Wish I Were Here

Chapter 12

L uca is late.

I sit down on the bench by the elevator to wait, because… of course he’s late. I don’t know what I expected.

About fifteen minutes after we were supposed to meet, the front door swings open and Luca strolls in from the sidewalk. I open my mouth to comment, but as my gaze slides over him, I realize this is the first time I’ve seen him wearing something besides his doorman’s uniform. He’s in fitted black jeans that hug his lean thighs, and a plain white T-shirt that clings to his chest and shows off the lines of his biceps. But when my eyes land on his arms, it’s not the lean muscles I’m drawn to, but those tattoos. I’ve caught only glimpses of them before, flashes on his forearms where he’s rolled his sleeves to his elbows. But now I can see that the ink extends all the way up his arms. Flowers and vines and birds winding together to his shoulders. And through the thin fabric of his T-shirt, I catch a couple of dark shadows on his flat stomach, hints of more art concealed there.

When I look up, Luca is watching me with his head cocked, a bemused expression on his face, and I realize I’ve been caught staring. So I do the only thing I can think of to take the attention off me.

“You’re late.”

“Sorry. I had a thing, and I couldn’t get away.”

I wonder if I’m keeping him from a date. That’s what normal people would be doing on a night like this, right? Going on a date, hanging out at a bar with friends… anything besides tracking down a guy who may or may not be a Mafia boss to help his prickly tenant get her life back.

“No… don’t apologize.” I sigh. “I’m sorry I’m keeping you from something. It’s just that your mom said we should get to the club to see Uncle Vito before his card game starts at eight.” I check my watch. It’s 7:47 p.m.

“Shit.” Luca jogs over to the bench and pulls me to my feet. “Is it really that late? Come on.”

We head out the door and onto the sidewalk, but when I move toward the Town Car, Luca shakes his head, drawing me down the street instead. A few blocks from the DeGreco, he steers me toward a faded black door tucked into a nondescript brick building. I’ve passed this building and this door probably a dozen or more times since I moved into my apartment, but never in a million years would it have occurred to me to stop here. The windows look like they were bricked over decades ago, and though a marquee hangs overhead, the lights have all burned out and the letters are so faded it’s impossible to make out the name of the club. Now that I’m actually stopping to take a look at it, the place looks like the site of a true-crime documentary.

Particularly the spot where the body is found.

“Are you sure this is the place?” I ask, hesitating on the sidewalk.

“Of course I’m sure. Come on.” Luca holds open the door, and reluctantly, I walk through it. I’ve barely made it past the threshold before a man the size of a mountain is towering over me.

He holds up a beefy hand. “Name?” he barks.

“Uh—” Did Luca call ahead? I glance in his direction because I’m pretty sure that Mr. Everest here won’t have Catherine Lipton on his list.

“Luca Morelli.” Luca steps forward, and the guy breaks into a huge grin. It’s like watching a pit bull turn into a golden retriever puppy right before my eyes.

“Elbow!” he says, reaching over to wrap a massive arm around Luca and pound him on the back. “Good to see you, kid.”

Ah, okay. So, we must have another Morelli here. Is this Uncle Vito?

Luca tugs me over. “This is my friend Catherine. Catherine, this is my cousin Lou.”

“Nice to meet you, Catherine.” The guy holds out his sirloin steak hand and we shake. He turns back to Luca. “You here to see Vito?”

Luca nods.

“He won’t like you interrupting his card game, you know.”

“I know. But it’s important. Can you let me in?”

Lou pauses, and for a moment I think he’s about to turn us away. I can’t say I’d be completely disappointed if he did. But then he shrugs. “For you, Luca, I’ll make an exception. Go ahead.”

We continue on into the bar. The place is packed and smoky, but through the crowd and haze, I spot a long bar taking up one side of the room with stained-glass Tiffany lamps hanging overhead and a bartender shaking cocktails on the opposite side. Straight ahead, past a smattering of small, round tables, sits a stage where four musicians play a slow, sad jazz melody. The crowd is older, the men dressed up in sports coats and the women in short, tight dresses and heels.

