Ben and Lorrie had, instead, seen their
beloved father as a man who allowed himself to be humbled, who
dropped his eyes and bowed his head when lesser men came in
demanding their envelope. They grew angry. When their father
dropped dead on the warehouse floor at the age of fifty-two, having
worked himself literally to death, Ben and Lorrie let their grief
fuel that anger. They took over the business, they took the shiny
things dangled before them, and then, when the time was right, they
strangled the lesser men with their own baubles.
Carlo, the youngest, still in high school
when Gavino died, watched all that happen and mourned harder for
his father and what had been lost with him. When he was old enough
to join the family business his brothers had started, he refused.
Instead, always handy, he’d hired on as a carpenter’s apprentice.
And Pagano & Sons Construction, now a regionally renowned
company, had arisen from those humble beginnings.
Like his father before him, Carlo held off
the advances of more dangerous men—in his case, his own
brothers—and had achieved with them an understanding. The
construction business was on the up and up. Over the years, that
line had softened slightly—there had been a few minor favors done,
a few wheels greased, some contacts made—but nothing that
besmirched Pagano & Sons Construction. And Carlo had repaid
those few favors by providing a cover of respectability over the
family name. His family role: the good brother.
Carlo Jr. knew all that history intimately,
because a lot of it was family lore. The parts that weren’t, the
details about the Uncles’ most lucrative business concerns, Carlo
had learned as a warning, when his father had begun grooming him to
take over his company. Carlo was proud of his father, proud of the
business he’d literally built from the ground up. But he did not
want it. He’d tried hard to want it. But he did not. He’d broken
his father’s heart when he’d chosen a different path.
And he knew he was breaking it again as he
approached the door to the administrative side of the Pagano
Brothers building, and one of the Uncles’ grunts unlocked and
opened the door. It was just before ten a.m. on Memorial Day, and
though the warehouse was running a skeleton crew, this side of the
building was closed. The grunt went to the receptionist’s desk,
pushed a couple of keys on the phone, and announced him, and, a few
seconds later, the wide, burled walnut door to the inner sanctum
opened, and his Uncle Lorrie stepped out.
Carlo’s father shared little in the way of
physical resemblance with his older brothers. He was eight years
younger than Lorrie, eleven years younger than Ben. But it was more
than that. Carlo Sr. was a big, bullish man. Six feet and broad
like a lumberjack, with hands like mallets. He had not yet gone far
grey, but he had a typical receding hairline and kept his dark hair
cropped close. He was clean-shaven and always had been.
Ben and Lorrie could almost be twins. They
were shorter, slimmer, and appeared softer and weaker—at least
physically. Both had thick, white hair and matching mustaches. What
all three shared—and what Carlo Jr. shared with them—were weary,
light brown eyes, and faces that crinkled around them when they
smiled. In fact, overall, Carlo Jr. looked more like his uncles
than his father. Just a younger, substantially larger version.
Lorrie smiled now. He was wearing a crisp
yellow golf shirt tucked neatly into navy Dockers, sharply creased.
His uncles were old school, and this was as casually as they
dressed. Usually, they were fully suited in Italian wool. Uncle Ben
even wore a fedora when he went outside. The grunt who’d opened the
door, a guy in his mid-twenties or so, had been wearing a red,
white, and blue track suit, a thick gold chain around his neck.
From one end of the cliché spectrum to the other. “Hey, Junior.
Don’t see you ‘round here much, buddy.”
“Uncle Lorrie.” They shook hands.
“Well, get in here. Let’s see what’s up.”
Lorrie held the door and ushered Carlo into Uncle Ben’s office.
The room was about as typical a shipping
company executive’s office as one could imagine. Because it was on
the harbor, and because it was a shipping company, most of the
décor was boat and truck oriented. Prints of ships at sea hung on
the walls, which were paneled in walnut. A scale model of a Pagano
Brothers semi had pride of place on a shelf. The carpet was thick
and dark blue. The furniture was walnut and red leather. There was
a massive ship’s wheel on the wall behind Uncle Ben’s desk.
