“What about her?” he says, jerking my arm as if to punctuate which “her” he’s referring to—as if I could be mistaken for the dead woman.
“Her?”
My eyes widen with what I’m hoping reflects “innocent and totally trustworthy young lady who would in no way betray the confidence of several mobsters about an obvious murder.” If they notice my look, they don’t comment. Instead, the three men in the room suddenly switch to a new language.
“Dobbiamo ucciderla.”
The man at my side gestures down at the dead bride.“E che mi dici del corpo di Isa?”
“Gli addetti alle pulizie possono gestirlo.”
“Girl,” the elder man snaps, turning to me, “what is your name?”
Think, Daisy, think!I dive deep into my brain as I look back at him. I wonder if I can pretend not to understand. Maybe if they think I’m just a dumb girl, they’ll let me go. So, I could just… “Erm…no habla inglés?” I say quickly.“Como se llamo?”I wince at the butchering of the language. My high school Spanish teacher, Mr. Rodriguez, would be horrified.
The stare I’m met with has less life in it than a dead fish. “Did you just try to speak Spanish to a bunch of Italian men?” the man holding me questions. “Completely wrong, I might add.”
“No?” That singular word doesn’t even sound sure to my own ears. Had it been incorrect? Well, damn. Guess the jig is up. So, when in doubt, just gaslight. If men can do it and get away with it, then so can I.
I straighten my spine and lift my chin, eyeing the man who’sglowering down at me with a mixture of irritation and confusion. “I mean,” I say, clearing my throat, “no, I definitely didn’t speak Spanish to a bunch of Italian men.” Incorrectly. Yeah, okay, maybe I hadn’t gotten thebestgrade in Spanish 101.
“You just said ‘no habla inglés,’” the man with a steel grip on my arm mocks, and if the slight cough in his voice is anything to go by, he’s trying his best not to laugh. How can he laugh when there’s a dead woman on the floor… staining what I’m sure is a very expensive rug?
“Are you sure?” I ask. “I don’t remember talking at all.”Gaslight! Gaslight! Gaslight!I scream in the back of my head.
“You’re talking right now.”
An internal gasp of outrage that is both me and not me sounds. Oh shit. Mean Daisy, a.k.a. my inner psycho, a bitch I’ve tried to keep on the leash for the last twenty-three years, comes roaring to life.Tell him to fuck off!she yells.Then kick his teeth in.
Ignoring her, because her suggestions only ever end with more problems for me, I reach into the furthest recesses of my mind and pull out the oldest trick that I have in my box of coping mechanisms.Ha, I think to myself.I knew I’d need them someday.I mentally find the one I’m looking for and dust it off. When in doubt: Deny. Deny. Deny.
I arch my brow at the man and give him a pathetic little smile—the same kind of smile I give to Mr. Benny, the homeless guy who lives behind my apartment building whenever he tries to tell me about the aliens that are sure to arrive any day now. “Am I?” I ask the man before insisting, “I don’t recall.”
The men turn to each other, their expressions mirroring one another in that “we know better than this small, dumb woman”look I’ve seen too often. I’ve been to college. I know those looks quite well and I know what they mean. They mean I’m not fooling anyone, no matter how awesome my bravado is.
Okay, time for a new approach.
“Listen,” I try, forcing a lighter tone as I wince both inwardly and outwardly. I peer around at the three men who appear to be closing in on me, “let’s look at it this way. I didn’t see anything—I’m not a witness toanything. I’m just a waitress. I won’t tell anyone what happened. You can trust me.”
I try out the innocent and trustworthy look again and end with a hopeful smile, like I’m trying to sell Girl Scout cookies instead of convincing them not to kill me. As one, the men share another ofthoselooks. God, how I hate those damn looks. Why don’t women have those? Well, Michelle would say that we do have one. It’s called the “is this motherfucker stupid?” But I’ve never had an opportunity to use it, and now doesn’t seem like the most appropriate time.
“We don’t involve civilians,” the man holding me responds.
The bubble of hope in my chest swells. I straighten, and my eyes dart to the two older men, both of whom still wear an expression of uncertainty and confusion, like they’re not quite sure what to make of me. That’s fair—half the time, I don’t know what to make of myself.
“That may be true, but we can’t trust her based upon her word alone,” the oldest of the men replies with a sigh. “We can’t just let her go.”
My lips turn down, and my eyes begin to burn.No no no. I’msonot ready to bite the bullet.I’ve barely experienced life. I haven’t even been graduated from college for a whole year yet.I haven’t had a chance to make my mark on the world—or get a full-time freaking job! I deserve at least a job for all the hours studying and the debt I’ve accumulated over the last four years. I mean,come the fuck on. There’s more to life than all-nighters, crabby professors, and lots and lots of missed opportunities, right?
Yeah, my inner bitch snaps,like breaking all of their kneecaps and running like hell!
Does anyone else have to fight with a weirder, scarier, terrible version of themselves?I distantly wonder with a mental voice full of sarcasm.Or am I just lucky?
“I—” I’m ready to launch into a very well-worded lecture about all of the negative points that come with killing a “civilian,” as they put it, when one of the men holds up a hand.
“We need to bring Giulio in on this,” he states, nodding to the older one. “Go get him, Otello.Don’t—” he barks as the older man dips his chin in acquiescence and begins to move toward the door. The older man—Otello, I assume—stops and looks back. “—let anyone else know what’s happened.”
Otello’s features tighten as if he’s insulted by the mere suggestion, but merely nods and disappears out the door. Leaving me alone in a room with two members of the mob.
