Jane refused to accept the change of the air in the South End, so she roundly ignored the chill on her skin as she strode a few blocks from the hospital and into the town center. She wore only her scrubs and some Nikes with her hair down, even though the gray in the sky called for a sweater or at least an undershirt. She smelled the impending fall chill and dirty asphalt as she crossed the street to a familiar storefront, a couple fold-up chairs and tables out front, fading gold letters against a red awning that read Maruccio's in simple italic scrawl.
When she pulled the door open, the familiar clang of bells chimed in her ear, and she released a strained breath. The aroma of baking bread and olive oil comforted her; it gave her a warmth that she lacked outside – Maruccio's was a little Italian paradise in the surrounding sea of Irish culture and business. She had found it during her residency, and had been coming ever since.
"Dr. Rizzoli!" called a man from the back, knowing her steps before he even approached the front counter. He wiped his hands on the speckled apron that draped over his bloated belly. In a way, they appeared related – olive skin, wavy black hair: his short, hers long. He couldn't have been much older or younger than her 35, and she could certainly relate to the soiled-front look.
"Hey, Mikey," Jane grimaced at the formality he addressed her with. "How many times I gotta say just Jane? I'm a customer, just like anyone else that walks in here." She approached the linoleum counter with her wrists crossed in front of her, regarding Mikey with a tight-lipped grin and then glancing upward at the old Pepsi-board menu posted above the prep counter behind him.
"You know that's a no can do, Doc. You worked too hard on that MD," he chuckled, and pulled out his ticket book. "Besides, I get to tell my little cousins one of us Siciliani made it all the way to BMC. Ain't no way I'm gonna downplay that."
"Yeah well. You're no slouch, either," Jane grumbled, knowing that Mikey, despite his humble looks, owned two other delis and made quite a comfortable living for himself. "Gimme a turkey on wheat, will ya? Hold the mayo, double the mustard."
"You got it. Combo today?" Mikey asked, eyeing the cooler of various bottled water and sodas, drawing her attention to it.
Jane contemplated it for a moment. "Yeah, why not," she said as she fished a ten out of her scrub pocket. "Keep the change."
"Thanks, Jane," said Mikey, brown irises glistening with a serious gratitude. "You know, for all our ribbin', you're like part of the Maruccio family," he stuffed the bill into the cash register after pushing a few buttons, and wondered whether or not she would respond with her back to him and an Aquafina and a bag of sunchips in her left hand.
"Thanks, but you know how hard it is to find Italians around here? I got lucky with you guys, man," she did indeed reply, winking at him, and then she sat in one of the wicker chairs in the tiny dining room.
He brought the sandwich out to her when it was ready, and then left her to continue his duties in the kitchen. This was their routine every time she ate there – she ordered, he cooked, she sat, he left her alone to eat. Very rarely did they converse beyond her initial walk-in.
She unwrapped the white paper around her sub and listened to the city outside. Cars roared by, wind blew flags on the buildings that towered above them, and people chatted as they strolled by the sandwich shop. She took the first bite, rolling her eyes up in taste overload – Mikey's mother provided the recipe for the home-baked Italian rolls, and he personally knew the butcher that supplied all his meats. Fresh onions and lettuce and an oil-vinegar blend topped everything off – in Jane's mind, even her own Ma would struggle to compete.
And as if on cue, the somebody belonging to the shoes that she heard trudge in would probably agree with the sentiment. As soon as Jane saw him, her face lit up with a sort of familiar joy at his tousled suit and cropped, gelled black hair. Black hair exactly like hers. "Frankie? What're you doin' here?" She asked, and he pulled out a chair at her table.
"Hey Janie," He said, smiling. "I'm here 'cause I figured you would be, seein' as I was in the neighborhood."
If Mikey appeared to be related to her, there was no doubt that Frankie was her brother. They mirrored each other as they sat: they spread their legs open, leaned their long backs against the wood of their seats, smirked handsomely at the sight of each other.
"You figured right, Detective. Here I am. What's up?" Jane asked in between chews. She dabbed a napkin to her lips and her one puffed cheek.
"I haven't seen you in awhile, sis," Frankie said, leaning forward and fiddling with his tie.
