Doppelgangster - Laura Resnick [89]
“There’s three guys dead, and we got no other way of identifying these creatures.”
“Okay, I’ll take a knife,” I said. “You have a way of putting things into perspective.”
“Here, have this one. It’s small, a good size for a woman.” He gave me a switchblade that seemed like some sort of stealth weapon. The curved blade was a dull gray color and barely two inches long. “You’d better start by using it on me.”
“What?” I blurted.
“I feel perfectly normal,” Lucky said. “But we’ve already figured out that every doppelgangster thinks it’s for real. So before we do anything else, we better make sure nobody here is one of them things.”
“Does that mean you’re going to cut me?” I asked anxiously.
“Yep. Don’t worry, I’m an expert, you won’t feel a thing.” He offered me his hand, palm up. “But since only wiseguys have been duplicated so far, I’m the most likely ringer in the room. So go ahead and make sure I really am who I think I am.”
Grasping the little knife, I took Lucky’s hand in mine, brought the sharp, dull-colored blade close to his flesh . . . and then said, “I can’t do it.”
“Go on,” he urged.
“I’ve never cut someone. I don’t know how.”
“It’s just like cuttin’ meat.”
“Oh, God,” I said, revolted. “That didn’t help.”
“Take the point of the knife and poke my finger.”
I tried again, then shook my head. “I can’t do it.”
“I can see you really are gonna have trouble decapitating an ephemeral mystical creature,” he said. “Come on, just do it, kid. Hey, I got an idea. Think about Salvatore Fatico.”
That helped. I poked the blade into his finger.
“Ouch!” Lucky said. “Not so hard!”
“Oops! Sorry.”
“I’ll get a bandage,” Max said.
While Max fetched something for the bleeding, Lucky looked at his wounded finger. “Well, at least we know I ain’t a doppelgangster.”
Since I obviously needed practice, the two men insisted I had to be the one to test Max, too. I didn’t cut him hard enough the first time, which led to a tense moment among us all before I tried again and drew blood. Then Lucky tested me. Despite his guarantee, I felt the cut. But I only bled a little.
“Okay, so that’s done,” Lucky said matter-of-factly. “We’re all the original versions of ourselves. Good to know.”
As we sat sipping our coffee, I said, “Hey, I guess something else we know now is that the Corvinos were telling the truth. They didn’t whack Charlie and Johnny. I mean, now one of their capos has been hit, too.”
“And the Gambellos didn’t do it,” Lucky said.
“Will the Corvinos believe that?” I asked.
“It depends on whether Mikey Castrucci and Fast Sammy decide to believe what we told them last night,” Lucky said. “And whether they can convince the guys upstairs.”
“Upstairs?” Max asked with a frown.
“Their superiors,” I explained.
“Ah.”
I asked Lucky, “Can you make some calls and find out?”
He nodded and pulled out his cell phone.
Max offered me a cookie. I accepted. Nelli gnawed on her bone.
Lopez called my cell phone while Max was pouring another round of coffee and Lucky was trying to track down Fast Sammy by phone.
“I’m not going to make it tonight,” Lopez told me apologetically.
Suspecting the reason, I asked, “Why not?”
“I’m in Brooklyn. We’ve got a dead Corvino capo here.”
I wasn’t surprised, but I felt genuine disappointment. “But maybe after you’re done there . . .”
“I don’t think so.” He sighed. “We’ve just had a Gambello wannabe picked up after he boasted in a bar that he did the hit, but—”
“What?” I frowned, thinking I had heard wrong.
“—his claims aren’t very credible, so this is going to be a mess. I’ll be working late again.”
“You’re saying someone’s confessed?”
Max and Lucky looked at me.
“Oh, he won’t confess in the legal sense. But he’s taking credit, you might say.” Lopez sounded disgusted. “And he’s probably lying. Which creates extra legwork for us.”
A Gambello wannabe . . .
“Is it that busboy I work with? Angelo Falcone?”
“I can’t answer that, Esther.” He sighed again. “Even though it’ll probably be all over the news by tonight.”
“How about this? Just tell me if I’m wrong.”
He didn’t say anything. And since