Killing the Blues - Michael Brandman [27]
The waiter brought the wine and took Molly’s and Jesse’s orders. Lasagna for her, veal piccata for him.
“Who sits at the center table,” Jesse said. “Ben Affleck?”
The waiter laughed.
“I’m afraid not,” he said. “It’s always reserved for one of our regulars.”
The waiter left.
Jesse looked up in time to see the party of eight being ushered to the center table. All eight diners were men; all were dressed in silk suits and ties. He quickly saw that seven of the men behaved in a deferential manner toward the eighth.
The eighth was a big man. Someone who had obviously started with a weight problem and had done nothing over time to curb it. He must have weighed three hundred pounds, and from the way he was examining the specials board, it was obvious how seriously he regarded his food.
“It’s time,” Jesse said. “Do you have the number?”
“The one you gave me,” Molly said.
“Yes.”
“You want me to go into the ladies’ room to make the call. And I’m to hang up as soon as the call is answered.”
“Roger.”
“Wilco,” she said.
Molly left the table. Jesse leaned back in his chair and took a sip of wine. His eyes were glued to the big man.
Although Jesse hadn’t heard a ring, the man suddenly reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a cell phone. He opened it and said something into it. After a moment, he looked at the phone and then closed it. He held it for a while, then returned it to his pocket. His attention returned to the menu.
Molly came back and sat down. “Well,” she said.
“Molto bene,” Jesse said.
“Which means?”
“Bingo.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
30
Jesse spent a good portion of the next day at the site of the harbor fire, which had caused a significant amount of damage. In addition to completely destroying two concession stands, it had also burned clear through the boardwalk.
“Arson,” Mickey Kurtz, the Paradise fire captain, said. “Middle-of-the-night hit-and-run. Guy was outta here before the fire even caught.”
“Pro,” Jesse said.
“Uncertain,” Kurtz said.
“Prints?”
“Nah. All we found were a couple of charred lighter-fluid cans. Any possible prints had been burned off.”
“Insurance fire?”
“It doesn’t appear as such,” Kurtz said. “Benny was doing a healthy business in a prime location. It wouldn’t make sense.”
“Vengeance?”
“That would be a policeman question, not a fireman question.”
“So what good are you guys,” Jesse said.
“Mostly we’re good at putting the suckers out. Also sliding down poles,” Kurtz said.
“Impressive skill set,” Jesse said.
“Saves a lot of wear and tear on the legs.”
“Hell on the scrotum, though,” Jesse said. “You’ll let me know if forensics turns up any other useful information?”
“I’ll send you a copy of the report.”
“Thanks, Mick,” Jesse said.
“At least no one was killed,” Kurtz said.
“At least there’s that,” Jesse said.
That night Jesse was back at Il Capriccio but not as a customer. He had parked within sight of the restaurant in the hope that John Lombardo would return.
Jesse was slouched in the driver’s seat of his Explorer, drinking coffee and thinking, when he spotted the arrival of a pair of black Mercedes-Benz sedans. Both sedans pulled up in front of the restaurant. A man and a woman emerged from each. The two cars then disappeared into the night.
Jesse watched intently as the two couples went inside. It was John Lombardo who led the procession.
Once they were inside, Jesse sat back and thought more about the fire. It gnawed at him. As was the case with the seemingly random killings of the dogs, he was unable to identify a motive. Something seemed hinky, but he couldn’t get a handle on it.
He realized that his attention had drifted when he heard laughter coming from Il Capriccio. Standing in front of the restaurant was the John Lombardo party, the women talking quietly, the men laughing raucously. The Mercedes sedans sped up Ash Street and pulled to a stop.
The women embraced, and the men clapped each other on the back. They each got into