A Rick `N' Rosie Short Story
Rosie Caesare Ramsey stared at the blank computer screen. For two weeks, she'd been on her number-one disciplinary schedule. Up at six a.m. Decaffeinated coffee from the Porto Rico Coffee Shop on Bleecker Street. No croissants. By seven a.m. she was seated in the newly built office overlooking the community gardens on West Twelfth Street near the Hudson River. Everything was perfect. So why weren't ideas coming?
"Hi, sweetheart," her husband murmured into her ear.
"Rick, darling, stop nibbling at me. I'm trying to work."
But his warm lips traveled to her cheek, her chin, her eyes, her lips. Whenever Rick was close, Rosie felt like a flower opening. Rick was her personal sun. She snuggled into his arms as he gave her a bear hug. After, she put her head on his wide shoulder. "I think I have writer's block," she moaned.
"I've always had writer's block," he said, softly stroking the strands of her dark hair. "Let's lunch at the Gotham. That'll cheer us."
"I don't think so."
"How about sleeping all day and going out at midnight to a club?"
"We're too mature for that. Those places are for kids. We're grownups, happily married. And we're a success." She paused. "Let's go to Dean & De Luca's and eat fresh buffalo mozzarella and squid-ink linguine. But don't mention it to my father. He has a whole list of sins against his ten commandments of authentic pizza and egg fettucini. Dad thinks we should organize a Bleecker Street militia. He thinks all this multi-colored stuff is crapola."
"Don't use those lovely lips in that vulgar manner." Rick teased his pretty wife.
"Oh, you Connecticut Yankees have no sense of fun."
"Wanna bet?" Rick poured a cup of decaf and ran his hand vigorously through his dark hair. His body was lean and his sweat suit accented the fact that he was athletic.
He walked with an erectness that was also graceful; oddly it exemplified his personality. His eyes were watchful, and when he looked at his wife, they filled with affection. Mischievously, he leaned over and tickled his wife's neck with nuzzling kisses, but it did not help. Rosie's soft green eyes filled with tears. Could she be burnt out? The last few years had been intense and dangerous. Maybe she simply didn't have any more moxie?
Rick dropped his sweats. On his boxers the name `Rosie'• was printed in bright red. He tap-danced around the desk in a flirtatious manner. "Won't you ever grow up?" Rosie growled.
"I like your duds." He kissed her nipples, which were protruding from her slim scarf bra. Blushing, she pulled up the bra to cover them, then tugged at her matching bikini panties. Rick laughed. "I thought you'd decided to work at the computer naked. Why don't you take off that skimpy outfit?"
"Because I'm weepy."
"PMS?"
She threw a satin pillow at him. "Sexist!" she accused.
"I think you mean `sexiest'. Come here, wench!"
Rick charged his wife and covered her with earnest kisses. After a minute, Rosie sighed. "I wish I could write something meaningful."
"Catching murderers isn't meaningful?"
Without answering, Rosie wandered to the large white piano in the corner of her study. Whenever she couldn't write, she'd play Chopin. When she was finished, Rick said, "You really love the Slavic prince." Her fingers gingerly moved up and down the scale. "My music teacher, Sister Ann, said that whenever life got too complicated, I should remember the counterpoint theory of music."
"Huh?"
"You work on one thing, and often, the exact opposite of what you're striving for occurs. For every active element, there's a passive; for every negative, a positive. Like you and me. I look for danger while you avoid it."
"Avoiding dead bodies is a good thing."
"See what I mean? I'm trying to think of something exciting to add to our lives, and you're thinking of how to hide. Counterpoint!"
At that moment, the FAX machine hummed. When Rosie read the message she screamed. Right away, Rick flew to her side. "What's up?"
"Life is serendipity. Rick, isn't it true that I haven't mentioned Sister Ann lately?"
"No, but you have her photograph on top of the piano alongside your parents, Aunt Irene and Uncle Cusimo, our wedding photo, and Elvis."
"Guess who just sent me a fax?"
