MURDER TAKES TIME

Chapter 33

Very Good Friends

Brooklyn—3 Years Ago

On the way home, I got to know Manny a little better, as much as you can from a car ride. He seemed to be everything Tito wasn’t—open and honest, friendly and charming, smiles and laughter. I knew most of it was probably a front, honed to perfection by decades of practice. If it was, it worked. 

Manny dropped me off at Tony’s house and told me not to worry, that I’d be hearing from Tito. I got out of the car, went up to the door and knocked. Celia answered, inviting me in with the same warmth she expressed the other night. 

“How about some food, Nicky? I was just making a salad.”

“No thanks, Celia. I think I’ve already put five pounds on since I’ve been here.” I followed her to the kitchen. Life seemed to be good for Tony. He had a magnificent house, a beautiful wife, and he was off drugs. On the other hand there was me—no permanent job, living with my friend, and fresh out of prison. I needed to do something. Anything. 

From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a picture of Mamma Rosa above the mantle. It had been a long time since I’d taken the time to look at a picture of her. This one was so real it was scary. I stopped, admiring it.

Celia stood beside me. “Tony loves that picture.”

“She was a saint.”

She patted me on the shoulder. “He thinks so, too,” she said, then tugged on my arm. “Come with me. If you’re not going to eat, you can at least keep me company while I make the salad.”

She asked a million questions while she worked, mostly about Tony. I answered them as best as I could, but it was obvious he hadn’t told her much, and I didn’t want to betray any trusts. I had no idea how far to go, so I played it safe. Queries about me, I avoided. I never was much for confession of any type, innocent or not. But when the conversation switched to Mamma Rosa, I opened up. She was one person I had no problem talking about.

Celia finished making the salad and started doing dishes. I offered to help twice, but she insisted I sit still and relax. “It sounds like you really loved Tony’s mother.”  

A glass of water sat in front of me, and I was locked in a staring trance. “I loved Mamma Rosa,” I said. “She was my mother too.”

Celia laughed, and her laugh hurt me. “Tony told me that everybody called her that.” I was about to interrupt, when she continued. “But he said you two were very good friends growing up.”

The words hit me like a brick in the head. A lump built in my throat. 

Very good friends? We were brothers. I paused. Swallowed pride. “We were,” I said, then, in a lower tone. “We were very good friends.”