Chicago Stories: West of Western (29 page)

“Bless you. I didn't realize how I . . .” Nika swayed and caught herself. “I need a drink. Come on in and let's get the soot off and find another bottle of wine before Peter comes home and sucks it all up.”

After
returning home and scrubbing the soot out of her hair and skin, Seraphy curled up in a corner of her couch to try to forget the day. She was deep into
Buffy the Vampire
Slayer
reruns when Tony called.

“Fee? It's Tony.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you busy?”

“Yeah. There's a Buffy marathon on cable.”

“Buffy? Things that bad? Good God. Maybe I shouldn't ask.”

“Okay.”

“I'll make it short. Um, you know, there are actual adult programs . . . never mind, I know it's useless.”

“Mmm.”

“Listen, A couple friends and I are putting together a quartet. You know, original instruments guys like me. We're all going to be over at Mom's place tonight for some run-throughs, you wanna come?”

“No.” Seraphy didn't have enough energy to get off the couch, much less go out.

“Please.”

“What time is it? After nine? Naaah. I don't think so, Tony. It's been a killer day and it's already late.” On the screen, Buffy dispatched two vampires. Poof. Seraphy wished she could do that. Chico—poof. Berto—poof. Sister Ann?

“Late? Nine's late? Fee, please,” Tony sounded desperate. “I'm begging here. We'll get pizza and beer and stuff, but we need somebody to listen and tell us if we suck.”

“Surely you jest?” Seraphy snorted into the phone and hit the mute button as a commercial came on. “You suck.”

“Suck more than usual, I mean. Mom's coming, and Max, and if they're free, I thought maybe you could ask that guy from the Lyric and his friend. You owe me for bringing that chest over, and other stuff.” He was right.

“Yeah, okay, and I'll ask Andre and Richard.” She dropped the phone. She knew in matters of music Tony wouldn't give up and sometimes it was easier just to go along. She'd probably be able to stay awake if she didn't have anything to drink. Typical of him, no notice. He's lucky she was home.

Commercials ended and Buffy ran across the screen. Seraphy forgot Tony and his friends. This was Buffy's last season. When the program was over, she reached for the phone. At least it was a weekday, maybe Andre would be free, but she really hoped he and Richard would have plans and she could beg off going to Tony's.

“Seraphy, my angel, how are you?” As always, the Voice reverberated through her body.

“I'm fine, Andre, and I called to ask you and Richard something. My brother Tony called just now to say he and three friends are forming a quartet, early music, original instruments, you know the kind of thing, and they need some ears. Tony asked if some of us would come over to his place tonight and listen to a run-through. They'll provide beer and pizza. I know it's a lot to ask and it's last minute and all. I told him you were probably busy.”

“Is this Tony your twin, the Juilliard brother?”

“The same, any time after now. I can't guarantee they'll be any good.”

“But I want to meet this brother! Is he like you? Plan on me, but let me check with Richard.” She heard heavy footsteps recede.

“Seraphy?” Richard was already talking as he picked up the phone. “Of course we'll come. We're not doing anything. Andre's always working and I never get to go anywhere. I'm all excited. An actual social event. What shall I wear? Are your brother's friends as luscious as he is?”

“You've never met Tony.”

“He's your twin, right? Luscious.”

Socially challenged Tony, luscious? Yech. Besides, Tony's flavors of the month were definitely female.

“I've got an idea, darling,” Richard was saying, “How about you come over here toot sweet and tell us what was going on over on Thomas this afternoon? Over a drink or three before we go to the party? I heard the fire trucks, but I had this illustration due at five and a conference call after that that went on for hours.”

“It's a deal.” Talking to Richard always lifted her spirits. She hung up and called Tony to tell him there'd be three for pizza. An evening with her family and new friends. After the fire this afternoon, it might be nice to be somewhere normal for a change

Ignoring the usual ch-ch-ch from the Lobos at the car on the corner, as she walked around the corner to Andre's she wondered how it could be that she'd lived here only a week. A week ago last Saturday she'd been a stranger. Now she brushed gangs aside without a thought and it seemed she'd known this gate and this side door all her life. She pushed the button and waited. The sun had dropped below the houses hours ago. Getting colder. Yikes, Thanksgiving was Thursday. Thank God it was Vittorio's turn to host the mob this year, all she had to do was show up and eat herself silly. Damned blazer wasn't really enough tonight. She'd freeze if she had to wait out here much longer.

