8 Antiques Con Read online

  “Okay . . . I will.”

  “I mean promise.”

  “Girl Scout’s honor.”

  He shook his head, glanced around. “Where is Serenity’s answer to Jessica Fletcher, anyway?”

  “Out and about.”

  “Out where? About where?”

  “Visiting some old friends.”

  “She has friends here?”

  “Her theatrical pursuits brought her to the Big Apple, once upon a time.”

  “And that’s what she’s up to? That’s all she’s up to?”

  “Yes.” I hoped.

  He sighed. “Well, do your best to keep her out of trouble, will you? I wouldn’t put it past that woman not to just waltz blithely into some Mob stronghold, all by her lonesome.”

  “She wouldn’t do that.”

  “Oh?”

  “She’s not that crazy.”

  On the other hand, she had done more than her share of waltzing blithely into dangerous situations.

  Mother, where are you?

  He laughed dryly. “Not that those bastards in Jersey don’t deserve a strong dose of Vivian’s medicine.”

  Sushi, who of course remembered Tony, had been pawing at his pantlegs since he’d come in. He reached down and picked her up, and let her settle in his lap.

  “Where are you living?” I asked, tucking my legs beneath me.

  Tony, scratching Sushi’s neck, said, “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “Is it someplace . . . nice?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Is there room for one more there?”

  “What, and have your mother come track us down? No, Brandy, this is no life for you.”

  “It’s not much of a life now. Without you in it.”

  “I’m in it. Never doubt that for a moment. I’m in it.”

  He leaned over and gave me a quick kiss.

  “I miss you so,” I said. And, yes, my eyes were tearing up. Even tough-guy Tony’s eyes seemed a little moist.

  “I miss you, too,” he said. “But, I’m afraid this visit has to be a onetime affair.”

  I moved closer. “Then . . . can we make it that? An affair, I mean?”

  Later, after we’d exchanged good-byes as melancholy as they were sweet, I wandered back into the suite with only a blind dog to keep me company. I crawled into the real bed, unable to sleep, torn up by the thought of a future apart from a man I loved, and who loved me. And worry for Mother was in there, too.

  Where are you, Mother?

  Nearly two in the morning, and no sign of her. Should I call the other Cassato for help? Or 9-1-1? Contact the hospitals, maybe?

  I didn’t know what to do.

  So I did the only thing a young woman far away from home, denied the man she loved, beside herself over the whereabouts of her missing elderly mother, could do.

  I phoned room service to bring me another piece of Lindy’s cheesecake.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Before buying a valuable comic book, examine it carefully for damage, removing it from its Mylar bag to do so; be on the lookout for missing pages, scribbling, tears, and wear on the spine. But always do this with the permission (and under the supervision) of a booth (or comic book shop) employee. Comics dealers do their best to pick up their wares at trash prices, but then view them as the pop-culture treasures they are.

  Chapter Eight

  Con Game

  I have very good news for you! You need not distress yourself wondering what misfortunes may have befallen Vivian Borne on her New Jersey adventure, because Vivian Borne herself survived to tell the tale. And I am she (or is that her?), here to tell you.

  I mean, it’s heartwarming knowing that Brandy was concerned about my welfare and whereabouts, but let’s not kid ourselves, shall we? Neither Brandy nor I am likely to meet any fate worse than injury or imprisonment in a book that we are writing ourselves, after the fact. I mean, really. Think about it.

  Still, that’s not to say that things weren’t touch and go on the second half of my Joisey adventure. I was, after all, on foreign turf, wading into strange waters—or is that a mixed metaphor? Surely not—you have to have turf so that waters have a place to run through, strangely or otherwise, and, after all, there’s such a thing as surf and turf, isn’t there?

  But I digress.

  That lovely Johnny Contralto summoned a cab for me, and it arrived promptly, no longer than it took for me to throw down a drink at the bar with the boys. Let me tell you, they make a mean Shirley Temple at the Boom. A different dancer was on, a blonde with no surgical enhancements but several unfortunate tattoos. I had hoped on her break that I might counsel her to resist the urge for additional “body art,” as they call it, but she was still climbing her pole when my ride arrived.

