ones are. That’s all.”
“Famous? Like Chubby Charlie Chiccante?” Napoli prodded.
I nodded. “Charlie has been in the news too many times for me not to know who he is. Er, was.”
I was, I admit, prevaricating a little. I didn’t like Napoli, and I was uneasy about his evident conviction that I knew a lot more than I did.
A number of the wiseguys who hung out at Stella’s, like Tommy Two Toes and Jimmy Legs, had also been in the news, so I knew about them. And wiseguys aren’t discreet. The reputations of guys like Lucky Battistuzzi, Frankie the Hermit, and Ronnie Romano were openly acknowledged by the customers at Stella’s, as well as by the staff.
But in cases where I didn’t know someone’s reputation, his status was usually easy to guess. If a man was always in the company of made guys and seemed to be working with them, it was a safe bet that he was also a made guy, a “button man,” someone who’d gotten “straightened out.” If someone seemed welcome on the fringes of those tight circles but obviously wasn’t an insider, he was “connected,” an “associate,” or a “friend of ours.” These were all terms I’d heard wiseguys use to describe various shady men and tough guys who had friendly relations with the Gambello crime family or who wanted to become part of it.
And then there were the Buonarottis. None of them were really regulars, but a few members of that crime family showed up every week. The Buonarottis were less powerful than the Gambellos and so, with the brashness born of insecurity, they liked to make sure Stella’s servers knew who they were—made guys, button men, Buonarotti soldiers. Guys with “juice”—power, influence, clout.
We also had many customers who shared the mannerisms and unfortunate fashion sense of wiseguys (loud shirts, shiny shoes, gold jewelry, and an ill-advised fondness for colorful sweat suits), but who weren’t criminals. Sometimes it was easy to tell them apart from the mobsters, but not always.
“So, besides Charlie, who else dines at Bella Stella who’s a Gambello?” Napoli asked me. “You must have some ideas. Some guesses?”
I blinked. “ You’re a lead investigator at the Organized Crime Control Bureau. Don’t you know?”
“I’d like to hear your take on it.”
“Why?”
“You seem like an intelligent woman.”
“You don’t think that,” I said irritably. “You think I’m a ditz! You’re hoping I’m so eager to feel important that I’ll show off by trying to lecture you about stuff you already know—or damn well should know, since it’s your job to know! And in the course of rambling on about life at Stella’s, maybe I’ll let some important information slip. Except that I don’t have any important information, Napoli!”
“Then tell me the truth about Charlie’s death!”
“I have told you the truth!”
“It doesn’t work, Miss Diamond. Based on the only possible trajectory of the bullet that killed Charlie, you had to have seen the killer.”
I blinked. “What?”
“If you were near Charlie when he got shot, then you saw who killed him. There’s no way you didn’t.”
“That’s what this is all about? You don’t believe me?”
He shook his head. “Your story doesn’t hold up against the evidence, Esther.”
“I’d prefer that you keep calling me ‘Miss Diamond.’ ”
“So I’m wondering why you’re lying.”
“I’m telling the truth,” I said wearily, beginning to suspect there was no way I’d ever convince him of this.
“Are you trying to protect the killer?”
“Do I look like I’d protect a killer?” These questions were getting on my nerves. “Do I look like someone whose protection a Mafia hit man would want ?”
“So Charlie was killed by a Mafia hit man?” he pounced.
I rolled my eyes. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that’s the case, Detective.”
Napoli suddenly switched tactics, making an attempt to look concerned and sound
“Famous? Like Chubby Charlie Chiccante?” Napoli prodded.
I nodded. “Charlie has been in the news too many times for me not to know who he is. Er, was.”
I was, I admit, prevaricating a little. I didn’t like Napoli, and I was uneasy about his evident conviction that I knew a lot more than I did.
A number of the wiseguys who hung out at Stella’s, like Tommy Two Toes and Jimmy Legs, had also been in the news, so I knew about them. And wiseguys aren’t discreet. The reputations of guys like Lucky Battistuzzi, Frankie the Hermit, and Ronnie Romano were openly acknowledged by the customers at Stella’s, as well as by the staff.
But in cases where I didn’t know someone’s reputation, his status was usually easy to guess. If a man was always in the company of made guys and seemed to be working with them, it was a safe bet that he was also a made guy, a “button man,” someone who’d gotten “straightened out.” If someone seemed welcome on the fringes of those tight circles but obviously wasn’t an insider, he was “connected,” an “associate,” or a “friend of ours.” These were all terms I’d heard wiseguys use to describe various shady men and tough guys who had friendly relations with the Gambello crime family or who wanted to become part of it.
And then there were the Buonarottis. None of them were really regulars, but a few members of that crime family showed up every week. The Buonarottis were less powerful than the Gambellos and so, with the brashness born of insecurity, they liked to make sure Stella’s servers knew who they were—made guys, button men, Buonarotti soldiers. Guys with “juice”—power, influence, clout.
We also had many customers who shared the mannerisms and unfortunate fashion sense of wiseguys (loud shirts, shiny shoes, gold jewelry, and an ill-advised fondness for colorful sweat suits), but who weren’t criminals. Sometimes it was easy to tell them apart from the mobsters, but not always.
“So, besides Charlie, who else dines at Bella Stella who’s a Gambello?” Napoli asked me. “You must have some ideas. Some guesses?”
I blinked. “ You’re a lead investigator at the Organized Crime Control Bureau. Don’t you know?”
“I’d like to hear your take on it.”
“Why?”
“You seem like an intelligent woman.”
“You don’t think that,” I said irritably. “You think I’m a ditz! You’re hoping I’m so eager to feel important that I’ll show off by trying to lecture you about stuff you already know—or damn well should know, since it’s your job to know! And in the course of rambling on about life at Stella’s, maybe I’ll let some important information slip. Except that I don’t have any important information, Napoli!”
“Then tell me the truth about Charlie’s death!”
“I have told you the truth!”
“It doesn’t work, Miss Diamond. Based on the only possible trajectory of the bullet that killed Charlie, you had to have seen the killer.”
I blinked. “What?”
“If you were near Charlie when he got shot, then you saw who killed him. There’s no way you didn’t.”
“That’s what this is all about? You don’t believe me?”
He shook his head. “Your story doesn’t hold up against the evidence, Esther.”
“I’d prefer that you keep calling me ‘Miss Diamond.’ ”
“So I’m wondering why you’re lying.”
“I’m telling the truth,” I said wearily, beginning to suspect there was no way I’d ever convince him of this.
“Are you trying to protect the killer?”
“Do I look like I’d protect a killer?” These questions were getting on my nerves. “Do I look like someone whose protection a Mafia hit man would want ?”
“So Charlie was killed by a Mafia hit man?” he pounced.
I rolled my eyes. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that’s the case, Detective.”
Napoli suddenly switched tactics, making an attempt to look concerned and sound
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