Chapter 18

The next morning, while Cecelia was eating a late breakfast at the dining room table, I sat down in my place. She was in sweats, no doubt planning to go out to the shed and lift some weights after her food had settled a bit. I had on my jeans, but nothing else – a condition which I maintain only when I'm inside the house. Even if I go into the back yard I at the very least put on a t-shirt.

"Here's what ain't the plan," I said. "We ain't gonna go see Spero today."

She elevated her eyebrows, her mouth just then being full of scrambled eggs.

"You see, Spero's wired."

Cecelia swallowed, and asked the question I'd set her up to ask. "What do you mean when you say that he is 'wired' – and don't expect me to miss the fact that you led me into that question."

I grinned at her. "I love a student who can see what's going on. When I say he's 'wired, ' I mean he's connected to the Mafia."

"I wasn't aware that there was a Mafia presence in Albuquerque."

"Most people aren't," I said. "In New York City they'd just be a couple or three crews, not a family. But here they are a family, answering to what's left of the LA Mob, which itself wasn't ever all that much. The people back east called 'em the Mickey Mouse Mafia, not 'cause they're close to Anaheim but 'cause they always were a bunch of criminal clowns who couldn't carry out simple hits without botching 'em."

"Anaheim?"

"You sure ain't from California," I said. "That's where Disneyland's at."

"Oh." She considered for a moment. "So there is a presence, in this city, of La Cosa Nostra, but it is essentially no more fearsome than any other gang."

"Maybe less fearsome than some. If they ever got in a war with the CC 25s," I said, naming a gang we'd dealt with slightly a few months back, "I'd put my money on the Hispanics. Shoot," I said with a grin, "maybe they'd take over the Italian operation and call it Nuestra cosa."

"That is the Spanish translation," she agreed.

"Meanwhile," I said, "Spero isn't a made guy, and probably never will be – his mother was an Anglo. But he's hooked up with a crew on the West Side, and he's a vicious guy. As a whole the Albuquerque borgata might be a joke, but he's not. And I don't wanna mess with him if I can help it."

"I shan't attempt to change your mind – but what is a borgata?"

"Oh, sorry. I don't pretend to be Italian, much less Sicilian, but I've learned a bit here and there. It's the word that comes out in English as 'family' when you're talking about the Mafia, though I doubt that it means anything like la familia de nuestros amigos."

"No – I would expect that the Italian word would be much the same as the Spanish term, though I could be in error."

"Anyway, I gotta talk to some people, see what I can learn without gettin' Spero upset. I hadn't known he was into making porn..."

"Does it surprise you that he is?"

"No, it's not a surprise," I said. "About the only thing the Mafia ever frowned on was drugs, and that was only 'cause it brought down too much heat. After a while the money overcame the caution, and even bosses like Big Paul Castellano, who threatened anyone who dealt drugs with death, was willing to get rich off of drug money as long as he didn't have to acknowledge where it come from. So a Mafia guy making porn don't surprise me none."

Cecelia nodded. While we'd been talking she'd cleared her plate and emptied her glass of orange juice. "Is there anything I can do to help you find a way around Mr. Spero?" She'd use courteous formality, I swear, to the guy who shot her dead ... assuming she didn't shoot him dead first. She's the best shot I've ever known, with a pistol at least – as far as I know she's never even held a rifle.

"Not that I can think of, but if there is I'll let you know."

"Very well – I cannot quarrel with your dispositions, as I lack the experience to judge them. Besides, I trust you to know your business. I shall, then, read for a while in my rocker, and take myself thence to my weights."

I grinned at her. "I'd figured the weights were in there somewhere."

"I know your methods – and you saw a lot by observing."

Now I laughed. "Since when do you quote Yogi Berra?"

"Since you taught me to," she said demurely, and got up to carry her dishes into the kitchen.

After Cecelia had gone out to the weight shed I stood by the bay window and looked out, thinking. It used to be, not that long ago, that the window seat was where Darlia kept about half her dolls. Now the dolls have migrated, some to shelves in her room, some to boxes in the closet, and what she leaves in the window seat is mostly books and music – books she's read or wants to read, books she's studying for school, and music she's learning. She loves to sing, and while she's still a bit shy about it, she's sung for a few recitals at school now. Her singing voice is like her speaking voice – deep, husky, and reminiscent of Bonnie Tyler, Stevie Nicks, Ana Gabriel, or any other female singer with a distinct rasp to her voice.