I push myself up on my tiptoes so Luca can hear me over the din of trumpet tones and ice clinking in glasses. “I thought it was illegal to smoke in bars.”

He just laughs and takes my hand, turning to weave through the crowd to the bar. A couple is leaving as we approach, and we grab their seats.

The bartender, a middle-aged white woman with a blond ponytail and deeply lined face—probably from decades of smoke in this place—comes over to take our drink order. When she recognizes Luca, her face lights up. “Hey, kid. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Luca hitches his chin in my direction. “This is my friend Catherine. Catherine, this is Barbara. She mixes the best drinks in Bloomfield.”

I fully expect Barbara to roll her eyes, but instead she smiles and puts a cocktail napkin in front of each of us. “Just for that, your first drink is on the house. What can I get you?”

Luca’s gaze slides over me, and then he turns to Barbara. “Two shots. Whatever you got.”

“Be right back.”

Barbara heads to the other side of the bar to grab a pair of glasses. Onstage, the woman with the trumpet steps forward for her solo.

I lean in so Luca can hear me. “Is Barbara a Morelli, too?”

“Honorary.” Luca bends closer. “She’s been working here since I was a kid. Poured me my first shot of whiskey when I was thirteen.” His facial stubble brushes my cheek, and a shiver runs down my spine.

I wish Barbara would hurry up with that drink.

“Is that what we’re having tonight? Whiskey?”

“I know it’s probably not your thing.” He shrugs. “But I thought maybe you could use it tonight.”

“What do you think is my thing? White wine? Spritzer, maybe?” I lean back so I can see his eyes.

He gives me a wry smile. “Something along those lines.”

Barbara sets two glasses of amber liquid in front of us. I pick mine up, knock it back, and set the glass back on the bar with a little bit of extra flair.

Luca’s eyebrows shoot up. “I stand corrected.”

To be honest, he’s not wrong. I’m not much of a drinker. I don’t like anything that makes me feel out of control, and working full-time while going to school hasn’t exactly been conducive for nights out at the bar. But it doesn’t mean I’m ordering spritzers. “My dad’s friend Ginger Ale poured me my first shot of whiskey when I was thirteen, too.”

Luca’s mouth drops open. “ Ginger Ale? ”

I shrug. “She’s a redhead.”

“Is that her real name?”

“Of course not, Elbow. She’s a burlesque dancer. It’s a stage name.”

He’s staring at me like he’s never been more fascinated by anything in his life. “So, you and… Ms. Ale … used to do shots?”

“It was a celebration when I got my first period.”

He nods slowly like he’s processing this information. “When Ginny got her first period, my mom just took her to the corner drugstore to buy pads.”

“My childhood was unconventional.”

“I’m starting to see that.” He grabs his glass and tosses his drink back.

Barbara appears in front of us. “Another one?”

A warm glow has started to take over my limbs. Maybe Luca is right. I needed that. Maybe we can just stay here doing shots and not thinking about my life falling apart. “Yes, please.”

She grabs the bottle and refills our glasses.

“Oh, and one more thing.” Luca cocks his head and gives Barbara his charming smile.

Barbara looks at me with a good-natured roll of her eyes. “Here we go…”

“Would you mind terribly if we asked you to call back to Uncle Vito? We need to talk to him.”

Barbara makes an exaggerated cringe face. “His card game is about to start.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“You know he doesn’t like anyone to interrupt his card game.”

I look nervously at Luca. “Maybe we should come back later?”

Luca shakes his head. “It’s important.”

Barbara sighs like, It’s your funeral . I drink my second shot.

“Okay. For you , Luca, I’ll ask him.” She moves across the bar to pick up an old-fashioned phone on the wall. People around here are awfully amenable to doing favors for Luca.

“I guess this card game is really important to your uncle Vito?”

“It’s been going on every week since Barbara’s been plying me with whiskey.”

