Doppelgangster - Laura Resnick [23]
I found him kneeling before an altar nestled in the apse on the north side of the church. With his hands folded and his head lowered, he was praying. A painting of the Virgin Mary—improbably blonde and blue-eyed and wearing seventeenth-century European clothing—looked down at him, a benevolent smile on her pretty, plump face. There were about thirty candles flickering gently on the altar. I wondered if Lucky had lighted them . . . for all the guys he’d whacked, especially the ones he’d liked.
I cleared my throat.
Lucky glanced up at me. “You’re late.”
“Is there any coffee?” The deli on my block wasn’t open this early on a Sunday.
“This ain’t no suburban ecumenical bullshit,” Lucky said, frowning at me. “This here’s a real church.”
“So you’re saying there’s no coffee?”
He turned his attention back to the Virgin without answering me, made the sign of the Cross, and then rose stiffly to his feet. When he turned to me, I saw that his face was heavily lined this morning, and there were bags under his eyes. His short-cropped, gray hair needed combing, and he was still wearing the clothes he’d worn last night.
“You haven’t been to bed,” I said.
He shrugged. “After you got dragged off by Napoli, I got ordered to come in.”
I knew from my sojourn at the restaurant that this phrase meant he’d been summoned to see the boss. The capo of his famiglia. The don of the Gambellos. Wiseguys never spoke his name, at least not in such a public place as Stella’s; they always just used the phrase “the boss.” But it was common knowledge that Victor Gambello, the Shy Don, was head of the family. He’d earned the nickname because the stutter he’d had as a child had left him with a lifelong habit of speaking softly, only when necessary, and preferably only in private. He was eighty years old now and in very frail health, so he almost never left his house in Forest Hills anymore. I realized Lucky must have been out to Queens and back since I’d seen him last night.
However, just as I was about to comment on how tired he looked, his face suddenly brightened with energy and lively interest.
Wondering what caused this transition, I looked over my shoulder in the direction he was looking.
A beautiful woman was entering the church. She was tall, slim-waisted, and curvaceous. Her black hair was mostly covered by a lacy black veil. Dramatically arching brows framed long-lashed dark eyes. Her skin was almost the same rich, golden olive color as Lopez’s. She wore a black dress and no makeup. An ornate cross hung from her neck, and she carried a small handbag. I thought she looked about forty-five, but might even be in her late fifties. Good bone structure, good posture, and good skin made it hard to tell.
Lucky made a hasty attempt to straighten his rumpled hair, stepped forward, smiled, and said, “Good morning, Elena.”
She gave him a cold glance and walked right past us.
“She doesn’t seem to like you,” I murmured to Lucky.
“She’ll come around. I just need to be give her time.”
When I glanced at him, he looked down and shuffled his feet a little.
Ah. So this was the cause of the blushing I had noticed the other night. Lucky was sweet on a parishioner at St. Monica’s.
I said, “I gather you don’t come here just to save your soul and pray for the dead?”
“I come here for that, too,” he said defensively.
The woman kept walking until she reached the other end of the church. Then she genuflected before a marble figure of a berobed woman, lit three candles near the statue’s feet, and knelt to pray.
“Who is she?” I asked Lucky.
“The Widow Giacalona.” He nodded to where she was praying. “She’s very devout. Prays twice a day to Saint Monica.”
I looked at the statue. “That’s your weeping saint?” When he nodded, I asked, “Have you seen it weep?”
“Not yet. Only Elena has seen it so far.”
“Oh.” So much for miracles. “Who is Saint Monica?”
“Patron saint of widows and wives.”
“I see.