The Errant Heiress

Chapter Four - The Linguini Incident

Chapter Four – The Linguini Incident

“What do you mean, ‘why’? The lady’s sweet on you,” I said. I was beginning to wonder if I’d been given the whole story.

“Well. That’s unexpected.” He looked genuinely surprised. 

“Look, mister, I got a job to do here. Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?”

“I’d love to, doll, but I have no idea what you’re going on about.” He was beginning to look even more nervous than I’d seen him on stage. Sweat was beading on his forehead, and he was fumbling with his cigar. 

I was afraid I’d spooked him, so I tried to put him at ease. I planted my toches on top of his dressing room table. It creaked louder than I like remembering.

“Just tell me what you know about Sal Santorini, and I’ll be on my way.” 

He buried his face in his hands. That’s the expression, at least. More like he put his hands on his face so that only the cigar poked through.

“Jesus, that again? I told the Boss’ guys everything I know, which is bobkes.” 

I pinched a cigar from the box on his table and held it for a light. “How so? Word is, you and the late Santorini were best pals.”

He frowned. “That’s pushing it. He had me sing at his restaurant when I was just starting up. The pay was lousy, but better than construction, which is what I used to do. Chow was free for me and his band, too. But pals? I don’t think so.” 

“So why all the fuss? Why’s Rossini got his muscle watching you?”

His hands came to life all of their own. For a moment he looked like a vulture about to take off. “Darned if I know. It all started the night I last saw Sal. 

“I stopped singing at Sal’s when Boss Rossini gave me the Blue Room gig. I still liked eating there, though. So one night, a couple of weeks ago, Sal and I share a couple of bottles of wine over some clams and noodles. So after a while, he nods at one of the corner tables, and there’s two guys sitting there. And he says to me, he says, ‘those are Rossini’s enforcers’. He said somebody gave the Boss this idea that Sal had some kind of an operation on the side.”

I nodded, thinking all the while something was fishy with this whole deal. “And did he?” I asked. 

“I don’t know.” he shrugged. “If he did, he wasn’t saying nothing. Anyway, he up and tells me to follow him to the kitchen. There was nobody there. It was late, and the kitchen staff had already gone home. He walks up to the noodle machine, and sort of pats it with his hand. It’s not emptied or cleaned yet, so there’s a few strings dangling from it. And then he says, ‘this is where I keep all my dough’. And then he laughs. And that’s it. You know the rest already.”

I did know the rest. Sal Santorini was found dead the next morning. I remember the photo from the papers: fat old Sal sitting at his desk in the restaurant back room, face first in a plate of noodles, handprints in red sauce all over the place. Natural causes, the coroner said. Choked on a strand of linguini and keeled over. 

“So what happened next?”

He shrugged. “Well, Rossini’s people wanted to know what we was talking about. They were nice enough about it. I told them what I just told you. They searched the kitchen, and found zilch. So they came back and asked a little less nicely.”

He opened his shirt. His chest was covered in fading bruises. “I had nothing new to tell them. Then they gave up. Decided I knew nothing, or that I was hiding something. So they put a tail on me, and told me it’s all business as usual from now on.” 

Of course they did. Just in case he decided he remembers something, and goes to get the stash. I was beginning to doubt that the stash even existed. What with how jittery he was, I couldn’t tell whether he was talking straight or not. He could barely look straight.

“If that is all,” he said, “I need to get ready for my next set.” He made to get up, but I leaned forward. Our faces inches apart, I could smell the fear on him. Cheap cologne, too, and the bologna sandwich he’d had for dinner, but mostly fear. 

“One other thing: why did little Miss Rossini hire me to help you two elope?”

He started huffing and puffing; sweat trickled down the sides of his face. “I... she... well... um...” I decided to bring him a dictionary next time, instead of flowers. 

“Look, it was a one-time thing, okay? I... I thought that was clear. And I didn’t know she was the Boss’ niece, neither.”

I could feel the case begin to unfold, little by little. I was hoping I could squeeze more out of him, but there was an angry knock on the door. “Hey, Vic! Time’s up!” 

He jumped out of his chair, and stared at me, mouth frozen in a spasm of terror. My hand found the gun in my purse.