“What if he says no to meeting with us?”

“Uncle Vito won’t say no.” Luca bends an arm, resting it on the bar in front of us, and a branch of autumn leaves sways on his bicep. “We’re family.”

I wish Dad and I had the same understanding when I asked him to help me get my birth certificate back. Then maybe I wouldn’t be sitting in a smoky bar contemplating tracing a finger along the lines of my doorman’s tattoos.

But then again , I think, as the low tones of the saxophone vibrate in my chest and Luca leans closer so I can hear him over the noise, maybe this isn’t so bad after all . The warm glow spreads wider.

A moment later, Barbara stands in front of us. “Okay. Vito says make it quick.”

“Thanks, Barb.” Luca takes her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles. “You’re the best.”

We weave back through the crowd and enter an unmarked door on the other side of the room. It swings shut behind us, taking the light from the stage and the noise from the band with it, and when it hits the frame with a loud clang, I jump. Luca reaches out and grabs my hand, and I hold on, staring down a long, narrow hallway. Smoke curls in front of the dim overhead bulb like fog rolling in. At the end of the hall, I can make out the vague shapes of a beaded curtain swaying from a slight breeze. Luca tugs me forward, and the smell of smoke is stronger back here, more pungent than the cigarettes out in the bar. Cigars, maybe. I clutch Luca’s hand tighter, stumbling to a stop.

“Luca, are you sure this is a good idea? I know Uncle Vito is family and all, but this looks like the kind of place where people get whacked.”

Luca’s shoulders shake with laughter, but I stay frozen. The closer we get to meeting this Uncle Vito, the more my nerves are stretching thin. After a moment, my anxiety seems to register with Luca, and his smile fades.

Turning to face me, Luca takes both my shoulders in his hands. He’s only inches away, and his eyes find mine in the semidarkness. “Catherine, I promise you, I won’t let you get whacked. Can you trust me?”

No.

Luca is the last person I can trust, and not just because he shows up late and loses my dry cleaning and spills coffee on me when I step off the elevator. It’s because even in the back labyrinth of this dingy, smoky bar, with something that screams danger lurking behind that beaded curtain, I want to lean into him instead of pulling away. I want him to wrap those painted arms around me. And this is so unlike me that I really don’t know who I am. I’ve completely lost my identity in ways that have nothing to do with my Social Security number.

“Catherine?” he prompts.

“Okay,” I whisper, because the truth is that whatever is behind that curtain seems safer than staying alone in the hall with Luca.

He parts the beads, and I follow him into a room that’s dark in the corners and lit by another Tiffany lamp hanging in the middle over a circular table. Around the table sit four middle-aged white men with broad shoulders, wide necks, and—when they look up from their cards—angry expressions on their faces.

The largest and most imposing of the men faces us. He’s handsome, with a full head of almost-black hair, sculpted cheekbones, and dark eyes with lashes so long that I can see them all the way across the room, even standing here in the shadows. I immediately note the resemblance to Lorraine, and fifty pounds and thirty years in the future, that could be Luca sitting there.

Except for the scowl. Luca would never have that scowl on his face. I can’t picture Luca with anything other than his charming smile.

This must be Uncle Vito. And he’s not happy to see us.

Uncle Vito confirms this by carefully setting his cards down on the table and, in a low, threatening voice, demanding, “Why are you interrupting my game, Luca?”

“Sorry.” Luca flashes that overexaggerated smile, and I cringe. Is he sure that’s the right strategy here? “I know.” He holds out his hands, palms up, like, What can you do? “I wouldn’t interrupt, but this is important.”

Uncle Vito’s face doesn’t crack an inch. “What could be more important than me taking all of Dominic’s money?”

Not getting whacked tonight.

But Luca seems unthreatened. “This is my friend Catherine.”

Uncle Vito gives me a nod. “How you doin’, Catherine?”

