judged her. On the other hand, he hadn’t called today. She pulled her BlackBerry from her purse and checked her call log, all of which were clients. She noted three e-mails from Judy and shot her back a quick I’m-fine, so she wouldn’t worry. Then she set the BlackBerry on the table in case Anthony called.
This is what happens when single girls stalk the Mob.
Mary got back on track, turning the pages and pretending to read a sidebar editorial, by one of the snarkier columnists whose byline she recognized. The headline alone scared her: THE PHILLY MOB: DEAD OR ALIVE? Her mouth went dry. Even though Biannetti’s seemed safe, she didn’t like tempting fate by reading about the Mob in a Mobbed-up restaurant.
“Coffee, honey?” a waitress asked, and Mary jumped.
“Sure, thanks.”
“You hungover?”
“What?” Mary didn’t understand.
“The sunglasses.” The waitress set down a red plastic menu, and on the front was a stereotypical Italian chef with a Mario Brothers mustache, holding a plate of steaming spaghetti and meatballs.
“Right, yes. Ouch.”
“The coffee will help.” The waitress plunked down a thick white mug and poured coffee into it from a Bunn glass pot. She had a pretty, if careworn, face, and was in her fifties, with brown hair in short, dark layers. She had on a casual blue blouse with Mom jeans and seemed approachable enough, so Mary gestured casually to the newspaper.
“Pretty weird, huh? Think it’s a Mob war?”
“Sure do.” The waitress nodded. “It’s been a while. You know what they say in The Godfather. It’s time.”
“But that’s a movie.”
“Oh yeah? Look around.” The waitress winked. “Try telling the fans that.”
“Is that really why everybody’s here?”
“After last night? You bet.”
“You’d think they’d avoid the place, if there’s going to be trouble.”
“No way. They wanna be where the action is.”
Mary shuddered. “But it might not be safe.”
“The Mob ain’t like those rappers, shootin’ the joint up. They only whack their own. Today, Biannetti’s is the safest place on earth.”
“So Mob guys really do hang here?”
“Why do you wanna know?” The waitress smiled slyly.
“I’m just interested. None of these men look like gangsters to me, unless AARP’s fronting.”
“This is the lunch crowd.”
“So at night is when the Mob guys come?”
“Midnight or later.” The waitress shifted her weight to the other hip. “You like the bad boys?”
No. “Yes. Does it show?”
“Please. You’re not the first girl to come in here, lookin’ to hook up.”
Yikes! “I’m not?”
“No way. Girls come in all the time, and they all look just like you. They got the Coach handbags, the cell phones, the nice suits. They’re like groupies. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“Ever since The Sopranos, business is crazy. The owner’s talking about opening for breakfast. I see it all the time. You professional types like to take a walk on the wild side.”
“Color me guilty,” Mary said, and they both laughed.
“My husband says, you got women’s rights and all, and you ladies give orders all day to your secretaries and assistants, and sometimes, you just wanna get ordered around in bed. Me, I’m married thirty-five years. I’m dead below the waist.”
Mary laughed, then turned to the front page of the newspaper and pointed at the photo of Bobby. “You know,” she said, “I used to hook up with this guy. Bobby Mancuso.”
“The one that got killed?” the waitress asked, in admiration.
“The very same.”
“He was made, wasn’t he?”
“No, just connected,” Mary answered, eager to try out her new lingo.
“Still, he’s so good-lookin’.” The waitress leaned over like a coconspirator. “Was it great?”
“Beyond great.” Mary suppressed a twinge.
“Too bad they whacked him.”
“It happens.” Mary paused. “You know, he always talked about this guy named Eyes, a friend of his. He said Eyes was a great guy.”
“Eyes?”
“Yeah. I’d like to meet him, but I can’t find him.”
“Ha!” The waitress grinned crookedly. “You’re not wastin’ any time, are you, girl?”
“The King is dead, long live the King.”
They both laughed, and at a nearby table, an older man raised his coffee mug, requesting a refill, but the waitress ignored him. “So you’re interested in Eyes, huh?”
“Do you know him?”
“It doesn’t sound familiar.” The waitress frowned, thinking. “What’s his real name?”
“I forget. Bobby always called him Eyes.”
“What’s he look like?”
“I don’t know.”
“I never heard of a guy named Eyes.”
Damn. “Maybe he came in with Bobby.”
“The dead guy? I never saw him either, but the boys come in at night, after midnight. I’m not on then.”
“Who is?”
“Barb. Barb Maniaci.”
“Maybe you could put in a good word for me, with her.” Mary reached for her wallet, extracted as many twenties as she could grab, and stuck them in the red menu, which she folded closed and handed to the waitress, who accepted it with a discreet wink.
“I’ll let Barb know you wanna meet Mr. Eyes.”
“Great. Can you make it happen tonight?”
“Tonight is tough. They’re all layin’ low today. Nobody knows when all hell’s gonna break loose.”
“I can’t wait.”
The waitress arched an over-plucked eyebrow. “You gotta, if you don’t know his real name. We been sendin’ sandwiches and baked ziti out all morning to, like, twenty different houses. For them, we deliver.”
“Good move.” Mary considered it. Of course, everybody would be over at the Pos’ house, paying their respects. Maybe even Cadillac.
The waitress pulled out her white pad. “Now, hot stuff, what’ll ya have for lunch?”
“I’m not eating,” Mary answered abruptly. She had to get going.
Even if it meant passing up a pork sandwich.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
T he drizzle had let up, and Mary was back in the car. She drove down the street, and the neighborhood seemed electrified by the murder, with people hanging out on their stoops, talking to each other. She turned on the windshield wipers and cruised ahead, then took a right, slowing down as she turned onto the street where Ritchie Po and his father lived.
She suppressed a tingle of fear and cruised past the house, watching the people going in and out of the Po
