Skin Games (11 page)

She smiled.

Sounds simple, I know.  But that was it.  It took all of two seconds.  I looked at her.  She looked at me.  We made eye contact.  And she smiled, a soft, genuine smile with no strings attached to it.

I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I blinked and came back down to Earth.

“What are you looking at?”  It was Vinny.

“Nuthin’.”

“Do you know who that is?”

I didn’t, but Scrubby Mike answered the question.  “That’s Nicole.  My cousin.”

“Oh,” I said.

“The boss’s daughter,” Vinny said firmly.

I nodded.  “Okay.  Okay.  I heard you.”

The bartender came over with the drinks, and before we could take a sip, a man appeared from a back hallway.  He was in his late forties and dressed from head to toe in designer clothing: tight jeans that no one over forty should ever wear, a button-up shirt that shined with glitter, a polished black belt, polished black shoes.  All with tags and brand names on them.

That was Gucci Mike, Mario’s right-hand man.  The second most powerful man in my neighborhood.

Gucci Mike walked over and said to Vinny, “Let’s go.  Mario’s ready for you and the kid.”

Vinny looked at Griff and said, “You wait here.  Enjoy your beer.  Tommy’ll keep you company.”

Tommy nodded and said, “Sure thing, Vinny.”

Vinny turned to me and said, “Come on, Shamrock.”

Gucci Mike walked towards the back hallway.  Vinny followed.  I looked over at Griff.

“It’s okay.  Go,” Griff said.

Scrubby Mike looked at me with sideways eyes and his lips curled up on the edges.  I’m sure he was about to make a snotty wisecrack, but I didn’t wait to hear it.  I walked quickly to catch up with Vinny and then slowed and followed his pace.

Gucci Mike started down a flight of steps.  Above the steps a sign read,
Private Dining Room
.  Vinny turned and looked at me, waving me on even though I was already right behind him.

Vinny was always in control.  Cool, calm, collected.  But he was suddenly all jumpy.  I didn’t know what to make of it.  Had he really gone to bat for me?  Was he really worried about me?  Or was there something more to it?

I couldn’t be sure.  With Vinny, I could never be sure.  One part mentor, one part executioner.  Which I guess made me one part protégé and one part prey.  That was just the way he always made me feel.

At the bottom of the steps was a narrow hallway.  At the end was a fork.  To my right was another hallway with a door at the end.  The door was opened, and there was a desk and file cabinets in the room.  To my left was a wide opening.  We walked into the wide opening, and it let us out in the private dining room.

There was enough room to have a big party.  I’m sure they held weddings and christenings and all kinds of stuff in that private dining room.  But that day all the tables were empty, other than one: a four-person booth at the far end of the room.

There were no windows in the room.  There were only a couple of lights on.  One above the room, a hanging chandelier which was dimmed and giving off very little light.  The other light came from the table.  It was a candle.  Not a real candle but a lamp with a red shaft and a small yellow bulb shaped like a candle.

Sitting at the candlelit table was one man, all alone.  I knew it was him.  I’d seen Don Mario from afar a number of times, but very few people got to see Don Mario up close.

Suddenly, I was one of those people.  Gucci Mike walked up to the table and sat down opposite Don Mario.

Mario was a heavyset man, but there was muscle tone beneath the flab.  He was easily two-hundred-fifty pounds, probably closer to three bills.  His hair was black and thinning, and the little he had at the top of his head was slicked back with goops of hair gel.  He wore a blue sport jacket, and he had a cloth napkin tucked into his shirt as he stuffed pasta and clams casino into his gullet.

Truth was, the food smelled pretty damn good.

“Sit down,” Mario said.  With a fork full of spun pasta, he gestured to the seat on the booth next to Gucci Mike.

I sat down and slid in, trying not to get too close to Gucci Mike.  Vinny continued to stand.  Mike looked over at him and said, “Pull up a chair, Vinny.”

Vinny found a chair at a nearby table and pulled it over, then he sat down.

“You hungry?” Don Mario asked.  I wasn’t sure who he was talking to.  But then he looked directly at me.  His eyes were dark brown, his pupils narrow, and his cheeks were actually thin, at least in proportion to his chins.  He spoke slowly, and his voice had a scratchy smoker’s throat.  “Are you?”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“No, really,” Mario continued.  “This is some fuckin’ great clams casino.  You should try some.”

