Faking Life (26 page)

“You know it's funny,” he said. “But I'm sure there are people out there who really need to be moved.” Esther nodded. “The funny thing is, I don't even know what you do for a living. I'm sorry if you work at Chase or something since you never actually told me what you do. And I'm guessing now isn't the best time.” Esther shook her head. Paul swore he saw a tear form at the corner of her eye. “ And I don't even know what I'm saying right now, so I'm sorry if I offended you.”

“You didn't offend me. And no, I don't work at Chase.”

“Well I hope your job is fulfilling,” he said. Paul watched them, transfixed.

“It isn't right now,” she said. “But it could be.”

“Well cheers to that. To both you and I being fulfilled,” John said, raising his glass. Paul didn't seem to be included. They drank to each other, John's sour breath filtering across his nostrils.

The next shot John downed alone. Then Paul heard the slapping sound of flesh on flesh and saw the opulent figure of Sal Marvio looming behind John, like a bookie that'd found the guy who was late on his payments. Standing next to him was a young guy wearing a Yankees cap that Paul didn't recognize. John eyed the man suspiciously, as if trying to place him.

“Didn't figure I'd see you back here again,” Sal said, picking something out of his teeth with his pinky nail. “That takes balls man, big freakin' balls.”

“Yeah, well, why pass up a night of drinking with my old friends, right Sal?” Insincerity danced in John's eyes.

“Right, right,” Marvio said. He wasn't paying attention. He turned and rapped his knuckles on the bar, getting Stacy's attention with the subtlety of a bachelor party hangover. “Whiskey, double it. And get one for my friend here,” he said, his arm around the Yankee fan. John glared at Paul. He knew nothing irked John more than people who treated bartenders like their personal beverage maids.

“'Scuse me?” Sal said. He was looking at John. Paul thought he'd heard John mumble something under his breath. Sounded like
learn some respect
. Paul froze as Sal's rotted face leaned in close. “You say somethin', sugar?”

“I heard him say something,” the guy, folding the brim on his hat. Paul noticed Esther staring at him, her jaw muscles clenched. “Something about big ears and a small dick.”

“No, I said learn some fucking respect,” John said. He didn't turn around, instead kindly asking Stacy for another beer. When she poured it, he said “She's a fucking person Sal, don't give her orders.” Stacy returned with the drinks.

“It's ok John, really.” She looked more interested in ending the spat than arguing her rights, but that was part of the job.
Never antagonize the clientele
was a rule John had always preached. But now, Paul realized with trepidation, there
was
no clientele.

“Hey man, you hear what he just called you?” John turned, eyed the man in the Yankees cap. He wore a stupid grin on his face. The guy had his hand on Sal's shoulder and was kneading it. “Sal, that guy just said he'd fuck your mother right after he kicked your ass.”

“I didn't say that,” John said. Sal moved forward. John could smell his musty breath.

“You want to say that to my face, or your mommy raised you to be too big of a pussy?”

The guy in the Yankees hat laughed. Paul saw Esther's hand close tightly around John's arm. The guy in the cap was staring at her, smiling, eyes wide open. Antagonizing John in front of his girl.

“Fuck off Sal. I didn't say anything. But if I did, I'd have no problem getting right in your face, like so.” John pressed his nose against Sal's forehead, then shoved him.

“Ooh, Sal, you gonna take that?”

“What's your fucking problem?” John yelled at Yankee Cap.

“Me? Nothing. You guys just seem awful pissed. Right Sal? You pissed that this guy said he'd fuck your mother?”

“He's a stupid goddamn punk. Doesn't know shit, never will know shit. I got
connections
. I could have him killed like that,” he said, snapping his fingers. John laughed, then coughed back bile. Paul swore he heard the whisky gurgle from John's stomach.

“You know Sal, one of the things I won't miss about this place is your goddamn
bullshit
. I mean that.” Yankee hat
oohed
and goaded Sal, whispering in his ear.

“You little shit,” Sal said, his voice rising to a crescendo. “You talk about
my
bullshit? You're the one whose fucking attitude got you fired, buddy.” Sal stuck his meaty finger into John's chest and kept it there as he spoke. Yankee Cap whistled. “Now take your fucking khakis and get the hell out of my bar.” At this point Artie noticed the commotion and ambled over. A little late, Paul thought. Like calling the fire department while sifting through the ashes. Artie saw Sal's finger in John's chest and stammered.