  Getting in back of the cab with my Coppola’s leftovers, I addressed the driver, a hobbity-looking fellow in an Ivy League cap who did not appear to be an immigrant (at least not a recent one).

  “Good evening!” I said. “What’s the most exclusive nursing home in Teaneck?”

  I deduced that someone as important as a Mafia Don would almost certainly spend his declining years at the best.

  But the cabbie gave me a look as if I’d posed a strange question.

  I explained in more detail: “What I call a nursing home, you may call an assisted living facility or perhaps a convalescent hospital. I suppose some people still use ‘old folks home,’ or perhaps ‘rest home,’ even possibly ‘retirement home,’ but you know, when you get right down to it, political correctness aside, ‘nursing home’ is still the most accurate, because there are nurses on duty twenty-four/seven, in case you need help getting to the bathroom.”

  The squat middle-aged cabbie, Frodo with a crewcut and prizefighter’s nose, shrugged. “Top-dollar nursing home? Easy peazy, lady. Royal Care.”

  “That does sound promising.”

  “Oh, yeah. If you’re scopin’ out facilities for some ancient relative, and wanna find someplace that don’t stink on ice, Royal Care’s as good a place as any to start. I mean, I figure that’s what you’re up to. You’re way too young to need that kind of joint yourself.”

  What a shameless flirt he was (not to mention loquacious). Still, it’s nice to be appreciated. I bestowed a smile upon him and said, “You obviously know what you’re talking about, kind sir. Royal Care it is!”

  And I gestured as if sending a coachman off to the castle.

  And Royal Care was a sort of castle, albeit of a modern geometric variety, a baker’s dozen of redbrick stories set back from the street on a well-manicured lawn, surrounded by trees that were just beginning to bud.

  As I paid the cabbie, I said, “Why, this looks like an upscale apartment building!”

  “Yeah, but me, I ain’t anxious for that kinda condo.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. If that’s a nursing home, sign me up!”

  “Not for a while yet, lady. Not for a while. Here’s my card—if I can’t come pick you up, somebody else from the company will.”

  And he gave me a wink and roared off, the charmer.

  With my Lancelot gone, it was up to Guinevere to storm the castle alone (by Guinevere, I mean me), but at least there wasn’t a moat. I marched up the main walk with my box of leftovers, only to find the double glass doors in front locked.

  Not a surprise, whether for a nursing home or an exclusive apartment complex. At left was an intercom with a little button, which I pushed, and soon a tinny-sounding female voice asked my name and who I had come to call upon. No matter how high class a facility, intercoms always sound just a little worse than two paper cups and a string.

  “Vivian Borne,” I said. “Visiting . . . ah, my aunt Olive.”

  (By the by, I pronounce “aunt” like one of those pesky insects that are so bothersome at picnics—not the affected “ahhhnt” way that some folks do. And the Webster Handy College Dictionary agrees with me. You can look it up. Never too late to correct a bad habi
t!)

  Immediately, I regretted not telling the intercom, “Aunt Mary,” as certainly some Mary or other would be residing within. The only other Olive I knew, other than my late aunt the paperweight, was in the Popeye cartoons.

  But either I got lucky or at least one Olive dwelled within, because the door buzzed, and I shouldered my way inside, takeout box in hand.

  The reception area was a vast space of gray-and-tan stone walls and beige carpeting under a cherrywood ceiling with recessed lighting. An assortment of comfortable-looking couches and chairs, plus end table with magazines, were provided in what seemed to be an area designed for residents to chat with visitors, as opposed to a doctor’s waiting room.

  The attractive space was empty, perhaps because this was dinnertime. The latter I deduced (without much taxing of my sleuth skills) from the bouquet of cafeteria food mixed with a whiff of disinfectant. No matter how upscale a nursing home this might be, institutional food and cleaning products were as inevitable as death and taxes.

