Rizzo’s Fire (36 page)

Priscilla shook her head. “Too bad Bradley didn’t just put his own name on the damn play,” she said. “At least then, Avery Mallard would still be alive.”

Rizzo nodded. “Yeah. But you heard what Bradley said. Most of the big Broadway shows are revivals, or bio plays about Frankie Vallie or Sinatra. I’m thinkin’, that kinda stuff comes with guaranteed audiences, so it makes it easy for a producer to raise money. That’s why Bradley never approached Lauria in the first place. Like we figured, he knew he’d never hit a home run, make millions on a show with Lauria’s name on it, no matter how good it was. And his own name wouldn’t be much better. But with
Mallard
bein’ the playwright, Bradley sees a built-in audience and knows he can easily raise enough dough to produce the thing, and it’s Broadway here we come.”

“Yeah. I forgot that,” she said.

“Well, relax, kiddo,” Rizzo said. “It’s almost over, so don’t be losing any sleep over DeMaris. Your biggest worry right now is my mother.”

Priscilla looked puzzled.

“Yeah,” Rizzo said. “My mother.” He turned to face her. “You gotta come up with some sorta answer.”

Priscilla shook her head. “Answer for what?”

“For Thanksgiving when she asks you and Karen, ‘How come two nice girls like you aren’t married?’ ”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE TABLE IN THE RIZZO DINING ROOM
, its two extension leaves in place, ran nearly the entire length of the room. Joe Rizzo sat at the head of the table, his back to the breakfront. Jennifer was to his right, closest to the kitchen, daughters Marie and Jessica to her right. Priscilla Jackson sat to Joe’s left beside Karen Krauss and the youngest Rizzo girl, Carol. At the table’s end were the two family matriarchs—Joe’s mother, Marie Rizzo, and Jennifer’s mother, Jessica Falco.

“Take more antipasto,” Grandma Falco said, waving her fork at Karen. “Have some prosciutto and some provolone.”

Karen, platter in hand, smiled. “Yes, well, alright,” she said. “Maybe just a bit more.”

Jennifer smiled. “Easy, Mom, it’s a long day, there’s a ton of food . . .”

She shrugged. “I’m just sayin’,” she said. “She’s so skinny, she should eat.”

“Mom,” Jennifer said, a warning in her tone.

“Look,” Grandma Falco said. “Look what she’s taking: an artichoke heart, two olives, one stalk of celery, and a couple of peppers.” She shrugged, holding her shoulders high, almost to ear level. “What is she, a rabbit?” She turned back to Karen. “There’s capicola there, and caponata. Take some pepperoni—it’s imported.”

“They’re all skinny,” Grandma Rizzo said, shaking her head. “Look at our granddaughters, Jessica, they’re the same way.” She placed a slice of provolone in her mouth. “Skinny, like long drinks of water.”

Joe laughed. “Just take what you want, Karen, but save room for the manicotti and the meats.”

“Not to mention the turkey,” Carol said.

Priscilla took the offered antipasto platter from Karen, forking generous portions onto her plate. “This stuff is great, Mrs. Falco,” she said. “You don’t have to encourage me.”

“You’re too skinny, too,” Falco said matter-of-factly.

Rizzo’s daughter Marie leaned forward from opposite Karen. “I imagine you guys didn’t realize that the Pilgrims
had
antipasto for Thanksgiving,” she said, “not to mention manicotti, sausage, meat-balls, and braciole.”

“I made the meats,” Falco interjected. “You’ll tell me if you like them.”

“And I made the manicotti and the gravy,” Grandma Rizzo said.

Marie smiled at Karen and Priscilla. “She means sauce. She made the tomato sauce.”

“Yeah, Ma,” Joe said. “The Ameri-cahns call it sauce. Gravy’s for the turkey. Brown.”

Joe’s mother waved a hand at him. “Stop talking and eat.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “One thing I said,” he told Jennifer. “One thing.”

Jennifer sipped her wine, then turned to Karen. “Joe tells me that you’re an attorney.”

“Yes,” Karen said. “Corporate law. I’m mostly involved in acquisitions and mergers, conforming out-of-state business structuring to New York law, things like that.”

Now daughter Jessica asked, “Do you go to court much, Karen?”

“God, no,” Karen replied. “In fact, the only times I’ve ever been in a courtroom were to watch Cil testify on some of her cases. Professionally, I have no need to be in a court house.”

Grandma Falco leaned over, speaking in her version of a whisper to Joe’s mother.

“They send the men to court,” she said.

“Mom,” Jennifer said, again with a warning in her tone.

