Till Beth Do Us Part (A Jamie Bravo Mystery Book 2) Page 3

  Giovanni himself greets me with, “Buon giorno, bella Jamie. I will make up your usual, no?”

  Giovanni is dressed in a burgundy velour jogging suit. He keeps the jacket unzipped to his naval. The better to show off his gray nest of chest hair and five dangling gold chains. I wonder briefly if he ever has trouble untangling the chains from all that hair.

  Chest hair. Reason Number One why I am a lesbian.

  “The usual sounds good,” I reply even though I know Giovanni's idea of usual is whatever gelato he has the most of and is trying to get rid of this week. He hands me a cup of chocolate and vanilla swirl with almonds. He hands over another dish of vanilla, saying, “For the pooch. He loves me, no?”

  “He loves everyone who gives him food,” I say good-naturedly. I set the bowl on the floor and Ivan shoves his pointy little nose right down in the middle of all that cold goodness.

  “Si, si, I love everyone who gives me food, too,” Giovanni says with a laugh, patting his enormous belly. “The pooch must have Italian in him.”

  “Must have,” I say with a smile.

  I carry my gelato over to the table where Frankie is sitting with two other goombahs. Frankie is the head honcho and a man of few words. He’s a big man with even bigger eyebrows. They're like twin caterpillars crawling up his forehead. One thing about Frankie, he's a regular hair farm. Way back when he was a kid he had a thing for my mother, Bella Bravo. He never could understand why she chose to marry my pa, a garbage man, when she could've married him, a mobster. Thank God, he didn't marry Ma or I might've had a unibrow and hairy knuckles.

  Jimmy Smith—all the goombahs pretend to have the last name Smith—sits on Frankie's right. He's dressed to the nines in a mint green silk suit, silk orange shirt, and a purple silk tie. It hurts my eyeballs just to look at him.

  Across from Jimmy sits Dumbshit. That's not his real name, of course, but that's all I've ever heard him called. During any given conversation, Dumbshit gets smacked in the head by Frankie a minimum of five to seven times depending on how much he talks. Silence is his best friend, only he doesn’t know it.

  “Sit,” Frankie says to me, wasting no words.

  Jimmy adds, “We got a job for you.”

  Dumbshit scoots over, making room for me in the booth. I must have been promoted. They usually make me bring over a chair, now I get to sit in the booth. I'm not sure how I feel about this. Will they ask me to do something I can’t refuse and I’ll have to hightail it out of the country? I figure I'll go to Canada because Mexico seems too risky. I'll shoot to the Northwest Territories and become a bush woman, living on my wits and my non-existent hunting skills. My Uncle Cheech went to his grave swearing the CIA was looking to kill him because of the secrets he knew. I don't want to go the same way.

  “How's the gelato?” Frankie asks.

  All conversations in Little Italy start off the same way—talking about food. You start off with food and you end the conversation by asking about their mother. It's an unwritten law. There's no getting around it.

  I take a bite of the gelato, swish it around in my mouth. It wouldn't be my first choice of a dessert before walking the green mile but it isn’t half bad.

  “Good,” I say. “What's not to like?”

  Frankie says, “We need your womanly relationship skills.”

  Is he talking to me? Doesn't he know I suck at relationships? Did I suddenly acquire some skills overnight?

  “Me?” I ask, pointing at myself with the plastic spoon.

  Frankie nods to Jimmy, giving him the go-ahead to talk.

  “Yeah, you,” Jimmy says. “You see any other woman here?”

  That's a rhetorical question and I don't dare answer.

  Instead I say, “But I don't have any skills. I suck in the relationship department. I've never had a good relationship.”

  “Me either,” Dumbshit says.

  “You never had a relationship, good or bad,” Frankie says.

  Dumbshit makes the mistake of talking more. “Sure I have. What about Janice Putenella?”

  “Junior high doesn’t count,” Frankie says and smacks him on the forehead.

  “You’re a sloppy kisser. No woman wants that,” Jimmy says.

  Now the conversation is going places I'd rather not go. The thought of Dumbshit kissing any woman makes me not want my gelato. I hurry and spoon it in before I lose my appetite.