“Guys,” he said, his voice trembling. “Let's do a round, whaddaya say?”

John clenched his hand around Sal's finger and bent it backward to the point of breaking. His eyes gleamed fire. “
Your
bar? Since when is this your bar? Listen, I was working here long before your filthy ass showed up. You're a second-rate chef and a third-rate human being, Sal. You're not half the man Seamus Hallahan was. Isn't that right Artie?” Artie shrugged his shoulders and raised his palms, the only sound that came from his mouth was a meek '
meh'
.

“Sal,” Yankee hat said. “You hear that? He said Seamus Hallahan fucked your mother.”

Sal leaned in close to John. “Yeah? Well fuck Seamus Hallahan and fuck you too.”

Paul heard the blow before he saw it, the dull
thunk
of bone on bone. Sal stumbled against the bar, a trickle of blood threading from his lip. His eyes had the look of a man who'd been the recipient of the first punch in many fights and was always prepared for it. Sal swung his fist in an upward arc, landing it squarely in John's stomach, doubling him over. John wheezed and coughed a mouthful of brown liquid onto the floor.
There goes Mr. Jack Daniels
.

Before Paul had time to react, Sal's second punch was en route. But in a moment Paul was sure represented some sort of karmic interference, Sal slipped on the puddle of bile, his body toppling over, his head slamming to the floor. Paul jumped off his stool and immediately pinned Sal's arms behind his back. His wiry strength belied his size, Sal twisting Paul's arm until he was free, and that's when John came back with a roundhouse that landed directly on Sal's jaw. The
crack
was louder than the AC/DC on the stereo, and Sal fell backwards, holding his jaw, bent at an unnatural angle. Paul heard John wail and clutch his hand, hugging it to his body.

“You can't do that!” Yankee hat cried, leaping towards John. Out of nowhere, Esther reared back and kicked the man right in the balls, his hat spinning away as John stared in disbelief. Esther stood over his moaning body, her breath in short bursts, saliva dripping from his mouth.

John was clutching his hand and Esther was screaming and Artie was yelling at them to get the fuck out of there bar or else he'd call the cops and Stacy was wrapping ice into a dirty dishcloth and Sal was groaning on the floor and Yankee hat was threatening to sue and people were holding Sal back and that's when Paul decided it would be in everyone's best interest if they listened to Artie and got the fuck out of there.

He grabbed John by the shirt and started pulling him towards the door. Esther gripped John's hand and he screamed in pain. Paul saw a dark purple blemish on John's knuckles and a split in the skin between his second and third fingers that oozed blood. Paul gasped and tugged until they were all outside.

“You
motherfucker
,” John yelled, twisting away from Paul, lunging towards the entrance.

“John
please
.” It was Esther. She was gently stroking his face, pleading with him. Finally he looked at her, her eyes brimming with tears. She placed her hands on his cheeks. John winced in pain as he covered her hand with his. His breaths were raspy, his eyes moving as though he had something to say.

Then he was gone, hailing a cab that had just rounded the corner. Paul and Esther were left standing on the street, watching the red brake lights flash as the cab stopped at a light, then turned and disappeared into the darkness. Paul stared at Esther. She was absently scraping at John's blood that was beginning to dry on her fingernails.

N
ico closed the door gently. He shrugged off his coat and loosened his belt, his fingers acting on instinct. The house was quiet and soothing. Pietro was probably in his room listening to music or doing homework. His shoes clopped on the floor, his arches ached. The dinner table was barren except for the blue vase that had been empty for years. He took a glass from the bar and poured himself a drink, savoring the first sip, and sunk blissfully into the family room loveseat. The answering machine blinked red. Nico leaned over and pressed play, resting his head back on the sofa.

He listened to the raspy voice of Steven Ladner, editor-in-chief of Bugle Press. He'd tried Nico at the office, but got no answer, figured he'd try at home, that Nico should sit down before he listens. Thankfully, Nico had that covered. After another minute of heaving and hawing, and Ladner got to the point. Seven hundred and fifty thousand for John Gillis. All monies guaranteed.

