Damaged Goods by Stephen Solomita Page A

anybody, but I can’t be running off to meetings every afternoon.” He glanced down at his ancient windup Timex, a watch he’d dubbed “Old Reliable” because it stopped every morning and afternoon at 3:22. “In fact, if I hurry, I can still find Carmine at the Gemini Lounge. That’s where he spends his afternoons.”
    Moodrow stood up before the protests could begin. “Leonora, you wanna walk me out? There’s something I need to ask you.”
    Leonora, now more bemused than angry, told the other women to wait for her, that she’d be back, then quickly joined Moodrow as he made his way between the tables. “You did that very nicely,” she said. “Short and sweet.”
    “Don’t worry, Leonora, you’ve still got them by the balls.”
    “The balls?”
    Moodrow pulled up short, stifled a giggle. “I’m gonna ask Jim Tilley to keep civilians out of Ann’s apartment. That means you’re the foundation’s only source of information. You oughta be able to work with that.” He took her by the arm. “You mentioned a private eye last night, said she worked with computers.”
    “Ginny Gadd. I assume she’s out, too.”
    “No, I need her. And I need you to do me a favor. I want you to give her a call, tell her I’ll be in touch later this afternoon.”
    “First you insult me, then you ask a favor. Stanley, if I didn’t love you, I’d hate your guts.”
    “Bullshit. You may be playing two games here, but you want Jilly Sappone as much as I do. That’s why you came to me in the first place.” He gave her a chance to deny it. When she didn’t, he continued. “I need a second favor, Leonora. Somebody has to go over to Ann’s apartment and check it for security.”
    “She’s fourteen floors off the ground and there’s no fire escape. Unless Jilly learned to fly in prison …”
    “Check the lock, make sure it’s shielded. The frame, too. I don’t want that lock punched out; I don’t want the door jimmied. The shades have to cover the windows completely and the lamps have to be up against the windows. No shadows, no silhouettes. I’d do it myself, but I have to catch Carmine before he goes home. Jilly’s aunt lives there and I’d bet my left testicle that she’s in touch with him.”

NINE
    “T AKE ME AWAY, MOODROW . Take me the fuck away.” Carmine Stettecase held out a pair of small, pudgy hands. “The shit that’s happenin’ to me now, I’d rather be in the joint.”
    They were sitting at a back table in the Gemini Lounge, Carmine’s supper club, located at the intersection of Wooster and Prince Streets on the western edge of what had once been Little Italy. The Italians, who’d occupied the neighborhood for more than eighty years, had begun to move out in the early 1950s, with Latinos, mainly Puerto Ricans, coming in to replace them. The process continued for the better part of two decades, until trendy New Yorkers in search of affordable housing “discovered” the neighborhood in the late Seventies. The ten years that followed saw the manufacturing lofts remodeled, the ancient tenements refurbished, and the neighborhood renamed, emerging as the Soho district.
    The new settlers brought something Little Italy had never had; they brought money, and Carmine Stettecase had gone with the flow. He’d traded his candleholder Chianti bottles for halogen wall sconces, purged his jukebox, dumping Frank Sinatra and Vic Damone in favor of Thelonius Monk and the Kinks. His menu no longer featured calamari fra diavolo, but the marinated asparagus (or so Moodrow had heard) was to die for.
    When the lounge (much to Carmine’s surprise) began to catch on, he’d added strings of white Christmas lights to the ceiling trellis, a matched pair of platinum-blond bartenders (one male, one female), and a performance artist with a tattooed skull. His own operation was moved to a back table and confined to the afternoon when the restaurant and bar were closed.
    “I’m not a cop anymore, Carmine. Haven’t been