Doppelgangster - Laura Resnick [13]
“Was a good person. Long time ago. Now it’s a statue.
Saint Monica.”
“A weeping Saint Monica? I thought it was the Madonna that always weeps.”
“At our church, it’s the saint.” He shrugged. “It’s still a miracle, y’know, either way.”
“Little Italy is full of the strange and the wonderful.” Thinking of Charlie again, I said, “Especially the strange.”
“Well, maybe next time,” Lucky said.
“Maybe next time,” I agreed, realizing he was a little lonely.
As I walked toward the subway station, I opened my cell phone again and dialed my agent’s phone number.
I needed an audition.
Two days later, Chubby Charlie Chiccante wasn’t very hungry, and he didn’t want a song.
After requesting a table in a secluded alcove at the back of the restaurant, he only ordered one plate of food for dinner. And when I put his meal in front of him, he just picked at it. Dressed in a tight brown suit, accented by a bright green tie, bright green handkerchief, and (yes, I checked) bright green socks, he looked distracted as he pushed his spaghetti Bolognese around his plate with his fork for ten minutes.
This was so unprecedented that, despite his rudeness the other night, I felt I had to ask if he was all right.
“Er, Charlie?”
“Argh!”
I fell back a step in surprise as he flinched, cried out, and knocked over his water glass. A few diners glanced our way, then went back to shouting and laughing as they indulged in generous quantities of house wine.
Red-faced and breathing hard, Charlie snapped at me, “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
I frowned at him. I had simply walked up to his table. No sneaking involved. “You seem a little tense,” I observed.
“Goddamn right, I’m a little fuckin’ tense!”
I pulled a cloth out of my apron pocket and started mopping up the mess he’d made. “What’s the matter with you?” I said irritably.
“What the matter with me? I’ll tell you what the fuck’s the matter with me!” He looked around, his eyes rolling a little wildly, then leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “I been cursed.”
“You mean someone used bad language? And that bothered you?”
“What? No.” He scowled at me. “I been cursed. You know—someone’s put the evil eye on me! I’m under a cloud. Cursed!”
That clinched it. “Okay, you really do need to see a doctor.”
“I don’t need no doctor, you moron! I need a . . . a . . .” He waved his arms around. “I dunno. Maybe a priest? Could a priest help me, do ya think?”
“I think an emergency room could help you,” I said. “I’m calling an ambulance.”
“I ain’t sick!”
“I think you may be having a stroke,” I said. “Or mini-strokes. You need a doctor.”
“No!”
“Or maybe you need a psychiatrist.”
“I ain’t crazy! This is for real! I saw it! I saw it with my own eyes! I spoke to it, Estelle!”
“Esther,” I corrected.
“And it spoke to me,” he said in rising hysteria. “I’m telling you, it’s real! I didn’t imagine it!”
“What’s real?” I asked, still wiping up the spilled water on his table.
He grabbed my arm with clutching fingers and pulled me closer to his red, sweating face as he said hoarsely, “My double.”
“Your what?”
“My double! My perfect double!”
I tried to pull away from him. His grip tightened ruthlessly on my arm.
Hoping to distract him enough to free myself, I said, “What are you talking about?”
His eyes wide and anxious, he croaked, “I looked into my own face. My own eyes looked back at me.”
“That’s called a mirror, Charlie.” I started trying to pry his fingers off my arm.
“No, this was a real thing! My double, I’m telling you, my double.”
“You mean someone who looks like you?” I had to agree it was a distressing prospect in Charlie’s case.
“No! He was me. He is me,” Charlie raved. “Ain’t you never heard of this?”
“Heard of what?” I asked as I looked around for help.
Charlie needed an ambulance and, I now suspected, restraints. And I needed my left arm back.
“La mia propria faccia nel viso di un altro!” he cried, lapsing into Italian. I’d noticed before that some of the older wiseguys did this in moments of high drama. “La faccia della morte! La morte!”
“What?” I was still looking around.