, good night, Lucky.”
“You don’t want to come with me? It’s good for the soul.”
“I want to go home. My feet hurt,” I said truthfully.
“There’s a weeping saint at my church,” he coaxed. “Well, sometimes, anyhow.”
“A weeping saint? Do you mean there’s a good person crying at your church?”