“Family faces are magic mirrors. Looking at people who belong to us, we see the past, present and future.”—Gail Lumet Buckley

Lucia Scafetti was not a good person. At least, she'd long suspected that might be true. In the red glow of the darkroom safelight, she developed the latest series of photos she'd taken of a stranger's illicit bedroom activities, feeling a little more doubt slip away. Once the images emerged, Lucia cocked her head in contemplation, imbued with an odd mixture of satisfaction and disgust. “Yikes. Mr. Shapiro, you are so busted.” Shaking her head, she hung the eight-by-ten photos up to dry in the spacious darkroom belonging to the Community College of Philadelphia.

By noon, Lucia was heading home to West Philadelphia. She hesitated at the entrance to the Broad-Street subway. Considering that the summer of ’95 was setting records for both heat and humidity, it would be cooler to take public transit all the way. On the other hand, if she walked the few blocks to the Market-Frankford Line, she’d pass right by Marco’s Pizzeria where she could grab a couple of slices for lunch. Marco’s was neither a particularly clean nor congenial place but two slices of plain pizza could be had for a buck. Her stomach growled, protesting that the only sustenance it had known that day was a large coffee and a small soft pretzel. Lucia considered that complaint as the deciding vote—she’d make the walk to Marco’s.

Upon entering the pizzeria, she saw that the counterman was Andre Bradley, a fellow student and sometimes dinner companion at the community college. Bradley, handsome, courtly, and good-natured, was like Lucia, in his late twenties, older than the average CCP student so they’d gravitated towards each other in their “Introduction to the Internet” class. Lucia had initially hoped his interest in her was more than friendly but she’d quickly discovered that his taste in women ran to the petite and dainty side. At six-feet, and a muscular 200 pounds, neither descriptor had been applied to Lucia since long before puberty, making this a familiar disappointment which she accepted gracefully.

Andre greeted her with both a smile and advice to wait for the fresh pie he had coming out of the oven shortly. After she agreed that fresh pizza was well worth the slight delay, Andre asked, “Where are you coming from, CCP?”

“Yeah, I was using the darkroom.” Lucia held up a manilla envelope full of her morning’s work.

“How is it Banco still lets you use the darkroom when you finished with her class years ago?”

“Because I asked her.” Andre tilted his head, obviously waiting for the whole story so Lucia admitted, “I asked…and I also gave her a sob story.” Laughing, she added, “Sob stories being the most important weapon in a private investigator’s arsenal.”

“Not your Glock?”

“Nope.” To her everlasting regret, Lucia had once told him that she occasionally carried a Glock-22 on dangerous outings and Andre had since considered it to be the most interesting thing about her. “Being a PI in real life is nothing like those TV shows.”

Andre’s retort was preempted by two men entering the restaurant. Lucia automatically stepped aside to let them place their order. The older, shorter man informed Andre that they were there to pick up a takeout order of twelve hoagies for a nearby construction site.

“It better be ready—and right,” barked the younger one, sporting an impressive mullet and an obvious chip on his shoulder. “Or I’ll come back here and take back your tip and something outta’ your hide to boot.” Ignoring the belligerence, Andre cheerfully informed them it was in the back, ready to go and he had checked it thoroughly. When he went to get it, the mouthy man lounged against the counter, made a casually racist remark about Andre to his companion and then eyed Lucia. “Wowee. You’re a big gal, ain’t you, honey?”

Lucia heard observations like that more frequently than she heard hello. She usually shrugged them aside but this guy had gotten on her shit-list in record time. “What is it you bring to the world besides ignorance, an ugly haircut, and your fascinating grasp of the obvious?”

He straightened up and glared at Lucia. “What’s a’ madder? You a lezzie?”

“If you think every woman who’s not attracted to you is gay, you must run into a lot of lesbians.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” His friend warned him to let it go but mullet-guy persisted. “Bet I know why you don’t like men. Bet you used to be one, huh?”

“Wrong.” She smiled coolly down at him from her slight height advantage. “I’m no more a man than you are.”