"Elvis?"
Rosie threw an eraser at her smart-ass husband. "Nope. Sister Ann. She wants me to meet her at the Cathedral at noon." She examined her outfit. "I've got to change into something decent."
* * * *
St. Patrick's marble floors shone. The oak wood off the pews had been wiped down. Black prayer books and red and green phamphlets were stacked in tidy rows on two tables at the rear of the church. Rosie doused her fingers in the holy water fountain and made the sign of the cross. Childhood emotions flooded her as she looked down at the center altar. Through the dimness, the gold ornaments shone as if God's glory were spotlighting them. Beyond the magnificent stained glass windows, the sun burned mercilessly, but here, in the serene environment, even the sunlight seemed muted.
Rosie stepped to the last pew and knelt, bowing her head before entering the pew. "Our Father, Who art in heaven..." Suddenly tears blurred her vision. Abruptly, she rose and walked around the side altars. In front of her favorite statue of the Madonna, she waited. She loved the piece because it was hewn in blue Cararra marble.
"This was always your favorite place." Rosie turned to see Sister Ann. The nun's face was smooth, her bright blue eyes glistened as she gracefully approached her former student. Sister Ann was dressed in a suit and pumps. Her gray hair was softly curled about her face, a pale contrast to the pink shirt she wore. When Rosie went to grammar school, Sister Ann wore a nun's habit. Rosie said, "Hey! You're a person. When you taught me piano, you were a nun."
"Do you still play?"
Rosie nodded. "But I'm rusty."
"You've been busy making a name for yourself. All those murders you've solved."
There was a sudden noise. Sister Ann reacted quickly as a glimmer of sunlight caught her face. Rosie realized the nun was frightened. "Is something wrong?"
Sister Ann sighed. "I need your help. I know you have friends in the media. My organization needs their support."
"X-RAP? Your group fighting the rap music that eulogizes violence?"
The nun nodded. "I was shocked when I listened to those lyrics. 'Kill a nun'? What are the record companies thinking of?"
"They claim artistic freedom." "There's going to be a demonstration here." Sister Ann paused. "I don't understand why the media doesn't present this fairly. Whenever the Church is involved they grow silent. Can you help me get air time?"
"The problem is that most reporters are anti-censorship and think that's where your organization is heading." "Is it censorship to ask why K.K. is telling kids to kill a nun? What has a nun ever done to him?"
* * * *
K.K. aimed the dart to hit the target dead center.
Once. Twice. Then again. He rose from his chair and flexed his muscles. That's how he wanted his music to function. Woosh! Like an assault weapon. He turned up the sound on his newest creation: "Kill A Nun•. It was climbing the charts, listed as alternative music.
He listened as his voice snarled against the bass beat. He smirked. He was a rock dinosaur, and true to that nature, wanted to destroy. Scandal. That's what made a performer important. The people at the record company knew that. K.K. was one of their top rappers. He was perfect. White, jive-handsome, and a pop art stud.
"The tune is so awesome," Miz Melinda gushed. She stood at the doorway wearing a sarong bikini which revealed pierced rings in her feminine belly button and her nipples. They matched several in each of her ear lobes. He giggled and stuck his tongue out at suggestively, revealing two pierced silver rings. "Not now," K.K. said.
""Kill A Nun•!" The chorus bellowed.
* * * *
The music lesson was operational.
"So how about it?" Rosie quizzed Bebe Ryan.
"This story is dead."
"What'll it take?" Rosie bullied, knowing that her media pals had a bargain mentality.
"A spread on your famous detective couple's sex life?"
"Rick is shy. He hates to talk about personal stuff."
Bebe laughed. "It's not Rick, it's you. Italians talk a lot, yet say nothing personal."
"We believe in personal privacy. Is that bad?"
"Give me an in-depth boudoir piece and I'll do a spot on Sister Ann."
"That's real penance."
"Take it or leave it."