Priscilla spoke up. “This antipasto is
awesome,
” she said. “Who put this together?”

“The girls did that,” Jennifer said. “They’ve been doing it every Thanksgiving since they were young kids.”

Grandma Rizzo spoke up. “I taught them how to make it,” she said. “But they never use
ah-leech
. It’s not as good without
ah-leech
.”

Priscilla noticed Karen’s look of puzzlement.

“Anchovies,” she said softly. “
Ah-leech
is Brooklyn-Italian slang for anchovies.”

Karen nodded. “Oh,” she said.

“
Scommetto che quella le mangierebbe,
” Joe’s mother said to Jennifer’s mother in low tones, referring to Priscilla.

Joe shook his head. “No Italian, Mom. It’s rude.”

“I won’t talk,” she said, shrugging and feigning insult.

He nodded. “Good idea, probably.”

Later, with simmering plates of pasta, sausage, meatballs, and pork braciole dominating the table, Priscilla gave a hearty laugh.

“I had no idea the Pilgrims ate this good, Joe,” she said.

“Yeah, well,” Rizzo countered, “the Indians probably brought this stuff. I don’t think the Pilgrims were noted for their cuisine.”

Grandma Falco spoke up. “No, but the Italians are.”

Grandma Rizzo chimed in. “And for their art, and their literature, and science, engineering, medicine—”

Carol broke in. “And their mobsters.”

Grandma Falco shook her head. “Never mind, Carol, we get hit on the head enough with that from television and books. And from the movies. If it was anybody else, there’d be lawsuits, riots, and God knows what else.”

“Okay, Mom,” Jennifer said.

“No,” Grandma Rizzo interjected, “your mother is right, Jennifer. It’s not okay. She’s right to say it.” She glared at Carol. “And you, you be quiet. You bring that up in front of strangers?”

“They ain’t strangers, Ma,” Joe said gently. “Priscilla’s my partner.”

Grandma Rizzo spooned manicotti onto her plate and reached for the gravy boat. “But still not family,” she said. “And don’t say ‘ain’t.’ What are you, a
strattone
?”

Joe turned to Priscilla and Karen. “The secret to an Italian Thanksgiving dinner is in the pacing,” he said. “One dish of antipasto, two manicottis, a couple of meatballs, a little braciole and sauseech, a few pieces of Italian bread. Then we take a break, watch a little football before the turkey comes out.” He shrugged. “Turkey’s overrated, anyway. Best way to eat turkey is tomorrow, in a semolina hero, with mayo and provolone and roasted peppers.”

“I was around eighteen before I even tried a piece of turkey on Thanksgiving Day,” young Jessica said. “By the time it would come to the table, I was always full.”

Grandma Falco snorted. “Turkey,” she said. “Ameri-cahn.” Then she glanced sheepishly at Karen. “Which is good, too. But . . . try my braciole. Go ahead, try it. Then you’ll see.” She shook her head. “Turkey,” she repeated, baffled.

“So,” Carol said to Karen, “when did you and Cil meet?”

Karen smiled. “About two and a half years ago.”

Grandma Rizzo muttered. “Oh,
ma-don
,” she said.

Priscilla smiled down the table toward her. “This manicotti is unbelievable,” she said. “Best I’ve ever had.”

The elderly woman’s face lit up. “Really? You think so?” she said. “Take another piece, don’t listen to my son, you can have more than two, there’s plenty. I made extra.”

“I may just do that, Mrs. Rizzo,” Priscilla said.

Beaming, Grandma Rizzo waved a hand at Priscilla. “Eat, eat, and call me Marie, dear. Please.”

Priscilla broadened her smile. “Like Joe’s oldest? Marie?”

She nodded proudly. “Yes. My granddaughter, the doctor.”

“Not yet, Grandma Rizzo,” Marie said. “Not quite yet.”

Jennifer’s mother leaned forward. “And Jessica is named after me,” she added. “Try the meatballs, Priscilla,” she added. “They’re delicious.
I
made them.”

LATER, WHILE
coffee and dessert were being prepared in the kitchen and Joe dozed in his recliner in the den, Carol, Karen, and Priscilla gathered in the living room.

“It doesn’t make sense, Cil,” Carol said, her face set in anger. “He works with a female cop every day, then he tells me it’s not a job for a woman. And after a lifetime of listening to him preach about equal opportunity . . . Apparently it was all just bullshit.”