  “Did Janice say I was sloppy?” Dumbshit asks. He looks genuinely hurt.

  “No, I saw the whole thing. It was disgusting,” Jimmy says. “I almost puked. Janice needed a bib after that one. I’m pretty sure she got a bad case of PTSD from that.”

  “How’d you know that?” Dumbshit says.

  “Because she’s a lesbian now,” Frankie says, and smacks him upside the head. “She was a real looker and you took her out of the field.”

  “Say, maybe we could fix Jamie up with Janice,” Jimmy says.

  Frankie raises one caterpillar eyebrow. “Not a bad idea.” He turns to me. “I’ll give her your number.”

  “Thanks.” It's better not to refuse a goombah.

  “The real reason I called you here is because of a marital problem,” Frankie says.

  “Marital problem? I’m not really qualified for that.”

  Frankie nods to Jimmy to continue the talk. “You’re more qualified than we are. We need a woman to have a woman-to-woman talk with Sheri Rosetti,” Jimmy says.

  I know that someone was “doing” something that needed to be undone to bring it to the attention of the goombahs. “What’d Sheri do?”

  “It’s more like what she’s going to do,” Jimmy says.

  “Okay, what’s she going to do that you all don’t want her to do?”

  “She wants to divorce her husband,” Frankie says. “And you have to stop it.”

  “Why does she want to divorce him?”

  The men all sigh—heavily. They lower their faces and slowly shake their heads from side to side.

  “What? It can’t be that bad or can it? Does he play around? Beat her? He’s a cheapskate? Bad dresser? Color blind?”

  “No. None of those things,” Jimmy answers.

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “He’s got a dick like a crushed beer can,” Dumbshit blurts.

  My gelato goes down the wrong tube. Once I get my air back I ask, “Excuse me?”

  Frankie smacks Dumbshit in the forehead.

  “What? It’s true. I’ve seen the thing. It’s uglier than shit. Worst sauseech I ever seen. It’s deformed,” Dumbshit says. This time he ducks and avoids another smack. He ends up hitting his head on the edge of the table. “Oh, Marrona mia!” he exclaims, clutching his forehead.

  “Serves you right, you indelicate fucktard,” Jimmy says.

  Dumbshit rubs the goose egg forming on his forehead. “You ever seen it? I wish the urinal didn’t exist. A guy can get too much information without even trying.”

  Jimmy and Frankie nod in unison. “That’s the smartest thing he’s ever said,” Jimmy says.

  “Remind me to mark it down on my calendar,” Frankie says.

  I scrape my bowl with my spoon trying to get the last bite. “So, let me get this straight. . .He isn’t good in bed because he has a deformed penis?”

  “That’s it,” Frankie says.

  “I take it Sheri has a normal vagina and that’s the nature of the problem,” I say. I shove the last spoonful of gelato in my mouth so I have time to un-imagine this sexual liaison.

  “Sheri wants a divorce on the grounds of sexual incompatibility,” Jimmy says. He sips his small cup of espresso. I didn’t know Giovanni served espresso. I hesitate to ask for one because that means I’d have to be here longer than I want to.

  “Sheri does have a point, you know. Sex is a big part of any relationship.” I'm trying to be empathetic. Would I sleep with a woman if she had a deformed vagina? Or am I just being a vagina bigot?

  “I understand that,” Frankie says. “But there
’s this thing, this code we have, and it don’t allow for no divorce.”

  Jimmy takes another sip of espresso. It smells delicious. Jimmy glances at me. He raises his hand in the air and snaps his fingers, saying, “Giovanni, bring Jamie here an espresso.”

  “Well, I… okay,” I bluster. My coveting has been spotted, but if I was going to sit here discussing weird sauseeches, I deserve a cup of delicious smelling espresso.

  “Jamie, I make a living reading people’s wants and desires,” Jimmy says. “I knew what you wanted before you even did. And I’m giving it to you.”

  I hope I didn't just sell my soul for a cup of coffee.