Richard appeared, elegant in shades of greeny-brown, his golden hair sleek and shining in the light from the side door.

“Jesus, Richard. I'd better go home and change. You're too gorgeous to be seen with the likes of me.”

He unlocked the gate and pulled her inside.

“Get real, Angel-puss,” he snarled out of the side of his mouth. “A blind man would take one look at those gorgeous eyes of yours and be lost. Even a lad of my persuasion.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Come on along, don't dawdle. Andre's made some of those little fishy thingies.” Seraphy, remembering said fishy thingies, half-ran up the stairs to Andre, waiting at the top with the promised pastries piled high on a plate. She inhaled her first before Richard caught up.

“Andre,” she said when the appetizer had exploded in her mouth and been savored, “these are as unbelievable as I remembered. And thank you again for helping me with the strata and dessert for my mom, she loved them. Mother/child relations restored. And I used the leftover lemon soufflé to enhance my image when Nika and Peter came over later. New clients, maybe I can afford real kitchen cabinets in a few weeks. They were in pig heaven, too.”

Andre sighed dramatically. “Ah, Little One. The burdens of fame are onerous indeed.”

“Cut the crap, Andre. You're
such
a drama queen.” Richard grabbed the plate on his way to the kitchen.

“Calling the kettle black?” Andre replied. “Have a seat, Seraphy, and I'll get the plonk. Mind if we eat in the kitchen? We've only got a few minutes.”

Once settled around the kitchen table with the remaining shrimp puffs and a bottle of merlot—Andre disliked white wines—Seraphy told them about the building department's interest in Dom's condo, Nika's garage fire and the other fires in the neighborhood.

“So that's what all those fire trucks were about,” said Richard. “I kept hearing them while I was slaving over the drawing board. Andre had his head elsewhere, as usual.” He glanced pointedly at the Bose system, complete with oversized earphones, that sat in the corner by the window. No wonder Andre had been oblivious.

“I give time to thought, Richard, and contemplation of the higher things, something you would not understand.” Andre sighed dramatically and turned to Seraphy. “The natives are restless again. Whenever Lobos and the Duques start chipping at each other, something gets burned. It's a show of power—fire is power and since they have no legitimate power, they burn something.”

“But why Nika's garage?”

“Who knows?” He shrugged. “Sometimes there's a specific target, but sometimes it's just a matter of convenience. She left the garbage cart out. I hope you keep everything inside?”

“Oh, yeah, after that door business there's no way I was going to leave my toter in the alley.”

“Us, too,” said Richard. “We're not taking a chance on a fire. Our cars are in that garage. Speaking of garages, your door looks pristine. Aren't you taking a chance they'll be back?”

“Thanks. Mischa sent Bronko to paint it.”

Richard raised his eyebrows. “Really. No problem, then.” He and Andre exchanged glances.

“What?”

“Nothing,” said Richard. “Nice that you've made a friend, that's all.”

“And now no one will write on it again,” said Andre. “At least, not if they want to live.”

“So you agree with the firemen that it's the gangs?” Seraphy didn't want to talk about Mischa. Fin had never called back. Next time she talked to Mason, she'd have to tell him the man was unreliable.

Andre shrugged and he and Richard exchanged looks again.

“Maybe. The condos are white, except for Diego and Rex, but queers don't count. Maybe Chico had some encouragement from the same folks who supplied his MAC-10s.”

Seraphy didn't answer. Chico was out? The FALN again? Another complication. “I've got a favor to ask, guys,” she said. “My family doesn't know about our problems, and I'd like to keep it that way. Mom and Tony are already nervous enough about the neighborhood.”

“No problem,” said Andre.

“And with that cheery thought, it's time to go, children,” said Richard, clearing the table. “All the goodies are gone. What did you say your brother's going to have to eat?”

Chapter 26

Eleanor met them
at the door, a modern Kathryn Hepburn in her silk blouse and pleated trousers. Suddenly feeling underdressed in her jeans and L. L. Bean turtleneck, Seraphy shoved Richard and Andre through the doorway first.

“Mom, this is Richard Kirkland and Andre Beaupre, my neighbors. Guys, this is my Mom, Eleanor Pelligrini. Richard's an illustrator and Andre's with the Lyric.”

