Roast Mortem

Twenty-Six

“James, I’ve been looking for you all over!” Val cried, close to breathless. “Where did you park our car? I went to the vendors parking area on Sixteenth and — ”

“Couldn’t find a spot on Sixteenth,” James said tightly. “The designated parking area was full.”

“Oh, damn.” Valerie’s shoulders sunk. Her auburn French twist looked a little ragged from the March wind gusts. Her cucumber green linen suit was still crisp, but the name tag on its lapel sat askew.

“So where’s the car?” she asked.

“I parked it at the St. James garage on — ”

“You paid for parking?” One arm rose and fell, taking her thick clipboard with it. “That’s like fifty bucks or more! You know my job situation, James. You know how tight things are going to get for us soon — ”

“The fund has an expense account, doesn’t it? Take the money from there. You worked hard enough for it. Why do you need the car, anyway?”

“I don’t need the car. I left something in the trunk.”

James exhaled hard. He took her arm. “Fine. Let’s go.”

“Oh, forget it now,” Val said, pulling away. “I’ve got a crisis with the sound system on my hands. I’ve just got to hope that — ”

“Sorry,” James said, glancing at his watch. “But I ought to get back to the house.”

“Oh? Okay. Well, since you’re taking the car, could you stop at the store first?” Val said. “I wanted a bowl of cereal this morning and we’re out of milk. Paper towels, too, and pick up — ”

“I meant the firehouse,” James said.

Val’s mouth closed. Then she reached into her pocket. “You’re coming to the party tonight, aren’t you?” she asked, fumbling with a pack of cigarettes.

Val was referring to the post-bake sale party. Every borough was having its own for the volunteers, and I’d been invited to the one being held at a Queens pub. Mike was supposed to meet me around eight.

“I’ll be there at nine, maybe sooner,” James replied, his gaze was unhappily focused on Val’s cigarette.

“It’s at Saints and Sinners. That’s in Woodside — ”

“I know where it is,” James said. Then he nodded in my direction. “See you tonight, Clare.”

Val frowned as she watched her husband’s back. I stood and touched her arm. “Are you okay? Would you like to sit down for a few minutes?”

Cigarette between her lips, Val shook her head as she flicked a disposable lighter a half-dozen times in rapid succession without coaxing a flame. She groaned and — in a broad gesture of disgust — tossed the lighter and cigarette into a Parks Department trash can.

“It’s been hell since Bigsie died,” she said. “James is shutting down. I can’t tell his family, his friends. They don’t want to hear it.”

“What do you mean ‘James is shutting down’?”

“He’s short with me when I ask questions, he’s miserable and pouting all the time, and he won’t discuss what’s on his mind. Not with me, anyway. He’s talking to someone, though, because he disappears once in a while, goes to the garage where he has these long conversations on his cell phone.”

Three in the long and tragic list of warning signs your husband is having an affair. Pretty soon he’ll be going out with the guys or spending time with a client, or he just won’t come home one night.

“Listen, Val, your husband is going through a really bad time, but I think — ”

A loud ring tone interrupted us. I’d heard Val’s cell go off many times, but I’d never heard it play this set of notes before.

“Sorry, Clare! I have to take this!”

“Sure, of course.”

The tinny tune sounded like one of those club hits of the 1980s: “You Spin Me Round (Like a Record).” Val answered the cell without bothering to check the caller ID.

“Dean! I can’t believe you called back... What?... You’re here? Really?” With her free hand, Val felt the condition of her hair, adjusted her lopsided name tag. “I’m on the north side of the park, across the street from that big Barnes & Noble — Huh? Turn around?”

She did and laughed when she saw a man with sun-bronzed skin in a black leather jacket, standing right behind us, cell phone at his ear.

Val closed her phone and air-kissed the newcomer. “Thank you so much, Dean.”

“My guys are at the podium right now, setting things up.” Dean’s voice was deep, with a slight foreign accent. Greek?

“You have a band?” I interrupted.

Val turned to me. “He has a sound system — and that’s what I desperately needed. The one I leased for the day cut out, and their so-called technician couldn’t fix it. The mayor’s coming, so is the fire commissioner and a whole bunch of celebrities. I was in a total panic, so I put in a call to my old friend here...” She turned back to the man. “I didn’t think you’d get here in time.”

“My darling, you sounded so distressed on the phone that I rushed it here from Brooklyn. The nightclub’s main system is permanent, you know, so I brought the portable stuff. We use it for live acts, but you’re welcome to it for as long as you need it.”

