Chapter 14
Amaya reluctantly lets me come along. She says this is really the last leg of the investigation I can join, emphasizing the word really for extra effect.
I think she’s just too tired to argue with me and doesn’t want to deny me a slice of delicious pizza.
It’s probably unprofessional to eat at the same establishment where you’re also accusing the owner of murder.
I’m almost too hungry to care. Truth be told, I’m exhausted too.
My adrenaline is no longer pumping as fast, and the past few days of jail time, stress, and no sleep are starting to hit me hard.
I feel my eyes closing anytime there is a lull in our conversation.
At least my heart is beating regularly and I have no pains in my left arm. Small wins.
We venture to Gravesend in Brooklyn, a neighborhood that Amaya has never been to.
Unable to catch a yellow cab, Amaya calls an Uber, to my dismay.
To add insult to injury, the driver has trouble reading the GPS directions to the point where I have to direct him at each turn.
This wouldn’t happen with a yellow cab. Name a major New York City intersection, and an image of it almost immediately comes to my mind.
I try hard to not feel ill will toward the Uber and Lyft drivers. It’s undeniable that these services have eroded my paycheck so completely that I don’t know how long taxicab driving will be sustainable for me. Yet they’re just people trying to make ends meet.
“Oh, this is far!” Amaya says. I wonder in relation to what; I figure she means relative to Manhattan, the center of the universe, but there is a lot more to New York City than just Manhattan.
So much culture and diversity if people are willing to venture out beyond the safe confines of the Times Square Red Lobster, though I can see why the Cheddar Bay Biscuits are so alluring.
“Turn right,” I announce to the driver, who looks as if he is about to turn left.
“You know this area well,” Amaya notes.
“Well, I am a taxicab driver.” I am pleased that my knowledge of the city’s streets, even the less well-trodden neighborhoods, makes me somewhat useful.
It’s rare I have an opportunity to take pride in my job.
“Besides, I used to drop off people at Lutrino’s all the time.
Not so much anymore.” Like Amaya, I guess people found this place too far, and when we turn in to the lot, there are only a few cars parked, far less than I’ve seen in years past.
My stomach instinctively growls as we approach the restaurant—something it does anytime I’m in the vicinity of good pizza, as if my stomach is its own sentient being.
The Lutrino’s sign is red, which I heard on Jeopardy!
is a color that is supposed to trigger hunger.
It’s working. The exterior of Lutrino’s is dated, unlike the new restaurants I’ve seen popping up all around Manhattan with pink accents and fancy gold light fixtures.
The inside of Lutrino’s has wood-paneled walls that remind me of my basement, which has not been changed since it was remodeled in the seventies.
As I approach the front doors, the smell of sauce, spiced with oregano, basil, and maybe paprika, creates an intoxicating aroma.
I can almost imagine the first bite into the thin crust cooked in a wood-fired oven.
I think about the way the cheese pulls as I bite in and the soft pillowy crust that is a hallmark of Neapolitan pizza.
I love the little bit of oil in the pepperoni cups, which Ammi always tried to make me dab away with a napkin.
On the road, I can enjoy my greasy pizza in peace.
Pizza, pretty much nonexistent in Sri Lanka when I grew up, quickly became one of my favorite American foods in NYC.
Bread, cheese, and maybe meat. What’s not to love?
As soon as we reach the hostess stand, my mouth is watering.
“We’re hoping to see Sal Lutrino,” Amaya asks.
“You’ve come during prime time; Sal is quite busy right now.”
Odd, given how empty the place is now.
“I’m so sorry to bother, but it’s urgent,” I add.
The hostess smacks her bubble gum and rolls her eyes in teenage defiance.
“Okay fine, I’ll see what I can do,” she says as she stomps away.
The people waiting in line to be seated behind us audibly groan. I turn around and mouth, “I’m sorry.”
A few seconds later, Sal appears. His hair is gray, and the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth have deepened since the photo of him on the pizzeria’s website was taken.
He looks a little like geriatric Chef Boyardee on the cans of SpaghettiOs that I was only allowed to eat at Alex’s house because my mother had deemed it junk.
Ammi’s words are echoing in my head. High-fructose corn syrup is not good for you!
She was never so strict with my brother’s diet, if I remember correctly.
“How can I help you?” Sal asks in a monotone drawl with a frown.
“Uh, can we speak to you privately?” Amaya asks, reverting to her polite, almost sugary-sweet tone.
“What’s this about?” Sal narrows his eyes.
“About James Wilkerson-Taylor.”
I notice an immediate perceptible change to Sal’s demeanor.
He goes from calm and casual to tense and worried.
He knows something. The Yelp reviews did look bad, but who kills over a bad review?
Amaya reminded me people kill for less on the ride over.
So that’s the motive. True crime rule number five: Find the motive.
But the means and opportunity? I look over at Sal and wonder if he could quickly stab someone in a car and run away.
I just can’t see it. He doesn’t look particularly fast. His hands seem designed to make the perfect crust, not the perfect kill.
“Okay, we can talk in my office.”
We follow Sal, past an only half-full dining room.
He ushers us into a small, cramped back room with a window facing the dining area.
The smell of pizza still reaches us here.
Amaya shoots me a look as my stomach groans loudly in protest that I haven’t offered it pizza yet.
We stand awkwardly, and I put my hand on the doorknob.
Are we in a room with a potential killer?
I look at Amaya and realize how brave she is, investigating these cases, going to places she’s never been, sniffing around stuff that could bring her face-to-face with danger. I solve my podcast murders from the safety of my own taxi. Well…it felt safe until a few days ago.
The space is filled mostly by a large wooden desk, covered in papers, which Sal sits behind. I notice that some of the papers have angry red lettering on the top, which, upon closer inspection, tells me they are past-due bills.
“Mr. Lutrino—” Amaya begins.
“Just call me Sal.” Sal is perspiring now. The restaurant is hot, but not this hot. “Who are you?”
“Apologies, I should have started with that introduction. My name is Amaya Fernando and I’m an attorney. This is my client Siriwathi Perera.”
“Attorney? Are you suing me?” Sal asks, bewildered.
“Why would we be suing you? We just have some questions.”
“Do I need an attorney?”
“Well, I suppose that depends on whether you killed James Wilkerson-Taylor.”