“Uh, fine.” I hesitate, and then add, “Thank you so much for asking.” I notice there aren’t just four men in the room. Two more lurk in the shadows, flanking Uncle Vito, their massive shoulders practically wider than the doorway, arms crossed over their colossal chests. They must be bodyguards. I clutch Luca’s hand tighter.

“Catherine has a problem,” Luca explains.

“We’ve all got problems, kid. Right now, I have the worst case of indigestion from your aunt Toni’s pasta puttanesca.”

I know this is crazy, but I think I might be able to help Uncle Vito out with that. I start to reach into my purse, but before I know what’s happening, one of the bodyguards rushes toward me. “Freeze!” he barks.

I freeze.

He takes a cautious step forward, holding one hand out like a warning. With the other, he flips open his jacket and reaches for something in the waistband of his pants. “What’s in your bag?”

“I—” I keep my eyes trained on the small black object jutting out from beneath his belt. Luca promised I wouldn’t get whacked tonight. “Uh, well, I have…” Now that I have to say it out loud, this is kind of embarrassing. “I think I might have some Tums. For Uncle Vito’s indigestion.”

The bodyguard slowly pulls his hand away from his waistband. Whew.

“Can I—?” I point to the bag. The bodyguard gives me a nod. I reach inside, and my hand closes over a roll of antacids. Thank God. I hold them up. “They’re still in here from when I was stressed out working on my dissertation…” Luca nudges me with his elbow. Right. Uncle Vito doesn’t care about my dissertation. But when I glance up at Luca’s face, he’s not giving me a warning; he looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

I take a step forward to deliver the Tums to Uncle Vito, but the bodyguard clears his throat and holds up a hefty palm. I stop short. He steps in front of me, and I hand over the Tums. “Right. Sorry. Here you go.”

“So, what is this problem?” Uncle Vito demands, after he’s eaten two Tums and washed them down with his glass of red wine. He waves a hand. “Bottom line me.”

Luca takes a deep breath. “Okay. Catherine’s identity disappeared, and we need to help her get it back. We think we can fix everything if we find the original copy of her birth certificate, but her mom has it. Catherine has never met her mom, and her dad won’t tell her anything about her.”

Uncle Vito nods like this sort of problem is an everyday affair in his line of work. Which I actually haven’t quite worked out what that is, except it sounds like he earns some money from beating Dominic at cards.

“Do you want me to threaten to cut your dad’s hand off?” His dark eyes pierce mine. “Squeeze the info out of him?”

“What?” I gasp. My dad is a clown, for God’s sake. He’s fun loving. He juggles for children. He’s not the sort of person you threaten with bodily harm. Plus, he needs his hands. “No!”

Uncle Vito nods again. “So, you want me to actually cut off his hand?”

How did this escalate so quickly? “Oh my God. No. ”

Luca clears his throat. “We just need one of your guys to help us dig up some information on Catherine’s mother. Maybe if they could help us track her down, we can take it from there.”

Uncle Vito looks a little disappointed. Maybe he was looking forward to cutting off Dad’s hand. But he rallies quickly. “What do you know about the mother?”

“Not much, unfortunately,” I say.

“We know her name. And Catherine’s birth date and place of birth. She was born here in Pittsburgh, but we don’t even know what hospital.”

It’s almost nothing. “Can you work with that?” I ask.

Uncle Vito stares at me. “I can work with anything.” He turns to the guy on his left. “What do you think? Start with hospital records?”

Left guy nods. “That’s what I’d do.”

“Can you hack in?”

“Sure. But—” Left Guy assesses me. “Thirtyish years ago, records weren’t kept electronically. Everything’s going to be in paper files in a basement somewhere.”

Uncle Vito nods. “We need Fabrizio.”

“Agreed.”

“Okay.” Uncle Vito picks up his cards and reclines in his chair. “Text me the info and give me two days.”

I lean into Luca, my body heavy with relief. I have no idea who Fabrizio is, or how he’s going to dig up what I need. But Uncle Vito seems like the kind of guy who, if he wants information, gets information. “Oh, thank you so much.”

