Authors: Aida Brassington
Sure, they served all manner of illegal food, but did he really think he would have a shoot out with the local cops over ill-gotten ackee fruit? The competing club was run by one of the sweetest guys she’d e ve r met —this was not Gangs of New York , by any means. It wasn’t even My Cousin Vinny .
She veered off toward the exit. Even though his tail from the airport pissed her off, getting rid of the package would be a relief. She pulled over and levered down the window, humidity too high and the stench of exhaust almost as overwhelming as the cheese in her backseat.
The Centurion’s broad door swung open, and the car lifted, shocks screaming in protest. Anthony wedged himself out of the driver's seat. His slicked, black hair made his face wider, his jowls . . . jowl-ier. He grunted with his first step forward, hitching his high-waisted pants with both hands, one eye twitching out of control.
“You got the package?” He addressed her breasts, his accent doing unpleasant things to the vowels rolling out of his squashed mouth.
“Do you have the cabbage?” She coaxed her facial muscles to stand guard lest some semblance of actual irritation poke through.
Anthony insisted on stupid cloak and dagger language in case of furtive cops lurking under manhole covers. In the grand scheme of Philadelphia crime, this was not exactly on the level of murder or roving bands of thugs. Smuggling, sure. Feeding the city’s hoity toity gross foods, not so much.
He passed her a paper sack with the words “Angie’s Angels” emblazoned across the front in glittery purple cursive, flanked by buxom silhouettes.
“You’re giving me a bag from a strip club? What the hell do you buy at a stripper bar—souvenir nipple pasties?” With his eyes on her chest like that, her brain had gone in the same direction.
“Hey,” he said, no heat behind his words. “Mind ya business. It was all I had in the house. You got your cabbage, so hand it over.”
“Gladly.” Varda clicked open the car door and rooted through the canyon of her messenger bag to retrieve the bundle. She placed it in his waiting hands, doing her best to contemplate more pleasant things: a buttery cheddar, Gino’s firm and delectable ass, a good and chewy dark beer . . . anything but the wriggling maggots.
“Cargo still live?”
“Check it yourself.”
He narrowed his winking eye, the other following suite. “If it ain’t, you better give the bag back.”
“Oh, just inspect the cheese already. I have places to be, and I need to take a shower.”
“Yeah, you look like shit. Don’t smell so good neither. Not your normal, hot self.”
“You should talk about looking like crap,” she muttered, watching him peel back the fragrant wrapping on the casu marzu.
“Watcha mouth, missy. You serve a purpose, but don’ forget I —”
“Uh huh, yeah, I know. Cement shoes and all that. So, are you satisfied with the product?”
A weak dry heave threatened when he sliced into the rind using a small (and probably dirty) knife from his key ring and dipped a finger into the maggoty Pecorino before lifting it to his mouth. “This is fucking perfect. They’re gonna love it.” He grinned. “We have a, uh, board meeting planned for tonight.” His smile —mossy teeth, gingivitis, and all —was his not-so-subtle code to let her know the Whisk and Spatulas would be chowing down later.
“Great,” she said, a headache forming behind her eyeballs. “See you around.”
He cleared his throat. “So, uh, whaddya know about escamoles?”
“Really?”
Oh God, more larvae. Mexican ant larvae, at that. At least they’d be dead this time. Probably. Maybe she could convince Gino to come with her if he could get time off from the construction company; they could have a little vacation. He may not have approved of her career, but sometimes it wasn’t so bad. “Well, yeah, I know a guy. How soon?”
“Next month. I’ll give you a date this weekend after I talk to my people.”
“Yeah, all right. Let me check my schedule . . . do you care if they’re fresh or frozen?”
Oh God, please say frozen.
He shook his head and stepped backward. “Nah, not really. Later.”
She watched him drive off, her shoulders sagging. Another job over, another wad of cash ready for her savings account. She could almost smell the fresh air of the suburbs underlying the humid soup eddying around her.
Before she could start her car, a blue Corolla zipped into Anthony’s abandoned space. Seamus O’Hannahan popped out of the driver’s side door and loped to her window —as much as a short man could anyway. She swore under her breath and attempted to arrest the scowl that threatened her face.
