Citizen Insane - By Karen Cantwell Page 0,7
here.” The first time I met Frankie, he pulled a gun out of that pocket. Today he produced a chunk of business cards and handed me one. It read simply: Frankie Romano. Below his name was a phone number. “You call me should you have a need—anytime you need anything. Well, nothin’ illegal as I’m turnin’ over the new leaf and all. But, I would like if I could give one of these to each of them ladies there too. Especially the lady whose hand I mangled. I feel awful bad about dat.”
Looking back at Roz and Peggy, I saw the terrified expressions on their faces had not weakened, despite our friendly exchange of food and business cards. “You know, I think it’s best if we build them up to you gradually. Let me give them the cards after you leave, and I’ll tell Roz—that’s the lady whose wrist you sprained—I’ll pass on your apologies to her. Maybe in a couple of weeks we’ll stop by Fiorenza’s and say ‘Hi.’ Or something.”
Frankie’s smile filled his face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“And you call me anytime, you hear?”
“Absolutely.”
The big lug moved in and hugged me so tight I thought I might drop the baked ziti on his designer shoes.
“Well, I’ll go then. Need to get to work. Get ready for the dinner crowd.”
I patted his back. “You do that.”
Frankie practically skipped to his Volkswagen, grinning and waving at Peggy and Roz as he passed. Each gave a very hesitant and tentative wave back.
After he puttered away in his clunker, they left the safety of Peggy’s van and followed me into my house.
“What was that?” asked Roz.
“Evidently he’s traded in his shiny Lincoln Town Car and life of crime for an old Volkswagen and some good karma. He says he’s sorry about your wrist. Now let’s eat baked ziti! I’m starved.”
We’d polished off the ziti and were sipping on glasses of Pinot Grigio by the time Agent Bell showed up to question us about Bunny Bergen and her apparent mental breakdown. We needled him for information, but he was a stone-faced, pinch-lipped bugger. No fun at all, and definitely not coughing up the goods, so when he thanked us for our time and I closed the door behind him, we were still left wondering “Why had Bunny snapped?”
Back at my kitchen table, Peggy and Roz were scratching at remnants of ziti. I looked at the clock above the sink. “Two-fifty five. Callie’s bus will be here in five minutes.”
Roz took another healthy swig from her glass. “That gives us thirty five minutes until the younger kids get home. I need this wine—it will calm me for the PTA meeting tonight.” She looked at Peggy. “Barb is coming—please come too. I need reinforcements.”
“Sorry. Can’t. I’ve got book club at Cappucino Corner.”
“How many book clubs do you belong to?” Roz asked.
She counted on her fingers. “Five. But they all have different themes. Tonight is Italian Heritage book club.”
“Peggy,” I said, “You do know that you’re not Italian, right?”
Peggy leaned in, clearly pleased that I had brought up the subject. “Actually, I’ve been researching my family tree and interviewing relatives in Ireland. It turns out, that my great, great, great Aunt Fianna had a sister whose name no one can remember, but her daughter went off to Italy one summer and when she came back, she was pregnant. Well, actually, no one is sure if she was pregnant, because they’re pretty much all dead now, but the story is that somehow all of the sudden, BOOM, she had a baby girl and it had dark hair and a big nose. Oh, and she had an Italian accent.”
I shook my head. “The baby had an Italian accent?”
“No, the daughter.”
Roz was confused too. “Whose daughter?”
“My great, great, great Aunt Fianna’s sister’s daughter.”
“So, your great, great, great Aunt Fianna’s niece?” asked Roz.
“I guess you could look at it that way.”
Roz was getting into the tangled tale. “So according to people who are dead now, your great, great, great Aunt Fianna’s niece went to Italy, came back with an accent, then had a baby girl with a big nose and dark hair?”
“Exactly.”
“Peggy,” I said, “that’s got to be the strangest story you’ve ever told.”
“Yes, but it shows a family connection to Italy. Where there’s one connection, there could be more, that’s all I’m saying.”
Peggy took a sip of the Pinot while Roz and I stared at her, unable to make a reasonable response to her family connection conclusion.
“So I can’t join you at