“Now let me finish my card game.”

“Of course.”

“Thanks, Uncle Vito,” Luca says, and we turn to head back through the beaded curtain.

“Hey, Luca.” Uncle Vito’s sharp voice stops us. “Go visit your ma once in a while, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” Luca calls behind him. Under his breath, he mutters to me, “I go every Sunday.”

Back out in the bar, Barbara shoos a couple away from our stools so we can sit down again. She sets two more shots in front of us, and I quickly swallow mine.

“Do you think Uncle Vito would have really cut off my dad’s hand if I’d wanted him to?”

“You know, I don’t know.” Luca scrunches his brow. “He’s offered a couple of times, but I’ve never taken him up on it.” I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. I decide not to dig deeper.

“And you really think this guy—Fabrizio—will help me find something about my mother?”

Luca nods. “Fab’s a good guy. He’ll know what to do.”

“Another Morelli, I suppose?”

“Second cousin.”

I try to imagine what it would be like to be a part of a family who are all willing to help each other out like the Morellis. I’ve never needed to cut someone’s hand off, but maybe it would be comforting to know the option were open to me. To know that people were willing to go to bat for me. My gaze lifts to Luca’s. Sort of the way he’s going to bat for me.

Why is he helping me like this? He keeps introducing me as his friend, but until today, we never spent any time together, and we barely even talked. Is this whole situation just something to amuse him? A distraction from the front desk?

Well, even if I’m just entertainment for him, I’m grateful. “Thanks for your help with this, Luca. You definitely don’t have to be doing all this for me.”

“Sure I do.” He waves a dismissive hand. “It’s no big deal. I’m just trying to get you back to solving all the world’s numerical problems. Someone needs to do it, and it’s certainly not going to be me.”

“You’re not a fan of math?”

“I have to admit, I can’t see the appeal. But I see why you like it.”

“Really? And why’s that?”

“Math adds up and makes sense. You just have to follow the rules, and it will come through for you. You can count on it.” He pauses. “Unlike, oh… being a clown.”

I sit back on my stool. It’s no secret that I’m a rule follower, but I am surprised that Luca has put all these pieces together, only having known me for such a short time. Especially because I still can’t quite figure him out.

“So what about you?” I fold my cocktail napkin into a rectangle. “Did you always want to do what you’re doing? Did you go to college?”

“Nah.” He shrugs. “I thought about it. I was into drawing in high school and looked into art schools for college. Even got into a couple. But I realized that once I had deadlines and assignments, it wasn’t going to be any fun anymore. It would turn into work, and that’s not really for me.” He lifts a colorful arm. “I still draw, but just for me and my friends.”

My eyes widen and slide from his tattoos to his face. “These are your designs?”

“Yep.”

“They’re beautiful.” Again, I’m tempted to trace my finger along the lines of a winding vine, and I even go as far as reaching my hand out. At the last moment, I drop it back into my lap. “I bet you could show your work in a gallery.”

I’m surprised to see his eyes darken for just a moment. “I actually had a gallery show booked last year, but…” Luca spins his shot glass in his hand, and I wait for him to say more. Finally, he shrugs. “But it didn’t work out.”

“I’m sorry.” I remember my splurge on those botanical prints on my apartment wall. “I hope you can schedule another one someday. I would buy a drawing of one of these designs. If I ever have any money again, I mean.”

The shadows clear from his eyes, and Luca leans in, his lips quirking. “Listen, when you’re ready to get your first tattoo, I’ll draw it for you. On the house.” He looks at me sideways. “If you don’t already have a tattoo, that is. A graduation present from Ginger Ale, maybe?”

I laugh. “No tattoos.”

“Perfect. I love a blank canvas.” He reaches out, and his fingers brush my arm. My head spins in ways that have nothing to do with that third shot of whiskey.

I take a shaky breath, and a completely wild thought comes to me. I should take Luca to ArtSpace. They have a gallery, and I bet Ginger Ale would love to show Luca’s work there.