* * * *
The next morning, Rosie wondered how in the world she was going to suggest to her publicity-shy husband that the tabloid show "Manhattan Copy• wanted to enter their private domain and take pictures of both of them in boudoir outfits. They'd probably want her to wear one of those see-through ensembles from Victoria's Secret. And what would they want Rick to wear? Would he wear the sequined boxer shorts?" "Hey, Rosie. Catch this."
She rushed to Rick's study, where a thirty-inch television set kept him from working on their newest project. On the screen, a man built like a beer keg slammed himself against the front door of St. Patrick's Cathedral, where a demonstration was taking place. The New York City Police Department had organized a cordon around several hundred people carrying `KEEP OUR MUSIC FREE' signs.
The demonstrators were in various states of undress; some had multicolored bodies, many multicolored hair. They were male and female, and other mixtures Rosie did not want to think about. The slammer was wearing black leather shorts which revealed a clear outline of his testicles. Black leather suspenders with spikes, tight boots, and wristlets completed his S&M outfit. In his hand he held a large cross of silver and black which he pointed at the entrance of the church.
Slowly, the door opened. Rosie expected to see a group of clerics, instead only one person emerged: Sister Ann. The crowd surged forward, stretching the police line, trying to reach the nun who stood quietly facing them.
"She has guts," Rick said.
Music blared from a sound truck facing St. Patrick's. The burly man shouted at Sister Ann, "Don't tell us what to play."
Bebe Ryan shoved a microphone in Sister's face. "Do you have a comment?" Sister Ann was enraged. "I think the music and film world have fried their brains on drugs. We have to fight these insane moneymen who claim artistic persecution. It's the Church who's being persecuted, not the artist."
Her voice faded under the horrendous outpouring of hate.
"Kill A Nun• blared from the sound truck.
* * * *
"I can't stop now," Sister Ann said on the phone to Rosie.
"But you could be in danger."
"Counterpoint, remember?"
"You're deliberately trying to get someone to attack you," Rosie warned. "You're playing with fire." "So did Christ." The phone went dead.
* * * *
The next afternoon, Rosie looked at Sister Ann lying face-down on the library floor. A gag was stuffed into her mouth. A blood-soaked throwpillow lay on top of her head. "It was used to muffle the shot," Lieutenant Kushel said to Rick. "She took a bullet at the back of her head. Went right through her skull." Rosie dropped to her knees. "Don't touch anything," Kushel warned.
Rick asked Rosie, "Are you okay?"
Her eyes felt moist and dry at the same time. Her throat burned as if she'd been abandoned on a desert under the hot sun. She wiped the tears from her eyes. "Sister Ann was killed because she wouldn't back down on the rapper issue."
Kushel said, "The library was closed, so she had to unlock the door. She must have known the killer."
Rosie turned. There was an empty bottle of Coke on a nearby table, plus a half-eaten ham sandwich, the edges of which were shredded. "Sister Ann never drank Coke. She was a vegetarian, so nix on the ham. From the look of the sandwich, whoever left those shredded edges must have something very wrong with his teeth."
Rick asked, "What makes you sure of the gender?"
"I don't think a woman could have hurt a nun."
Kushel said, "I've seen women do a lot worse."
"Let me keep some illusions," Rosie insisted. "Kushel, Sister Ann didn't suffer, did she?"
He shook his head. "She was your music teacher?"
Rosie nodded. "Sister Ann taught me that music hits very deep places. That's what the rappers know." Her voice shook. "That's why they're so powerful."
Rick said, "Maybe she was killed for something personal."
Kushel nodded. "Something she kept hidden."
Rosie frowned. "You're not going to drudge up some kind of scandal, are you?"
"You work with the police. You know how it is."
* * * *
Father Camino looked at Rosie, his small eyes squinting. "It's not the first incident," he said somberly.