Glancing around the apartment, Nico stood up and stretched his legs. He'd call Ladner back first thing in the morning and turn it down. If he could get that much without negotiation…just wait. It was a nibble, but still, it made Nico smile. It was the first step towards making reparations. Pietro and Valerie, once this was done, they'd be so proud.

If Nico were an outsider looking in, his home would seem perfect, tranquil. Bright young son studying or doing whatever young boys did once the bell rang. His wife in her room, maybe tidying up, or on the phone.

Ah, his wife. No sign that Valerie even lived here, with the exception of the pictures littering the mahogany table in the living room. Standing up, Nico walked over and picked up the one photo he cleaned daily. The one always covered in new fingerprints. The one he found pure joy in, his heart perpetually trying to recover the lost innocence of that day.

The picture was of their family, taken on a vacation at the Six Flags amusement park in New Jersey. In the photo, shot by a groundskeeper with a tremendous eye, Pietro hung piggyback over Nico's shoulder while Valerie hugged his waist, her red lips in a glowing smile. Nico rubbed his finger over the frame. He laughed at his son's beautiful gap-toothed grin—he'd lost another baby tooth on one of the rides. Seeing his favorite cartoon characters: Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck…it was magic to Pietro. To him they were alive, and he returned the hugs from the costumed performers like a hopeless lover after a long separation, holding on as though nothing else mattered. Valerie had remarked that a son so beautiful could only come from a marriage so perfect. Nico had agreed. He hoped Pietro would never have to learn that the characters weren't real. He didn't think he could take the look on his son's face when he learned his dreams were a fabrication.

Nico's heart wrenched as he remembered the trip, holding Valerie's hand while their young son beamed, skipping around the park without a care in the world. Nico remembered feeling so happy, so blessed.

Their pictures from the trip had filled an entire album, tucked neatly away in a green binder on the bookshelf in between two Clarence Watters novels. This picture, though, was special enough to warrant its own frame.

He remembered thumbing through the batch, holding Pietro on his lap while Valerie leaned over his shoulder. They smiled as their son's eyes lit up, his memory conjuring up the blissful moments captured with such vividness. When he flipped to that picture—a giant looping roller coaster behind them, the sky as blue as the clearest ocean—it glimmered across Nico's eyes like silver in a bucket of water. Valerie gasped when she saw it and took the print right out of his hand.

“We're framing this one,” she'd said, clutching it to her breast. Nico made no objections, only smiled.

Nico placed his drink on the table and went to check on Pietro. He needed to see his son, to be reminded of the happier times. But as he walked, he knew something wasn't right.

The house smelled too clean, the air too still. The door to Valerie's room was closed. No light peeked out from under the door. Anyone who didn't know better might think it was a closet. Could she be asleep? Not at eight-thirty. And she never left Pietro unattended. Nico knocked on the door. No reply, just the hollowness of the wood. Maybe she was in Pietro's room…

Nico was about to knock on Pietro's door when his chest caught and his blood turned to ice. The door was barren. The poster of Derek Jeter was gone.

Nico couldn't hear a single noise, save his own labored breathing. He felt moisture between his fingers and tried to squeeze it away.

Opening Pietro's door without approval was unforgivable in the Vanetti household. Nico had been reprimanded for such behavior, walking in on Pietro in such intimate moments as when he was listening to music or chatting online. Nevertheless Nico opened the door, expecting a stern reprimanding from his son. But he needed to see him. He'd formulate an excuse later, but he needed to see. What he saw caused his stomach to give out, his heart freezing inside his chest.

The room was bare. The closet door was open. Clothes Pietro had outgrown dangled from hangers. His trophies were gone. The laptop was nowhere to be seen.

His son was gone.

Nico bolted down the hall to Valerie's room, his pulse racing, blood threatening to burst from his veins. He banged open her door to find another empty room.

Except for a single white envelope on the bed with the word 'Nic' printed in block lettering, it might have been a hotel room. Nico shook his head. He could feel the sweat coating his whole body now, the sting of the bourbon penetrating his brain. His fingers trembled as he picked up the letter and stumbled into the living room.

He flung his body onto the sofa. His limbs were acting on electrical impulse alone. His eyes squeaked when they blinked, loud as thunder.