“Of course he is,” Eleanor smiled as she took Andre's hand. “I should have recognized the name when you told me Andre helped you with lunch. I have season tickets, Andre, and I've been a fan of yours for the last two seasons, you make a brilliant Othello. And I'm glad to meet you, too, Richard. Seraphy's told me so much about you both. She's lucky to have such good neighbors.”

“And I have all your recordings, Andre,” fluted the tall silver-haired man looming over Eleanor's shoulder. “Max Chiligiris—I'm Seraphy's boss and an old friend of the family.” He shook Andre's hand and turned to Richard. “And correct me if I'm mistaken, but Richard Kirkland—didn't J. & E. use you for our Fairbanks development prospectus?”

“You did, and it was one of the most enjoyable projects I've worked on.” Richard was glowing as he shook hands. Seraphy sighed. Richard and Andre were lost, enchanted by pros.

“Enough already.” Posed in the doorway to the dining room, Tony broke the spell, rescuing the pair from abject slavery. “The love-fest is delightful, but do try to remember why you're here. Richard, Andre, and you lot, I'm Tony and those peculiar-looking louts over there are musicians,” he said, pointing. “They rarely bite, but approach them with care. If you'll join us in the dining room, we have pizza and various beverages with which to strengthen you for the arduous task ahead.”

Tony's players, who were planning to share digs with him in New York, set out to be entertaining during the meal, alternately hilarious and despairing with the saga of their hunt for a Manhattan apartment. Andre followed their stories with his own version of the war between two hysteria-prone Lyric tenors. Seraphy curled up in a corner and listened, thinking how lucky she was to have these friends and this family.

“And what have you been up to, Fee? Besides your loft?”asked Max. “I know you've been working too hard at something.”

“I wish you could have seen the amazing studio I was in yesterday,” Seraphy picked up an edge to Max's voice and tried to distract him from remembering the days she'd taken off. “It's in an old parochial school converted to work/live condos, two thousand square feet. The painter has a single bed and vestigial kitchen and bath, the rest is easels, paintings, paints, like that. Huge windows. The whole place overflows with a gorgeous sense of life that wells up in his work.” Richard frowned, then smiled as he realized whom she was talking about.

“Who's the painter?” asked Max. “Anybody we'd know?”

“Dominic Domenico. I don't know where he shows.”

“Dom? You know Dom?” Max's voice was incredulous. “Everybody knows Dom.” He looked at Eleanor. “You remember Dom, don't you, Eleanor? Remember when the mayor wanted those paintings for City Hall?”

“And Dom refused,” she said, laughing at the memory. “Fee, you should have been there. That sweet little man said he couldn't have his work where it would be exposed to all those politicians because hot air was bad for the surfaces. I thought the mayor was going into shock.”

“Only, as I recall, Dom didn't exactly call them politicians,” said Max with a smile. “And nobody says no to the mayor. Later Dom did offer to sell a landscape to Maggie, the mayor's wife, but she had to promise to keep it at home.”

“I wish I'd seen that.” Seraphy could imagine. Now she understood Nika's reaction when she asked if Dom would be interested in a trade for her services. No wonder Nika cracked up. Oh, God, and Seraphy'd thought she was being generous. Dom must think she's an idiot. “I had no idea who Dom is,” she said, her face hot. “Remember, I've been out of the country for the last ten years.”

“Why were you at Dom's?” Eleanor asked.

“My new client took me. Dom's having trouble—actually, all four of the artists there are—with the city. The building department just realized the condos were never approved when the title was divided, and now the city wants to inspect. I was next door at Nika's, where I'm converting her attic to a studio, and she dragged me over to see his condo.”

“Is the inspection going to be a problem?” Max's mouth twisted at the thought of a city inspection. Or, she realized, maybe it was at her confession she'd taken on a side job.

“Big time,” said Seraphy, sorry she'd brought the subject up. Max obviously wasn't happy at her taking on more work when she'd missed days at the office. “Dom's got about five outlets for the whole place, extension cords draped all over, and the bathroom doesn't have any walls.”

Max made a face. “Ugh.”

Seraphy was crumbling her pizza crust to sand, her thoughts on Dom and his studio. “I'm doing some drawings for Dom, just the minimum changes to get everything legal.” She avoided looking at her boss. “He offered to trade me a painting.”