“Wasn’t she executed at the end of the film?”
“Ah, so Susan Hayward you know.”
“I’ve seen the movie.”
Donna nodded. “Based on a true story, it was. Could’ve been me.” She rapped her knuckles on the table, a practiced move she often used at this point in her account. “The DA told my lawyer he’d pursue the gas chamber if I didn’t accept his largesse. I knew he meant business, so I plead down.”
“You were convicted of willful manslaughter.”
“Yes. That was the plea.”
“And you were sentenced to three years.” His words hung between them for a moment. “A light sentence—”
“Not if you’re the one serving it.”
“Your actual incarceration lasted only four months. I understand this was before mandatory sentencing, but—”
“They take time off for good behavior.” She swirled her cup, watching the diminished ice cubes spin. “Mine was... exemplary.”
“This degree of leniency implies you had influential friends pulling strings for you.”
Donna shrugged her response.
He slapped his palm on the tabletop and leaned in, turning all bad cop. It was almost cute. “Someone was protecting you. Who was it?”
The kid was trying to trigger a response. All he got was her indulgent stare. “Nobody was protecting me. Joey was a bastard. Maybe someone was grateful to me for taking him out.”
“Was that somebody Johnny Giancanna?”
“Never heard of him.”
“I’m sure you have.” The kid riffled in his beat-up messenger bag and pulled out a manila folder. “You used to date each other. I’ve come across photos of the two of you together. Here, in Palm Springs.” He took a pair of photocopied pictures from the folder and slid them to her. The images were a bit grainy, but it was certainly her own foolish young face staring back at her. To the mic, “Donna is now looking at the photos.”
“Yes, indeed, Donna is.” She raised her eyebrows. Shook her head. “I don’t know. There were so many men back then. Did I date some guy name Giancanna? Maybe. Probably even. But I don’t remember him if I did.” She placed her hand over the photos. “You should let me keep these for the scrapbook.”
“He’s dead. Giancanna.” The kid opened up the folder once more and took out a clipping from a newspaper. He passed it to her. Again, to the mic, “I’ve given Donna a copy of Johnny Giancanna’s obituary.”
The article was from some local Long Island rag, dated two months earlier. She scanned the piece and handed it back to him. “My condolences to Mrs. Giancanna.”
The corner of the kid’s mouth twitched. He returned the clipping to its folder and the folder to the messenger bag. He looked up. “I think you were alternately pressured and bribed to admit to a murder you didn’t commit.”
“Manslaughter. Court said it was manslaughter.”
“You were covering for a mob-related killing. At Giancanna’s behest.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous.” She slapped her palm on the table and leaned in, mimicking his tough-guy charade. “There was never any kind of mob activity here.”
“It’s been well-documented that many mafiosos spent time in Palm Springs in the 1960s. You yourself moments ago said—”
“Yeah, sure, but they were here vacationing. That’s why there were never any dirty deeds. You got to understand. Palm Springs was the goddamned Switzerland of organized crime. The guys came, brought their nearest and dearest with them, the wives, the kids, the mistresses, sometimes all of ’em hanging out together at the El Mirador’s pool. That’s why I stayed on here. After my parole ended. I figured I’d be safer here.”
“You feared reprisal?”
Donna nodded.
“I’m sorry, could you answer aloud.”
“Yes. I was afraid of reprisal.”
“From Fiato’s associates? Or from someone else?”
She studied the liver spot on her hand. “I still spend a lot of time at the El Mirador. I go there for trysts with a handsome younger man. I am sad to say that man’s my doctor, and he’s only interested in checking my blood pressure, not raising it.” A transient wrinkle formed between her visitor’s brows. She guessed she’d lost him. “The old hotel is a medical center now.”
“All right.” He gave a slight nod that, combined with the softening of his gaze, seemed more to signal a decision to change tack than an expression of satisfaction.
“All right,” she echoed him.
“Fiato,” he said, dragging the name out, “was made in Detroit.”
“You make him sound like a sports car.”
“He was rumored to get around like one. My source says he liked going fast and taking chances.”
“There you go again with your gossip.”
“Annalisa Scarpa.”
“Another stranger,” Donna said, modulating her tone between amusement and contempt. “Is she your ‘source’?”
“Miss Scarpa was the niece of the head of one of the New York families.”
“So?”
“I’ve found reason to doubt your account of the evening, and to believe that you weren’t the one following Joseph Fiato the night of his murder. It was Annalisa Scarpa. She watched Fiato slip away from another woman’s hotel room. She followed him to the house he rented. Miss Scarpa shot him twice in the stomach, then turned to her uncle to clean up the mess.”
“Strange that I didn’t see her there.” The fly found its way to the rim of Donna’s glass. She swiped at it and almost upset the wine. She’d about had enough of both of her pesky visitors. “Check the police records if you can find the stone tablets they’re engraved on. I was there. I called the police. That’s why the DA went easy on me. ’Cause I turned myself in.”
Tiny lines formed at the corners of his eyes. He was enjoying this. “She left him,” he continued, ignoring her, “with a tricky situation. He needed to cover up the crime, but he couldn’t make it look like a hit by another family. As you have said, Palm Springs was neutral territory. An allegation against the member of another family could have triggered a war between the families. Worse, it could’ve broken the peace and ruined Palm Springs for everyone.”
He leaned back and crossed his arms. Donna knew a thing or two about bluffing. He was trying to project ease and confidence.
“Someone got the idea to present the act as what it was. A crime of passion, only with a certain struggling actress in the lead role. I’ll bet you never laid eyes on Joseph Fiato before the night you called the police from his home.” The kid’s desire to push her into a confession was rubbing his NPR plating clean away, leaving him like every other too-hungry, know-it-all punk. “But you were quite familiar with Annalisa’s cousin.”
“I don’t know what you’re going on about. Where did you come up with this stuff anyway?”
The kid shook his head and sat up straight. He bit his lip. He folded his hands. “Doesn’t it bother you? Johnny Giancanna stole your life,” he said, almost as if he was determined to be outraged on her behalf, even if she couldn’t be herself. “You wanted to be famous. To be a star.” He reached for the scrapbook and flipped it open to her headshot. “But nobody remembers you. Those roles you talk about — I bet half your scenes ended up on the cutting room floor, and the other half have crumbled to dust.” Donna fought the urge to throw her wine in his smug, lineless face. “I did try to research you. You don’t even rate a mention in the IMDb, and my old roommate who shoots green screen shorts in his garage is listed.”