Bertha clutched the chrome arms of the modern chair and stared down, refusing to make eye contact with either Bart or me. A pulse beat at her forehead and she breathed hard. Then she released her white-knuckled grip on the chair and hurled herself up. “I’ll type up my resignation and have it on your desk in five minutes. You can supervise me as I pack up my personal effects. I quit.”
“Bertha!” Bart said. “Please, sit down and tell me what’s bothering you. Surely after all these years of faithful service, you don’t want to leave in such a way.” He tossed me the pleading look of a man out of his depth in the roiling waters of a woman’s emotions.
“Mrs. Conti,” I said, “I apologize sincerely for causing you distress. I’m going to leave now and let you and Bart work this out.” I turned to the door.
Bart heaved himself up—twice in under ten minutes surely constituted his aerobic workout for the week—and approached Bertha. “I’ll get back to you, Angie” he said. As I closed the door behind me, I heard him say, “We have too many years together to end like this, Bertha.”
What in the world set her off like that? I wondered. We had our differences, but this was way beyond normal.
Chapter 33
Forgive your enemies, but never forget their names. — John F. Kennedy
The security guy glared at me as I walked past his desk. “I could lose my job over that,” he said.
With a sigh, I stopped. He was right and I owed him, if not an explanation, at least reassurance. “Mr. Matthews and Mrs. Conti are in conference right now. Mr. Matthews will call me later, and I’ll swear that you did nothing wrong and do not deserve any censure for what happened.” I pulled a business card from my purse. “In case you need help, call me.”
“Uh, well, thanks.”
I nodded and headed back to the car, where I sat for several minutes, regaining my equilibrium. Had Bertha always felt that way about me? Was that the source of her antipathy? And was there a germ of truth in what she said?
Papa hadn’t spoiled me, but he certainly had protected me and still did, to the degree I allowed it. I refused to consider that wrong, or worthy of Bertha’s scorn. But the other accusation, that I accepted the Family connection and used it to my advantage, even as I scorned it–she wasn’t entirely wrong. Thinking back to the recent past, I recalled the times I asked Tony Belloni for assistance, even to using his parking facility just yesterday. And last year, when Bart stepped up at my request to represent Adriana Johnson. And my turning to Papa for help with the South Philly Mob.
My insistence that I made my way due to my own hard work, with no Mafia help, was not factual. I didn’t use the criminal aspects of the organization, but I did call on it when I could gain an advantage or help a client. So much for my vaunted denial of being a “Mafia princess.” Bertha had a point.
But why the overreaction on her part? What triggered that? I hoped Bart would enlighten me when he called later. I didn’t want him to lose Bertha at such short notice, with no replacement in sight. And I didn’t want her to leave a job that probably constituted the center of her life.
My stomach growled, whether in reaction to the encounter with Bertha, or from a need for food, I couldn’t say. A soup and roll lunch at Ma’s would fill the inner me, without laying too heavily on my insides.
It felt strange to sit at a table alone. Thankfully, I didn’t focus exclusively on Wukowski, since Bobbie and I often met there, too.
***
Bart didn’t contact me until after seven that night. “Angie,” he said with a little wheeze, “it’s been a difficult day. I’m sorry it took me so long to get back to you. Are you by chance free to come to my office now?”
What did he have to say that couldn’t be said on the phone? I wondered. “Of course, if you feel a face-to-face is necessary.”
“I do. Park in Bertha’s space. I’ll tell the guard to let you in.”
“Okay. I’m on my way.”
It was only a ten-minute trip at that time of night. I pulled into Bertha’s spot, as directed, and rode the elevator from the small underground garage to the lobby, where Mighty Mary sat. “Hey, Mary,” I called. “How are things?”
There was a grim set to her face as she shut the textbook she’d been reading. “Been better, Angie. What the hell happened today with you and Mrs. Conti? Mr. Matthews told security to deny her access to the building.”
“Really? Honestly, I don’t know what’s going on. She suddenly decided that I’m a demon in disguise and refused to let me see or talk to Bart. I’m on my way up now to find out the story. Okay if I leave my coat and briefcase with you?”
“Sure.” She moved aside to allow me access to the guard desk shelf. “You’re cleared to go up,” she said. “Hope it turns out okay.”
“Me, too.” I climbed the steps slowly, feeling a slight sense of dread. After arriving at Bart’s outer office, I knocked and entered. “Bart,” I called, “it’s Angie.”
“Come through,” he told me. “Please take a seat.” Bart’s mouth was a thin line and his complexion had a slightly grayish-green hue.
I settled uneasily in one of the visitor chairs and waited to learn what he had to say.
“Angie, I owe you and Mrs. Wagner a huge apology and will do all that I can to make things right.”
“I don’t understand, Bart. Aren’t we meeting to talk about Bertha?”
He exhaled and looked down, then handed me a printout. “That’s a listing of my office phone records since you spoke to me about your theoretical accountant client with Mafia ties. It includes calls to the
