Free Dopplegangster by Laura Resnick

and shuffled his feet a little.
    Ah . So this was the cause of the blushing I had noticed the other night. Lucky was sweet on a parishioner at St. Monica’s.
    I said, “I gather you don’t come here just to save your soul and pray for the dead?”
    “I come here for that, too,” he said defensively.
    The woman kept walking until she reached the other end of the church. Then she genuflected before a marble figure of a berobed woman, lit three candles near the statue’s feet, and knelt to pray.
    “Who is she?” I asked Lucky.
    “The Widow Giacalona.” He nodded to where she was praying. “She’s very devout. Prays twice a day to Saint Monica.”
    I looked at the statue. “That’s your weeping saint?” When he nodded, I asked, “Have you seen it weep?”
    “Not yet. Only Elena has seen it so far.”
    “Oh.” So much for miracles. “Who is Saint Monica?”
    “Patron saint of widows and wives.”
    “I see.” Probably a fitting saint for a neighborhood that had seen decades of mob war between men in the Corvino and Gambello organizations. After a moment I asked, “Why does Elena light three candles?”
    “Widowed three times.”
    “She’s lost three husbands?” I said.
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Three?”
    “It’s very unfortunate,” Lucky said sadly.
    “Are you sure she’s not killing them?” I thought three dead husbands might indicate something more proactive than mere misfortune.
    “Of course I’m sure!” Lucky looked offended. “You got a nasty mind.”
    I shrugged. “Well, if her luck’s really that bad, I can understand why she might be reluctant to marry again.”
    “I’m a patient man. She’ll come around.”
    “Maybe. But if she’s lost three husbands, are you sure you want to be number four? Your marriage could be the death of you.”
    “I’ll be fine.” He grinned at me. “I’m lucky, after all.”
    “If you say so.”
    He watched her with a lovesick expression for a long moment, then took my elbow and said, “Let’s take a walk.”
    “Can we go find a coffee shop?” I suggested hopefully.
    “No, we gotta talk here.”
    “But you just said we’re going for a walk.”
    “ ‘Take a walk’ means we’re gonna discuss some business in a place where the Feds can’t overhear us,” he said patiently. “In this case, we’re already there.”
    “So we can’t go get coffee?” I asked in disappointment.
    “No. We gotta do this where I’m sure we ain’t being bugged.”
    “But a random coffee shop wouldn’t be—”
    “You never know,” he said.
    “What about the widow?” I asked.
    “Keep your voice down and she won’t hear nothing.”
    “And what about the priest?” I said, as one emerged from a side door and came toward us.
    Lucky looked over his shoulder. “Oh, good morning, Father Gabriel.”
    The priest smiled. “Hello, Lucky!”
    Ah, so this was Father Gabriel, I thought, recalling that Charlie had mentioned his name when I suggested going to St. Monica’s.
    The priest was about thirty and very attractive. He had dark hair, soulful brown eyes, a sensitive face, a nice build, and a warm, friendly manner that was instantly apparent.
    He said to Lucky, “We don’t usually see you here so early on a Sunday. Everything all right?”
    “Just getting my worshipping in early today, Father.”
    The priest glanced at me, still smiling, and said to Lucky, “I see you brought . . . a friend? A relation?”
    “Uh, yeah,” Lucky said. “My niece.”
    “Esther Diamond,” I said.
    “My Jewish niece,” Lucky added. “On my sister’s side. We don’t really talk about it.”
    “Welcome, Esther,” Father Gabriel said without missing a beat. “We’re happy to have you here today.”
    “Thanks.” I smiled back. “What time is the service?”
    “Not for another half hour,” Father Gabriel said.
    “I’m looking forward to it,” I said.
    “Lucky can show you around the church while I prepare,” the priest replied. “If you’ll excuse me?”
    “Of