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“So how should we play it?” Priscilla asked, uneasily. “We’re on thin enough ice as it is, sidestepping Manhattan. We get some woman killed, we’re really in deep shit. Maybe now’s the time to bring it in, go to this Lieutenant Lombardi. We lay it all out for him and maybe he cuts us in for a piece of the credit. If we don’t, this DeMaris maybe gets killed.”

“She ain’t exactly the Virgin Mary, Cil. She’s an accomplice to murder. Maybe two murders.” Rizzo hesitated. “Wouldn’t break my heart if she did get whacked, but I see your point. That’s why I figure we keep this on a short leash. We’re off tomorrow, the next day is Thanksgiving. I don’t see Bradley doin’ anything rash. His history shows he’s a careful planner, not a spur-of-the-moment killer, and he needs a new plan-he can’t use that break-in routine again. He’ll warn DeMaris, then assess the risk. If he decides to murder her, it won’t be on Thanksgiving. Even though he’s a limey, and probably doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the holiday, he’s been here long enough to have someplace he’s gotta be for turkey dinner-some friends or business associates, whoever. And DeMaris, she’s the goumada-goumada s hafta spend their holidays single, tellin’ themselves by this time next year, Mr. Dreamboat will have left his wife and filed for divorce. Yeah, next Thanksgiving everything’ll be just peachy. But for this year, it’s back to Momma’s or Aunt Tillie’s or whoever. No, Cil, I figure she’s safe for at least a few days. We’ll go see her on Friday.”

Priscilla compressed her lips. “Seems a little risky to me, Joe. I don’t know.”

“Yeah, well, like my daughter Carol says, anything worthwhile is hard.” He shrugged. “Let’s chance it. It’ll be okay.”

Reluctantly, she agreed. “All right, I guess… But Jesus, I can’t see myself getting too much sleep until this is over with. When we do see her, how should we play it?”

“Oh, I got a plan, Cil. I’m gonna let it percolate in my head a couple a days, then we’ll talk about it.”

He drained his coffee container, then tossed it to the floorboard in the rear of the car. He started the engine and smiled at Priscilla.

“We will talk about it, Partner,” he said. “Believe me.”

“Okay,” Priscilla said. “But if DeMaris turns out to be a cool character like Bradley, this could be a tough play.”

Rizzo pulled the car out into traffic. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t worry about it. Chances are, she’ll turn out to be just another self-absorbed yuppie found a way to grab herself a new BMW with her stolen play idea. She probably never figured she was signin’ on for two murders. My money says, we slap her around a little, she caves.”

Priscilla shook her head. “Too bad Bradley didn’t just put his own name on the damn play,” she said. “At least then, Avery Mallard would still be alive.”

Rizzo nodded. “Yeah. But you heard what Bradley said. Most of the big Broadway shows are revivals, or bio plays about Frankie Vallie or Sinatra. I’m thinkin’, that kinda stuff comes with guaranteed audiences, so it makes it easy for a producer to raise money. That’s why Bradley never approached Lauria in the first place. Like we figured, he knew he’d never hit a home run, make millions on a show with Lauria’s name on it, no matter how good it was. And his own name wouldn’t be much better. But with Mallard bein’ the playwright, Bradley sees a built-in audience and knows he can easily raise enough dough to produce the thing, and it’s Broadway here we come.”

“Yeah. I forgot that,” she said.

“Well, relax, kiddo,” Rizzo said. “It’s almost over, so don’t be losing any sleep over DeMaris. Your biggest worry right now is my mother.”

Priscilla looked puzzled.

“Yeah,” Rizzo said. “My mother.” He turned to face her. “You gotta come up with some sorta answer.”

Priscilla shook her head. “Answer for what?”