  Giovanni brings me a tiny cup sitting on a tiny saucer with a tiny lemon wedge beside it. I hold it up to my nose and sniff reverently. I sip. Heaven. Heaven in a cup. I put the cup down and smile at the goombahs. “This code you talk about, the one that says no divorce. . . Is that a Catholic code?”

  “You could say that,” Frankie says.

  I furrow my brow. Talking to mobsters isn't easy. They never straight out say something. It’s like they’re always talking in code. Like they fear they are being listened to by the FBI—which could be true.

  “You know that part of the wedding vows that says ‘Until death do us part’” Frankie asks.

  “Yes.” I'm not sure I like where this is going.

  “That's not, how you call it. . .,” he looks to Jimmy for help. “What do you say when it's a figure of speech?”

  Jimmy answers, “Figurative.”

  “That's it,” Frankie says. “Till death do us part is not figurative.”

  “You want a divorce, somebody's got to die,” Dumbshit clarifies.

  I cringe. That sounds like Henry VIII, chopping off Anne Boleyn’s head just because he got tired of her in the sack.

  “Italian women don’t get divorced,” Frankie says. “It's not how things are done. We take care of things. There’s a problem with a husband—he beats his wife—then we beat him. A husband plays around too much and is indiscreet—we bust his balls—that's not figurative neither. We take care of our own. This case, however, is a little different.”

  “Because of its sensitive nature?”

  “Yeah,” Jimmy says.

  “Maybe we could buy him a new dick,” Dumbshit pipes up. This time it's Jimmy who boxes his ear.

  “You’re saying that if a woman leaves her husband that the ‘until death do us part’ is real?” I slurped down the last of my tiny coffee and felt my body buzz. I should go to the gym and take advantage of this high.

  All three goombahs nod.

  “If you ask me, good riddance. Sheri’s a bitch, if you know what I mean—if she were a dog, she'd be a poodle.” Frankie lifts his empty gelato dish in Giovanni's direction. Giovanni nods.

  “She can’t divorce him because she knows too much. If the Feds get hold of a pissed-off and vindictive ex-wife, there could be serious consequences,” Jimmy says. “If you get my drift.”

  I do. Once you're married, you stay married. Or in other words, what happens in the mob stays in the mob.

  Giovanni hands Frankie a new dish of vanilla and pralines gelato. Frankie takes a humongous bite and nods his appreciation.

  It all becomes crystal clear. They want me to have a little woman-to-woman talk to keep this divorce from happening.

  “As a rule, we don’t like to interfere with the women,” Frankie says.

  That's where I come in. “What happens if I can't talk Sheri out of a divorce?”

  “Make sure that don't happen. You need to explain it to her,” Jimmy says.

  Dumbshit adds, “Yeah, my cousin Vinnie he married a real…” Frankie slaps him on the back of his head.

  “Vinnie is an idiot,” Frankie says, shoving a huge spoonful of gelato in his mouth and glaring at Dumbshit. “We want you to go talk some sense into Sheri,” he says. “I don’t think she realizes the gravy of the situation.”

  I'm pretty sure he means gravity. But I'm not going to correct him. In this case gravity means concrete shoes and a swim in the lake. “I’ll give it my best shot.”

  “Bring her some white lilies when you go visit,” Frankie says. “They speak volumes.”

  “Yep, you don’t have to say nothing else,” Jimmy says.

  “Except Sheri always has been…” Dumbshit said.

  Jimmy raises his hand. Dumbshit ducks.

  “Sheri has always been stubborn. She’ll need more than lilies. Oh, and take her some Juicy Fruit gum. She’s trying to quit smoking,” Frankie says.

  “Got it.” Frankie jots Sheri Rosetti’s address and cell number down on a napkin and slides it across the table to me.

  “What about her husband? Where's he?”

  “I sent him to take care of some business in Atlantic City. You won’t run into him,” Frankie says.

  That's the first piece of good news I've heard. I didn't think I could face the man knowing what was in his pants.

  Frankie signals the meeting is over by asking, “How's your mother?”

  “She's good, real good.”

  “Tell her hello from me.”

  “Will do.”

  “And if she ever gets tired of that garbage man she married, she knows where I am.”

  That I won't tell her. But I just smile and stand. Sometimes the wisest thing to say is nothing.

