North River (9 page)

He rose slowly and went to the safe and took another hundred-dollar bill from the envelope, to cover expenses after Monique paid for the infant’s funeral. And the woman’s rent. And some food. Thinking: The North River is jammed with ice. Thank God.

Brannigan took his quinine and left, angling past Monique’s empty desk. Then Sally Wilson came in. At twenty, she had been a star at Tony Pastor’s, a lush princess of the Rialto. Delaney had never seen her perform, but she had once showed up at his old office on Jane Street carrying her scrapbook. As if to prove that she existed. There she was, in big bustles, or in tights, and the stories said that she had a wonderful contralto voice. Her hair was so blond it seemed white in the photographs. Now it truly was white, but she had added forty years and fifty pounds. Along the way, she’d had two sons and three husbands. The sons were gone, one now working in despair for the Republicans in Franklin Roosevelt’s Washington, the other in California in the movie business. Or so she said. She only mourned the last husband.

“I can’t sleep,” she said abruptly. “I keep seeing Alfie, and when I turn over in bed, he’s not there.”

“Are you still drinking coffee?” Delaney asked gently.

“Of course.”

“Stop,” he said.

“You think it’s just
coffee?
”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t even
examine
me!
”

“Well, do you have any physical symptoms?”

She always wanted him to examine her. She always had vague worries about her breasts, which were soft and heavy. She seldom said the word “cancer,” but it must have been in her dreams.

“I have these flutters, especially at night, Dr. Delaney.” She squeezed her left breast. “What do you call them flutters?”

“Palpitations.”

“Right.”

Delaney sighed. “Well, let’s have a listen.”

She stood up and unbuttoned her blouse, then turned her back and unfastened her white brassiere. Delaney had long ago trained himself to be objective when examining human beings, but Sally Wilson had not. Her breasts were large, fallen, blue-veined, but she lifted the left breast as if offering it to Delaney. The breast seemed to blush.

“They used to be beautiful,” she said sadly.

“Breathe, please.”

He listened. Then removed the stethoscope from his ears.

“The heartbeat is strong and regular, Miss Wilson.”

She folded her arms under her breasts to form a shelf.

“I’m worried about lumps.”

“There’s a wonderful specialist at St. Vincent’s, Miss Wilson. I can make an appointment if you want.”

“I don’t trust strangers. I need you to check.”

He did, while she inhaled through clenched teeth, her eyes closed for almost a minute. Her body grew tauter.

“Everything seems fine,” Delaney said. “No lumps, Miss Wilson. But I can make that appointment if . . .”

She relaxed, arms folded under breasts again.

“You can get dressed now, Miss Wilson.”

He turned his back on her, heard her moving, a rustling of something silky. Her breathing was heavy.

“Every time I think of Alfie, I get the condition, the papulations.”

He chuckled. “Maybe you should think about your second husband.”

“That
bastard.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what. Stop the coffee for a week and then come back. We’ll see how you’re doing.”

When he turned she was wearing the brassiere but not the blouse.

“You’d have loved them,” she said in a numb voice. “Everybody did.”

He heard the gate clang and the outside door open and slam shut and Rose’s voice and the laughing of Carlito. Bumping. Jumping. Shoes on wood. Blurred Italian. The boy’s squealing laughter.

“Excuse me,” he said to his patient, and went to greet them, smiling.

FIVE

L
ATER — AFTER THE BOY HAD PRACTICED WITH HIS PADDLEBALL
until falling into a nap; after Delaney had written three notes to his daughter and folded them into the stamped envelopes; after he had hung his suit neatly in the bedroom closet and peeled off the union suit; after he had spoken with Jimmy Spillane about a Monday-morning visit to check out a system for steam heat; after reading the newspapers in a hot bath; after dressing again in warmer clothes — after all of that, he and Rose and the boy went to Angela’s restaurant for an early dinner. He dropped the letters in a corner mailbox.

“This kid already grew half an inch in a week,” Angela said, leading them to a corner table.