“Seamus.”
“Heya, Varda.” His gray hair wisped around in the breeze, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with his smile.
He took his position as the organizer of the Two Street Munchers seriously but with far less idiocy and theatrics than Anthony. As Anthony’s competition in the underground eating club arena, they were Varda’s best customers.
Seamus’ slight stature emphasized his thin body and quiet nature. The paleness of his skin showed a blue vein at his temple, next to the lines at the corner of his left eye.
He usually called when he wanted to place an order—like a normal person—which made the intrusion all the more surprising. “So, how’s everything going?”
“Well, fine, thanks. But I’m in desperate need of some freshening up.”
His lips lurched, but he refrained from allowing them to break into his normal hearty chuckle. “Yeah, so it would seem. Fresh off a plane from Sardinia, from what I hear.”
Varda tossed up her hands. “Is my itinerary printed up somewhere—posted online maybe? Is Anthony trying to get me arrested?”
This time he did laugh. “Nothing quite so crazy, I’m afraid. My son got it from your boyfriend’s brother—and I know this is Anthony’s hand-off spot. That guy really has to start changing up his routine. The authorities are going to catch wind, and then he’ll be up shit’s crick.”
She said nothing. It would seem another talk with Tommy about the legalities of her work was in order. South Philadelphia was too small to share news of her exploits with anyone, and he had a big mouth.
“Sorry about all this, by the way.” He gestured toward the car. “I’m in a bit of a time crunch, and there’s this
thing.
” He paused. “Something my club would like for the Labor Day weekend dinner —it’s Sunday night. Know anyone who can get their hands on a few pounds of the Death’s Head Amerino mushroom on the fly?”
“You know they’re poisonous, right?” Not that she’d never delivered potentially fatal foods before, but it was always worth a warning, especially with the way her adopted parents had passed. The last thing she wanted to do was add homicide to her pretend rap sheet on top of the ever-present guilt over the way she made her money.
The Large Marges of the world loved a girl in the pokey for manslaughter.
Seamus’ fingers stroked his bare chin as though petting an imaginary beard. “Not if you cook them correctly.”
“Well, I do know a guy. I’ll look into it. Can I go now?”
“So testy! Yeah, go. Give me a holler about pricing and quantity when you have an estimate.”
She nodded and backed the car onto the main street. Just let someone else come between her and the siren call of soap and water.
Gino waited until she was in the shower to chat. He’d taken one look at her when she stomped into their apartment and offered a tentative hello. She’d stopped long enough to run her fingertips across her parents’ wedding mezuzah hung just inside the door, drop her bags, and allow a brief kiss to Gino’s mouth. Then she sprinted across the living room and up the spiral stairs to the bathroom, shedding clothes as she went.
With Gino’s lips fresh in her mind, she rethought her original plan to shower immediately, but she didn’t want to gross him out. The stink lines likely radiating from her skin could repel anyone . Now that Varda stood under the steaming water, her skin scrubbed raw —her own personal Silkwood shower —she felt far less disgusting.
“So welcome home, shorty. I missed you.”
She pulled back the blue shower curtain enough to glimpse Gino leaning against the bathroom counter and watched him for a moment, finally able to concentrate on something other than maggots.
She reached through the space to yank him by the shirt until she could reach his mouth without dripping water all over the place.
Gino’s warm hand grasped her bare hip, leaning into the kiss. That was what she’d been waiting for. His fingertips drifted up to the underside of her breast and followed the curve for a quick grope.
“Missed you, too,” she said, grinning, when they broke apart. Gino returned her smile, but his hand abandoned her skin and pulled the curtain closed.
She must have smelled worse than she thought—he wasn’t the type to pass up an opportunity. “Did anything exciting happen while I was gone?”
“Nope. I mostly just worked—that new job I told you about over in Queens Village. We’re about halfway done building the closet. How about you? Any problems?”
“Uh uh. I mean, it was the usual. Nice scenery. Creepy locals. Maggots. Just saw Anthony—he was charming as ever, but he paid me, and that’s what counts. Oh, and I ran into Seamus.”
