Doppelgangster - Laura Resnick [43]
I was about to mention the cops’ theory that Chubby Charlie had been having a manic episode, but I realized there was no point in talking just now. Max was clutching the door handle in terror and flinching every time the cab swerved. By the time we reached West Houston Street, he was muttering in a language I couldn’t identify.
When the cab pulled up outside St. Monica’s, I paid the driver, got out, then opened Max’s door and extracted him from the vehicle. His legs buckled briefly, and I clutched him until he seemed steady enough to walk on his own.
“All right?” I said after a moment.
“Yes.” He straightened the fedora he usually wore when he left the shop, then adjusted the way his long duster was hanging on his rather short body. The coat had been bequeathed to him by a gunfighter long ago, and he wore it with pride. With his long white hair, white beard, and odd clothing, he made a memorable first impression. Lucky Battistuzzi, however, had seemed quick to recognize the expertise that lay beneath the eccentricity.
Max gestured to the door of the church, which was open to the warm May breeze. “After you, my dear.”
I preceded him into the serene and hallowed interior of the old church. It seemed very dark compared to the bright afternoon sunshine outside. I blinked a few times, waiting for my eyes to adjust.
Somewhere in the soft, dim shadows, a woman screamed horribly.
Moving vehicles are just about the only kind of danger Max shrinks from. He responded immediately to the woman’s screams by rushing down the center aisle toward the sound of her voice. I dashed after him like a lemming. But my high heels were made for seduction, not sprinting, and I still couldn’t see that well. Predictably, within a few steps, I fell down.
“Agh!” I hit the stone floor of the church with a splat that knocked the wind out of me.
I lay there for a moment, stunned and gasping for air. By the time I hauled myself laboriously to my feet, leaning on a pew for balance, I realized that the screams I heard were not, as I had thought at first, cries of pain or terror.
Elena Giacalona was enraged, not scared or hurt. I could see her now that my eyes had adjusted to the dim light. And I could see her companions, too: Lucky, Father Gabriel, and a well-dressed, middle-aged man whom I didn’t recognize.
“Stay away from me!” she shouted at Lucky. “How many times must I tell you? How dare you even speak to me! Have you no shame?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” said Lucky.
“You’re still speaking!” the Widow Giacalona shrieked.
I glanced around and saw Max then. He, too, had realized that the lady didn’t need his help, and he was hanging back now, obviously reluctant to intrude on this scene.
Lucky said, “But, Elena—”
“Are you deaf?” said the man whom I didn’t recognize. “She don’t want nothin’ to do with you, you jerk.”
“You stay out of this!” snapped Lucky.
As Lucky’s body language got menacing, Father Gabriel tried to intercede. “Now, gentlemen,” the priest said, “let’s all remember where we are.”
“Harassing a woman in church is where you are, you piece of garbage!” Lucky snarled at the stranger.
“Sticking your nose where it don’t belong is where you are, cretino!” shot back the other man.
“If I ever catch you bothering her again . . .” Lucky warned.
“Look who’s talking!” was the smirking reply.
“Madonna! Can’t I even pray in peace?” Elena screeched.
She turned on her heel and stormed down the aisle of the church, stalking past Max without even a glance. Her stride was so brisk that the ornate cross around her neck was bouncing.
Since I had met her before, in a manner of speaking, and since she seemed very upset, I felt an obligation to say something as her hurried steps brought her closer to me.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
The intense, long-lashed eyes met mine. “Men are such pigs!”
The thrice-widowed woman stalked past me and exited the church.
Lucky and the other man had already turned on each other, uttering standard masculine threats, the