It did smell good.

“I want you to.”  Mario pushed the plate over towards me.

There were small plates and table settings at the far end of the table.  Gucci Mike pushed them over to me.

“Go on,” Mario said.  Then he put the fork full of pasta in his mouth.

I took a clam off the dish and put it on a small plate.  Then I ate it.  It tasted every bit as good as it smelled.

Mario smiled.  His mouth full, he said, “Good isn’t it?”

I chewed and smiled back.  “Yeah.  Excellent.”

“I know it is.  My chef makes the best clams casino in New York.  Hands down.  Am I right, Mike?”

Gucci Mike nodded.  “You bet.”

“And I have eaten clams at every joint in this city.  Brooklyn, Queens, Little Italy.  You name it.  I’ve tried ‘em all, and I’m telling you my guy is the best.”

“He sure is, Mario,” Mike said.

“When it comes to clams casino that is.  His veal sucks.  But anyway, Vinny tells me you’re Irish.”

“I’m half Irish, sir.”

“Mario.  Call me Mario.”

“I’m half Irish, Mario.”

“I don’t like the Irish.  They drink too much.”

“I don’t drink, sir.”

“Huh?”

“I don’t drink, Mario.”

“Yeah, well they’re stupid, too.  That’s another reason why I don’t like the Irish.  They are stupid fuckin’ people.”

“I didn’t finish school, Mario.  But I’m not stupid, sir.”

Mario shoveled another fork full of pasta in his mouth; a tomato dripped off his fork and onto the cloth napkin that protected his dress shirt.

“You ever kill anyone?” Mario asked me.

“Yes.  I did once.”

“Really?  No shit.  Tell me about it.”

“I got jumped, and I was protecting myself.”

“Where’d this happen?”

“One Eighty-Third Street and Creston Avenue.”

“One Eighty-Third and Creston?  What were you doing up there?  Buying dope?”

“No, sir.  I don’t do drugs, either.”

“Well, what business does a white kid have up there?”

“I was visiting my grandmother.  She lives there.”

“I see.  So how’d you kill him?  Gun?  Knife?”

“Bare hands, sir.  I broke his nose and then cracked his neck.”

Mario nodded and looked over at Vinny, who nodded back.

“Bare hands?  That’s impressive.  So did you call the cops?”

“No.  I left him dead in the street.”

“What the fuck is your grandmother doing in that neighborhood, anyway?  She don’t belong there.”

“She’s always lived there.  Ever since she came to this country, she’s lived there, and she refuses to move.  We’ve begged her to, but she refuses.”

“That’s another thing I hate about the Irish.  They are too fuckin’ stubborn.  You can’t reason with stubborn people.  I don’t like that.  I don’t like people I can’t reason with.”

“Yes, sir.  Mario, sir.  I understand.  My family is very stubborn.”

 Mario swallowed loudly then started twirling another fork full of pasta.  “So, Vinny says you have something for me.”

I reached into my suit pocket and pulled out the burlap sack filled with jewelry.  Gucci Mike took it from my hands.  He opened it and looked inside.

Gucci Mike nodded and said, “Looks good.”

Mario smiled, took a sip of red wine and then said, “Nice job, kid.  You did good.”

Vinny smiled and said, “I told you, Mario.  He’s a good kid.”

“Let’s have some wine,” Mario said.  He picked up the bottle and began filling glasses.  Gucci Mike passed them out one at a time as Mario filled them.  Then Mario looked at me and said, “Listen, kid.  I know my nephew is a screw up, but he’s my nephew.  You understand?”

“I think so,” I said.

Mario chuckled.  “He thinks so.”

“Yeah,” Gucci Mike agreed.

Vinny, too, went with the flow.  “The kid thinks so.”

“What I’m trying to say is that you seem like a good kid.  Vinny says you’re okay.  I can see you’re pretty resourceful.  You know how to keep your mouth shut if you get into trouble.  These are important qualities.  We need guys like you.  Vinny’s got work for you.  You do good, and you’re gonna be okay.  You got it?”

“Yes, Mario.  I got it.”