“Here’s your order!” They all turned to find Andre holding out two large paper bags by the twine handles.

The loudmouth, who appeared to still be searching desperately for a crushing comeback, made no response while the older man took the bags and headed towards the door, saying, “Come on, Mitch. The guys are waiting.”

Shaking off his stupor, Mitch nodded. “Yeah, let’s get the hell outta’ here.” He headed for the exit with his friend, pausing long enough to look back and snarl, “That bitch ain’t worth it.”

“You say ‘bitch’ like it’s a bad thing,” Lucia called after them.

While Andre bagged up her pizza he said, “I guess those guys are lucky you don’t carry your gun everywhere.”

“I don’t need a gun to handle losers like that. I never did.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “I guess you’ve always had your last name for that.”

Somewhat irked by that quip, Lucia still mustered up a forced laugh. After all, Andre was just repeating the kind of joke she often told on herself to put new people at ease. She couldn’t blame him for buying her act—could she?

Thirty-minutes later, Lucia paused at the entrance to the Overbrook Commons Office building, distracted by the sight of a shiny new plaque, advertising the services of Siskin and Narváez, Attorneys. She smiled broadly, having already targeted her new neighbors as potential clients. She was working diligently to move her business away from mainly spying on cheating husbands and had already signed on as the house PI for one small law firm. Making it two could really boost her profile in the legal community.

Buoyed by the thought, she dashed through the front doors, and ran down the steps at the left of the lobby to her own office in the basement. That wing of the basement housed only the office of Fidelia Investigations and the long-deserted Goldstein’s Tailoring & Dressmaking Shop. As soon as she slotted her key in the door, a chorus of barks announced the presence of her dachshund, Rocco. Seeing his silhouette appearing over and over at the frosted glass window in the door she yelled, “Stop jumping, it’s bad for your back.”

He obeyed that order as well as he did all others—which is to say, not at all and she was nearly knocked down by the force of a thirty-pound bullet of muscle and fur. “Okay, okay, I know, your lunch is late.” She surveyed the office carefully. Other than a few strands of black fur on the leather couch positioned to the right of the door, there was no evidence of dachshund wrong-doing. “But you get a walk first, since, thank God, you didn’t already take care of business.”

Upon returning from their walk, she retrieved the bag of dog food from the lowest drawer in the huge, battered filing cabinet, and noticed the light blinking on her answering machine. Her hope that it might be a client was dashed when Lucia leaned towards the desk and saw that though there was but one message, a good third of the cassette tape had been used up.

After feeding Rocco, she pressed the button to listen to the message, saying, “Whata’ ya’ want, Ma?”

“Lucia, it’s your mother.”

“Duh.”

“I’m coming into town tonight. My flight don’t get in ‘til after ten—”

While throwing on a blazer and preparing a Fidelia brochure to take up to the new tenants, Lucia carried on a one-sided “conversation” with the answering machine. “Thanks for all the notice.”

“…so don’t bother meeting me; I’ll take a cab. I don’t want you driving that damn Chevelle on the Schuylkill that time a’ night.” There was a slight pause and Lucia braced for the inevitable addition. “If Baccaro’d been a decent sort, he’d’ve left you a safer car…but if he’d been a decent man, he’d’ve married you.”

“At least he didn’t kill people for a living.”

“I’ll be staying at Patsy’s ‘cause God knows I can’t stay with my daughter. Patsy says you should come have breakfast with us tomorrow. Be there ’bout nine—”

“Sounds great.”

“…and the whole family is having Sunday dinner at Carmela’s.”

“Oh, shit.”

“She’s making homemades and gravy. Wear a dress—”

“All right.”

“…as long as you shave your legs—”

“Geez, that was one time!”

“And it wouldn’t kill you to put on some nylons.”

“Yes, it would, it’s July. And they’re called pantyhose.”

“I don’t know about bringing that dog of yours to dinner. Zia Carmela don’t like him.”

