Doppelgangster - Laura Resnick [25]
“So Charlie was telling the truth about being a good earner?” I mused.
I chose not to dwell on whether Charlie had also been telling the truth about being great in bed. It seemed too improbable, and the images invoked by such pondering wouldn’t be good for my mental health.
“So I gotta find who hit Charlie, and I gotta whack him,” Lucky said matter-of-factly.
“I don’t think we should be talking about whacking in church,” I said uneasily.
“What do you care? You ain’t even Catholic.”
“Even so, it doesn’t seem appropriate.”
“Hey, this is the place where we confess our sins,” Lucky said. “So we might as well plan ’em here, too.”
“There’s a certain warped logic to that,” I admitted. “But I don’t want to be involved in planning a retaliatory homicide.”
“Huh?”
“Er, I don’t want to help you whack someone.”
“You think I’d take a girl along on business?” Lucky said dismissively. “You’re just gonna help me figure out who done it, so I can make sure he don’t do it again.”
“I think we should leave this to the cops,” I said firmly.
“Until when? Until you get whacked out?”
I flinched. “What makes you think I’ll get whacked out?”
“Cops think you saw something, don’t they?”
“But I didn’t!” I insisted.
“You know you didn’t. But if the cops keep saying you did, how long do you figure it’ll take the hitter to decide he should tidy up his loose ends, just in case?” Lucky said.
“Tidy up . . . You mean, kill me?”
“A lot of these young guys . . .” Lucky shook his head. “No patience. No self-control. It’s disgusting, the things they’ll do when they get a little nervous.”
I started rethinking my position on protective custody.
Lucky said, “So it’s best if you tell me whatever you can, kid. Did Charlie say anything to you before he got whacked?”
I nodded. This, at least, was a subject that I didn’t think would make me a potential accessory to homicide. “In fact, he said a lot.”
“He had problems? He knew something was up?”
“He knew he was going to die.” I added, “But Charlie sounded crazy, Lucky.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Lucky said. “What did he say to you?”
“He said he’d been cursed, he’d been marked for death.”
“Hmm. Marked for death?” Lucky nodded. “Go on.”
“He talked about la morte—”
“He talked Italian?” Lucky stiffened, as if the use of Italian made the situation doubly serious.
“A little. La morte was the only part I understood. Oh, and something about a dope.”
“A dope?”
“Um . . . a doppio?”
“Doppio.” Lucky frowned, puzzled. “A double?”
“Yes! He kept babbling about a double.”
I’d told Napoli about this, too, but he had dismissed it—just as I had dismissed it when Charlie was clutching my arm and raving about it. Napoli went over and over some parts of that conversation with me, though, since he found it noteworthy that Charlie believed he was going to die. The detective obviously thought that, somewhere in that ranting, Charlie had made a revealing statement about the anticipated homicide that I’d either missed, forgotten, or was deliberately concealing.
Lucky asked me, “What about a double?”
I thought back. At the time, I’d been convinced Charlie was having a medical or psychotic episode, and I’d been more concerned with trying to get help than with listening to him.
“He said something about the evil eye,” I said.
Lucky clutched the pew in front of us. “The evil eye?”
“I thought it sounded silly, but he—”
“Hah! Don’t mock the evil eye, kid.”
“He said he’d seen his perfect double. That it looked, walked, and talked like him. I thought he had looked at a mirror and had a hallucination, but he insisted it was real. He said that he’d looked into its eyes, that it had spoken to him, and so now he was marked for death. I know it sounds crazy . . .” I spread my hands.
Lucky rubbed his jaw as he thought it over. I noticed he needed a shave. “But is it crazy?”
“Well, something was certainly affecting his brain,” I said. “Remember how strangely he behaved the other night? The night he came back to the restaurant and acted . . .” The