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Authors: Laura Resnick

BOOK: Dopplegangster
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Lopez had spent enough time with me by now to know that actors differentiate between a real job, which means acting, and just earning money—which means waiting tables, office temping, and other between-job gigs that keep us from starving. In New York, an actor who is “resting” is usually working fifty hours per week somewhere to pay exorbitant rent on an apartment the size of a phone booth. I was lucky, at least, in that I could reduce my expenses by getting a roommate for the second bedroom in my rent-controlled apartment. Although what qualified as a “second bedroom” in Manhattan would scarcely have passed as a small walk-in closet in most other cities.
However, I really liked my space and my privacy; and I also hoped Lopez might start coming over more often. So I’d rather work for a change in my fortunes than let someone move into my apartment. Especially since this city (brace yourself for a shock) is full of weirdos.
“Look,” Lopez said, giving my shoulders a gentle squeeze, “why don’t you change—um,
shower
and change—and I’ll take you out for a nice dinner. Maybe it’ll cheer you up a little, and we can come up with some ideas for—”
“I can’t,” I said apologetically. “I’ve spent the past two hours making phone calls, and now—”
“I thought you spent two hours being depressed and forgetting I was coming over,” he said.
“I did that, too. I’m a multitasker.” I shrugged. “I’m freaking out right now, but this kind of thing is a standard part of my profession. When you’re suddenly thrown out of work, you have to get on the phone right away to start looking for another job and figure out how to keep paying the bills. No delays, no moping. Even if you’re flat on your back and crawling into a pint of Ben and Jerry’s at the exact same time you’re making those calls.”
“So you were on the phone looking for work today?” he said in surprise. “On Sunday?”
“It’s a twenty-four-seven city. A cop ought to know that.”
“Good point.” He took the spoon from me and helped himself to another bite of ice cream as he asked, “Any luck yet?”
“I don’t know. I had to leave messages with everyone.”
“So bring your cell phone to dinner,” he suggested, “and let’s go out.”
It was a generous offer. I’d have been tempted to strangle a date who spent half the evening on the cell phone, but he was evidently willing to put up with it under special circumstances.
I considered it briefly, but I thought of the effort it would take to shower, get dressed, and primp for a nice evening out with a well-dressed man, and I felt exhausted. Then my stomach churned again, reminding me that eating a lot of ice cream when you’re upset isn’t always such a good idea.
“I’m really sorry,” I said. “I just don’t feel up to it right now.”
He looked disappointed but said, “Okay. I can understand that.”
I felt terrible. A man who didn’t sulk under such circumstances was worth more than rubies. “I’ll make it up to you,” I promised. “But I’d be rotten company tonight. Now that I’ve made all my calls . . .
now
I just want to lie on my couch moping.”
“So you’re saying sex is also off the menu tonight,” he guessed.
I jumped a little, startled. It was the most direct he’d ever been about wanting to get me into bed.
The blue of his eyes suddenly looked darker. “I had plans.”
“And you dressed for the occasion,” I noted.
His gaze dropped to my mouth. “I didn’t do that for you. I did that for the hostess at Raoul’s. I hear she’s hot.”
“You were going to take me to Raoul’s?” It was a pricey restaurant in Soho with a reputation for good food and a romantic ambience. I felt even worse about canceling our date when I recalled, “Oh! You said you had something to celebrate tonight?”
“Yeah.” He removed his arm from my shoulders. Leaning back against the cushions, he said, “But I see it’s not a good night for a celebration. So we’ll do it next time.”
“Did you make reservations?”
“I’ll cancel.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You didn’t know you’d lose your job today.”
I rose to my feet. “I’ll get dressed. Er, shower and get dressed. And we’ll—”
“Suddenly you’re feeling better?”
“Well, no,” I admitted. “But I don’t want to spoil—”
“Then let’s save it for a night when you’re in the mood.” He smiled and added, “For everything.”
“I’m sorry. I feel terrible about this.”
He waved aside my comment. “Forget it. Raoul’s is the wrong place to take a woman who isn’t hungry. If I’m going to pay that much for dinner, we have to eat every bite.”
I smiled. “Spoken like a man on a cop’s salary.”
The phone rang. I grabbed the receiver . . . but then I just stared at it without pressing the TALK button. I felt a sudden sense of looming dread.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Lopez asked.
“I’m afraid it’s my mother,” I said.
“She calls on Sundays?”
“No, she calls whenever things are going badly.”
As the phone continued ringing, he said, “Don’t you want to talk to her?”
“No, of course not.”
“She’s not one of the people you called today?” he asked.
“Good God, no!”
He blinked at my tone. “Then how does she know things are going badly?”
“I’ve never figured that out,” I said. “She just has this uncanny sixth sense. Whenever things are at their lowest, she calls me. And within minutes, she manages to make me feel even worse.”
“I see.”
“It’s her gift.”
“Maybe you should get a phone with caller ID.”
“I can’t buy a new phone, I’m out of work.” I’m an actress, my budget is tight. My current phone would remain in use until it died. “I should never have given my home number to my mother!”
I knew even from our short acquaintance that Lopez was much closer to his parents than I was to mine. However, since his mother pestered him often by phone, perhaps he sympathized with my problem.
“Here, I’ll answer it,” he said. “If it’s your mom, I’ll tell her you’re in the shower.”
“You can’t do that!” I clung to the cordless receiver when he reached for it. “I’ll have to explain what a strange man was doing in my apartment while I was showering!”
“I’m not that strange,” he said. “Besides, she must realize you date. I mean, if
my
mom realizes that
I
date, then surely—”
“Dating and being naked in the next room are not synonymous in my family. Anyhow, then she’d fight with me about dating someone who’s not Jewish.”
