at 37 Petunia Drive to 44 Magnolia Court, two blocks away, where the big showdown is about to take place.
Angelina, dressed totally in black, is wielding her walker like a pair of skis, slaloming her way angrily from side to side, venom dripping from her moving, though soundless, lips. She refuses to speak to me. God knows what's going on in her head. When I came to get her, I "accidentally" leaned against her body. It didn't feel like she was packing a gun. I could only hope not.
Meanwhile, the girls are hiding in my Chevy, in the dark, in front of the place of assignation. I tried to get at least one of them to stay home so I'd have room to pick up Angelina. Their response to me? Not a chance. Or I could have left the girls stand ing on the sidewalk and driven the car around the corner to get Angelina. Their response? No way. Stand outside in the dark and get mugged? Some associates I have. So, walking it would have to be.
Earlier, after dropping the girls off at home, I had gone to Angelina's house to report on our terrifying visit with Elio. I explained that after her husband had heard that he had been caught, so to speak, in the house of another woman, he had demanded a meeting tonight. At that very same house.
If she hadn't been only four and a half feet tall, Angelina might have hit the ceiling at that news.
"Who asked you to tell him? I paid you to tell me."
I took a deep breath. "Well, it was a judgment call."
"Ya think I'm gonna pay you for that? It was none of your business to talk to him."
"But Mrs. Siciliano—your threats—" I began.
She cut me off and pounded at her heart. "Such agita you give me." She grabbed a washcloth and scrubbed viciously at an imaginary stain on the sink.
I should explain. She and I were in her spotless red 1950s-era kitchen. I subtly positioned my body in front of her knife rack in case she, too, wanted to kill the messenger. When she demanded to know the address, I told her. That made her even hotter.
"So that's who it is. Now it makes sense. I knew it. The queen of all fleshpots he goes to." She spit. "You're not gonna get me in the same room as that puttana. "
She refused to tell me who it was.
"I shoulda guessed," she ranted. "Old dogs go back to old bitches. And he has the coglioni to tell me to meet him there!"
"He must have a reason."
"Yeah, to rub my nose in his filth. And in my own backyard! Do all my neighbors know?"
That was followed by a string of juicy curses. Since they were all in Italian I could only guess at the gist. But I heard what sounded like minchia and sfacheen, and plenty of madonna s.
"I'm not going!" Angelina glared at me, arms folded. "You can take a message to my husband, who soon will leave this world, and his whore: Drop dead!"
Finally, I stopped trying to convince her. I walked to the front door and opened it.
"Well, I'll be there tonight. I'll send you a written report. And a bill. Good afternoon!"
That did it. She lunged after me, clutching at my arm to hold herself up. "You better pick me up. I ain't going in there alone!"
Like my nosy associates—no way would she miss out on tonight.
The girls jump out of the Chevy the minute they spot us coming down the street.
Angelina ignores them. Just as well, since they've already had a taste of the Siciliano temper.
Spotting her husband's Chrysler in the driveway of the little pink house, Angelina neatly raises her walker and slams it onto the freshly washed and polished hood.
The front door bursts open. Elio runs out, enraged, fists clenched. I can hear strains of "Volare" coming from the door chimes. Cute idea, I think. Maybe I could get a set that plays "Hava Nagila."
"Stu' gazz'," he screams at her. "Lunatic!"
"Minchia!" she screams back. "May it shrivel up and fall
Angelina, dressed totally in black, is wielding her walker like a pair of skis, slaloming her way angrily from side to side, venom dripping from her moving, though soundless, lips. She refuses to speak to me. God knows what's going on in her head. When I came to get her, I "accidentally" leaned against her body. It didn't feel like she was packing a gun. I could only hope not.
Meanwhile, the girls are hiding in my Chevy, in the dark, in front of the place of assignation. I tried to get at least one of them to stay home so I'd have room to pick up Angelina. Their response to me? Not a chance. Or I could have left the girls stand ing on the sidewalk and driven the car around the corner to get Angelina. Their response? No way. Stand outside in the dark and get mugged? Some associates I have. So, walking it would have to be.
Earlier, after dropping the girls off at home, I had gone to Angelina's house to report on our terrifying visit with Elio. I explained that after her husband had heard that he had been caught, so to speak, in the house of another woman, he had demanded a meeting tonight. At that very same house.
If she hadn't been only four and a half feet tall, Angelina might have hit the ceiling at that news.
"Who asked you to tell him? I paid you to tell me."
I took a deep breath. "Well, it was a judgment call."
"Ya think I'm gonna pay you for that? It was none of your business to talk to him."
"But Mrs. Siciliano—your threats—" I began.
She cut me off and pounded at her heart. "Such agita you give me." She grabbed a washcloth and scrubbed viciously at an imaginary stain on the sink.
I should explain. She and I were in her spotless red 1950s-era kitchen. I subtly positioned my body in front of her knife rack in case she, too, wanted to kill the messenger. When she demanded to know the address, I told her. That made her even hotter.
"So that's who it is. Now it makes sense. I knew it. The queen of all fleshpots he goes to." She spit. "You're not gonna get me in the same room as that puttana. "
She refused to tell me who it was.
"I shoulda guessed," she ranted. "Old dogs go back to old bitches. And he has the coglioni to tell me to meet him there!"
"He must have a reason."
"Yeah, to rub my nose in his filth. And in my own backyard! Do all my neighbors know?"
That was followed by a string of juicy curses. Since they were all in Italian I could only guess at the gist. But I heard what sounded like minchia and sfacheen, and plenty of madonna s.
"I'm not going!" Angelina glared at me, arms folded. "You can take a message to my husband, who soon will leave this world, and his whore: Drop dead!"
Finally, I stopped trying to convince her. I walked to the front door and opened it.
"Well, I'll be there tonight. I'll send you a written report. And a bill. Good afternoon!"
That did it. She lunged after me, clutching at my arm to hold herself up. "You better pick me up. I ain't going in there alone!"
Like my nosy associates—no way would she miss out on tonight.
The girls jump out of the Chevy the minute they spot us coming down the street.
Angelina ignores them. Just as well, since they've already had a taste of the Siciliano temper.
Spotting her husband's Chrysler in the driveway of the little pink house, Angelina neatly raises her walker and slams it onto the freshly washed and polished hood.
The front door bursts open. Elio runs out, enraged, fists clenched. I can hear strains of "Volare" coming from the door chimes. Cute idea, I think. Maybe I could get a set that plays "Hava Nagila."
"Stu' gazz'," he screams at her. "Lunatic!"
"Minchia!" she screams back. "May it shrivel up and fall
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