“The cooking,” Rose said. “Whatta you expect?”

“He’s gonna be bigger than the doc,” Angela said.

“Bigger than the Statue of Liberty.”

Carlito was indeed 33 inches tall and weighed 32 pounds. A big kid, from the genetic line that had given Delaney his six feet. They sat down and Angela suggested veal or a nice piece of fish and the boy said “bagetti” and then they ordered. Veal for Delaney. Sole for Rose. Carlito had already said what he wanted. Then Delaney asked for a glass of the house red, and Angela raised her eyebrows.

“That’s the second glass a wine you had this year!”

“It might be the last.”

“An’ you, Rose — you on a diet or something?”

Rose blushed. “Just bring me the fish, Angela.”

The place was half-empty. They talked and laughed and said hello to people they knew. Knocko Carmody came in with his camarilla, asked Delaney if Spillane had called, smiled when told he had. He kissed Rose on the cheek while murmuring, “Hey, you hoodlum, how are you?” Carlito squirmed in his high chair and Rose took him by the hand back past the kitchen to the bathroom. Delaney watched a fresh snowfall drifting softly on the street. The flakes were thick and there was no wind. Parked cars were now glistening from the melting snow. Some had not been moved since the New Year’s storm. There was snow on the hats and shoulders of the new arrivals too. A few more people stopped to say hello to Delaney, exchanging small talk, giving him brief updates on the health of old patients. Nobody mentioned Eddie Corso. Or, for that matter, his daughter, Grace. He saw Rose emerge with Carlos by the hand. Angela threw her a conspiratorial glance. Then from the tables, a few men and more women reached for Carlito, touching him, talking baby talk, petting him as if he were a puppy.

They were silent through most of the meal, the food too delicious for chatter. The wine, alas, was too sweet, so Delaney sipped. Rose was very concentrated, lifting her food in a dainty way, as if remembering advice from the woman’s page of the
Daily News.
She tamped down her shimmering vitality too. The restaurant was now crowded, and when Carlito finished, Angela came over.

“What about dessert?” Angela said.

Delaney ordered a cannoli, the boy wanted ice cream, Rose passed on both and asked for tea.

“You’re gonna waste away, ragazza,” Angela said, a thin smile on her face, as she touched Rose’s shoulder. She glanced at Delaney and turned her back on Rose and hurried to another table. The mixed sound of men and women was higher now, a growly male baritone punctuated by shrill female whiskey laughter. The boy grinned every time someone laughed out loud.

They finished the desserts too quickly.

“This can’t be good for us,” Delaney said, “but I don’t care.”

“Once in while,” Rose said, waving a hand in dismissal. “You eat dolces three times a day, you weigh four hundred pounds. But one cannoli? Faniente, nothing.”

The boy rubbed his eyes, and Delaney called for the check and paid it. Dessert and the glass of wine were on the house. Rose buttoned up Carlito’s jacket and then her own long coat, while Delaney pulled his hat tight on his brow. Angela hugged them all and said something in Italian to Rose, who smiled thinly and jutted her chin in a gesture of defiance. Delaney waved to the blur of crowded tables and they went out. The snow was emptying the streets and gathering on the fenders of the glistening cars. They turned left toward Horatio Street.

Then a car door opened. An angular, sallow man, with yellowing eyes under a wide-brimmed hat, stepped out of the backseat. He jammed his hands in his overcoat pockets, as if they contained something dangerous. There were three other men in the car and a lot of cigarette smoke. They had been waiting a while.

“Hey,” the sallow man said.

Delaney looked at him, while Rose pulled Carlito closer.

“Me?” Delaney said.

“Yeah, you. I wanna talk to you.”

“About what?”

“You know what.”

“Tell me what.”

“About Eddie.”

“Eddie who?”

“Eddie Corso, that’s who.”

“What about him?”

“Where is he?”

Christ. Another punk gangster who’s seen too many goddamned movies.