  Not very far down the hall was an open office area with a counter, behind which nurses in light blue moved, if in no particular hurry. Here was presumably where one might check in or sign in or whatever procedure was required. Of course, I wanted none of that.

  So I strode off in the opposite direction, in search of an elevator, again deducing that someone as important as a Mob boss must be on the top floor with the best view—the nursing home equivalent of the penthouse.

  Anyway, I didn’t feel that checking in at a nurse’s station to say I was here to visit Don Corleone was wise. The Don’s visitors’ list was no doubt restricted, and a phone call might be made that could have unfortunate consequences for yours truly.

  So down the hall I went, wearing the confident air of one who knows where she is going, strolling by an aerobics room, a movie theater, and a music area with a baby grand—no sign of anyone, not even a nurse or an orderly.

  Then, next to a hair salon (closed for the day), I came to an elevator, pressed the button, and stepped into a space large enough to accommodate a gurney or two and any number of attendants (this was a nursing home, after all, not a high-rise condo), and took it up, stepping off on the top floor—fourteen.

  Actually, fourteen was the thirteenth floor, but there was no thirteenth floor at Royal Care, a cosmetic touch with which I wholeheartedly agreed. The last thing a person wants at that stage of life is bad luck.

  While the beige carpeting and gray-and-tan stone walls of reception had struck me as high tone for a nursing home, what I encountered here could only be described as posh—rich floral carpet, brocade wallpaper, and a sculpted plaster ceiling with small chandeliers. Positioned between numbered doors were petite Louis XIV tables with floral arrangements, and a few matching straight-back chairs.

  I might have been in a five-star hotel.

  But those numbered doors lacked the usual hospital-type identifying cards-in-slots, and I was left with no way to discern which suite might belong to the Don. That was when a male nurse, wearing light blue scrubs, exited a door at the far end, and came toward me, riding to my rescue. He just didn’t know he was.

  As he drew nearer, I feared my visiting-aunt cover story might not hold up—the odds of finding an Aunt Olive on the fourteenth floor seemed about as likely as finding an Uncle Bluto—so I invented a new ruse, improvisation being merely one of the actors’ arts I’ve mastered.

  “Special takeout meal for Don Corleone,” I told him with the proper unabashed air of authority. If one needed a pass of some kind to carry out such a mission, I would soon be in deep do-do. Of course, in a place like this, I wouldn’t be alone.

  (Just a gentle reminder that I am not using the Don’s real name herein—with apologies and thanks to the late Mario Puzo. Also, I will continue to censor any particularly inappropriate language, for the sake of propriety. And Walmart.)

  But the male nurse merely gave me a nod and a small smile, saying, “Last door on the right,” and walked on.

  It occurred to me that the young man may have taken me for a high-priced concubine, as the Don might from time to time bring in such floozies for recreational purposes.

  Wondering whether to feel insulted or complimented, I stopped at the door of the Don’s apartment, collected my thoughts, and was about to knock, when the door swung open, and I was suddenly standing there, staring at the Don himself!

  He was a fireplug of a man, in his eighties, with a lumpy liver-spotted face and thinning silver hair, and yet there was something commanding, even towering about his presence. He wore a navy nylon tracksuit, at odds with the cane on which he leaned. (And, that, dear reader, is all the description I dare give you. I have no desire to spend my declining years in witness protection.)

  “Well?” he snapped irritably. “What the fudge took ya so long?”

  Good Lord, had he been expecting a takeout delivery? Well, I always say it’s better to be lucky than smart.

  He took a few steps back and waved repeatedly toward himself. “Come in, come in, come in.”

  My, he was hungry!

  I stepped past the man and into a black-and-white marble-floored foyer with mirrored walls.

  “Vivian, isn’t it?” he asked gruffly, closing the door.

  Whoopsy.

  My mouth dropped open, the box nearly tumbling from my hands. I’d been made! My cover blown! Next stop: a building site in Hackensack, waiting for the cornerstone of a new Olive Garden to be set on top of me (Olive again!). Not what I had in mind for a final resting place....

