“What?” she'd ask innocuously when confronted by Gio's expression of disgust and disappointment. “You didn't say what kind of mask to get!”
And then he'd pistol-whip me because he's a mobster psycho and the joke would be a lot less funny, she thought.
Finally, she found a mask that would cover the top half of her face. It was porcelain, and decorated with glittering sequins and wispy peacock feathers. Perfect.
As she walked up to the counter and fished in her small purse for her wallet, the cashier—a girl in her early twenties with a shaved head and at least a dozen facial piercings—gave her a knowing smile and a nod. “Last-minute shopping for the Belmont party tonight, huh?”
Carla's eyebrows raised. “Huh?”
“The masquerade,” the cashier continued, carefully putting the mask in a bag. “It's tonight, right? We get a lot of first-timers who show up here to get their masks before the big event. No shame in it. Hell, I've been there a handful of times myself. It's a lot of fun.”
“Oh. That's, um...good to know.” Carla paid for the mask, then waited as the cashier made change at a glacial pace, all while looking Carla up and down appreciatively.
“Here you go,” the cashier said, handing over the bag and the money. “Hey, my shift's over in about an hour. Maybe I'll grab something off the shelves and see you there.”
“Maybe,” Carla said quickly, tucking the mask under her arm. “Thanks. Bye.”
“Be sure to save a dance for me!” the cashier called after Carla as the door jangled shut behind her.
Great, Carla thought. Now there'll be at least one person at this thing who knows what I look like under the mask.
She tried to comfort herself with the thought that the cashier still wouldn't have any way of knowing that she was a Fed, or that her escort was a gangster—that it would be utterly impossible for her to make that connection—but it didn't ease her dread at all.
After what she'd been through so far this week, it was hard for her to honestly dismiss anything as “impossible” anymore.
Chapter 20
Gio
After making the call to Carla, Gio dressed himself in an expensive black suit, went up to his Special Room, and slid a wall panel aside to reveal a large collection of mounted masks. They leered down at him with dark, empty eye holes as he examined them, trying to find the right one.
Gio had collected masks since he was a child, years before he'd had to pick up a baseball bat and prove himself to Mario in the basement. When he was six years old, his parents had taken him on vacation to New Orleans and he'd been mesmerized by the painted masks that peered out from almost every shop window. On the final day of their trip, his mother had taken him for a walk down Bourbon Street and told him he could choose any mask he wanted.
After that, Gio had often hoarded his allowance to buy new masks for his bedroom wall, and when he got his first job, he spent most of his money of them too. After quietly tolerating the first few, Mario started to grumble with each new purchase that “only freaks an' sissies are into masks,” but Gio remained undeterred in his hobby.
Now in his twenties, Gio had dozens of masks from all over the world—porcelain ones from Japan, clay ones from Central and South America, even wooden ones from Africa. And since he'd started regularly attending the monthly masquerade on Belmont, he'd gotten a thrill from selecting a new one to wear each time so he wouldn't be identified.
Tonight he decided on a colorful hand-carved Chinese mask depicting a bug-eyed, snarling dragon. He took it down from its pegs carefully and put it over his own face, tying the ribbons behind his head to secure it. He relished the echo of his own breath in his ears and the light mist of condensation it left around his nose and mouth.
He always loved the feeling of wearing a different face over his real one.
Satisfied, he grabbed a leather satchel and placed a couple of items inside. Then he went back downstairs and peered out through the blinds in the living room. Now that he knew Rizzo was outside watching his place, it was hard to miss him—the pencil-necked little nimrod might have thought he was playing it cool by parking outside Gio's house and slouching down in the front seat, but the stupid sky-blue '78 Gremlin hatchback he was so proud of stuck out like a neon sign. Gio couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it before.
I must have been distracted, Gio thought. This reminded him of his father's most recent lecture, and he shuddered.
Gio slipped his phone, keys, and wallet into his pockets, and tucked a small pistol into a holster at his ankle. Then he went through the house, switching on several lights so it would look like he was still there after he'd left. He knew most observers might notice that the lights never moved or changed, but he also knew that Rizzo was a lot dumber than most observers, so he was fairly confident the ruse would work.