Doppelgangster Part 4

"I want to go home. My feet hurt," I said truthfully.

"There's a weeping saint at my church," he coaxed. "Well, sometimes, anyhow."

"A weeping saint? Do you mean there's a good person crying at your church?"

"Was a good person. Long time ago. Now it's a statue. a good person. Long time ago. Now it's a statue.

Saint Monica."

"A weeping Saint Monica? I thought it was the Madonna that always weeps."

"At our church, it's the saint." He shrugged. "It's still a miracle, y'know, either way."

"Little Italy is full of the strange and the wonderful." Thinking of Charlie again, I said, "Especially the strange."

"Well, maybe next time," Lucky said.

"Maybe next time," I agreed, realizing he was a little lonely.

As I walked toward the subway station, I opened my cell phone again and dialed my agent's phone number.

I needed needed an audition. an audition.

Two days later, Chubby Charlie Chiccante wasn't very hungry, and he didn't want a song.

After requesting a table in a secluded alcove at the back of the restaurant, he only ordered one plate of food for dinner. And when I put his meal in front of him, he just picked at it. Dressed in a tight brown suit, accented by a bright green tie, bright green handkerchief, and (yes, I checked) bright green socks, he looked distracted as he pushed his spaghetti Bolognese spaghetti Bolognese around his plate with his fork for ten minutes. around his plate with his fork for ten minutes.

This was so unprecedented that, despite his rudeness the other night, I felt I had to ask if he was all right.

"Er, Charlie?"

"Argh!"

I fell back a step in surprise as he flinched, cried out, and knocked over his water gla.s.s. A few diners glanced our way, then went back to shouting and laughing as they indulged in generous quant.i.ties of house wine.

Red-faced and breathing hard, Charlie snapped at me, "Don't sneak up on me like that!" sneak up on me like that!"

I frowned at him. I had simply walked up to his table. No sneaking involved. "You seem a little tense," I observed.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n right, I'm a little f.u.c.kin' tense!"

I pulled a cloth out of my ap.r.o.n pocket and started mopping up the mess he'd made. "What's the matter with you?" I said irritably.

"What the matter matter with me? I'll tell you what the f.u.c.k's the matter with me!" He looked around, his eyes rolling a little wildly, then leaned toward me and lowered his voice. "I been cursed." with me? I'll tell you what the f.u.c.k's the matter with me!" He looked around, his eyes rolling a little wildly, then leaned toward me and lowered his voice. "I been cursed."

"You mean someone used bad language? And that bothered you you?"

"What? No No." He scowled at me. "I been cursed cursed. You know-someone's put the evil eye on me! I'm under a cloud. Cursed!"

That clinched it. "Okay, you really do need to see a doctor."

"I don't need no doctor, you moron! I need a . . . a . . ." He waved his arms around. "I dunno. Maybe a priest? priest? Could a priest help me, do ya think?" Could a priest help me, do ya think?"

"I think an emergency room could help you," I said. "I'm calling an ambulance." could help you," I said. "I'm calling an ambulance."

"I ain't sick!"

"I think you may be having a stroke," I said. "Or mini-strokes. You need a doctor."

"No!"

"Or maybe you need a psychiatrist."

"I ain't crazy! This is for real! I saw it! I saw it with my own eyes! I spoke spoke to it, Estelle!" to it, Estelle!"

"Esther," I corrected.

"And it it spoke to spoke to me me," he said in rising hysteria. "I'm telling you, it's real! I didn't imagine it!"

"What's real?" I asked, still wiping up the spilled water on his table. real?" I asked, still wiping up the spilled water on his table.

He grabbed my arm with clutching fingers and pulled me closer to his red, sweating face as he said hoa.r.s.ely, "My double."

"Your what?"

"My double! My perfect double!"

I tried to pull away from him. His grip tightened ruthlessly on my arm.

Hoping to distract him enough to free myself, I said, "What are you talking about?"

His eyes wide and anxious, he croaked, "I looked into my own face. My own eyes looked back at me."

"That's called a mirror, Charlie." I started trying to pry his fingers off my arm.

"No, this was a real thing! My double, I'm telling you, my double double."

"You mean someone who looks like you?" I had to agree it was a distressing prospect in Charlie's case.

"No! He was me me. He is is me," Charlie raved. "Ain't you never heard of this?" me," Charlie raved. "Ain't you never heard of this?"

"Heard of what?" I asked as I looked around for help.

Charlie needed an ambulance and, I now suspected, restraints. And I needed my left arm back.

"La mia propria faccia nel viso di un altro!" he cried, lapsing into Italian. I'd noticed before that some of the older wiseguys did this in moments of high drama. he cried, lapsing into Italian. I'd noticed before that some of the older wiseguys did this in moments of high drama. "La faccia della morte! La morte!" "La faccia della morte! La morte!"

"What?" I was still looking around.

"Are you paying attention?" Charlie shook my arm. "To look into the face of this thing is to be cursed with death!"

There was no help in sight at the moment. Lucky Battistuzzi hadn't arrived for dinner yet, and the other two tables in this section of the restaurant were too noisy and boisterous to pay any attention to me and Charlie. We were in a quiet alcove, but I nonetheless hoped another staff member would notice my problem before I had to make a scene and possibly push Charlie over the brink into a heart attack-or a violent psychotic episode. Meanwhile, I kept trying to loosen his grip on me.