There was no computer on his desk, neither
desktop nor laptop versions. Uncle Ben was past seventy and had no
interest in learning ‘new’ technology. Other people took care of
that kind of work for him. As Carlo came into the room, he stood up
from his massive, red leather chair and came around his desk to
clasp his nephew in a hard, sincere hug. He was wearing khakis and
a white Oxford-cloth shirt. A navy blazer was draped over the back
of his chair. “Junior. Good to see you. Come, sit. Tell me what it
is I can do for you.”
Carlo stepped to one of the two red leather
armchairs arrayed in front of the desk; Uncle Lorrie took the
other. As he sat, he saw that Fred Naldi was seated on the red
leather couch on the far wall, khakis and a golf shirt stretched
over his rotund body. Fred was the Uncles’
consigliere
—their
advisor and legal counsel. Surprised, Carlo paused on his way into
his seat. “Fred.”
“Hey, Carlo.”
Finishing his trip to the chair, Carlo
turned to his eldest uncle, who had returned to his throne.
Uncle Ben smiled. “You don’t make
appointments with me, Junior. I figure there’s trouble. If there’s
trouble, we’ll need Fred.” He put his arms on the smooth wood of
his desk and clasped his hands together. “This is about the girl
after Mass, yeah? I know who she is. And you know you’d better not
be here to tell me you’re having your way with another man’s wife.
So I assume you are not. What’s the trouble?”
He wasn’t surprised that Uncle Ben was as
far ahead of the story as that. The man had gotten where he was
because he was keenly observant and astute. Because he asked
questions and expected clear answers. And because he was ruthless.
So Carlo set aside the long explanation he’d practiced and got to
the meat. “I’m not—having my way. I’m not. I won’t. But Auberon
hurts her. Badly. He’s too powerful for her to get free on her own.
She’s sure he’s planning to kill her. I want to help her get away
from him, but I can’t do it on my own, either. I’m here to ask for
your help.”
“You covet her.”
“When she’s free, yes.” No point evading the
truth his uncle already knew.
“When I offered to bring your wife back to
you—bring a mother back to her son—you turned me down. Flat. Your
wife who absconded in the night with another man. But you come to
me now for help taking another woman from her husband.”
That had been the most tense conversation
Carlo had ever had with him. Uncle Ben had been insulted and
bitterly frustrated. That Carlo had let Jenny go, let her leave
Trey and hadn’t fought for her—Uncle Ben had seen that as
emasculating weakness. Now, bringing it up, he’d phrased a
statement, an observation instead of a question, so Carlo didn’t
respond. He held his uncle’s eyes and waited. Sometimes, the best
way to show strength was to wait.
“How long have you not been having your way
with her?”
Carlo resisted the nervous urge to swallow.
“I met her Friday.”
From the side of the room, Fred Naldi
laughed—one surprised syllable. Carlo ignored him. Uncle Ben had
not reacted visibly to his admission.
“What is it you want, Junior?”
“I want her safe.”
Uncle Ben sighed. “Terms, boy.”
Ah. When he’d been told to meet here, at his
warehouse office, and not in Uncle Ben’s home, in his study, Carlo
had known that he’d be making a business arrangement, not asking
for a family favor. Family favors—as when Uncle Ben had offered to
bring Jenny ‘home where she belonged’—had leeway that business
arrangements did not. What Carlo was doing here was making a
bargain, and there was not much difference between bargaining with
Don Pagano and dealing with the Devil. Clear terms, as detailed as
possible, or you’d find yourself soulless and up to your ass in
flames for eternity.
“I want her free of him and safe to live a
life of her choosing.”
“You want her for yourself?”
“I want her free to make that choice. What I
want is for her marriage to Auberon to be invalidated, and I want
her safe to live a life without fear of reprisals. Whether I have
her then or not is her choice. That’s what I want.”
“You ask a great deal, nephew. We do
business with her husband. You know this. He is a man of great
influence and power. You know this as well. You risk much—and not
only for yourself—to take him on, even through us. You know that
asking us to take such a risk on your behalf will come with a high
price. For a woman you barely know. Are you sure?”