“Carol, your father means well,” Priscilla said. “Believe me, his heart’s in the right place. And to tell you the truth, if
I
had a kid, girl or boy, I’d probably steer him away, too. It’s not the right choice for a lot of people. It’s complicated. It’s not just about male or female. And what he’s not telling you is, he’s just plain scared. Afraid you’ll get hurt, shot maybe. He doesn’t want to say it. A lot of old-time cops believe saying it out loud is a jinx. Believe me, he’s scared.”

Karen added, “Cil and I may have a child of our own someday, and I wouldn’t want to see him or her become a police officer, either. Your father only has your best interest at heart.”

“And what
I
want isn’t important?” Carol said.

“Nobody’s even suggestin’ that,” Priscilla said calmly. “That’s just your defensiveness talking. But here’s what I think you should do: hear your father out, weigh what he’s got to say. And keep in mind, he’s tryin’ to do right by you, his motives are good. You know, after all those years on the job, Joe knows what he’s talking about. Hear him out, and you respect his opinion.” She shrugged. “But keep in mind, it’s your life. Ultimately,
you
gotta decide. And when you do, he’ll go along with it, either way.”

Carol leaned forward. “What about you, Cil? Do you regret having become a cop?”

“Not for one second,” Priscilla said with a smile. “Your old man would ring my neck if he heard me tell you this, but the truth is this is the greatest job on the planet. I love it.”

Priscilla reached out and patted Carol’s knee. “I think I know this guy, Carol,” she said, “in ways you never can, bein’ his daughter and all.”

She leaned back on the couch, pursing her lips. “When all is said and done, if you come on the job, he’ll be there for you. I guarantee it.”

LATER THAT
evening, after the guests had gone, Rizzo went down to his basement office, cell phone in hand. He sat behind the desk, taking a Nicorette from his pocket, absentmindedly calculating the remaining hours before morning when he would once again have access to the Impala and its secret glove compartment stash.

Rummaging through the desk, he found his phone book containing the number he needed.

The call was picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?” he heard.

“Hello, Dan, Joe Rizzo here. From the Sixty-second Precinct.”

There was a pause. “Hello, Joe, how are you?” the man said. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, Dan, couldn’t be better. How was your Thanksgiving?”

“Great, just great. And yours?”

“Perfect,” Rizzo said.

“Glad to hear it, Joe. So what can I do for you?” Dan asked, a slight tone of resignation barely apparent.

“You’re still with the
Daily News,
right?” Rizzo asked.

“Yeah. My seventeenth year.”

“I thought I still saw your byline.” After a slight pause, Rizzo continued, his voice pleasant, his tone even.

“So, Dan, remember that little favor I did for you couple a years back? You know, with your son?”

Rizzo could hear a slight sigh come through the line. “Of course. How could I ever forget that?”

“Yeah, well, I guessed you would remember,” Rizzo said in the same pleasant manner. “See, at the time you said how grateful you were, how if there was ever anything you could do, I shouldn’t hesitate to call.”

“Yeah, Joe, I remember.”

“So I can assume you meant that?”

“Yes. Of course I did.”

Rizzo smiled into the phone. “Okay then,” he said. “So, here’s the thing . . .”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

AT EIGHT-THIRTY THE FOLLOWING MORNING
, traffic was lighter than usual as Priscilla Jackson drove the Impala toward Manhattan.

“I still say there’s a good chance DeMaris won’t be home when we get there, even if she is still breathing,” Priscilla said to Rizzo. “Friday after Thanksgiving, long four-day weekend.”

“Maybe,” he said, “but we know the office is closed, so she isn’t workin’ today. Like I told you when we went to the literary agencies, it’s best we catch this broad cold, unannounced. It’ll scare her.” He paused before continuing. “And that’s how we want her—
scared
. The scareder the better.”

“
Scare-der
?” Priscilla asked. “You mean
more
scared?”

“Yeah, okay, Professor, what ever the fuck,” Rizzo replied. “You get my point. See, by now Bradley had to warn her we’re comin’, but not until next week sometime, so he probably hasn’t face-to-faced with her yet to firm up her story. If we catch Ms. DeMaris in her hair curlers and skivvies, cup of coffee in her hand, her blood pressure is gonna spike, Cil, believe me.”

“So: bad cop / worse cop?” Priscilla asked.

“Yeah, like we discussed,” he said, enjoying himself. “If she proves to be what most murder-for-profit people are—a spoiled, conniving, self-centered bastard—we lean on her hard. Both of us.”

Priscilla responded. “Which one am I?”

Rizzo pondered it for a moment. “Bad cop,” he said. “I know the script a little better’n you do, so I’ll be worse cop.”