“How would she know I’m not Jewish on the
phone?
”
There are things that Gentiles just don’t understand about Jewish mothers.
Realizing that any caller who was
not
my mother would give up in another ring or two, I girded my loins and answered the ringing phone. “Hello?”
“Esther! Esther Diamond! Sweetie! It’s Stella,” boomed a robust female voice in a strong Queens accent.
“Oh, Stella,” I said with relief. “Thanks for returning my call so soon.”
I met Lopez’s eyes and smiled. He took the ice cream carton from my lap and ate another spoonful.
“Are you kidding?” Stella said. “I called back as soon as I got your message. Of course we can use you around here! A good voice, sturdy feet, and a strong back? There’s always a place for you at Stella’s, sweetie. You wanna start this week?”
“I’ll be there tomorrow.” We made arrangements, and then I said, “Thanks, Stella.”
“No problem, sweetie.”
When I hung up, Lopez noted my relief and asked, “An audition? A job?”
“Well, I won’t starve or lose the apartment. I got my old day job back. The one I had right before
Sorcerer!
Waiting tables. Though ‘day job’ isn’t quite accurate. I usually get off work around two o’clock in the morning at Stella’s.”
“Stella’s?”
“It’s a restaurant called Bella Stella in Little Italy.”
He frowned. “On Mulberry Street.”
“You know it?” That didn’t surprise me. It was a pretty famous place.
“Of course I know it, Esther. There’ve been two mob hits there in the past five years, and Stella Butera launders money for the Gambello crime family.”
Okay, so it was notorious as well as famous.
Bella Stella was a Mafia hangout, particularly popular with the Gambellos. This notoriety, of course, also made it a hot tourist spot, as well as a stomping ground for certain celebrities. Stella perpetually claimed to be thirty-nine, which was probably a dozen years younger than her true age. The restaurant had been given to her long ago by Handsome Joey Gambello, who’d been her lover for more than twenty years—right up until the night he was assassinated in the restaurant’s bathroom five years ago.
Lopez said, “Look, I know this is only our third date—sort of—but I don’t want you working there. It’s not safe.”
“Oh, come on,” I said. “Nobody there is going to kill
me
. I’m just an actress. Er, waitress.”
“When somebody sprays a sawed-off shotgun across the room, the bullets don’t go out of their way to avoid law-abiding citizens,” he pointed out.
“No innocent bystander—or waitress—has ever been harmed at Stella’s.” I’m no fool, I had checked before the first time I started working there.
“Not yet,” he said. “That would be bad for business, and if there’s one things wiseguys love, it’s making money. They’ve been careful at Stella’s so far. But sooner or later, it’ll happen. A waiter or tourist will get killed in the cross fire.”
Since his expression implored me to take him seriously, I did. “I read up on those hits,” I said. “There was no spraying of shotguns.”
“No,” he agreed, “Handsome Joey Gambello was whacked five years ago with a twenty-two caliber, two shots straight into the head. Very professional. Then two years ago, Frankie Mastiglione got shivved while gorging on
pasta al forno
, and no one realized he was dead until he fell facedown into his dinner after the hitter had already left.”
So Lopez had evidently read up on the murders at Stella’s, too.
“Cops know all sorts of interesting things,” I said.
He continued, “But all it takes is one bullet, Esther. Or one hitter who thinks you may remember his face.”
“I suppose so,” I admitted. “But, then, all it takes is one cab that runs a red light or one lunatic on the subway, right?” Or one sorcerer’s apprentice run amok.
“Spending all your nights at Bella Stella raises the odds of dying young,” Lopez insisted. “The Gambellos have been at war on-and-off with the Corvino family for decades. Things are quiet between them these days, but it wouldn’t take much to trigger another war. And that could make Stella’s a dangerous place to work.”
“How do you know so much about this?” Before he could answer, I said, “Never mind, I get it. You’re a cop, and they’re criminals. Of course you know.”
“Actually—”
“Look, as day jobs go, this is a good one for me. Wiseguys tip well. I make better money at Stella’s than anywhere else, and that’s important.”
“And I want you to live long enough to spend whatever you make.”
“Plus, since we’re all, you know,
singing
waiters—” This was a special feature of Stella’s; the waiters and waitresses performed on request. “—Stella treats us like actors. She makes it easy for me to get time off for an audition or a quick job, like one day of filming on a soap opera. Most restaurants make that sort of thing a real headache for me. I even got fired from two other places because of it.”
“My point is—”
“I understand your point,” I said. “I do. But working at Bella Stella is a good between-jobs gig for me. And I can start earning right away, too. So I’m not going to give it up.”
“Esther . . .” Lopez let his breath out, sagged back against the couch cushions, and looked at the ceiling. “I just
had
to get interested in a starving actress.” He glanced at me and added, “One with no sense of self-preservation.”
I protested, “I have plenty of—”
“Still hanging out with Max?” he asked abruptly.
Another awkward subject. “Sometimes.”
Apart from enduring Golly Gee’s sour temper at work, I hadn’t encountered much Evil since we had eliminated Hieronymus, but I had become fond of Max. So I’d seen him a few times since then. Since Max was nearly 350 years old (though he didn’t look a day over 70), he was certainly not a rival for Lopez. But Lopez thought he was crazy and probably dangerous, and he didn’t like me having anything to do with him.
“Well,” Lopez said after a long moment, “at least I can keep an eye on you at Stella’s.”
I frowned. “You suddenly have time on your hands? Has the crime rate plummeted in the Sixth Precinct, or something?”

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