“For Thanksgiving when she asks you and Karen, ‘How come two nice girls like you aren’t married?’ ”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The table in the Rizzo dining room, its two extension leaves in place, ran nearly the entire length of the room. Joe Rizzo sat at the head of the table, his back to the breakfront. Jennifer was to his right, closest to the kitchen, daughters Marie and Jessica to her right. Priscilla Jackson sat to Joe’s left beside Karen Krauss and the youngest Rizzo girl, Carol. At the table’s end were the two family matriarchs-Joe’s mother, Marie Rizzo, and Jennifer’s mother, Jessica Falco.

“Take more antipasto,” Grandma Falco said, waving her fork at Karen. “Have some prosciutto and some provolone.”

Karen, platter in hand, smiled. “Yes, well, alright,” she said. “Maybe just a bit more.”

Jennifer smiled. “Easy, Mom, it’s a long day, there’s a ton of food…”

She shrugged. “I’m just sayin’,” she said. “She’s so skinny, she should eat.”

“Mom,” Jennifer said, a warning in her tone.

“Look,” Grandma Falco said. “Look what she’s taking: an artichoke heart, two olives, one stalk of celery, and a couple of peppers.” She shrugged, holding her shoulders high, almost to ear level. “What is she, a rabbit?” She turned back to Karen. “There’s capicola there, and caponata. Take some pepperoni-it’s imported.”

“They’re all skinny,” Grandma Rizzo said, shaking her head. “Look at our granddaughters, Jessica, they’re the same way.” She placed a slice of provolone in her mouth. “Skinny, like long drinks of water.”

Joe laughed. “Just take what you want, Karen, but save room for the manicotti and the meats.”

“Not to mention the turkey,” Carol said.

Priscilla took the offered antipasto platter from Karen, forking generous portions onto her plate. “This stuff is great, Mrs. Falco,” she said. “You don’t have to encourage me.”

“You’re too skinny, too,” Falco said matter-of-factly.

Rizzo’s daughter Marie leaned forward from opposite Karen. “I imagine you guys didn’t realize that the Pilgrims had antipasto for Thanksgiving,” she said, “not to mention manicotti, sausage, meat-balls, and braciole.”

“I made the meats,” Falco interjected. “You’ll tell me if you like them.”

“And I made the manicotti and the gravy,” Grandma Rizzo said.

Marie smiled at Karen and Priscilla. “She means sauce. She made the tomato sauce.”

“Yeah, Ma,” Joe said. “The Ameri-cahns call it sauce. Gravy’s for the turkey. Brown.”

Joe’s mother waved a hand at him. “Stop talking and eat.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “One thing I said,” he told Jennifer. “One thing.”

Jennifer sipped her wine, then turned to Karen. “Joe tells me that you’re an attorney.”

“Yes,” Karen said. “Corporate law. I’m mostly involved in acquisitions and mergers, conforming out-of-state business structuring to New York law, things like that.”

Now daughter Jessica asked, “Do you go to court much, Karen?”

“God, no,” Karen replied. “In fact, the only times I’ve ever been in a courtroom were to watch Cil testify on some of her cases. Professionally, I have no need to be in a court house.”

Grandma Falco leaned over, speaking in her version of a whisper to Joe’s mother.

“They send the men to court,” she said.

“Mom,” Jennifer said, again with a warning in her tone.

Priscilla spoke up. “This antipasto is awesome, ” she said. “Who put this together?”

“The girls did that,” Jennifer said. “They’ve been doing it every Thanksgiving since they were young kids.”

Grandma Rizzo spoke up. “I taught them how to make it,” she said. “But they never use ah-leech. It’s not as good without ah-leech.”

Priscilla noticed Karen’s look of puzzlement.

“Anchovies,” she said softly. “ Ah-leech is Brooklyn-Italian slang for anchovies.”

Karen nodded. “Oh,” she said.

“ Scommetto che quella le mangierebbe, ” Joe’s mother said to Jennifer’s mother in low tones, referring to Priscilla.

Joe shook his head. “No Italian, Mom. It’s rude.”

“I won’t talk,” she said, shrugging and feigning insult.