“I don’t know.”

“Of course you know. You saved his fuckin’ life.”

Rose stepped in, blurting in Italian: “Vai!” The sallow man looked as if he’d been slapped. Then she turned to Delaney, her tone shifting into deference. “Don’t talk to this guy. Come on.”

“Stay outta this, Rose,” the sallow man said.

“Ah, bah fongool.”

The man took out a pistol, letting his gun arm hang at his side.

“Put that away,” Delaney said, stepping in front of Rose and the boy. Thinking: I can manage one left hook.

“There’s three cops inside Angela’s restaurant, pal,” Delaney said calmly. “This is a very bad idea.”

The sallow man glanced at the lights of Angela’s and then at the car. An older man shook his head. No. The sallow man returned the gun to his pocket.

“You better remember where Eddie is,” he said. “And let us know fast.”

“Let’s go,” Delaney said, and took Rose by the arm and started for home through the falling snow. He felt himself breathing hard.

“Bah fongool,” Carlito said.

They had gone half a block when the boy stopped and looked bleary. He couldn’t move his feet. Delaney lifted him, carrying him home, feeling his puppy warmth through thick coats and falling snow. He remembered Eddie Corso’s tutoring him in Italian that time in France.
Palle
were balls. A
cazzo
was a prick.
Fottere
meant fucking. But Eddie didn’t know where
bah fongool
came from, although he did know what it meant. In search of precision, they went to see Lieutenant Rossetti, whose father was a writer for
Il Progresso
in New York. The lieutenant smiled. Yeah, he said, it comes from
va f’an culo,
which roughly means, Up your ass! Don’t say it to anyone, unless you want to get shot. The next afternoon, Lieutenant Rossetti had the front of his brow blown off by a German sniper.

“I’m sorry I used a bad word back there,” Rose said. “The boy, he remembers everything you say.”

“Don’t worry, Rose,” Delaney said. “The guy deserved it. Just be careful. This is about me, not you.”

“You didn’t seem scared about the gun.”

“Every gun is scary,” he said. “But I’ve seen them before.”

“In the war?”

“The war,” he said. “And yes, around here too.”

From long habit, he didn’t elaborate. Rifles, mortars, grenades . . . and he’d seen gunshot wounds too. A lot of them. Too many of them. Way too many dead people too. But he hated talking like a tough guy.

“I know that guy,” Rose said quietly. “The cafone with the gun.”

“Who is he?”

“I’ll tell you later,” she said, glancing behind her at the empty sidewalk and the snowy stillness of the street. Her face was harder now.

When they reached the house, Rose opened the doors beneath the stoop, then gazed once again at the street. She locked the doors behind them, and Delaney carried the boy upstairs to the top-floor bedroom. Rose followed, removing her coat and hat, then draping them over the top-floor banister. In the light from the hallway, Delaney laid the boy on his bed, where the teddy bear was tucked under the covers. The ache was back in his right arm.

“Here, let me do this,” Rose said, as if sensing that both arms were not the same now. She began to undress the boy. Delaney removed his coat and placed it on the banister beside hers. The boy’s eyes opened. He blinked, gazed at Rose, then at Delaney. He did not look frightened.

“Okay, come on now,” Rose said, lifting the boy. “Brush your teeth, make pee pee.”

She carried him into the bathroom. Delaney stood there, hearing flushing water, and Rose’s murmuring voice. He glanced into her room. There was a notebook on top of the Italian-English dictionary. On the wall a calendar from
Il Progresso
showed Roman ruins. Delaney thought: I’m a sort of ruin too. And chuckled.

“Okay,” Rose said, after flushing the toilet. “Now you go night-night, boy.”

She pulled the covers aside and laid him down, and he hugged the teddy bear as she covered him. His eyes moved from Delaney to Rose. He turned his head to face the wall and whispered: “Mamá.” He hugged the bear. Then he closed his eyes and fell into sleep. Rose glanced at Delaney, who saw unspoken emotion in her eyes. Pity. Or sorrow.

