around Anthony’s belly. “Gotcha,” I said. “Good dog.”
Thus ended both my capture of Anthony and the funeral rites of Joseph Cortiniglia. I didn’t wait to watch as the Last of the Cave People—except one, his sister Jeannine—was lowered into the earth. Joey’s widow, Carla, probably should’ve seen her husband out, but she was busy getting her dog back. Carla was gratifyingly profuse in her thanks. She said that whenever Anthony got away from her, all he did was run away; never once had she been able to catch him. “Have I, Anthony? You’re too fast for Mummy, aren’t you? Aren’t you? Anthony doesn’t like to come when Mummy calls...”
My stomach turned. I like dogs: great and small, including really small. The one who made me queasy was Carla, who was holding Anthony out in front of her and babbling at him as if he were a stuffed animal or a figurine. The poor dog was lucky that Carla hadn’t made him wear a dress.
“We’ve been a naughty boy today, haven’t we? We got our lovely new velvet suit all wet and messy, so we couldn’t wear it.”
In the hope of being rescued from Carla, I looked toward the tombstone behind which Al Favuzza had taken shelter from the discussion of bodies and ground. But Guarini appeared at my elbow. “Good,” he said.
“I aim to please.”
Carla cut me off by bursting into tears and wailing self-evident truths about Joey: He was gone. He was really gone. We’d never see him again. Then she switched to bawling about her gratitude to Enzio. She didn’t know what she’d do without him. He was a good man. He was a wonderful man. He was a man with a sense of family.
Then she did a rear-choked encore of her song about me. “This lady’s a genius! If she hadn’t’ve been there, Anthony... well, it would’ve been awful. Anthony won’t listen to a word I say.”
Guarini’s response horrified me. “Holly can fix that,” he assured Carla. He eyed me.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “I’d be delighted.”
CHAPTER 8
“Where’ve you been? A Mafia funeral?” Rita thought she was joking.
As my dear friend as well as my second-floor tenant, Rita knew all about my phobia. Come to think of it, as a clinical psychologist, Rita undoubtedly knew my whole inner life better than I did. She’d been walking down Appleton Street toward our shared driveway when Guarini’s limo had dropped me off. For once, I’d been anything but happy to see her, mainly because psychotherapy was not just her profession, but her calling in life; she always felt spiritually compelled to ask personal questions and was constitutionally incapable of believing that something—anything—could be none of her damned business. When Zap had stopped the limo, Al Favuzza had stepped out and held the door for me. Even more than Guarini himself or any of his other henchmen, Al Favuzza looked like a mobster. He looked more like a mobster than he did like a vampire, and that’s saying something. Naked, right out of the shower, Favuzza probably looked as if he were carrying a concealed weapon. I wouldn’t have put it past him to do just that. Ugh. Let’s skip over the possibilities.
Adopting Rita’s tone, I said, “It’s a new hobby of mine. I’ve overcome my phobia. Now I flit from funeral to funeral without a twinge of the old panic. As you’ve no doubt observed, the transportation is nothing short of elegant, and I am becoming a connoisseur of floral tributes.”
“I like your dress,” Rita said. “It’s so cheerful and springlike.” Rita wore a yellow linen suit with good shoes. She is so un-Cambridge. I’m one Cambridge type: denim and T-shirts. Another is ethnic: Peruvian hats. Another is expensive jersey drapery with chunky handcrafted jewelry. Rita is pure New York: style before comfort.
I fingered the dowdy black corduroy. “ ‘April is the crudest month,’ you know.”
“May I ask what you’ve been up to?”
“A pun! May. April. Rita, how unlike
Thus ended both my capture of Anthony and the funeral rites of Joseph Cortiniglia. I didn’t wait to watch as the Last of the Cave People—except one, his sister Jeannine—was lowered into the earth. Joey’s widow, Carla, probably should’ve seen her husband out, but she was busy getting her dog back. Carla was gratifyingly profuse in her thanks. She said that whenever Anthony got away from her, all he did was run away; never once had she been able to catch him. “Have I, Anthony? You’re too fast for Mummy, aren’t you? Aren’t you? Anthony doesn’t like to come when Mummy calls...”
My stomach turned. I like dogs: great and small, including really small. The one who made me queasy was Carla, who was holding Anthony out in front of her and babbling at him as if he were a stuffed animal or a figurine. The poor dog was lucky that Carla hadn’t made him wear a dress.
“We’ve been a naughty boy today, haven’t we? We got our lovely new velvet suit all wet and messy, so we couldn’t wear it.”
In the hope of being rescued from Carla, I looked toward the tombstone behind which Al Favuzza had taken shelter from the discussion of bodies and ground. But Guarini appeared at my elbow. “Good,” he said.
“I aim to please.”
Carla cut me off by bursting into tears and wailing self-evident truths about Joey: He was gone. He was really gone. We’d never see him again. Then she switched to bawling about her gratitude to Enzio. She didn’t know what she’d do without him. He was a good man. He was a wonderful man. He was a man with a sense of family.
Then she did a rear-choked encore of her song about me. “This lady’s a genius! If she hadn’t’ve been there, Anthony... well, it would’ve been awful. Anthony won’t listen to a word I say.”
Guarini’s response horrified me. “Holly can fix that,” he assured Carla. He eyed me.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “I’d be delighted.”
CHAPTER 8
“Where’ve you been? A Mafia funeral?” Rita thought she was joking.
As my dear friend as well as my second-floor tenant, Rita knew all about my phobia. Come to think of it, as a clinical psychologist, Rita undoubtedly knew my whole inner life better than I did. She’d been walking down Appleton Street toward our shared driveway when Guarini’s limo had dropped me off. For once, I’d been anything but happy to see her, mainly because psychotherapy was not just her profession, but her calling in life; she always felt spiritually compelled to ask personal questions and was constitutionally incapable of believing that something—anything—could be none of her damned business. When Zap had stopped the limo, Al Favuzza had stepped out and held the door for me. Even more than Guarini himself or any of his other henchmen, Al Favuzza looked like a mobster. He looked more like a mobster than he did like a vampire, and that’s saying something. Naked, right out of the shower, Favuzza probably looked as if he were carrying a concealed weapon. I wouldn’t have put it past him to do just that. Ugh. Let’s skip over the possibilities.
Adopting Rita’s tone, I said, “It’s a new hobby of mine. I’ve overcome my phobia. Now I flit from funeral to funeral without a twinge of the old panic. As you’ve no doubt observed, the transportation is nothing short of elegant, and I am becoming a connoisseur of floral tributes.”
“I like your dress,” Rita said. “It’s so cheerful and springlike.” Rita wore a yellow linen suit with good shoes. She is so un-Cambridge. I’m one Cambridge type: denim and T-shirts. Another is ethnic: Peruvian hats. Another is expensive jersey drapery with chunky handcrafted jewelry. Rita is pure New York: style before comfort.
I fingered the dowdy black corduroy. “ ‘April is the crudest month,’ you know.”
“May I ask what you’ve been up to?”
“A pun! May. April. Rita, how unlike
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