“Uncle, he hurts her.” He had nothing else
to say, and he hoped it would be enough. He thought it might. Uncle
Ben’s firstborn daughter, Lita, had been terribly abused by her
college boyfriend. Horribly. When she’d come home, weeping and
broken inside and out, Ben had rained fire over an entire
fraternity house. And what he’d wrought on the boyfriend himself
had been medieval.
Men who hurt women had a special place in
Ben Pagano’s hell.
“You know this to be true?”
“Yes. I’ve seen the marks. And I saw it
happen. He hurt her in public, and people just watched. They let
him.”
“Did
you
watch?”
“No. I stopped it. Then, at least.”
Uncle Ben cocked his head and looked hard at
Carlo. Finally, he nodded. “I understand your terms. You understand
mine. You pay the price I assign, when I assign it.”
“Yes. I ask that if this arrangement helps
the family, you take that into consideration when assigning the
price.”
Ben’s face split into a broad, proud
smile—Carlo had made a shrewd amendment. “Good. Yes, I agree.” The
smile disappeared. “And if it
hurts
the family—business or
personal—I will take that into consideration as well. You
understand that the latter is more likely?”
“Yes.”
Uncle Ben stood and stretched his hand
across his desk. “Then we make this agreement.”
Carlo stood and shook his uncle’s gnarled,
spotted, but still strong hand. The deal had been struck.
~oOo~
Before Carlo could close the heavy front
door, Trey barreled into the entry from the kitchen and straight
into his legs. “Daddy! Daddy I want to go sailing and look for
sharks!”
The family had a little twenty-foot sloop
docked in the harbor. It got a lot of use in the summer. But Carlo
wasn’t in the mood to go sailing. He needed some time to think and
come to terms with what he’d done, and he wanted to figure out a
way to contact Bina. He’d checked the call log on the phone last
night, but her number had come up blocked.
Maybe, though, what he needed was something
else to think about. He felt exhausted. He picked his son up. “You
do? I think we could do that—but after lunch and nap.”
Trey pursed his lips, more contemplative
than pouting. “Aunt Rosie said she’d make us a sea picnic. And I’m
a big boy. I don’t need a nap.”
Carlo was getting the continual impression
that his baby sister was trying to get in his business. Keeping him
busy. Now, she came in from the kitchen, looking cute and fresh in
white shorts and a blue and white striped bikini top. Her streaked
hair was up in a high ponytail, making her look like Helen of
Troy—in a tiny bikini. “I put a nice meal together. And if Trey
crashes, he can sleep on the boat. I thought I’d go with.”
He shook his head and smiled. “I think
you’re scheming, Peanut.”
“What? It’s a nice day. Trey and I are
bored. You’re the best sailor in the house. Entertain us.”
Yeah, this was a better idea. He needed to
find a way not to obsess. Bina didn’t want that, and he didn’t,
either. It wasn’t healthy. So, he packed up his little sister, his
son, the dog, and a picnic lunch and drove them all back down to
the harbor from which he’d just come.
They spent a few hours on the water. Elsa
was great on the boat, having been seaworthy since she was a pup.
She had a life vest of her own, and she knew to find her spot and
stay there. A naturally calm dog, it wasn’t unusual for her not to
move anything more than her head for the entire time they were
out.
They had lunch, and Trey had a short nap.
While they were at anchor, a pod of dolphins swam by, and Carlo
tried to convince Trey that they were sharks. He’d gotten a very
condescending look from his child, and then a patient lecture about
the difference between dolphin fins—which were ‘bendy in the
back’—and shark fins, which were ‘like triangles.’ It was a good
afternoon, and Carlo found his center. The sea always helped him
find his center.
Carlo had figured Trey for a quiet afternoon
after the excitement of a sail, but he was very well rested after
his sea snooze, and on their way back to the harbor, Carlo had seen
a cluster of people at Carmen’s beach. After they docked and stored
the sails, Carlo asked, and Trey was enthusiastic about the idea of
finding the rest of the family. Rosa was, too, so they drove to
Carmen’s and pulled their beach gear from the back of Carlo’s
Macan. Impromptu beach parties—happened all the time.