Free Wiseguys In Love by C. Clark Criscuolo

sixteen,” he barked, and then walked away.
    Lisa backed out onto First Avenue. She lucked out and found a spot right in front of the building. She took the flowers and looked at her overnight bag in the front seat. Her eyes darted around the street. Oh well, she’d only be inside a couple of minutes, and who would break into a car in daylight? She locked the doors and made her way to the building.
    She was standing in the airless foyer of the tenement building where Mrs. Morelli lived. She peeked outside the scraped-up piece of plastic someone had glued into the front door. Her car was still there.
    â€œMrs. Morelli?” Lisa screamed into a staticky intercom.
    â€œWho wants her?” a voice barked back.
    â€œIt’s Lisa Johnson, from her office.”
    The box clicked off and she waited, holding the flowers.
    Nothing had prepared her for the inside of the building. Here she was in the middle of this run-down, dangerous neighborhood, and all the apartment doors had big glass windows in them, some with lace curtains, others covered with old wooden venetian blinds. The halls were spotless. Flat white paint with a shiny green border looked new. There was not a speck of grit, not even in the cracks of the old blue and white tile floor. A huge skylight poured sunshine down the center shaft of the building, flooding the white marble stairs with light.
    The smells of pine cleaner mixed with smells of cooking. Aromas of tomato sauces, boiling pasta, roast beef, and chicken wafted out from behind the doors and hovered in the center of the stairwell.
    A few eerie notes, picked out on piano keys, began playing as she stepped on the first step. The swingy, smooth sound of a Frank Sinatra recording filled the hallway. She continued up the stairs as horns kicked in. Sinatra’s voice rang out as she reached the second-floor landing.
    She felt a little fluttery as she continued her climb, listening hard to the song.
    â€œThe best is yet to come, come the day you’re mine, and you’re gonna be mine…”
    She was finding the lyrics slightly menacing, and his voice faded away as she reached the third-floor landing.
    She rapped on the door. It was opened a crack and Lisa looked up at a steel-toned eye.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œI’m Lisa Johnson.… I’m … I’m looking for Mrs. Morelli,” she stammered.
    The door was shut. She heard voices inside but couldn’t make them out. After a moment or two, the door was opened again. She stared up at the largest human being she’d ever seen up close.
    He was massive. There had been a guy in college on the basketball team who was probably taller, but no one bigger. His chest blocked her view of the entire apartment.
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    â€œI came to—is Mrs. Morelli here?” she asked, half-hoping she had the wrong apartment.
    â€œTony, let her in,” Mrs. Morelli’s voice said, and he stepped aside.
    They were standing in the kitchen of a railroad apartment. Blue teapots and little cups adorned the wallpaper. Venetian blinds covered by ruffled plastic window curtains decorated the windows. An old circular fan sat on the sill, agedly blowing in air from the opened window. There was a cold cast to the room from a lone circular fluorescent light set in the middle of a stamped tin ceiling. A clock ticked loudly above a pillowy old-fashioned refrigerator.
    Mrs. Morelli had a handkerchief in her hand. She was sitting at a small old Formica table, the kind with flecks of gold suspended in a blood red background. Lisa walked over to the table and set the flowers down.
    Mrs. Morelli looked terrible. Her eyes were puffy and her face was red. An overflowing ashtray sat in front of her, alongside a half-empty gallon bottle of Coca-cola.
    â€œOh Mrs. Morelli, I don’t … I’m so sorry.”
    â€œSit,” she said, motioning.
    Lisa sank down into the chair opposite her, then heard a cough. She