the papers tomorrow …”
“Not this face,” she said, pointing. “People who don’t know me won’t make the connection. And anyway, Bravelli’s going to see what he wants to see.”
“And what’s that?”
“Some new girl in the neighborhood who turns him on.”
All I could think of was, That fucking asshole Bravelli is invading my life again. Here I meet this great woman, and now she and Bravelli are going to start going out together? And she’s going to get killed doing it?
“No way,” I said.
“What?”
“This is a bad idea, Michelle, and I’m not going to help you.”
“Fine. I’ll do it myself,” she said, getting up from the table.
“You can’t go undercover without backup.”
“I’m already doing it.”
“Really? Do you even know the first thing about working undercover?” She started moving through the living room, and I followed. “Have you called any friends from your new apartment? Your phone could be tapped, you know.” She kept walking. “Have you put family photos out—somebody else’s family?”
She stopped at the front door and turned.
“See? This is the kind of stuff I need you for.”
“You can’t do it alone.”
“Well, are you going to help me?”
“Do you mean am I going to help you get killed? No.”
She nodded, and opened the door, and then she was gone.
I ended up going to Westmount the next morning to watch Bravelli get his manicure. It wasn’t so much deciding to go as not being able to stay away.
I remembered that there was a hardware store across the street from the beauty parlor, and I figured that’d be a good place to watch from. I drove to Westmount in my black Chevy Blazer, and parked around the corner from the store. I had on jeans and a dark green golf shirt, which is what I would have worn before going into work that day anyway. I didn’t stand out, but of course I didn’t blend in, either—you couldn’t do that in Westmount unless you lived there your whole life.
As I walked into the hardware store, the door jangled some little bells. The store was dimly lit and cram-packed with cans of paint, black-plastic wastepaper baskets, boxes of nails, toilet seats, rolled-up American flags in boxes, even garden hoses—as if anyone in Westmount had a lawn. And everything was covered with a thick dust, like no one had stepped inside the store in twenty years.
I walked to the front windows and looked out across the street. I could see the clubhouse, the fruit store, and, directly across from me, the beauty shop. On the big front window was written in nail polish-like paint “Angela’s.”
“Whadda ya need?”
I turned to see a little guy about ninety years old, squinting up at me through thick, smudged glasses. His pants were way too big—they probably fit him sometime before World War II—and had to be held up with suspenders. It was like he had suddenly shrunk inside his clothes and hadn’t had time to change into smaller ones. He stared at me, his lower lip sticking out, shiny and wet, in a permanent pout.
“Just looking around,” I said.
He shrugged and walked back behind the counter. He was halfway through some kind of sandwich, maybe chicken salad. I watched as he picked it up with both hands and took a tiny bite, like a little squirrel. He had forgotten all about me.
I looked back out the window at the clubhouse. When I was in OC we had done surveillance on it, usually from a van parked across the street. Like most mob clubhouses, it was where the guys could get together and relax—they’d play cards, eat sandwiches, shoot the shit. The public wasn’t invited. This one was in a vacant storefront, and the tiles on the sidewalk in front still had the old store’s name, written in script, “Westmount Shoes for Ladies.”
From the sidewalk, you couldn’t see inside. There were dusty gray curtains in the windows, and the glass front door was painted black. Hanging in one window was a big Italian flag, sagging a little
“Not this face,” she said, pointing. “People who don’t know me won’t make the connection. And anyway, Bravelli’s going to see what he wants to see.”
“And what’s that?”
“Some new girl in the neighborhood who turns him on.”
All I could think of was, That fucking asshole Bravelli is invading my life again. Here I meet this great woman, and now she and Bravelli are going to start going out together? And she’s going to get killed doing it?
“No way,” I said.
“What?”
“This is a bad idea, Michelle, and I’m not going to help you.”
“Fine. I’ll do it myself,” she said, getting up from the table.
“You can’t go undercover without backup.”
“I’m already doing it.”
“Really? Do you even know the first thing about working undercover?” She started moving through the living room, and I followed. “Have you called any friends from your new apartment? Your phone could be tapped, you know.” She kept walking. “Have you put family photos out—somebody else’s family?”
She stopped at the front door and turned.
“See? This is the kind of stuff I need you for.”
“You can’t do it alone.”
“Well, are you going to help me?”
“Do you mean am I going to help you get killed? No.”
She nodded, and opened the door, and then she was gone.
I ended up going to Westmount the next morning to watch Bravelli get his manicure. It wasn’t so much deciding to go as not being able to stay away.
I remembered that there was a hardware store across the street from the beauty parlor, and I figured that’d be a good place to watch from. I drove to Westmount in my black Chevy Blazer, and parked around the corner from the store. I had on jeans and a dark green golf shirt, which is what I would have worn before going into work that day anyway. I didn’t stand out, but of course I didn’t blend in, either—you couldn’t do that in Westmount unless you lived there your whole life.
As I walked into the hardware store, the door jangled some little bells. The store was dimly lit and cram-packed with cans of paint, black-plastic wastepaper baskets, boxes of nails, toilet seats, rolled-up American flags in boxes, even garden hoses—as if anyone in Westmount had a lawn. And everything was covered with a thick dust, like no one had stepped inside the store in twenty years.
I walked to the front windows and looked out across the street. I could see the clubhouse, the fruit store, and, directly across from me, the beauty shop. On the big front window was written in nail polish-like paint “Angela’s.”
“Whadda ya need?”
I turned to see a little guy about ninety years old, squinting up at me through thick, smudged glasses. His pants were way too big—they probably fit him sometime before World War II—and had to be held up with suspenders. It was like he had suddenly shrunk inside his clothes and hadn’t had time to change into smaller ones. He stared at me, his lower lip sticking out, shiny and wet, in a permanent pout.
“Just looking around,” I said.
He shrugged and walked back behind the counter. He was halfway through some kind of sandwich, maybe chicken salad. I watched as he picked it up with both hands and took a tiny bite, like a little squirrel. He had forgotten all about me.
I looked back out the window at the clubhouse. When I was in OC we had done surveillance on it, usually from a van parked across the street. Like most mob clubhouses, it was where the guys could get together and relax—they’d play cards, eat sandwiches, shoot the shit. The public wasn’t invited. This one was in a vacant storefront, and the tiles on the sidewalk in front still had the old store’s name, written in script, “Westmount Shoes for Ladies.”
From the sidewalk, you couldn’t see inside. There were dusty gray curtains in the windows, and the glass front door was painted black. Hanging in one window was a big Italian flag, sagging a little
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