Doppelgangster - Laura Resnick [126]
“No, that’s true. He and his mom lived in the same parish as most of the Gambellos.”
“Just his mom?” I asked, “Were his parents divorced?”
“No way, his mother was a good Catholic. Nice lady. She died a few years ago.” Lucky drew in a sharp breath and protested, “Ow, that stuff is hot, Doc.”
“I apologize, my dear fellow.” To keep the wax from solidifying before it was painted onto skin, Max was keeping the mysterious mixture heated over a low flame. He blew gently on his brush before he went back to painting interesting symbols on Lucky’s feet.
With still no idea how to protect us from a doppelgänger, Max had instead come up with a means of protecting us from a curse based on using a personal token that created a link to the victim. The symbols, ingredients, and chanting involved in this protection should, he said, deflect the fatal effect of encountering one’s own doppelgangster. Although I was the only one of us whose doppelgangster was definitely roaming around somewhere out there tonight, he thought it wise for all of us to take precautions.
Nelli—with her face, back, and four paws all covered in oily, waxy, lumpy protective symbols that were the rusty color of henna—was sniffing at the remains of Elena’s doppelgangster, trying to learn more about our adversary’s work before tonight’s confrontation.
I asked Lucky, “So where was Gabriel’s dad?”
“Dead. But even without a dad, the boy turned out okay.” Lucky paused. “Uh, until now, I guess.”
“I’ll wager he was a quiet and studious youth,” Max said.
“You’re on the money, Doc.”
“And we’ve certainly seen that he developed good people skills,” I said.
“Yeah, he was polite even as a boy,” Lucky said. “And his mother was so proud when he decided to become a priest. It’s a darn shame he’s turned out to be an evil sorcerer.” The old gangster shook his head. “Kids. Whaddya gonna do?”
“How did his father die?” I asked.
“Turned up one day in a Jersey landfill with two bullets in his head.”
“What? I thought you said he wasn’t a Gambello?”
“He wasn’t,” Lucky said. “He worked for the Buonarottis.”
“Really?” This surprised me. “The priest’s father was a Buonarotti soldier?”
Lucky shrugged. “Priests gotta have fathers, too, don’t they?”
“Why was he killed?”
Lucky shook his head. “No one ever said.”
“Who did it?”
“No idea.”
“Really?” I said.
“Swear to God.”
“There weren’t any rumors?”
“Oh, there was lots of rumors. But the cops found squat, no one ever took credit, and no one ever got punished for whackin’ a made guy. No one knew nothin’.” He shrugged. “For real, that time.”
“Is it possible that a Gambello did it and just didn’t tell anyone?”
“Sure, it’s possible,” Lucky said. “That was one of the rumors. It’s also possible a Corvino did it, which was another rumor. Both families was havin’ serious disputes with the Buonarottis at the time.”
“That sounds promising,” I said, thinking about possible motives for the current murders.
“On the other hand,” Lucky said, “it’s also possible that the hit was a piece of Buonarotti housekeeping that got kept real quiet.”
“Was that a rumor, too?”
“You bet.” Lucky nodded. “And some people said he got popped by a crazy girlfriend, or a jealous husband, or a crooked cop, or a tough mugger.” Lucky shook his head. “But me, I always thought the hit was too clean and professional for that.” He paused and added, “Well, maybe a crooked cop.”
“Good heavens,” Max said.
Lucky said, “But I never heard of anyone who knew what happened. And it was more than twenty years ago. So whoever popped him might not even be alive anymore.”
“The father’s unsolved murder would obviously be very disturbing for his son,” I said. “But, well, the death wasn’t exactly a surprising way for a wiseguy to go, was it? And since no one even knows who’s responsible for the murder, I don’t understand why it would lead Gabriel to trying to start a new Corvino-Gambello war.”
“That’s because you’re thinking rationally, my dear,” said Max, setting aside his brush and wiping his hands as he finished his work on Lucky. “Our adversary