“I so appreciate this,” Val said, again patting her wind-ravaged twist. “Make sure I send you a charitable giving form to fill out. You can declare you labor as a tax deduction.”

Dean waved away the thought. “I did this for my dear friend, not for a tax break.”

“Clare, I want you to meet the man who saved my life. Clare Cosi. This is Constantine Tassos — Dean for short.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “So you run a club?”

“Oh, yes.” Dean nodded, handing over a business card in a smooth, practiced gesture. “The Blue Mirage in Bensonhurst. Actually I own several catering halls in Brooklyn and Queens, and I have two other Mirage clubs. The Purple Mirage in North Jersey — ”

“And the Red Mirage in Astoria?” (It was right there on his card.)

Dean nodded. “That’s correct.”

He was a compact man, a little shorter than Val, with not an ounce of spare weight on his slight form. His eyes were dark and intense under unruly ebony curls. I guessed the man’s age around forty, but it was only a guess. His smile looked whiter than bleached sheets, contrasting strikingly with his tanned face. Florida golf courses or a day spa’s tanning booth? My guess was the latter, given the manicured state of his fingernails when he’d handed over his card.

“Are you a patron of my Queens establishment, Ms. Cosi?”

“I’ve seen the place,” I replied, recalling the garish neon reflected in the wet black pavement the night Caffè Lucia went up in flames. “I met one of your managers.” (The jerk who called my car a junk heap.) “And he was kind of... pushy.”

“Ah, well, the business can do that to you. There’s rough trade around every nightclub and tavern. I’m compelled to operate with managers who know how to handle many situations, some of them ugly.” His Clorox smile returned. “I hope the experience wasn’t too unpleasant.”

“Not at all.”

“Listen, Dean,” Val said, squeezing his arm. “I need to know how soon we’ll have sound.”

“It’s probably ready,” he replied. “Let’s go check.”

Val turned to me. “Sorry, Clare, I’ve got to get back to work — ”

“I understand. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tassos.”

“The pleasure was mine,” he replied, politely shaking my hand.

I watched Val and Dean walk toward the podium. They paused for a moment, while Dean lit a cigarette for Val with a silver Ronson lighter. Then he lit one for himself. Smoking together, they strolled in the direction of the stage. I noticed Dean’s hand rest familiarly on Val’s waist. She did nothing to shrug him off.

After Val’s tirade, I assumed James was having the affair. Now I wondered if my assumptions were misguided. Or maybe it was both partners finding sympathetic ears and arms outside of their unhappy marriage.

How sad it all seemed...

On my way back to the Blend’s kiosk, prerecorded music blared, signaling the sound system was working again. A moment later the master of ceremonies took to the podium. Corey Parker, action-hero star of Six Alarm! a show about the trials and travails of the hunky men on the FDNY, was greeted by applause and whistles from the women — and a few gay men.

Finally I moved on and spied Matt standing at the door of a dingy white rental van that had seen better days.

Dante was just walking away from the truck’s open side doors with an arm full of paper products. Matt doubled-checked the interior to make sure it was empty.

My ex had changed out of his morning sweats, into blue jeans, retro sneakers, and a black crew-neck sweater. He’d shaved and worked on his hair, too, and as I approached, I detected the musky citrus scent of the latest French cologne — compliments of his new wife, no doubt.

“Thanks for the delivery. I’m sure Esther was frantic,” I said.

I think my eyes bugged just then, because Matt stared at me with alarm.

“Clare? What’s the matter?”

My attention was fixed on a sleek gold car across the street, and the two people chatting beside it. One was Oat Crowley, still puffing up a storm. The other was a woman with short, slicked-back, salon-blond hair. I felt chilly just looking at her thin capri pants and four-inch metallic gladiator sandals — such was the woman’s chosen attire for this blustery March day, along with a silk scarf over a tight blouse with the kind of plunging neckline more appropriate for a night of clubbing than a day in the park. She was laughing, too, which is why it took me a moment to recognize her. The last time I saw this piece of work, she looked like she’d been sucking sour pickles.

“Matt! That’s Lucia!”

“Who?”

“Lucia Testa, Enzo’s daughter, and she’s laughing it up with Oat Crowley — oh God, they’re getting into her car — ”

I opened the door of our rental van and shoved Matt into the driver’s seat. I didn’t waste time running to the passenger side and going through the door, either. I just climbed right over my ex.

“Clare, what the hell are you — ”

“Quick, they’re leaving!”

“But — ”

“Matt, shut up and drive!”

“Drive where?”

I pointed, my finger tapping the windshield like a mad woodpecker. “Just follow that car!”