Mary sighed. At some level, even she had to admit it was time to lay Amadeo to rest. She had to let him go. Stop thinking of him as some sort of a ghost, George Clooney, or even Mike. She had discovered the unspeakable, but both Amadeo and Saracone had passed from this earth; murdered and murderer, good and evil. They would reconcile with their God; one embraced and the other reviled. She would have to be content with that justice.
And, after what Gomez had told them, there was no chance now of proving that Frank’s murder was connected to Saracone. Gomez liked his lead in Frank’s murder, and the police were about to arrest a man who had committed another office burglary farther down Broad Street, also in which a small safe had been wheeled away. Gomez hadn’t gone out to Saracone’s house, and the Cavuto case was officially cleared. Saracone was dead. Amadeo was gone.
It was over, all of it.
It was history.
The parish church brimmed with neighbors, nuns, priests from the Archdiocese, beat cops, bowling buddies, and the latest softball team Frank had sponsored, girls and boys squirming next to an array of small businessmen. Mary flashed on the bills she’d seen in the file drawers: dry cleaners, carpet cleaners, window blind cleaners; car repairs, shoe repairs, roof repairs; plumbers, electricians, carpenters. All of them mourned the passing of Frank Cavuto. And she knew that miles outside the city, far from the auto body shops and the check cashing agencies, in an elegant country mansion in a lovely town called Birchrunville, people were gathering to mourn the passing of Giovanni Saracone – his very young wife, his son, that felon in the Escalade, and undoubtedly an array of businessmen in custom suits and silk ties, who trafficked in stocks, bonds, and mysterious investments.
Mary sat with Bennie and Judy behind Frank’s grieving wife and sons, in one of the glistening wooden pews toward the front of the parish church. Mary’s parents clutched soggy Kleenexes, and the rest of the weepy
Mary raised her eyes to the altar, where the white-robed priest was holding the host over his head, reciting the familiar prayer. She responded with the rest of the congregation, as she had her entire life, but her thoughts kept straying to work. She had ten active cases piled on her desk and clients shaking their fists at her. She had briefs to file and motions to write. She had depositions to take and defend; cases to settle or try, the day-to-day business of being a trial lawyer. Part of her missed it, which came as a surprise, even to her. Amadeo had taught her that, brought her that; she had never felt happy with her choice of profession before this case. She sent him a silent prayer of thanks.
She bowed her head to the sound of sobs and sniffling, the cadence of praying and chanting, and next an unwelcome sound. The intrusion of a cell phone, set on generic ring.
She opened her bag, grabbed her cell, flipped it open, and pressed Power, instantly turning it off. Her mother frowned. Her father smiled. Bennie eyed her coolly, then looked away. Mary felt redness warm her aching cheek. She hadn’t recognized the caller’s number on the glowing blue display, but the call had been from a 215 area code, local to Philly. Probably one of the clients she’d been avoiding. She wished her cell number wasn’t on her damn business cards.
Mourners were rising to receive Holy Communion, and with a crowd this size it would take twenty minutes at least, so Mary got up on autopilot, helped her mother to her orthopedic shoes, and the DiNunzios excused their way out of the pew to join the line, hands folded and heads bowed. She tried to focus again on her work, but all she could think about was Amadeo, Saracone, and Frank, and the emotion she felt most fully was grief. Grief for all three of them, oddly. Sorrow that they had all gone. Her heart weighed in her chest as she walked to the altar, hearing people sniffling, the occasional smoker’s cough, and the regular
After the funeral mass, crowds thronged outside on the granite steps of the church, covering the pavement and spilling off the curb and onto a busy Sixteenth Street. Cars couldn’t afford to be heedless of the crowd letting out and gave the foot traffic wide berth. Men talked in groups at the curb, lighting up cigarettes and puffing cigars, blowing cones of gray smoke into the gray clouds, where it was carried off and disappeared. Women chattered in small groups, hugging, kissing, and dab-bing their tears from the side, so as not to smear their mascara. The
“Mary, you’re such a good lawyer! So good to us! So hard, you worked!” they all said, and Mary’s mother nodded, her father beamed, and Mary accepted the congratulations, feeling like a complete fraud. She hadn’t recovered even a dime of Amadeo’s estate and she hadn’t vindicated his murder. She hadn’t even told any of them that he had been murdered, though in truth, they seemed to have forgotten altogether about Amadeo. It was as if Frank Cavuto had been Mary’s mentor, and with his death, she had succeeded him in being the
“Mary! Mary! Itsa sin, that Frank’s gone!” yelled Joe Grassi, from the back. “He woulda been so proud, to see what you accomplished. He tol’ me last week, you been workin’ for no pay!”
“No, wait, everybody!” Mary put up a hand. Enough was enough. “It was my boss who paid, Bennie Rosato. Give her the credit!” She pointed to the edge of the throng, where Bennie had been collared by a
“My God, you have lots of fans, Mare!” Mac said. “The
“It doesn’t work that way,” Mary said, recoiling.
“This must be your mother!” Mac boomed, and Mary was figuring out a way she could turn his doggedness to her advantage.
“Ma, meet Jim MacIntire. He’s a reporter, so don’t answer any of his questions.”
“Ah-ha!” Her mother sniffed, making no disguise of her instant dislike, which only confirmed Mary’s doubts. Her mother’s instincts about people were positively canine. She could take one whiff, and you were either sunk or made. German Shepherds came to her for advice.
“You must be so proud of your daughter!” Mac boomed again, sounding more the proud parent than Mary’s own proud parent, who gave her daughter’s arm a familiar squeeze, turned on her thick rubber heel, and without another word, walked off into the crowd. Mary tried not to laugh.
“Tough room,” Mac said. “Listen, I want to talk with you about Brandolini. I guess you heard that Giovanni Saracone died yesterday. If you’re going to ask me how I know, we have an obit section, and I saw the notice.”
Mary kept her middle finger to herself. She was so near church and all.
“Let’s talk, Mare. Like we did, that first time, in your office.” Mac’s tone softened, and she gathered it was his Love Voice. The one that made her check if he had a wedding ring on.
“Did
