“Forget it-”
“No, really, I will, I swear it.”
“Okay, great,” Anthony said abruptly, then hung up.
Mary slipped the phone into her purse, parked the car, and went into Rolli’s, which turned out to be the opposite of Biannetti’s in every way. It was tiny, but bright and clean, with only one of twelve tables occupied. Cheery flowered tablecloths covered the little square tables, and the air smelled like stale Parmesan and Lysol. An old TV mounted in the corner played ESPN with closed captioning, but there was no bar. Mary looked around for a hostess, but seeing none, sat down and waited. She looked over at the occupied table, where two older women sat behind plates of ravioli. After five minutes, she called out to them, “Excuse me, is there a waitress around?”
“Wha?” one of the women asked, her gnarled hand fluttering to her ear, feeling if her hearing aid was turned on. Mary knew the gesture. Her father had a hearing aid he turned off whenever the Phillies started losing. She craned her neck to the back of the room, where fluorescent light spilled from an open doorway into what had to be the kitchen. She got up and went over.
“Hello?” Mary called out at the threshold, but there was no answer, so she stepped inside. It was empty. Stainless-steel counters ran the full length of the room, and an array of steel ladles, spoons, and spatulas hung from hooks on the back wall. A huge pot of gravy sat on the stove, but it wasn’t bubbling, and the kitchen smelled oddly of sawdust. “Hello?”
“Be right there!” a voice called back, and a short, middle-aged man with black hair and dark skin emerged from the back pantry, holding a commercial-size can of Cento tomatoes. “I’m Jorge, can I help you?” he asked, his accent Hispanic.
“I didn’t see a waitress.”
“Sorry, she’s late. Please, go sit, and I’ll be right out.”
“Actually, I’m looking for a man named Eyes. I don’t know his real name, but I think he was a friend of Bobby Mancuso, who worked here a long time ago. I’m hoping that he still might come in here and that he brought Eyes with him.”
“Bobby?” Jorge asked, his expression somber. He set down the big tomato can, clank against the steel counter, then wiped his hands on his full-length apron. “We’re all so sad about Bobby. So sad.”
“You know him?” Mary asked, surprised.
“Yeah, sure. Bobby, he come in here, all the time. It’s terrible he died. Such a young man.”
“He was.” It struck Mary that nobody at Biannetti’s had looked like they were in mourning, even the day after his murder. “How often did he come in?”
“Like I say, all the time, for dinner. He liked the cannelloni. Three times a week, maybe more.”
“Was this recently?” Mary felt her heartbeat quicken.
“Sure, all the time.”
Mary didn’t understand it. Trish’s diary had said that Bobby went to Biannetti’s all the time, but there hadn’t been any references to Rolli’s. Between here and Biannetti’s, he must have been in a carb frenzy.
“You a cop, Miss?”
Mary introduced herself. “No, I’m an old friend of Bobby’s, from way back.”
Jorge’s dark eyes narrowed.
“For real. I dated him in high school. Did he ever come in with a man named Eyes?”
“No.” Jorge shook his head. “He come in alone.”
“Always alone?”
“Yes.”
Damn. “Not even with Trish, his girlfriend?”
“No.”
Mary made a mental note. She was fresh out of leads, unless she wanted to follow a fleet of Cadillacs. “So you don’t know who Eyes is?”
“No, sorry,” Jorge answered, then gestured at the doorway behind Mary. “But she might. This is Latreece, our waitress. She used to wait on Bobby all the time.”
Mary turned around, and standing in the doorway was a petite black woman wearing an oversized Baby Phat coat with tight jeans and a midnight green Eagles cap, pulled low.
“Sorry I’m late. It was just too hard to get here today.” Latreece slid the cap from her head, and Mary almost gasped. She was a young woman with a beautiful face, and her skin set off her most striking feature-a stunning pair of jade-green eyes, faintly Asian in shape.
“Eyes?” Mary blurted out, in disbelief.
CHAPTER THIRTY
M ary and Latreece sat down in white plastic chairs in a hallway to a tiny pantry of unpainted drywall, lined with boxes of canned goods and rolls of plastic-wrapped paper towels. A panel of fluorescent lighting cast harsh shadows on Latreece’s face, but it couldn’t make her ugly, even grieving as she was. Her eyes, puffy and slightly bloodshot, still shone that exotic green and her fine, high cheekbones tapered to a delicate chin and soft mouth. She wore her hair natural and short, with simple gold hoops. In a different life, Latreece would have been a model, and Mary wanted to know everything about her.
“So you’re Eyes?” she asked, amazed.
“Yes. Bobby called me that the first time I waited on him.” Latreece smiled, her face lighting up. “I loved it. Made me feel like a spy. Most men, all they see is my boobs.”
Mary believed it. Latreece had on a stretchy black T-shirt, revealing an amazing body. “Not a problem I have.”
“You’re lucky.”
Right. “So when did you meet him?”
“About four years ago. I waited on him and we got to talking.” Latreece’s tone was feminine and girlish, which made sense, because she looked about twenty-five. “He worked here a long time ago. He loved this place, even though, well, you see it.” Latreece gestured down the hall. “It’s had better days. He said it was like some old TV show. Cheers. He always said Rolli’s was a place where everybody knows your name.”
Mary thought of Rosaria. It had been about four years ago that she had become estranged from Bobby.
“We got to know each other, and we started, you know, seeing each other. I knew about Trish, but that didn’t matter, not really. He loved me and he took good care of me and my daughter. She’s seven.” Latreece’s lower lip trembled. “Damn, I thought I was all cried out.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know what it sounds like. What I sound like.” Latreece recovered, eyeing her pointedly with those fiery green gems. “Just so you understand, it wasn’t just sex. We loved each other. He had a good side, a wonderful side, and I loved him.”
“I understand.” More than you know.
“I didn’t want to marry him. Stop. I’m lying.” Latreece paused. “Well, in the beginning I did, but then I saw it wasn’t gonna happen, and the way it was, it worked for us.” She got lost in thought, momentarily. “Early on, I kept thinking, maybe he’ll leave her. But I always knew he wouldn’t. My brain knew better than my heart, you know?”
“Yes.”
“He was crazy about Trish. He loved her.”
Mary flashed on the horrific Polaroids, in the diary. “But he abused her, Latreece.”
“I know, I guessed it. I’m young but I wasn’t born yesterday. I left home when I got pregnant and I’ve been supporting myself since then. I danced for a long time.”
“Danced?”
Latreece laughed softly. “In a club.”
“Oh.” Mary smiled. “That kind of dancing. I don’t get out much.”
“Anyway, I knew he had a temper, especially when he drank.”
“He drank a lot.”
“I know. It was part of the reason I didn’t wanna marry him.” Latreece shook her head sadly. “But I can’t believe what happened…it’s horrible.”
“Do you think he killed her? She was terrified he would.”
“God knows.” Latreece looked crestfallen, her eyebrows sloping down. “I don’t think he would. Not if he thought about it, not if he had the chance to think. Not if he was sober.” She emitted a deep sigh. “He wasn’t mean, inside.”
“Did he say anything about asking to marry her soon? Or would he not talk to you about that?”