  Five

  Some women go to the gym to pick up guys. Some go to combat their aging muscle tone. Some go because. . . well, I can't think of any more reasons. Me? I go to the gym to run off all the pasta I eat.

  I left Ivan with the gym owner, Holden. Holden has so many muscles his muscles have muscles. He loves Ivan. He even got Ivan a little doggie T-shirt with Holden's Gym stenciled on it. Ivan sits on the counter and soaks up all the adoration from the ladies who come in the place. He’s like a little hairless mascot. Holden doesn't have any hair either. They're simpatico that way.

  The worst part about the gym is the women's locker room. Being a lesbian since birth, you'd think I would love the locker room—all those naked wet women showering together and parading their toned buttocks around the place. I hate the locker room because I feel inferior. My body isn't all that bad, it's just that it isn't all that good either. I study myself in the mirror—something I only do once a leap year. I have a few extra pounds, but not too bad. My butt is about two inches lower than I'd like. My thighs don't gap and never have. My once perky boobs are having a race with my butt to see who gets to the floor first. I used to wear a 34 B bra. Now I wear a 34 long.

  In the mirror behind me, I see Zelda put on her tiny shorts. Zelda is my old high school archnemesis. She's black and gorgeous. Her butt could give Beyoncé a run for her money. She was the star basketball player in our high school. The only reason she didn't go pro was because the WNBA didn't pay enough. She's an entrepreneur. She starts up companies then sells them. She's rich and I hate her.

  Jealous much? Me? Yeah, I'm jealous.

  I shove my butt into baggy sweats and lace up my trainers. Zelda runs in place in front of me in her color-coordinated tiny track shorts and tankini. She wears everything skin tight. Less wind resistance, she says.

  “Well?” Zelda asks.

  “Well what?”

  “Are you going to the reunion? I’ve already got my outfit and everything. I’m still on the fence about my shoes.”

  “I don't know. I'm still on the fence about going.” All Zelda's running in place is giving me motion sickness.

  “We should go together,” she says.

  “Not a chance.”

  “C'mon, Jamie. Let bygones be bygones.”

  “Bygones?” I stand. “Are you referring to that time our freshman year when you told everybody I had herpes?”

  Zelda shrugs.

  “Or that time our sophomore year when you stole my clothes during P.E. and I had to wear stinky lost-and-found clothes the rest of the day?”

  Zelda laughed. “I forgot about that. That was a good one.
”

  “For you maybe. For me, not so good.”

  “Listen, Jamie, I could ask anybody to the reunion and they'd be ecstatic to go with me. You should be flattered that I asked you.”

  I can't believe it. She's even more self-centered than I thought. Her head is so big it could float in the Macy's parade.

  I walk out the door and up to the indoor track. I do toe touches to warm up. Zelda bops up and down along beside me.

  “So, what's your verdict?” she asks.

  I stop stretching. “If you could have anybody, why're you asking me?”

  “You're hot.”

  For a moment I actually think she's referring to my sweat mustache. I wipe my upper lip. Then I realize she's complimenting me.

  “Me? Hot?”

  “Oh, don't act like you don't know you're hot.”

  “You're jealous? Of me?”

  “Of course not. I just thought if we went to the reunion together our combined hotness would work as a tidal wave, you know, a giant force that would suck women into our path,” she says.

  “I think you must have me confused with a black hole.”

  “I'm not going to ask you twice, Jamie,” she says.

  “Good. Because you've already asked me about ten times.”

  Zelda runs onto the track, giving me a terrific view of her non-jiggly backside. She stops and turns around. “You know, if you want, I can give you an exercise that will help you out with that little bat-wing problem you have.”

  Uh oh, here comes the real Zelda, the Zelda I know. “I don't have bat-wings.”

  “Eh. . . matter of opinion.”

  “I already told Veronica I'd go to the thingy with her,” I say.

  “I thought you broke up with her.”

  I shrug. “Matter of opinion. I think we're broken up. She doesn't.”

  She walks toward me, lowering her voice like somebody might overhear, “You know the only way to get rid of a woman like her?”