nothing lives except fierce-eyed madness, giggling at you in the dark.
What if Maria Pia had joined forces with Belladonna Russo and they were up to major culinary no good?
What if she was opening up a branch location of Miracolo and freezing us all out?
What if she was cheating on poor Arlen, who, to hear her tell it, was practically my stepgrandfather?
The best antidote for raging paranoia was time spent with Choo Choo. Back in college, I came across the word phlegmatic in a medieval literature class, where I learned two important things. One was that phlegmatic meant someone unexcitable and not quick to display emotion, which right away made me think of my big cousin, and the other was that I could pretty much catch up on my sleep in the back row of the lecture hall.
Choo Choo (Giuseppe) Bacigalupo was the son of Maria Pia’s only daughter, Serena, who married into the Brooklyn Bacigalupo family of rich undertakers. Into this crowd of Bacigalupos, who were surprisingly fun, were born Choo Choo and his younger sister, Little Serena.
Little Serena, who was 5 feet 11 and 220 pounds, had left for Disney World—“I want to live the magic!”—right after high school and had worked her way up to running the Buzz Light-year Space Ranger ride. Due to this thinking outside the Italian bread box, Maria Pia never mentioned her. All the rest of us got tired of correcting her whenever she said of me, “My only granddaughter!”
So, with my muddle over the mysterious misdeeds of Maria Pia Angelotta, I felt greatly relieved when the door to Miracolo swung open, followed by the towering presence of my cousin, dressed in khakis and a roomy black shirt.
“Bella,” he greeted me.
I jumped off my stool for a Choo Choo hug, the kind that aligns your spine, stimulates your liver, and makes you thankful he likes you. His head had been shaved and oiled and it was topped with a pair of Ray-Bans.
I touched the diamond stud in his ear. “Very nice,” I told him, “very nice indeed.” I looked him over while his pretty hazel eyes narrowed at me expectantly. I stroked my chin. “I think the look is ‘Mr. Clean meets Tony Soprano’ and then they jam together.”
“Too Mr. Clean?”
I spread my hands. “It’s you, Chooch.”
He chewed his lip. “Too jazz musician?”
“Have you seen our new piano player, Mrs. Crawford? I think she sets the bar.”
“Haven’t met her.”
“We’re reopening tomorrow for dinner. You’ll meet her then.”
“Who’s working?”
“Paulette and Vera.” Though God knew what kind of crowd we’d get after a homicide. I stepped behind the bar. “Get you something? A Coke?” His usual drink of choice, which he bought by the case from Sam’s Club.
Choo Choo lifted a mitt. “Nothing for me.” Then he went on: “You should bring in Alma and take Jonathan off wine, put him on tables. We’re going to need him.”
I leaned across the bar. “What are you talking about? After a murder, we’ll be lucky if even the regulars come back.” I never thought I’d pine for “Three Coins in the Fountain,” but there you are.
Choo Choo’s smile pushed his eyes into little crescents. It was the look I usually got from him and Landon when they thought I was being naïve. Needless to say, I got the look a lot. It’s not so much that I’m naïve, it’s that the two of them busy themselves in gossip of all sorts and take it for unimpeachable truth.
If I didn’t believe Brad and Angelina were in trouble, I got the look. If I didn’t believe that was a baby bump on Kim Kardashian, I was being naïve. But they didn’t have a clue about anything truly useful, like local gossip—if they did, maybe they could explain to me what our songbird Dana was doing removing her top on the third floor of the Logan Building. I decided to keep this puzzling little bit of misbehavior to myself for a while.
Choo Choo pulled a rolled-up magazine out of his back pocket and set it between us on the bar.
What if Maria Pia had joined forces with Belladonna Russo and they were up to major culinary no good?
What if she was opening up a branch location of Miracolo and freezing us all out?
What if she was cheating on poor Arlen, who, to hear her tell it, was practically my stepgrandfather?
The best antidote for raging paranoia was time spent with Choo Choo. Back in college, I came across the word phlegmatic in a medieval literature class, where I learned two important things. One was that phlegmatic meant someone unexcitable and not quick to display emotion, which right away made me think of my big cousin, and the other was that I could pretty much catch up on my sleep in the back row of the lecture hall.
Choo Choo (Giuseppe) Bacigalupo was the son of Maria Pia’s only daughter, Serena, who married into the Brooklyn Bacigalupo family of rich undertakers. Into this crowd of Bacigalupos, who were surprisingly fun, were born Choo Choo and his younger sister, Little Serena.
Little Serena, who was 5 feet 11 and 220 pounds, had left for Disney World—“I want to live the magic!”—right after high school and had worked her way up to running the Buzz Light-year Space Ranger ride. Due to this thinking outside the Italian bread box, Maria Pia never mentioned her. All the rest of us got tired of correcting her whenever she said of me, “My only granddaughter!”
So, with my muddle over the mysterious misdeeds of Maria Pia Angelotta, I felt greatly relieved when the door to Miracolo swung open, followed by the towering presence of my cousin, dressed in khakis and a roomy black shirt.
“Bella,” he greeted me.
I jumped off my stool for a Choo Choo hug, the kind that aligns your spine, stimulates your liver, and makes you thankful he likes you. His head had been shaved and oiled and it was topped with a pair of Ray-Bans.
I touched the diamond stud in his ear. “Very nice,” I told him, “very nice indeed.” I looked him over while his pretty hazel eyes narrowed at me expectantly. I stroked my chin. “I think the look is ‘Mr. Clean meets Tony Soprano’ and then they jam together.”
“Too Mr. Clean?”
I spread my hands. “It’s you, Chooch.”
He chewed his lip. “Too jazz musician?”
“Have you seen our new piano player, Mrs. Crawford? I think she sets the bar.”
“Haven’t met her.”
“We’re reopening tomorrow for dinner. You’ll meet her then.”
“Who’s working?”
“Paulette and Vera.” Though God knew what kind of crowd we’d get after a homicide. I stepped behind the bar. “Get you something? A Coke?” His usual drink of choice, which he bought by the case from Sam’s Club.
Choo Choo lifted a mitt. “Nothing for me.” Then he went on: “You should bring in Alma and take Jonathan off wine, put him on tables. We’re going to need him.”
I leaned across the bar. “What are you talking about? After a murder, we’ll be lucky if even the regulars come back.” I never thought I’d pine for “Three Coins in the Fountain,” but there you are.
Choo Choo’s smile pushed his eyes into little crescents. It was the look I usually got from him and Landon when they thought I was being naïve. Needless to say, I got the look a lot. It’s not so much that I’m naïve, it’s that the two of them busy themselves in gossip of all sorts and take it for unimpeachable truth.
If I didn’t believe Brad and Angelina were in trouble, I got the look. If I didn’t believe that was a baby bump on Kim Kardashian, I was being naïve. But they didn’t have a clue about anything truly useful, like local gossip—if they did, maybe they could explain to me what our songbird Dana was doing removing her top on the third floor of the Logan Building. I decided to keep this puzzling little bit of misbehavior to myself for a while.
Choo Choo pulled a rolled-up magazine out of his back pocket and set it between us on the bar.
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