Trapped by the Mafia

8. Something Old

The fight-or-flight response is sometimes called hyper-arousal.

***

"Are you well, my dear?" a raspy, old voice asks solicitously, even though I can't see the speaker. Who spoke to me? Why would anyone be speaking to me in a deserted cemetery? Shouldn't they all be at the funeral of the mafia boss Rosario Tangorello?

I release the cross and spin in a slow circle, disoriented until I locate an old lady. No wonder I didn't see her right away. She is so tiny and gray, she can easily blend with the funerary monuments. She shuffles to me, head tilted to one shoulder like a bird's. Her eyes are also like a bird's: bright, inquisitive, beady.

"I'll be fine," I croak, still clinging to the gravestone. Why would a girl like me cling to a gravestone? I need a credible explanation, something that skips bullets and hot hitmen. "My celery cleanse makes me a little faint in the afternoons."

"Oh, dear..." the lady tucks a dolly she was probably knitting into her purse and lowers herself on a bench next to my position. Once settled, she digs through her belongings for an extraordinary long time. Like a doofus I watch her glasses, pill bottles, gloves and no less than two handkerchiefs pop out, then disappear back into her purse.

"Oh, dear, dear, why?" she asks me, while sifting through her stuff. "Do you want to look like a stick insect? The fashion nowadays, I don't get it. Ain't nobody needs a woman that won't fill a man's arms."

Finally, she fishes out an energy bar with a triumphant squawk.

There you go, my dear. Eat, eat, don't be afraid." Her wink is that of a conspirator. "Don't you ever believe men who say that they like skinny women, vodka and Heavy Metal. They all love beer, Beatles and something to hold on to in bed."

"Aha. Th-thanks for the tip."

That wink... Gosh, that wink! It doesn't matter that the old dear's glasses are thicker than a telescope's lenses. Her hawk-eyes must have spotted Scali dragging me away by the scruff of my neck. Maybe she even noticed us diving to the ground in an embrace and made her own conclusions. The earpiece sitting jauntily behind her ear, out of place, explains why she hasn't heard the two muffled shots. Oh, boy, what a dirty mind you have, grandma.

I chew on her energy bar. The sticky goop that binds almonds and dry berries glues my teeth together, giving me an excuse to mumble something agreeable instead of giggling. I chew and smile, smile and chew.

The old lady smiles back and the world is suddenly at peace. She looks a lot like my granny with her wrinkles and tightly curled gray hair. So old, she probably remembers when Rosario Tangorello was a toddler, heh.

Hold on a second.

I suck on my teeth, dislodging a miniature chocolate chip. Sugar from the energy bar hits my bloodstream. All systems go.

Holy crap! This woman is a gift! I stand up straighter. "So, do you know this Tangorello fellow they're burying?"

"Rotten family, those Tangorellos." She pinches her lips before leaning forward me and whispering. "I went to look at Sal to see that he's actually dead. They should've driven a stake through his heart just to make sure, if you know what I mean."

"Wow! Was he that bad?"

The old lady slumps back, closes her eyes and bobs her head to private thoughts.

Scali's father could be a vampire—why not? His coffin could have given Dracula a case of coffin-envy—but I'm definitely not a telepath. "Ma'am? You were saying Sal Tangorello was an evil man?"