“Come on,” she said. “I make you some tea.”

He drank his tea in the Irish way, with milk and two sugars. Rose used a wedge of lemon and resisted the sugar. She folded her thin, sweatered arms and leaned on the table and talked about the man with the gun.

“They call him Gyp,” she said. “Like one out of three gangsters. Once a week in the
Daily News,
they find some dead cafone in Brooklyn and his name is Gyp. Gyp Santucci . . . Gyp Ferraro . . . This guy, his name is Gyp Pavese. He lives with his mother up Spring Street. Thirty-fi’ years old, he lives wit’ his
mother.”

“How do you know all this?” Delaney said, wanting to know about Gyp, wanting to know more about Rose.

“When I first come to America,” she said, “ I live in the same block as Gyp, across the street with a family from Genoa. I see him every day, dressed in clothes he can’t afford, so I know he’s a gangster. The people in my house say he’s a knife guy. Couldn’t fight Carlito and win, so he uses a knife on people.” She turned her head as if embarrassed at what she was about to say. “One time, he comes to me, he says, ‘Hey, baby, you gotta go out with me.’ I say, ‘No thanks.’ Well, that makes him crazy, ’cause he thinks he’s Rudolph Valentino. He asks me again, then again, until I say, ‘Don’t ask me again, Gyp.’ ” She smiled. “Or
else,
goddamn it.”

About six strands of her hair had fallen loose, like brushstrokes. She sipped her tea, then went silent, as if she did not want to go on. She was like so many patients who had sat across from him and told only part of their story.

“But that wasn’t the end of the story, was it?” he said.

“No.”

“Tell me the rest.”

She took a deep breath, then exhaled. “Well, the people from Genoa, my landlords, they worry all the time, they don’t want trouble with gangsters. And so I move away, and live in Angela’s house awhile.” A muscle twitched in her cheek. “All this is, what? Five, six years ago . . .”

She drummed her nails on the tabletop. They were square and blocky and carefully trimmed. She seemed hesitant, as if afraid she was telling Delaney too much about herself.

“But Gyp didn’t give up?” Delaney said.

She looked at him, then at the wall above the stove. “No. For a long time, I don’t see him. Then I hear he’s in jail. Good, I think, that’s where he belongs, with his crazy mother too. I relax. Then I hear he’s out of jail. Still, I’m okay. You know, it’s New York: you move five blocks away, it’s a different world. And I had lots of work. Cook-ing. Making hats. Sewing dresses. Stuff like that. Piecework, too, blouses . . .”

“And then Gyp came back.”

“You got it, Dottore,” she said. Nodding her head. “One morning I come out of the house, there’s Gyp. Dressed all sharp, with a gray hat like tonight. He says he wants to see me, he’s been in love with me for years, and then he says, ‘If I can’t have you, nobody else can have you.’ ”

She poked at the tea with a spoon. “What’s the word? A threat?” Delaney nodded, encouraging her to go on. “Anyway, I think about going a long ways away, like California. Maybe China! I explain everything to Angela, and she says, ‘Don’t worry, I take care of this.’ And she does. She talks to someone, and Mr. Someone talks to someone else, and Gyp stays away.” She moved her head from side to side. “Until tonight.”

Delaney sipped his tea, which was turning cold.

“He was there because of me, not you.”

“Maybe,” she said.

Delaney said, “Who were the guys in the car?”

“From the Frankie Botts mob. Up by Bleecker Street. The Naples boys.”

“Frankie Botts?”

“Frankie Botticelli.”

“Like the painter?”

“You know Sandro Botticelli?” she said, and smiled. “From Firenze? There’s a painting he painted, you know,
very
famous. A naked lady with long hair, coming out of a clamshell. You know that painting? Venus! I used to look like that, except I’m never a blonde.” Then she blushed, as if afraid the doctor might think she was flirting. She waved a hand in an airy way. “You know . . .”