Doppelgangster - Laura Resnick [46]
The strangest thing in the room, however, was . . .
“An Elvis impersonator?” I said blankly.
“What’s an Elvis impersonator?” Max asked.
“I’m not an impersonator,” said the man seated at the piano. “I can’t help the resemblance.”
“You could try dressing a bit less like The King in his declining years,” I suggested.
The man was overweight and wearing a white leisure suit with silver trim. His red shirt was open halfway down his chest, revealing thick gold chains nestled in black chest hair. The hair on his head was coal black and thick, with long sideburns; I thought it looked like a wig. He wore a pair of rose-tinted glasses over his puffy, lined face.
“Show some respect,” Lucky said to me. “This is the boss’ nephew.”
“Which one?” I asked. The Shy Don had a big family.
“They call me Johnny Be Good,” the man said.
I blinked. “You’re Johnny Be Good Gambello?”
“You heard of me, huh?” he sounded pleased.
I had never seen him at the restaurant, because Stella had banned him from there years ago. She said Johnny Be Good was a very bad boy. He had notorious problems with drugs, alcohol, and gambling. Wiseguys disapproved of divorce, and he was on his third marriage. He’d even been caught embezzling from the Gambellos. The only reason he was still alive was that he was a nephew of the don himself, so only Victor Gambello could order his death. And the Shy Don, Stella said, had a soft spot for his blood relatives.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of you,” I said.
“But I’m afraid I have not had the pleasure of hearing about you,” said Max.
“Who’s this jerk?” Johnny asked Lucky.
“This is Doc Zadok,” said Lucky, “who’s got specialized knowledge that might be useful to our situation.”
“And the girl? She’s the one who saw Charlie go down for the dirt nap?”
“Yep.”
“The one who saw his double, along with you?”
“That’s right,” Lucky said.
Johnny regarded me. “She’s a looker. You didn’t mention that.”
“Did he mention that my boyfriend is a cop?” I said, not liking the oily way Johnny was assessing me.
He flinched. “You date a cop?”
“Why are we here?” I asked Lucky wearily.
“Johnny, tell these two people what you told me,” Lucky instructed, setting out a couple of the folding chairs for me and Max.
Johnny nodded and cracked his knuckles. As he began his tale, I draped my wrap over the back of a folding chair and sat down. Max sat next to me.
Johnny Be Good began his tale. “I was in a friendly little establishment uptown last night—neutral turf, you understand—enjoying a social game of cards.” He eyed us, as if daring us to mention his famously bad luck at all forms of gambling, including poker. “One of the other guys at the table was Danny the Doctor.”
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“Danny ‘the Doctor’ Dapezzo,” said Lucky. “He’s a capo in the Corvino family. Mean son of a bitch.”
“And he’s a doctor?” Max asked. “Medicine or philosophy?”
“They call him the Doctor,” Johnny Be Good said,
“because of the surgical way he cuts up bodies into nice, neat little parts. I’m telling you, Danny can get fifty pieces out of one skinny corpse.”
I said to Max, “You had to ask.”
Lucky said with reluctant admiration, “Yeah, it’s very hard for the cops to identify a corpse after Danny gets done with it. They can’t find enough parts.”
“So you’re playing cards with Danny,” I said loudly to Johnny. “And . . .”
“And Mickey Rosenblum, from Las Vegas, is at the same table, and he’s having as great a night as Danny’s having a bad one.” He paused and added, “You oughta know Mickey. He’s Jewish. Same as you.” When I didn’t say anything, Johnny prodded, “You know him?”
“No.”
He looked at Lucky. “Didn’t you say she was Jewish? How come she don’t know Mickey?”
“So Mickey cleaned out Danny the Doctor?” I prodded.
“Yeah. And Danny, well, he goes away in a real bad mood, pockets empty, bitching about how he don’t even have cab fare left