  I was speechless, or at least as close as I get to that condition. “Ah . . . yes. I am Vivian Borne. How did you . . . ?”

  “Come on, come on, come on . . . get that food in the kitchen before it gets even colder. God, I ain’t had decent Italian in a month of Sundays.”

  Then he turned abruptly and hobbled down the hallway, the cane a third leg.

  Intimidated into silence and submission, I followed.

  In the kitchen—really a kitchenette, small compared to what else I’d glimpsed of the suite—I set the box on the stove and turned to face him.

  “How is it, sir, that you know my name?”

  He shrugged. “Aw, my boys at the Boom called. They figured you might have the cojones to show up.”

  (I have left in “cojones” so as not to completely strip the Don of his colorful mode of speech; and, anyway, the word has become fairly mainstream.)

  He was saying, “I made sure the front desk would let you in. And I asked Franco—he looks out for me—to tell you where I was.”

  My disappointment at not locating the Don on my own steam must have shown on my face. Also, it meant I had not been mistaken for a high-class call girl, which was a little disappointing.

  The Don spread his arms wide. Oddly, his smile seemed both threatening and good-natured. “What? You think just anybody has access to my premises? Hey, Vivian, I got my teeth, and I still got my enemies.... Okay I call you Vivian?”

  “Please,” I said. “May I call you ‘Don’?”

  “Naw, make it Vito.”

  “Vito it is. And you’re right. I’m afraid I was naive, thinking I could just sneak or barge or somehow get in to see you. Of course, you have enemies. Probably more than your share!”

  “You’re darn tootin’ I do.”

  Of course, he put that more colorfully, if in an unrepeatable fashion. He was referencing the act of sexual union, followed by the first letter of the alphabet.

  (Note to Vivian from Editor: I think it best that you simply continue your inoffensive substitutions for offensive language, without describing that language in a fashion that enables the reader to figure out what has been omitted.)

  (Note to Editor from Vivian: But this language is such a vital part of the man’s personality—I don’t want to castrate him completely . . . of course, castration is inherently complete, isn’t it, although perhaps not when used in a figurative manner. Or is “castrate” itself offensive? Anyway, I thought yo
u put a moratorium on interrupting our narrative with these notes, after a reviewer took us to the woodshed over them. Hello?)

  The Don peered inside the box, lifting a few container lids. “Where’s the linguine with clams?”

  “Your Boom boys ate it all.”

  “Gosh darn it! Them pesky selfish lads!” He looked murderous. And he sure as heck didn’t say “pesky” or “lads.”

  I waved off his irritation. “Those clams don’t hold up over time, anyway. But there’s baked ziti and chicken Parmesan.” Then I added placatingly, “And fresh tiramisu! I believe it made the ride just fine.”

  “Any ganool?”

  Thanks to The Sopranos, I knew that he meant cannoli. “There’s one left. It’s got your name on it!”

  Better than a bullet.

  He grunted. “Sloppy seconds’ll have to do. Anyway, it’s way the heck better than the junk they feed me here.”

  I would likely have agreed, if the dining-room food tasted anything like the way it smelled.

  The Don pointed at me with a sausage of a finger. “You set the table—the one by the front windows. Meanwhile, I’ll heat this up with the microwave. You’ll join me, of course, right, Vivian?”

  I wasn’t about to say no to the Godfather.

  He showed me where the utensils and dishes were, and I gathered up place settings for two.

  The living room, unlike the opulent corridor outside or even the foyer within, was a male domain, decorated in brown, tan, and green. A comfy-looking leather couch and matching easy chair—the latter a recliner that lifted its occupant up and out—faced a large flat-screen TV. By the bank of windows offering a stunning postcard view of Manhattan across the Hudson River, lights of the city twinkling in the dusk, was a square oak table with two chairs, a game of Scrabble in progress. (I wondered who he had been playing it with. His son, who was said to be his only visitor? The male nurse? Or, sadly, himself?)

  I moved the board game—careful not to disturb the pieces—to the couch, then set the table.

  A microwave dinged, and I returned to the kitchen to help with the food.