Doppelgangster - Laura Resnick [62]
“Oh. Yes.” A look of disgust crossed her face. “Lucky’s gumata.”
I knew from conversations I overheard at Bella Stella that gumata was a loaded word for a wiseguy’s girlfriend; men said it carelessly, and women never used it nicely. However, the widow had lost three husbands and had legitimate grievances against Lucky, so I decided to let the insult pass.
I simply said, “I’m not his—”
“With a pretty young thing like you on his arm,” she interrupted, “why won’t he leave me alone?”
Well, even though I guessed she was at least twenty years older than me, she was beautiful in a rich, earthy way that I thought would make any number of men walk right past me to get a date with her. (Which is okay; talent lasts longer than beauty, and I want to keep getting acting work until the day I shuffle off this mortal coil.) But, though she evidently wasn’t vain about her looks, she was way off base about my relationship with Lucky. I wondered if it was my outfit.
“I’m not being euphemistic when I say ‘friend,’ Elena.” She scowled again, and I said, “Er, Mrs. Giacalona. Lucky’s like an uncle to me, and he’d be dismayed to learn anyone had other ideas about our friendship.” When this, too, failed to warm her expression, I added, “I have a boyfriend. A nice young man.”
“Another Gambello?” she said, her voice full of loathing.
“No, he’s a cop.”
That surprised her. “You date a cop?”
I sighed. “Yes. I do. I date a cop.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, ask anyone,” I said, hoping we could get on a roll here, so I could ask her to go into the crypt with me without it sounding too strange. “Half of Stella Butera’s customers have met him by now. You know Stella?”
“Yes.” The widow glanced at Saint Monica. “Stella lost her man, too.”
“Just the one.” After a moment, I said, “That came out wrong.”
“Stella used to come here. We prayed together sometimes.” Elena shook her head. “But like so many, her faith was not enduring. She doesn’t pray to the saint anymore.”
Rather than seeing it as a sign of weak faith, I figured that Stella had eventually gotten over the death of her longtime lover, Handsome Joey Gambello, who had been killed at the restaurant five years ago. Now she chose to live in the present and look to the future, and that struck me as healthy. However, Stella had indeed lost only one man. I supposed it wasn’t surprising that a thrice-bereft woman like Elena Giacalona was keeping regular company with Monica, patron saint of widows and wives.
Seeking a friendly comment to fill the silence, since this still didn’t seem quite the right moment to invite Elena into the crypt with me, I said, “Who was Saint Monica? A devout medieval widow?”
“Not medieval.” The widow shook her head. “She lived in the fourth century. Monica was married to an abusive pagan husband, and she spent her whole life praying he would convert to Christianity.”
“Were her prayers ever answered?” I asked, thinking that sounded like a grim marriage for both spouses.
“Yes. He converted on his deathbed.”
“Better late than never, I suppose.”
“She was also the mother of Saint Augustine.”
“Oh?” I thought it was too bad Max wasn’t there to see that I am not quite as uneducated as he thinks. “Author of the Confessions and The City of God, right?”
The widow seemed to warm to me, smiling a little. “Yes, that’s right.”
“He’s also the guy who said, ‘Lord, grant me chastity . . . but not yet.’ ” I enjoyed a friendly chuckle over this all-too-human plea.
The widow’s expression turned cold. Apparently it was not one of her favorite saintly quotes.
Hoping to repair the damage, I said solicitously, “I hear you’ve seen Saint Monica weeping?”
“Yes.” She turned to gaze at the saint’s statue and crossed herself. “Yes, I have.”
A reverent expression warmed her face, making it even more beautiful. Also a little scary—there was a spark of zealous fervor there that, for a moment, didn’t look wholly sane.
She said in a passionate voice, “My devotion has been rewarded with the saint’s grace and mercy. She has shed tears for my sorrow.”
“That