"Yeah," Jane assented. She offered him the other half of her footlong, the one she was saving for later in her shift.
He waved his hand in dismissal. "I'm treatin' myself today – pastrami on rye. The potato salad, too," the way his brows danced at the mention of his meal made Jane chuckle.
"You sure you should be treatin' yourself? Lookin' a little soft around the edges, there, little brother. No physicals comin' up?"
Frankie feigned offense at her good-natured poking. "You're just jealous that you don't have to be in top physical condition for your job."
"And yet, I still am," she deadpanned.
He shook his head. "Yes, because we all need constant reminding, Janie. But seriously, it's been too long. Ma's lookin' for ya, Pop's askin' when you're comin' around." He scratched the back of his head, a serious and thoughtful look crossing his fuller features.
An incredulous one passed over Jane's facial angles and edges. "I just saw 'em like a week and a half ago!"
"Eh. I know. I think it's just because you've missed the last couple Sunday dinners," Frankie reasoned.
"Yeah, I been on call the past couple Sundays. It's been rough," Jane responded.
"It certainly hasn't been easy has it? You in trauma and me in organized crime. We both know Boston is the real city that never sleeps," he laughed, a whoosh of air jumping from his lungs into the space between them.
"It sure doesn't. How's work goin'?"
"It's good. Budget's tight, you know? So we're all spread a little thin. But that means overtime, and we're closing in on somethin' big."
"Somethin' I'm guessin' you can't discuss," Jane said between crunches of chips.
"Yeah, I can't, not the specifics. But I can tell you it'll be another notch in my belt for that promotion to homicide," Frankie said. "How about you?"
"Busy as hell, but the residents are really pluggin' along. It's a good group this year. I've been patching up a lot of your guys, though," she commented.
"Tensions are on the rise out there, Janie. Doyle's guys opened up on the Italians six months ago and its been nuts ever since."
"I saw that in the paper. Stitchin' up the ones that have enough balls to come in to the ER is fun," Jane said. The din of the fan in the back made their conversation sound clandestine, hidden among conflicting soundwaves.
"I can imagine. It's just amazin' how little our work helps sometimes, you know? Almost like a band-aid over a bullet wound."
"Chasin' the dream never is easy, Frankie. But here we are, both doin' it, both makin' waves," she said as she tapped her bottle cap on the table.
"At least two of us are successful," her brother said, with more than a small amount of sore feeling.
"Hey, Tommy's doin' alright, Frankie. He's got that job down at the docks, livin' on his own, puttin' his stamp on the world. Not everyone's definition of success is our definition," Jane crossed her arms in indignance. She ran her tongue along her front top teeth.
"That's not his only source of income, Jane, and we both know it," Frankie growled.
"Why you bringin' this up now, huh? Course I have my suspicions. And usually my suspicions are right. But I don't have proof, and neither do you. So what do you want us to do, huh? Stage a mob intervention? 'Hey Tommy, thanks for getting clean and finding a job and all, but Frankie and I think you're runnin' around Boston with the mafia. Anything you'd care to share?" her face rose and fell theatrically with her rant.
Frankie's frustration just rose. "He's gonna break Ma's heart, Janie, when this all comes to light. And he respects you."
Jane contemplated letting the guilt trip get to her, but ultimately resisted. "I don't disagree. But I'm gonna break his heart if I bust down his door and end up being totally wrong. In the meantime all I can do is love him, and all you can do is investigate the hell out of him."
Her brother nodded, eyes downcast, fingers intertwined in thought on the tabletop. "Yeah, you're right. Guess I just needed your wisdom, Doc."
She chuckled. "You don't have to be an ass about it, brother." Her brow narrowed when she felt a buzzing at her hip, and she pulled her pager out to check in the incoming message. "I gotta go – patient is about 15 minutes out." She wrapped the other half of her sandwich in its paper coating and bolted up from her seat.
Frankie waved a hand at her. "Of course, of course. Go, sis. I need to eat and get back to work anyway."
She was halfway to the door when she turned back. "Thank you, love you, tell Ma I'll call her soon." With that, she pushed through the door, looked both ways, then jogged out toward the hospital.