Bone Dry

kickbacks, strong-arm tactics, and laundering involved. Not to mention the way some of Sal’s associates tended to disappear suddenly. Here one day, gone the next, never to be seen again. She always wondered if Sal had anything to do with those disappearances.

So, for twenty years, Angela had resigned herself to a lonely, bleak existence, the wife of a common criminal.

Then, three years ago, Sal had finally come clean. The federal investigations and upcoming trials forced his hand, and he told her everything. Or at least he said he did. The newspapers referred to Sal as a hit man, but he never confessed to that, despite the mounds of evidence against him. I bent a few tax rules, Sal would say, but kill somebody? Never.

Now she thought Sal was screwing the housekeeper.

It made Angela furious.

When their family had been relocated, Angela, oddly, had been elated. She looked at it as a fresh start, an opportunity to wipe the slate clean and begin a whole new life. A chance to gain respectability, make up for Sal’s evil deeds in the past. And maybe now, away from the circles that had turned Sal into a corrupt, heartless man, they could fix their broken marriage.

But it wasn’t working out that way at all.

Sal, so far as Angela knew, was staying inside the law, even with his new brush-clearing business. But his womanizing-the thing that hurt her most-had returned.

Wheeling into the driveway now, Angela was on the verge of tears. She shouldn’t let her mind wander like that, because it always made her upset. And angry…oh, so angry.

Twenty yards from the garage, a black cat ran out in front of the Mercedes and froze. Angela’s foot immediately rose from the gas pedal, and lingered over the brake.

In a split second, though, something dark and macabre in Angela’s psyche took over. It was Maria’s cat, she knew, and here, finally, was a way for Angela to spread a little of the pain around, to share some of the misery. It was nonsense, of course. Sal was the one Angela wanted to hurt, not Maria. But Angela wasn’t thinking clearly; she was merely looking for a way to release some of the torment in her soul.

She lightly pushed the accelerator. The fine German engine responded, and the cat seemed to be swallowed up like a piece of lint in front of a vacuum cleaner.

“Mi gato!” Maria cried, as they both heard the thump beneath the wheels.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Another thirty minutes went by and Smedley was dozing off behind the wheel, his head bobbing to his chest every twenty seconds or so. Then, just as he was reaching for the bottle of Big Red, needing a caffeine jolt, he saw Angela Mameli’s car glide into her driveway. He thought he could see the pretty housekeeper-Maria was her name- in the passenger seat.

Finally. Smedley preferred to drop in when Angela and Maria were home. Angela was much nicer than the Mameli men. Sal Mameli could be a real bastard, and that smart-ass son of his wasn’t much better. They always brought up that tired bit about how their taxes paid Smedley’s salary, looking smug about it. But both men seemed to behave a little better when Angela was around. And she sometimes invited him to stay for dinner.

Smedley decided to give Angela a few minutes to get settled before he paid a visit.

Maria sprang from the car in a panic. She was dumbfounded. It almost seemed as if Mrs. Mameli had hit her cat on purpose. Maria knew Mrs. Mameli was a sad, angry woman, but surely she would not take out her emotions on a defenseless animal.

Behind the car, Tuco lay broken and bloody. Maria went to one knee and cradled the cat’s head, but it was obvious there was no life left in him.

“Maria, I’m so sorry!” Mrs. Mameli was behind her, looking over her shoulder. “I meant to hit the brake but I hit the gas. I don’t know what happened. It was all so quick.”

A tear ran down Maria’s cheek.

“You poor thing,” Mrs. Mameli said. “I know that cat meant a lot to you. I feel just awful.” Mrs. Mameli patted Maria’s shoulder, then returned to her car and continued up the driveway.

Alone now, Maria gently lifted the mangled body-and saw something that surprised her: a small tuft of white hair on the cat’s chest. Tuco had no such patch. It was not Tuco!

Maria was momentarily elated, then was washed over with guilt for feeling happy while this innocent animal lay dead in her hands.

Sal placed the steam cleaner in the trunk of his Lincoln and slammed the lid just as the gears of the garage- door opener groaned and the door began to lift. Jeez, that was close, he thought.

The door open now, Sal could see Angela sitting out there in her Mercedes. She made an impatient gesture that said, What’s Vinnie’s car doing in my spot? then killed the engine and climbed out.

Sal planted a fake smile on his face and walked over to greet her, trying to gauge her mood; she had been such a bitch lately. He could already hear her carping about having to park in the driveway, asking why Vinnie had parked in the garage. Sal had a good lie ready: Vinnie was vacuuming the inside of his car and needed to be close to an outlet.

But Angela let him off the hook by speaking first. “What a goddamn day!” she moaned. “Poor Maria, I just ran over her cat.”

Sal looked down the driveway. “You hit her cat?” As far as he was concerned, that was good news. He wondered why he had never thought of that himself.

Angela jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Not to mention, we got company again out on the road.”

Sal’s heart fluttered and his balls shrank to about half their normal size. She was talking about that damn marshal! Even between trials, the Feds still dropped in now and then-usually a whale of a guy named Smedley, who always seemed to show up around dinner time. Angela would usually ask him to stay for a bite, despite Sal’s whispered protests. Did it to piss him off, he figured.

Angela was grabbing shopping bags out of the trunk, asking Sal to give her a hand, but Sal turned and raced into the house. Vinnie had to get his car the hell out of there.

When Smedley pulled up to the house, Mrs. Mameli wasn’t in sight. But Maria was standing in the middle of the driveway, down a ways from the house, looking disoriented. Wait a minute-was that blood on her blouse? Had something happened to Sal, right here under Smedley’s nose? Panic gripped him.

Smedley shoved it into PARK and struggled out of the sedan, his hand fumbling for his revolver under his coat. Then he saw the dead cat at Maria’s feet. What a relief-just a dead cat.

Smedley looked at Maria, who was wiping the tears off her cheeks. “You okay?” he asked.

Maria nodded, wrapping her arms around her torso as if she were cold.

Smedley glanced around for help, maybe Angela or even Sal. Somebody to step in and take care of this poor gal. But they were all alone, standing in silence. Meanwhile, Maria continued to look miserable. Smedley knew he should do what a real man would do: Step up, be gallant, console the damsel in distress. But the problem was, he had always been so awkward around women. Especially beautiful women. He became klutzy and tongue-tied and sweaty and… and, oddly, none of that was happening right now.

Whatever it was, Maria was somehow different. She didn’t look at him with disdain or mockery, as American women did. Her eyes held compassion, even now, with her dead pet lying in front of her. So Smedley swallowed his doubts and walked over to Maria. He gently wrapped an arm around her, this woman he barely knew. She surprised him by pressing her head against his chest and accepting his comfort.

She looked up into his eyes and Smedley felt his heart flutter. She was so vulnerable and beautiful, with soulful brown eyes, high, sculpted cheekbones, and skin as smooth and creamy as a Hershey bar.

Maria said something to him in Spanish. He didn’t understand a word, so he just said, “There, there, everything will be all right.” It sounded corny to him, but she placed her head back on his chest.