Sitting on the other side of his large oak desk, Rosie examined the photographs on the wall. Camino was nicknamed the media priest, and the photographs recorded the fact that Father knew everyone from Frank Sinatra to the last president. He tapped a large file on his desk blotter and handed it Rosie. "There was an incident in Albany. Sister Mary Louse was found slumped over the wheel of a 1990 Lincoln, bleeding from two bullet holes. And in Boston, we had a double homicide. A teenager killed Sister Agnes Mary who answered the door of the convent. Then he went in and found another nun in the living room, reading, and shot her, too." The priest picked up the "New York Post•. "They're picking apart Sister Ann's background. It's let's blame the victim again and again."
Rosie said sadly, "Crime and punishment is media entertainment in America. It's no longer a system to punish the guilty and protect our citizens."
"I can't tell you all the details, but I'm terrified that the media is going to find out about Sister Ann's past." "It'll be better if you fill me in now, Father." Rosie said.
He shook his head. "Can't. If you're a good detective, you'll uncover the facts. The problem is, so will Manhattan Copy".
* * * *
There it was. The startling fact that before she joined the Franciscan order, Sister Ann had been a rock'n'roller. Rumor was that she'd been involved with Kurt Jimmy Doherty, the infamous blues and rock musician, Manhattan Copy reporter Bebe Ryan told her audience.
"This has got to be a cruel joke." Rosie, dressed for her weekly boxing workout, focused on her footwork. "I'm going over to the station and pop Bebe right on the nozzle."
Rick grabbed his wife. "Let's turn off the set and go a few rounds at the club."
"I don't want to box with you. I want to rearrange that former pal of mine's face. Maybe the plastic surgery she had last year will burst and let all the hot air out of her." She paused. "I know what to do."
Rick glared. "Rosie, don't call your father."
"He's on the case. His SoHo group is having a meeting tonight."
"What are they planning? Don't tell me. I may have to testify."
"Against dad?" Rosie's boxing gloves did a little dance in the air. "Never."
"Shoot."
"They're planning to visit a certain rapper."
"K.K. hasn't been found guilty of anything."
She smirked. "That won't stop my father from giving him the Al Pacino treatment."
* * * *
Mario Caesare was a strong man with thick forearms which seemed to go on forever. Yet compared to Al the Arm, Mario looked like Pinocchio. And compared to Luigi the Lepper, he was a skinnymolink. The thick trio burst into K.K.'s hotel suite where two large bodyguards stood guard. The paid protectors stood their ground for about one second before Al, without anyone else's help, had them tied in knots literally. He'd brought along a lot of thick rope. Squirming on the ground, one said, "K.K.'s ready for rats like you."
"Shut up," the other one said.
"That means he's got a piece in there," Luigi said.
"Piece of what?" Al joked.
Mario frowned. Al shut up, knowing his pal didn't like people to talk when he was in threat mode. "Hokay, what shall we do?" Luigi asked Mario.
"If we go in there and this idiot pulls his piece on us, there's a hassle, and the cops are called. Nothing will be accomplished. I suggest we get one of these airheads to call out their boss. Hey, you!" Mario pointed a thumb to the guy squirming on the floor. "Call this K.K. What the hell kind of name is that?"
"He'll kill me," the bodyguard complained.
Al went over to the big guy, squeezed his hand a bit and said, "Shout loud."
"K.K." the guard shouted. Nothing happened. "He's probably got his sound on," the guard said.
Mario looked around the room. "How do I turn off the electricity?"
"Over there. Goddam thing's already blown once."
The bodyguard pointed to a fuse box. Luigi went over, turned the knobs, and the suite went dim.
The door to the inner sanctum flew open and K.K. stood there naked, the moonlight exposing tatoos of the devil on his body. Around his neck he wore a thick cross and chain depicting the crucifixion of Christ. "What the fuck is going on?"
Through the muted light, he realized what was happening and turned quickly.
"He's going for his piece," Al warned Luigi, who whipped his arm tightly around K.K.'s naked shoulders.
"What kind of a man are you? Put something on," Mario said with disgust.
Al quickly took off his jacket and draped it around K.K.'s shoulders, but the rapper shrugged it off. "Hey, this is me. I'm not ashamed of any damn thing."