“The feeling is more than mutual; I’ll leave him here.”

“See you tomorrow, honey. I love you.”

“I love you, too, crazy lady.”

Enrique Narváez was crouched down at his floor-to-ceiling bookcase, shelving books in his new office. Well, it was new to him anyway. The fresh coat of paint did little to hide the wear and tear and the olive-colored carpet looked to be a relic from World War II. He heard a voice call out, “Knock, knock, anyone home?”

Assuming it was their first potential client, he dusted himself off and ran a comb through his thick brown hair. By the time he made it out to their tiny common area, his best friend and partner, Max Siskin, was already in conversation with an Amazonian woman as tall as Max. She had a mass of dark curly hair and her jeans were topped by what looked to be a custom blazer, based on the way it fitted her impressive shoulders. She stuck out a hand in greeting. “Mr. Narváez? I’m Lucia Scafetti.”

Max said, “Lucia is our downstairs neighbor. She’s here to welcome us to the building and offer her services.”

“Nice to meet you, Lucia. You can call me Hank.” As they shook hands, Lucia explained that her accountant, Julianna Channing, had told her they’d be moving in and she’d been looking forward to meeting them. Hank smelled a sales pitch and decided to cut to the chase. “What services are you offering?”

In lieu of an explanation, Max silently handed him a marketing brochure for Fidelia Investigations. Hank immediately shook his head. “Oh, we’re just starting out. We can’t afford to hire a PI.”

“Yes, your partner said that but if you’ll have a look at the data on the inside cover, I think you’ll see that you can’t afford not to hire a PI.” More to humor her than anything else, Hank flipped open the brochure, to find several graphs showing how many billable hours lawyers “wasted” on investigative activities. “Notice the introductory package available to lawyers just starting out, like yourselves. For a low yearly retainer of—”

“Miss Scafetti—”

“Lucia, please.”

“Lucia, we haven’t even booked our first client. Maybe we’ll consider hiring a PI later. If so, you’ll be at the top of our list.” He went to hand the brochure back to her but she waved him off, saying they should hang on to it.

Max took it back, perusing the material more thoroughly. “This is really nice.”  Addressing Hank, Max declared, “We should get something like this to hand out to potential clients.” He then asked Lucia, “Who did this for you? Are they reasonable?”

“Very.” Flashing a proud smile, Lucia explained, “I did it. As the final project for my marketing course. Got a B-plus.”

Surprised that the brochure in question was amateur work, Hank asked, “You’re a student? At Penn?” It was a natural assumption, his alma mater being in the neighborhood.

“I’m sort of a student, but at CCP. I got my Associates Degree in Business a few years ago and now I’m taking some computer courses.”

“Do PIs use computers these days?” Hank pointed at the shiny black Dell sitting on the desk in the common area. “Max swore we needed one for our office but we’re still debating exactly what we’ll use it for—besides e-mail.”

Lucia glanced at the computer. “Maybe some PIs use them but I’m just trying to figure out what a web page is and whether or not I need one to promote Fidelia.”

“When you figure that out—can you let us know?” Max murmured, chiefly occupied with reading the back cover of the brochure. His head jerked up and he looked at Lucia. “Wait, you’ve been in business for nearly twenty years?” His voice dripping with skepticism, he protested, “Come on. Did you start as a PI in kindergarten?”

With a wry chuckle Lucia admitted, “No, not ‘til high school.” She pointed to a small picture at the bottom right of the brochure. “Former FBI agent Robert Baccaro started Fidelia in 1977.”

Max squinted at the image. “Good looking guy. Where is he now?”

“He died nine years ago, that’s when I took over.”

“You’ve been doing this that long?” Hank scrutinized the young woman who appeared to be about his age. “You really were in high school?”

“Yeah, I started in my last semester.” After the men simultaneously insisted on clarification, Lucia explained that one night she’d been playing pool with Baccaro and had him thirty-seven dollars in the hole. “Instead of paying me, he offered me a job doing legwork for Fidelia. I took it.”