"Death? Oh, 'la morte' 'la morte'-okay, now I get it," I said. "Charlie, you're hurting-"

"Okay? It's not okay, you stupid broad! Don't you get it? I'm a dead man!" It's not okay, you stupid broad! Don't you get it? I'm a dead man!"

"You will be if we don't get you to a hospital," I agreed.

"A hospital can't change what's going to happen to me!"

I had a sudden bright idea. "But you said maybe a priest could? St. Monica's is just around the corner. Why don't we go see the priest there, Charlie?"

"You mean Father Gabriel?" he asked with a frown.

I had no idea who I meant, but since the suggestion had created a pause in Charlie's ranting about death and a double, I said, "Yes. Father Gabriel. Let's talk to him. Maybe he can help you."

"You think there's an exorcism for un doppio? un doppio?"

"A dope?" I asked in confusion.

"A double double. Don't they teach your people nothin'?" He suddenly let go of me and made an exasperated gesture. I staggered backward and rubbed my left forearm as Charlie said, "Ain't Jews got this, too? From the old country? Wherever that was for you guys."

"Got what what?" I asked.

"You see your perfect double, a thing that looks and walks and talks and dresses exactly like you . . . And it means you're gonna die by nightfall."

I stared at him, surprised and perplexed. "You're telling me you've seen-"

"Ain't that what I been saying? saying?" A look of dark fear contorted his fat features. "I seen my perfect double today. I been cursed. I'm marked for death."

"Charlie, you saw someone who looks like you," I said. "Or maybe you're having some heart trouble. That's why I think we should go to the hospital-"

"No!"

"-or to St. Monica's," I said quickly. "To see Father Gabriel. We'll go right now." And while the priest was talking to the gangster, I'd call 911. "We'll tell Father Gabriel what you've seen, and we'll ask him what it means."

"I know know what it means." Charlie shook his head and added with a haunted expression, "I just don't know who sent it." what it means." Charlie shook his head and added with a haunted expression, "I just don't know who sent it."

I heard the tinkling of breaking gla.s.s, a sharp whistling sound, and a soft thud. I looked around for a second, wondering what it was. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I said, "So do you want to go now?" No answer. He just sat there with a stunned expression on his face. "Charlie?" Still no answer. "Charlie?"

That was when I saw the huge red stain blossoming on his chest.

"Charlie!" I screamed. I screamed.

Without even blinking, he slid out of his chair, fell to the floor, and lay there dead.

3.

It was a confusing crime scene, because all the wise guys who'd been at Bella Stella when Chubby Charlie got shot had immediately fled, while others arrived for dinner afterward-and decided to hang around on the street to annoy the cops.

I was sitting in a corner of the restaurant, dizzy with shock. Stella Butera, a voluptuous woman, sat next to me, holding my hand and occasionally patting my back.

Stella's hair, an improbable shade of gold, was teased and curled into a dramatic fall of riotous waves. She wore heavy mascara, her pink fingernails were very long, and her clothes were usually tight and always shiny. Ever since her lover, Handsome Joey Gambello, had gotten killed here five years ago, she'd had plenty of offers for nocturnal companionship, but she'd reputedly remained faithful to his memory. (In fact, she was having a quiet affair with her accountant, but the public pretense of untouchable celibacy suited her complicated relationship with the volatile Gambellos, several of whom perpetually competed to take over Joey's side of her bed.) "I can't believe Charlie was killed in front of me," I said. "Right in front front of me!" of me!"

I hadn't liked him, but I certainly hadn't wanted to watch him die die.

"There, there, sweetie." Stella patted my back.

I stared with dazed eyes at Charlie's corpse, which still lay on the floor. A police photographer was taking pictures of everything, while a veritable army of Crime Scene Unit personnel moved purposefully around the restaurant, gathering evidence. A young patrolman with an awkward expression on his face was watching over me, and two detectives were standing nearby, talking into their cell phones.

"Can't I leave now?" I said plaintively to the patrolman.

"Just a minute, ma'am." He went over to speak to the detectives.

I had given my statement to this patrolman, then to another patrolman, and then to the two detectives. Now I just wanted to go home, pull the covers over my head, and try to forget what I had seen.

Above all, I wanted to get out of the restaurant and away from Charlie's staring corpse.

"I feel like he's looking at me," I said to Stella. "I should have listened to him! He said said he was marked for death!" he was marked for death!"

"Of course he was, honey," said Stella. "He was a Gambello capo. Living to a ripe old age ain't a standard part of their benefits package."

The patrolman returned to my side. "I'm sorry, ma'am, you're going to have to give another statement."

"Another?" I said, fighting tears of exhaustion, revulsion, and guilt. I said, fighting tears of exhaustion, revulsion, and guilt.

Stella stepped in. "What's the matter with you people? Can't you see she's had enough?" she bellowed.

"Er, Detective?" the patrolman said anxiously, backing away from Stella.

One of the detectives glanced out the restaurant window and said to the patrolman, "OCCB just arrived. They've got to talk to her."

The young patrolman said to me, "Sorry, ma'am."

"Don't call me that," I snapped.