"I know something you should be ashamed of," Mario said. "We got rules about nuns."
"I'm not afraid of the Mafia."
"Watch your mouth," Al warned.
K.K. spat. Mario said quietly. "That's what I mean. You continue like this, and you're going to get into trouble."
K. K. retorted. "With who, Maestro?"
Mario pointed upwards. "With God." Suddenly, a sharp light flickered through the semi-darkness of the room. "See what I mean?"
K.K. rubbed his arms angrily. "Stop jerking my chain."
Mario whipped across the room and grabbed the rapper's cross and chain, pulling it tight around his neck. "I don't want to hear any more about killing nuns. That's simply not nice for anyone to say. Especially not a Catholic." Mario continued. "I want you to clean up that cross. Then go to your closet and get a blue suit and black shoes and a white shirt. I want you to take off that stuff on your face and come to Sister Ann's funeral, where you will make a public apology for your music. I want you to tell everyone who will listen that your music might be responsible for the dear nun's death. Understand?"
The Italian trio left. In the hall, Al asked Mario, "How did you know he's a Catholic?"
Mario explained. "Father Camino told me. He said, once a Catholic, always a Catholic."
"Do you think he'll do what you said?"
"It was worth a shot."
* * * * That night as the Ramseys watched Mahattan Copy and cooked linguine with oil and garlic (Rick's favorite dish), Bebe interviewed K.K. The musician admitted to the world that perhaps his "Kill A Nun • song might have been off its mark and he hoped sincerely that it had nothing to do with Sister Ann's murder. He apologized profusely.
"His eyes look mighty glassy," Rosie said to Rick as she scampered away from the hot oil that seemed to be exploding from the pan. "Throw in the garlic," she ordered her hubby. He did and she exploded. "You didn't chop it up fine as you're supposed to do."
"What's the diff?"
"Don't you have any class?"
"Apparently my class doesn't extend to the kitchen," he joked. "Large pieces of garlic are easier to find."
"Why would you want to find them?"
"So I can pick them out."
"Ricky, Ricky, Ricky." Rosie mopped her perspiring brow. She was wearing a white eyelet shortie outfit, the wrong thing to wear for simmering garlic. "When are you going to learn the garlic is to eat, not throw out? Everyone knows that garlic is good for the system." She lowered the flame and bemoaned the fact that a speck of oil had soiled her pretty white frock. "My mother would kill me if she found out. Don't tell her," she said to Rick.
He nodded as Bebe wrapped up the segment. "K.K. denies all involvement with the murder of the Franciscan nun. The police say they have several leads, but won't comment on an ongoing investigation. But we hear that the sleuths, Rick & Rosie Caesare, are on the case. They'll be on Manhattan Copy tomorrow night with their latest finds."
"We will?" Rick asked as he carefully broke the linguine into smaller lengths.
"She called this morning, and I told her that we weren't on the case. But she doesn't believe me."
"Isn't the funeral tomorrow?"
She nodded. "The murderer must hate the church. What other reason could this maniac have?"
"Lots of people hate the church."
"Hey! I don't go to Mass every Sunday, and you should hear Dad on priests and nuns, but we know that the Church does good work. They help the poor and the sick. They shelter pregnant teenagers. They have hospices for AIDS patients. Why do people only focus on the conservative views the church may have? Why don't they look at the good things?"
"This country's preoccupation is to nail everyone for something," Rick said.
"Nailing poor Sister Ann was an act of murder. I don't care who says it's political. Nowadays, every crime in this country is a melodrama, a soap opera. God help us!"
Her voice shook badly and Rick carefully put the uncooked linguine in the colander and embraced his wife. "Let's shut off the flame and take a nap," he suggested.
Rosie smiled.
An hour later they were back in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Rick was surprised to see K.K. standing there. "Is this where she lives?" the musician asked.
"Who's she?"
"That tough dude's daughter. The detective." K.K. scowled. "You must be her roomie."
(continued in next file... please click here to read on)