“Your family was okay with that?” Max asked. “My choices were law school, medical school, or being disowned.”

“They were okay with what I told them….” A mischievous smile lighting her olive complexion, she continued, “Which is that I was working at Fidelia as a secretary.”

Hank shook his head in mock disapproval. “When did they learn the real story?”

“Any day now,” Lucia laughed. When Max wanted to know if she was serious, she explained, “They kind of figured it out when I started carrying a gun.”

Since she’d mentioned one of Hank’s favorite pastimes, he deliberately circled the conversation back to her mention of pool. “It sounds like you were a pretty good pool player in high school.” With a grin he amended, “Or your boss was pretty bad. Do you still play?”

“Careful, she not only plays—she’s a shark.” They all looked up to find that Juli Channing had entered the room.

“Juli!” Lucia crowed. “As their accountant, please explain to these gentlemen—”

“Sorry, girl. I just helped them find some cheap office space here in Overbrook. I’m not their accountant.” Hank mumbled that they’d hire her as soon as they had enough money coming in—any money coming in. In the meantime, Juli was explaining to Lucia, “They’re friends of Dan,” referring to her husband, City Councilman Daniel Bennett.

In response to Lucia asking how they knew Dan, Hank was dismayed to hear Max fire up one of his favorite speeches—lauding Hank for volunteering his legal services for Bennet’s Fair Housing Initiative, which had inspired Max to join, too. He cringed as Max went on about Hank’s passion for justice, ending with the information that they’d opened their office in West Philadelphia to better serve a community often denied any semblance of justice.

“Step down from the soapbox, Max. Let’s get back to something interesting—like our neighbor here and her reportedly awesome pool game.” Hands on hips, he looked up at Lucia. “I can’t resist the challenge of a worthy opponent. How about a game? You ever play at Otto’s Tavern on Delancey?”

To his surprise, Lucia said she hadn’t, but accepted their invitation for a few rounds of pool after work that night. Juli agreed to join them, declaring that with her kids away at camp and Dan working late, their offer sounded much better than sitting home alone.

Lucia spent the rest of the afternoon delivering the bad news to three women that, yes, their husbands were cheating on them. Years as a PI had made her both wary and wise, so she prudently collected her final fee before handing over the photos. In the early days, she’d suffered mightily from a “Kill-the-Messenger” customer mentality and now tried to exit the scene before her clients opened those manilla envelopes. Business concluded for the day, her thoughts turned to the prospect of a pleasant evening, starting with a leisurely walk with Rocco.

An afternoon rain shower had cooled the city enough that Rocco seemed to actually be enjoying their walk. His long luxurious fur was the reason he loathed the heat and his coat glinted like ebony in the early evening sun, swaying to the rhythm of his lively steps. Lucia’s mood matched Rocco’s and she was whistling in happy anticipation of the night ahead. A couple of games of pool was always a welcome diversion and she was toying with the idea of trying to persuade the guys to sign her on as their PI in name only. Even if no money changed hands and the job was strictly ceremonial, she could add that achievement to her marketing materials. They rounded the corner onto Ludlow Street where the office was located and Rocco hiked his leg against a light pole to no effect. “That’s just bravado, boy, you’re on empty. Stop dawdling.”

When they reached the stairs leading down to the basement, Lucia saw a man wearing a stiff gray suit waiting outside her office. A new client was her immediate hope and she whispered to Rocco, “Be cool, okay? I don’t need you scaring him off.” The dog, more fearful than aggressive, generally ignored new people as long as they left him alone but he occasionally took a puzzling and immediate dislike to an innocuous stranger.

She clattered down the steps, calling out, “Hello? Are you here for Fide—” The man turned to face her and the shock of recognition stole the rest of the sentence and nearly her breath away. She gripped the banister in an effort to remain upright, loathe to show any weakness. Finally, she recovered enough to close her mouth and croak out a puzzled, “Dad?” The answer he gave was drowned out by Rocco, barking furiously, and lunging at the man who was studying them dispassionately.