“Yeah?”
“Nothing major. Just a few more jobs. But then I’m done. Absolutely out of the smuggling business.”
“A few more, huh? I’ve heard that before, homeslice.” He sniggered.
“Homeslice?” She stuck her head out of the shower, one eyebrow raised.
Gino rolled his shoulders up and down. She jerked the curtain closed again, enclosing her in the warmth of the white tile shower.
Why couldn’t he just stick with
sweetheart
? His street thug vocabulary ph ase was getting tired.
“This time it’s true. Anthony’s job will take me to Mexico, but the Seamus job is local. Either way, I should have the money to buy the dairy space outright by the end of next month.” She washed her hair and daydreamed about the feel of curd under her fingers, a benefit of being a full-time cheese maker. All curd, all the time.
“Really?”
“Yeah. You okay with that?”
“With what?”
“Well, it would mean moving out of the city. We really haven’t talked about that. I guess we wouldn’t have to, but it’d be cheaper.” The rich scent of her buttercream shower gel had completely replaced the stink of rot, and she sighed.
“It would mean a longer commute for me most of the time.” He sounded thoughtful but not opposed. Varda imagined him slinking around the Chester County countryside in his favorite pants, the elastic of his boxer shorts protruding above the waistband. He was sure to be a hit in the new neighborhood. She stifled a chuckle.
“Not if you quit to be my business partner.”
“Not to point out the obvious, but I don’t know anything about making cheese.”
“You’ve seen me do it.” Her words butted up against each other. “And I can teach you. You’re better with numbers and money than I am—you could manage the business end of things.”
“You really want me there all the time? Getting in your way. Wouldn’t that drive you nuts?”
“No. We’re together most of the time anyway. Haven’t killed you yet. And besides,” she teased, poking her head out of the shower to treat Gino to the most hopeful and compelling grin she could manage with a faceful of water, “if you get too annoying, I’ll take you out with a cheese press and serve you up to Anthony’s club as an Italian delicacy. A little extra cash for the rainy day fund never hurt.”
He grunted out a laugh when she ducked back under the stream of water, but it died before she could take a full breath. “I’ll think about it.”
She turned off the faucet, and wrung the moisture from her hair before taking a deep breath of home. Gino waited with a towel outside the shower, and she made quick work of drying off before snuggling against his chest.
“No more of these trips,” she said, listening to the sound of his heart, a solid and steady
thump thump
. “I won’t miss them.”
He kissed the side of her head. “Yeah, me neither.”
“Do we have time for a nap? I sleep like crap when you’re not next to me.”
“Nope. I promised Ma we’d come to dinner. And besides, if we go to bed, I don’t think you’ll be getting too much sleep.” His hand snaked down to squeeze her ass.
Varda groaned. “You know she’d rather you didn’t bring me. I love you and all, but can’t we skip it?” She mimicked him, grabbing his butt. “I promise to stay awake long enough to give you a nice welcome home.”
“I promised,” Gino repeated, although he at least at the grace to sound grumpy about it. His heart picked up under her ear. He held her by the shoulders to ease her away from him. “But speaking of Ma, I have something crazy to tell you.”
“She’s decided she loves me and wants to have a sleepover?”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. When his lids propped open, his face had become a mask of horror. “My mother’s going out with Anthony Carluccio tomorrow night. On a date.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many thanks to my loving husband, who put up with long nights of seeing only the top of my head over the edge of my laptop. It takes a confident man to share his wife with a ghost she sort of has a crush on. Thanks, my sweet!
There are others who deserve my gratitude as well – Suzanne, Gilly, Claire, and Randi, all of whom took time out of their lives to catch my mistakes and tell me when something didn’t make sense. I credit those four women with Between Seasons becoming something readable. Many other people read all or part of the manuscript, and to them I send out my appreciation. Thanks, too, to my Twitter friends, who answered questions and helped with research about mental institutions, drugs, and a number of other things.
Catch up with Aida at
Aida's website
, or you can email her at
[email protected]
. You can also find her on Twitter at @aidabrassington.
APPENDIX
Coming in January 2012!