It was a cloudless, blue October morning, the kind that makes a man glad to be among the living, and Willow rolled out of bed to greet it, fully recovered and at the top of his game. He left the apartment building at 11:45 sharp, an autumn Sunday habit of long standing. Raponi’s Old Naples Spaghetti House opened at noon on Sundays and the National Football league telecasts began at that time. There was a sweet, nostalgic smell in the air and Willow recognized it instantly—the smoke of burning leaves, a magic gray carpet back to youth. There were ordinances against the burning of leaves now, but every so often some hardy soul would defy them and Willow applauded this anarchy.
Martha Strotman was in the front yard, pruning a bush, a forsythia or something that had bloomed brilliant yellow back in April or May, and Martha looked up to nod to him, smiling pleasantly. To the best of Willow’s knowledge it was the first time Martha Strotman had smiled at anyone, also the first time she’d neglected to come up with a searing remark regarding the Friday-night ruckuses in Willow’s bedroom. More than that, Martha was wearing a brand new pair of tight blue jeans, and she’d added cautious touches of rouge and lipstick. Willow got into his Buick, frowning puzzledly. Maybe Martha had found a beau. That’d be nice. They could sit in Martha’s parlor and drink apple cider and play “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen” on the Victrola. Willow grinned—shades of ancient Rome—debauchery out of control.
Even at high noon, Raponi’s Old Naples Spaghetti House was a dim place. Nick Raponi had a theory that Stygian darkness was romantic, and considering the numbers of used condoms found in his back booths, he may have been right. Florence Gambrello sat at her table, watching the entrance the way a cougar watches a gopher hole, rotating the short stem of a red rose between thumb and forefinger. She shoved the rose at Willow. “Here—put this in your buttonhole.”
Willow accepted the rose, winced, and said, “Ouch!”
Florence said, “Thorn?”
Willow said, “Damn right!” He drooped the rose onto Florence’s table and pressed his pierced thumb into his handkerchief.
Florence stood quickly, retrieving the rose and deftly puncturing her own thumb with its thorn. She grabbed Willow’s hand, placed her bleeding thumb against his, clasped both thumbs with her free hand, and squeezed like a seven-hundred-dollar vise. This accomplished, Florence installed the rose in Willow’s lapel buttonhole, kissed his cheek, and murmured, “Mmm-m-m-m, sempre!” She leaned against the edge of her table, sucking her wounded thumb, appraising his reaction with hot and calculating brown eyes. Willow managed to maintain a poker face despite a powerful urge to flee the premises and light out in the general direction of the Solomon Islands. The connotations of the bloody rite had been bone-chillingly obvious—Florence Gambrello was madly in love and she was closing in with the instincts of the experienced hunter. Willow felt like a rabbit with a hungry timber wolf snapping at its ass.
At the bar, Nick Raponi was saying, “Old Sister Rosetta came in last night. She gargled half-a-dozen vodka martinis, she fell off a barstool, she threatened to sue me, and she said she’d be back today.”
Willow said, “Well, that’ll be something to look forward to, I’m sure.”
Raponi glanced at the doorway, cold apprehension sweeping over his features. He crossed himself. He said, “Oh, Jesus Christ, here she comes!” Here she came, indeed—colliding with Florence Gambrello’s table, bouncing off, advancing unsteadily, spotting Willow, and motioning him toward the rear of the place. Several years earlier Willow had known an army topkick who’d gestured almost as emphatically, usually just before he dished out weekend extra duty. Willow fell in obediently behind her and followed until she collapsed into a booth. She glared at him. She said, “Awright, Missur Willur, where the hell my niece?”
Willow shook his head. “Sister Rosetta, I won’t pull any punches. It took me less than three hours to determine that Gladys Hornsby is no longer in Chicago.”
The old woman’s jaw sagged. “Then where it is she being?”
Willow shrugged. “Well, seeing as how she’s a fashion model, New York would be a good guess, but I wouldn’t bet a dime on it.” He dropped her four hundred dollars at her elbow. “I’d be swindling you if I took a dime of your money.”
“You off case?”
“Yes, Sister Rosetta, I’m local talent, and if there’s no way to get there, I don’t go.”
She gazed at him uncomprehendingly and Willow caught another faint trace of Gladys Hornsby, this time in her vacuous stare—Gladys smackdab in the middle of a sexual climax, oblivious to everything but the sensations of the moment. Sister Rosetta said, “So what am do now?”
“Just sit tight—that’s all you can do—she’ll surface eventually. Tracking her beyond Chicago could run into important money.”
Sister Rosetta mumbled several very un-nunlike words. She lurched to her feet, sweeping the money into her big black handbag, and Willow glimpsed the pebbled walnut grips of a pistol protruding from between a wad of tissue and a white plastic container of pancake makeup. She tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Hey, Missur Willur, you know what?”
“No, Sister Rosetta—what?”
“You sure lousy detekuv!”
Willow spread his hands. “Sorry.”
She left the same way she’d arrived, careening out of the place like a crippled cassowary, and Willow was sad for her, as sad as any Chicagoan can be for another human being. Which isn’t very.
The Chicago Bears had just rung the bell against Green Bay, and Willow took a seat at the bar, dusting his hands and smiling a secret little smile. He said, “That didn’t take long, did it?”
Raponi said, “Just seven plays from scrimmage.”
Willow said, “I’m talking about my session with Sister Rosetta.”
Raponi said, “She looked pissed. You must of squirmed out of it.”
Willow said, “Yeah, I squirmed out of it.” And, in his comparative innocence, he actually believed that he had.