“And you’ll have someone to lock up,” Sarah noted.
“That should make Theodore happy.”
Malloy just grunted. “Finish your tea. I’ll go next door and tell the girls they can come home again.”
He went out the back door. Sarah took a few more sips of the tea. She could feel the warmth seeping into her bones now. The horror of Mrs. O’Hara’s death receded a bit, and Sarah began to understand the benefits of a strong drink.
Soon she heard Aggie’s footsteps clamoring up the back porch steps and then she pushed the door open and raced into the room. Her face alight with joy, she charged straight for Sarah, but when she reached the table, her step faltered, and her smile vanished. She stopped dead in her tracks and gazed around wildly, her eyes wide with sudden fear.
“Aggie, what’s wrong?” Sarah asked in alarm.
Aggie looked straight at the tea cup, sitting half full on the table, and sniffed the air. Sarah realized she must smell the whisky, although she wouldn’t have thought the odor that strong. Then Aggie looked around again, and this time saw the whisky bottle still sitting where Malloy had left it.
She pointed at it and screamed.
“Aggie, what’s wrong?” Sarah cried, jumping to her feet and snatching the child up into her arms.
Aggie started to cling to her, but then she pulled back abruptly and started screaming again. Sarah realized she must smell the whisky on her breath. Maeve came running in.
“What’s happening?” the girl cried, seeing Aggie struggling in Sarah’s arms.
“She saw the whisky and started screaming,” Sarah said, setting Aggie down before she dropped her. The child ran to Maeve, buried her face in her skirts and started to sob.
By then Malloy was through the door, demanding to know what was going on.
“Something about the whisky frightened her. She smelled it on me and went crazy.” Sarah explained. “It’s all right, Aggie. Nothing is going to hurt you.”
Sarah quickly took the bottle and put it out of sight.
She’d get rid of it as soon as possible. Instinct demanded that she try to comfort the girl, but she knew going closer to her would only make things worse.
“Maeve, take her upstairs and try to calm her down.”
Maeve picked her up and carried her out of the room.
“She just started screaming when she saw the bottle?” Malloy asked.
“She smelled it first, in the teacup, I guess,” Sarah said.
“It literally stopped her in her tracks. Then she saw the bottle and screamed. I picked her up, and she must’ve smelled it on me, too, and she started fighting to get away.”
“Did anything ever scare her like that before?”
“Never. Oh, Malloy, do you think . . . ? Whatever frightened her enough to make her mute, it must have had something to do with whisky.”
“When you’re drunk, bad things happen,” he reminded her grimly.
“But if she can’t tell us what it was, how can we ever make it right?” Sarah asked in desperation.
Malloy had no answer for that.
By the time Malloy rounded up Donatelli and a few other officers to accompany him, it was well into the supper hour. Mama’s Restaurant wasn’t as crowded as he’d expected, though. The regular patrons still hadn’t returned after the trouble the other night.
Frank and Gino went in the front door. All eyes turned toward them, and conversation ceased. Joe was serving a couple of old men, and when he saw who’d come in, he shouted something in Italian about polizia.
A few seconds later, the kitchen door flew open, and Patrizia Ruocco came storming out, her face twisted in fury.
Behind her were Antonio and Lorenzo. Valentina stopped in the doorway, not wanting to miss anything but not wanting to enter the fray, either.
“Get out my house!” Mrs. Ruocco cried furiously. “You have no right!”
“We aren’t planning to stay,” Frank informed her.
Valentina made a squeal of surprise when the two other officers shoved her aside as they came into the room from the kitchen. They went straight for Antonio, and each grabbed an arm.
“What you do?” Mrs. Ruocco screamed. “Let him go!”
“We want to ask him a few questions,” Frank said.
“Nobody’s going to hurt him, Mrs. Ruocco,” Gino assured her. “If he tells us the truth, he’ll be home by bedtime.”
Antonio’s face had gone pale, and although his first reaction had been to resist, he quickly realized that would be foolish. “Joe,” he pleaded helplessly. “Do something!”
“You can’t just take him to jail,” Lorenzo argued. “He hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“Then he doesn’t have anything to worry about, and he isn’t going to jail. Like I said, we just want to ask him a few questions.” Frank nodded to the officers, who began hustling Antonio toward the front door.
“Giuseppe!” Mrs. Ruocco cried desperately.
“I’ll go with him,” Joe said at last. “I can answer your questions better than he can anyway!”
“You stay here and serve your customers,” Frank advised.
“If we want you later, we’ll come and get you.”
With that, he and Gino followed Antonio and the two officers out into the street. Mrs. Ruocco was screaming at her other two sons in Italian as Gino closed the door behind them.
“She wants them to follow us, make sure we don’t hurt Antonio,” Gino translated.
“Pretty soon she’ll think of sending for Ugo, too,” Frank said. “Let’s get the boy to Headquarters before that happens.”
12
Frank left Antonio alone in one of the interrogation rooms for a good half hour to soften him up while he and Gino ate some sausage sandwiches they got from a street vendor. As Frank had known, the time spent sitting in the dismal room, imagining God knew what, had made the boy desperately afraid.
He gazed at Frank and Gino with terrified eyes as they came into the room and closed the door behind them. Gino stood with his back against the door, his arms crossed for-biddingly, just as Frank had instructed. With any luck, he’d keep his mouth shut, too.
“I guess you know why we brought you in tonight,”
Frank said mildly, pulling up a chair across the table from where Antonio sat.
“Something about Nainsi,” he said, his voice thin with fear. “But I already told you everything I know.”
“Where did you go last night?”
“Last night?” he echoed in confusion.
“Yeah, you remember last night, don’t you? Where did you go?”
“I . . . we went out.”
“Who’s we?”
“Me and . . . Joe,” he said, certain he shouldn’t implicate Joe but too afraid to lie.
“Where did you go?” Frank asked, his voice still only mildly interested.
“We . . . It wasn’t my idea,” he defended himself.
“It was Joe’s idea, then?”
“Well, no, not . . . not exactly.”
“Your mama’s?” Frank tried.
“Oh, no, she didn’t like it at all! She said we should stay, in case another mob showed up. She said I shouldn’t go out anymore after what happened with Nainsi, either, but . . .”
“But what?”
“But we didn’t think the Irish would come again so soon, and if they did . . .”
“Yes?”
“The police are guarding the place,” he said plaintively.
“Joe said they’d run off the Irish if they came, just like they did before. They don’t need us there to do
