CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

T he drizzle had let up, and Mary was back in the car. She drove down the street, and the neighborhood seemed electrified by the murder, with people hanging out on their stoops, talking to each other. She turned on the windshield wipers and cruised ahead, then took a right, slowing down as she turned onto the street where Ritchie Po and his father lived.

She suppressed a tingle of fear and cruised past the house, watching the people going in and out of the Po house. Some were older neighborhood types bearing pastry boxes, but most weren’t. Brawny guys in dark tracksuits climbed the front stoop, and black jackets got out of cars that double-parked out front. Mary checked them to see if they had funny eyes, but no.

Then she got down to business, scanning the parked and double-parked cars and all of the cars that dropped people off at the house. She spotted one Cadillac, then another, and started counting. She even circled the block twice, checking the cars on each trip, ending up at twelve Cadillacs. She felt her hope slip away. Maybe it wasn’t such a great plan, since a Caddy was the official car of the South Philly Mob.

Mary took another turn around the block, and when she stopped at the corner, a memory came drifting back, floating out of her subconscious. This wasn’t the first time she had driven around this block, semistalking Bobby’s house. She used to drive by in high school, after they’d broken up. She’d hoped to see him coming out of his house or going in; she was trying to decide whether to tell him about the baby, even after the fact. She felt a weight on her chest, like the one she’d felt when Mike died, and for a second she didn’t know who she was mourning, as if both loves had gotten tangled together, her first love wrapped around her last love like a sucker vine, choking the life from her.

HONK! went a car horn, and Mary yelped. A red VW Golf with a teenage boy driving screeched through the intersection. She’d run the stop sign.

“Sorry!” she called out, lowering her window, but the teenager flipped her the bird, then zoomed off, which was when she looked out of her open window.

Rolli’s, read the neon sign, flickering. It was another neighborhood restaurant, on the corner. She remembered that Bobby used to mention the place. He used to bus tables there, after school, in the off-season, and once, driving past, she’d seen him coming out. She flashed on the memory, like a snapshot: a tall young man, his bangs catching the wind, wearing a football jacket. He lets the screen door bang closed behind him. He slides a toothpick into the side of his mouth.

Mary pushed it away and eyed the place. Rolli’s was only two blocks from Bobby’s house, and now that she knew how miserable his home life had been, she understood why he’d hung out there. She considered it. If he used to go to Rolli’s a lot, maybe he still did. What was it Brinkley had said? People like patterns. Maybe Bobby had taken Eyes in there. Maybe Mary didn’t have to wait until tonight. It could be time that Trish didn’t have.

Mary pulled over and was braking when her phone rang. She checked the screen. “Anthony?”

“Mary?”

“Hey.” She heard the warmth in her own voice. She had to admit she couldn’t sound cool. She didn’t feel cool. She felt melty, emotional, and caffeinated, and she was crashing at the intersection of three men.

“How are you?” Anthony asked. “I was thinking about you, after last night.”

“Me, too,” Mary heard herself say.

“Kind of a heavy night. Did you sleep?”

“Not really.”

“Where are you?”

“In the neighborhood.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Uh…a case.”

“Really?” Anthony sounded dubious “You’re not looking for Trish, are you? You heard Detective Brinkley.”

“Uh, no. I’m working.”

“After your meeting, why don’t you take a break? Come over for lunch. You haven’t had my Bolognese sauce, which I learned to make in Bologna.”

“I can’t. Work, work, work.”

“When then?”

“I’m not sure,” Mary answered. She felt distracted by Rolli’s. Thinking about all the things she should have done, but didn’t.

“You there?”

“Huh?” Mary caught herself. She had to go. She didn’t have time for this. If she could just put him on hold. How can you tell a man to wait while you track down a dead mobster? It’s not a good way to start a relationship.

“You know, I can’t figure you out. Half the time you’re blowing me off, and half the time you’re not.”

Gulp. “Anthony, I’m not blowing you off but I have to go. I’ll call you back in half an hour.”

“Forget it-”

“No, really, I will, I swear it.”

“Okay, great,” Anthony said abruptly, then hung up.

Mary slipped the phone into her purse, parked the car, and went into Rolli’s, which turned out to be the opposite of Biannetti’s in every way. It was tiny, but bright and clean, with only one of twelve tables occupied. Cheery flowered tablecloths covered the little square tables, and the air smelled like stale Parmesan and Lysol. An old TV mounted in the corner played ESPN with closed captioning, but there was no bar. Mary looked around for a hostess, but seeing none, sat down and waited. She looked over at the occupied table, where two older women sat behind plates of ravioli. After five minutes, she called out to them, “Excuse me, is there a waitress around?”

“Wha?” one of the women asked, her gnarled hand fluttering to her ear, feeling if her hearing aid was turned on. Mary knew the gesture. Her father had a hearing aid he turned off whenever the Phillies started losing. She craned her neck to the back of the room, where fluorescent light spilled from an open doorway into what had to be the kitchen. She got up and went over.

“Hello?” Mary called out at the threshold, but there was no answer, so she stepped inside. It was empty. Stainless-steel counters ran the full length of the room, and an array of steel ladles, spoons, and spatulas hung from hooks on the back wall. A huge pot of gravy sat on the stove, but it wasn’t bubbling, and the kitchen smelled oddly of sawdust. “Hello?”

“Be right there!” a voice called back, and a short, middle-aged man with black hair and dark skin emerged from the back pantry, holding a commercial-size can of Cento tomatoes. “I’m Jorge, can I help you?” he asked, his accent Hispanic.

“I didn’t see a waitress.”

“Sorry, she’s late. Please, go sit, and I’ll be right out.”

“Actually, I’m looking for a man named Eyes. I don’t know his real name, but I think he was a friend of Bobby Mancuso, who worked here a long time ago. I’m hoping that he still might come in here and that he brought Eyes with him.”

“Bobby?” Jorge asked, his expression somber. He set down the big tomato can, clank against the steel counter, then wiped his hands on his full-length apron. “We’re all so sad about Bobby. So sad.”

“You know him?” Mary asked, surprised.

“Yeah, sure. Bobby, he come in here, all the time. It’s terrible he died. Such a young man.”

“He was.” It struck Mary that nobody at Biannetti’s had looked like they were in mourning, even the day after his murder. “How often did he come in?”

“Like I say, all the time, for dinner. He liked the cannelloni. Three times a week, maybe more.”

“Was this recently?” Mary felt her heartbeat quicken.

“Sure, all the time.”

Mary didn’t understand it. Trish’s diary had said that Bobby went to Biannetti’s all the time, but there hadn’t been any references to Rolli’s. Between here and Biannetti’s, he must have been in a carb frenzy.

“You a cop, Miss?”

Mary introduced herself. “No, I’m an old friend of Bobby’s, from way back.”

Jorge’s dark eyes narrowed.

“For real. I dated him in high school. Did he ever come in with a man named Eyes?”

“No.” Jorge shook his head. “He come in alone.”