I haven’t been to ArtSpace in years, but I practically grew up there. Though my living situation was never very stable when I was a kid, ArtSpace was a constant. I did most of my homework and school projects at a paint-spattered table in the corner while Dad practiced tricks with his circus friends. It’s where I got to know all the women from the burlesque dance troupe, where I drank shots with Ginger Ale, where a woman named Frenchy Kiss told me everything I needed to know about the birds and the bees.

Dad still spends most of his free time at ArtSpace, but it’s not a place that I ever expected to go back to. I’m glad Dad found his people there, but it could never make up for the home I longed for. And Ginger Ale and Frenchy Kiss weren’t quite the mom I always dreamed about. To be honest, I have a lot of mixed feelings about ArtSpace. So the fact that my tattooed doorman, whom I found completely maddening just days ago, has me thinking about heading over there might be a bigger mystery than my identity crisis.

Onstage, the trumpet player announces that the band is going to take a short break, and Luca glances at his phone. “Oh, shit. Is it ten already? I should go.” He pulls out his wallet. “And you should probably get home to bed.”

It doesn’t surprise me that Luca has someplace else to be or that he’s just getting started for the evening. But he’s right, ten is already past my bedtime. The fact that I was just about to take him to a warehouse with strobe lights, loud music, and scantily clad women is completely beside the point. I’m not myself lately. And I’m glad he reminded me of that.

I’ll get eight hours of sleep and wake up in the morning, well rested and ready to work on my research paper. While he’ll probably stumble home and sleep on the floor of the lobby again.

Luca insists on paying our bar bill, and I let him because I have two hundred dollars to my name and no idea when I’ll be able to earn more, and that fact is going to keep me up tonight. We step out on the sidewalk, and Luca turns to head toward the DeGreco.

“You don’t have to walk me if you have somewhere to be.” Bloomfield is a safe neighborhood and I only live a few blocks from here. Most of the bars that would interest Luca are in Lawrenceville, in the opposite direction. “You’re already late, so you probably want to get going.”

But Luca keeps walking. “I’m going the same direction you’re going.”

Inside the lobby of the DeGreco, Luca presses the button for the elevator. “You’re going upstairs?” I ask. “What floor do you live on?”

“Two.” But once we’re inside the elevator, he presses eight for my floor, and then eleven.

“You’re not going home?”

“Nah, I’ve got a friend on the eleventh floor. I told her I’d stop by around ten.”

Oh. “Anyone I know?”

“I don’t think so.”

There are a few younger couples in the building, and a family with twin boys, but otherwise, it seems to be mostly older people. I’ve never seen any single women my age. That doesn’t mean there aren’t any, though. It wouldn’t surprise me that they’d want to hang out with Luca. He is outgoing, and fun, and really attractive to look at. I mean, I could see why other women would think so. As long as they don’t care that he was supposed to arrive at ten and it’s already ten fifteen.

The elevator stops on my floor, and I step off, turning to face him. Luca puts a hand on the door to keep it open. “I’ll text you when I hear from Uncle Vito. Could be a day or two.”

“Thank you again for your help tonight, Luca. I really appreciate it.” And I mean it. Where would I be right now if it weren’t for his help?

Completely on my own.

“What are you going to do in the meantime?” He cocks his head to catch my eye. “Are you going to be freaking out?”

“No.” Yes. “I’ll probably try to get some work done. The semester will be starting soon.”

“Well, let me know if you need anything.” He takes a step back, away from the elevator door, and I’m tempted to shove my hand out to stop it from closing. Because the thought of going back to my apartment, all alone, to dwell on everything that’s happened fills me with dread. I don’t think solving a math problem or outlining a paper is going to calm me down this time.

I remember Luca standing in my living room earlier today, taking up the small space with his energy. Offering reassurances when I started to panic. For a fleeting moment, I consider telling him I do need something and asking him to come over for one more drink. But then I remember the woman on eleven, and I step away from the elevator door.

He has a date, and it’s way past my bedtime.