“Oh!” she said. “You scared me.”
His voice was smooth and resonant. “Didn’t mean to. My apologies.”
Tall, with dark hair that stood up slightly in the front, the man wore a dark, beautifully tailored suit over a white shirt and geometric-pattern tie, along with dark Italian loafers and a smile that probably made some females swoon but which Brennan found smarmy.
“Are you Ms. Brennan?” he asked.
His voice was smooth as brandy, but about as sincere as twist-cap wine.
“I am,” she said.
“Your table is ready,” he said, turning to lead her, but then stopped and turned toward her again. “You aren’t — Temperance Brennan, are you? The writer?”
“Actually, I’m Temperance Brennan the anthropologist. But I have done some writing.”
“I should say! A bestseller is some writing all right….”
He extended a hand and she had no choice but to shake it.
“Vincent Gianelli,” he said, gesturing to himself. “One of the owners of the place.”
She had already suspected as much, yet she still fought the urge to snatch her hand back.
“Well,” she said. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m in town consulting and one of the guidebooks said Siracusa was the best Italian food in the suburbs.”
The handshaking stopped finally. She resisted the urge to count her fingers.
“I like to think best Italian in Chicago,” he said, and flashed that white smile. “Listen, I’m a big fan — loved your book. Your money’s no good here, Ms. Brennan.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary, Mr. Gianelli.”
He held up a stop palm. “It won’t be free — it will cost you….” He turned to the bartender. “Lisa! Getthe camera!”
“Oh… no….”
“Now don’t be shy.” He took her hand again, and she let him, squirming inside. “We’re very proud of our Wall of Fame.”
“I noticed. So many celebrities….”
She didn’t mention that she hadn’t recognized many of them.
“We get all kinds of famous people in here,” he said. “My dad knew Frank and Dino, y’know.”
Well, even she knew who they were….
“Of course,” Gianelli was saying, “I was just a kid then… but in the years since? Belushi, Aykroyd, anybody who’s anybody in Chicago has eaten at Siracusa and become a member of the Wall of Fame.”
“Well, that is impressive,” she said, and tried to make her smile convey that lie.
“Ditka, Walter Payton, Jordan, Sammy Sosa, you name ’em, they’ve broke bread here. Even writers like Bill Braschler, Eleanor Taylor Brand… and now you.”
She swung her head toward the photos to make a show of studying them, even though rarely recognizing any but the most famous on the wall… until she saw one photo in the corner, in the shadows.
The photo depicted a balding middle-aged man shaking hands with a much younger Vincent Gianelli.
She recognized the balding man to be John Wayne Gacy.
One of America’s most notorious serial killers might have been more appropriately displayed on a Wall of Shame… but for some sick reason, there that notorious killer was, grinning like a demented clown.
“Ms. Brennan…. Are you all right?”
“That’s… that’s you shaking hands with John Wayne Gacy, isn’t it?”
He grimaced. “Yeah, I know, not the best of taste, huh? My dad feels the same way — the old boy takes it down, but I put it back up, then he takes it down, and I… It’s almost a running joke between us.”
Hilarious, she thought.
“See, the guy, Gacy?” Vincent was saying. “Was real respectable. I had my picture taken with him when he was a Chamber of Commerce president or somethin’ — Nancy Reagan or Jimmy Carter’s wife or somebody, they did the same thing, I think.”
“So it’s up just as an… oddity? A conversation piece?”
He grinned that hideously handsome smile. “It’s workin’, isn’t it? Aren’t we conversing?”
Vincent pointed to a picture near the bar, showing him in casual clothes, squatting next to a big tan dog.
“Now, that’s my favorite,” Gianelli said. “That’s me with Luca, my Neapolitan mastiff.”
Brennan nodded approval. How could you abhor an alleged killer who loved dogs?
Wasn’t that hard, actually.
Coming up behind them, Lisa said, “Got the camera ready, Vince.”
Turning at the sound of the woman’s voice, Brennan found herself standing with Vincent Gianelli, his arm around her and shaking her hand.
She thought, You know what would make an interesting picture?
And into her mind came the mini-movie of her grabbing Vincent in a wristlock, dropping him to his knees, then crushing his larynx with a martial arts chop….
Of course, in what she laughingly thought of as real life, that might not be the most socially acceptable way for a writer-headed-to-the-Siracusa-Wall-of-Fame to behave herself.
Still, though being this close to Booth’s gangster nemesis made her skin literally crawl, she also noticed that her host’s expensive cologne wasn’t half bad.
What the hell.
She stood stiffly beside him, shaking hands, as Lisa snapped the photo.
The flash blinded Brennan and she saw multicolored spots behind her eyelids. The feeling was just dissipating when she opened her eyes and the flash went off a second time. Again, the colored spots exploded in her vision.
She could barely see Lisa and the camera fading back toward the bar, though she thought she caught the bartender’s smile, which was strained.
“Thank you so much for this,” Gianelli said, slipping his arm from her shoulder, but squeezing her hand even harder. “I loved your book so much — great read. Let me show you to your table.”
Brennan followed along, her vision slowly clearing, her mind still a little blurred.
“You’ve been really terrific,” he said.
“You’re welcome. Glad you like the book.”
“Oh, I love that kind of stuff — I wore out my copy of Silence of the Lambs.”
“Really.”
He looked back at her, his dark eyes glittering with enthusiasm. “Yeah, but even before that, from when I was a kid? Always had this fascination with mysteries and crime and horror.”
He paused and she almost ran into him as he glanced back to share a whispered secret.
“Especially serial killers,” Vincent said.
“No wonder you liked my book,” Brennan said, doing something with her mouth that was almost like smiling.
Vincent gave her a real, strangely disarming smile. For a reportedly sociopathic gangster he had a certain charm of sorts.
At a small table by a window onto the parking lot, her host withdrew a chair for her and she took a seat.
But he did not go — he hovered, leaning a hand against an empty chair beside her, as if hoping she would invite him to join her.
“So,” he said, “I suppose you’ve heard these stupid rumors about my family.”
“Rumors?”
He shrugged. “The usual stereotypes — as if every Italian in Chicago is Al Capone.”
She decided to pander. “My understanding is that most of the organized crime in this city is in the hands of street gangs, grown older and more savvy.”
She was practically quoting a Chicago Tribune article she’d read the other day.
But Vincent took the remark at face value. “Exactly! You want to hear something interesting?”
“Sure.”
“No one in my family… no one… has ever done time or even been convicted of a felony.”
Brennan blinked. “… Well. How many families can say that?”