“Good.  Now let’s drink.”

They raised their glasses, and I raised mine.  Mario lightly clinked my glass, then he took a sip.  Vinny and Gucci Mike sipped from their glasses.  I put mine down, untouched.

Vinny looked at me.  I saw horror in his eyes.

Mario dropped his fork and wiped his face with his napkin.  He threw the cloth on the table and said, “You aren’t gonna drink with me?  What, is there something wrong with my wine?  That shit costs three hundred dollars a bottle.”

“No, sir.  It’s just that I don’t drink alcohol.”

Mario looked at me, his narrow pupils locked on mine.  For a long moment no one said a word.  I didn’t dare move a muscle, or take a breath.

Then, Mario smiled and began to laugh.  Mike laughed.  Then Vinny laughed.  Mario picked up his fork and began spinning another fork full of pasta as he said, “That’s what I hate about the Irish.  They are so fuckin’ stubborn.”

“You got that right,” Gucci Mike said in agreement.

Vinny nodded and laughed along.

Things changed after that day in the private dining room in the Cucina.  They changed for the better.  Mario accepted me.  I was given the stamp of approval.  So was Griff.  We each got tattoos on our backs, me a giant shamrock and Griff a winged griffin.  I was part of the crew.  Becoming part of the crew meant steady work and a lot more money.  It meant I could help my mother out at home, not just chip in for groceries but really remove some of her burden, although it didn’t seem to be working.  She was hitting the Beefeater more and more, and her pack-a-day habit of Virginia Slims had swelled to three packs.  I was starting to worry about her.

But my life couldn’t have been better.  I beat the rap on the jewelry store thing.  They found Scrubby Mike’s bag of jewels in a garbage pail along the avenue, but they couldn’t tie it to us.  The cops couldn’t even prove I was guilty of breaking and entering.  Not once Mario put his pit-bull lawyer, Marty Feldman on the job.  Marty had me and Scrubby off the hook and out of trouble after one court hearing.  It was a joke.

We walked into court, sat at the table and watched Marty nod to the Assistant District Attorney.  I don’t know if they were in cahoots or if the guy was scared of Don Mario or maybe he was just lazy and knew that his public-servant salary was no match for Marty Feldman.  Either way, Marty moved for dismissal of all charges in the first five minutes and the judge agreed.  Insufficient evidence.  Go home, kid.

That was that.

We went out that night to celebrate.  It was me, Scrubby, Vinny, Griff and Tommy Guns all at Costa’s.  Costa’s was an Italian restaurant until about eleven in the evening.  The front area was just a dumpy pizza joint but in the back it widened out to a separate, spacious and really nice restaurant.  Before eleven they served great brick oven pizza and the best hot antipasto in the neighborhood.

Once eleven o’clock came around the restaurant closed, and they removed all the tables and turned it into a dance club.  There was a DJ and lights, three full bars (the regular restaurant bar plus two temporary ones they rolled out once the tables were gone) and they turned the back dining room into a lounge with really comfy couches and stylish beanbag chairs.  The place had a really trendy feel to it, which brought in a hip and attractive crowd.

I was sipping a seltzer with lemon at the main bar while Griff slugged down a draft beer.  Scrubby, Vinny and Tommy Guns were huddled together talking.  With the music blasting, I wasn’t really participating in their conversation.

Griff leaned over towards me so I could hear him and said, “Nice place.”

“Yeah.”

“Some really nice lookin’ women in here.”

“Yeah.”

“I think I’ll try my luck.”

“Go for it.”

Two pretty girls walked towards us, and Griff looked like he was about to say something but never got the chance.  Vinny stepped in front of them, and before I knew it, he and Tommy had them cornered at the bar.  I couldn’t quite tell if the girls were into it or being held hostage.  Vinny and Tommy were a good twenty years their senior.  But the four of them started rapping.

Scrubby, suddenly the odd man out, flicked some dandruff flakes off his black, button-up dress shirt, then walked towards the men’s room.

I turned towards the door and saw two girls, both in tight-fitting sequin gowns.  One was Nicole Torretta.  She looked hot.  She walked in with her friend, the bartender from the Cucina.  The two of them strutted with such confidence.  They knew the entire joint was looking at them.  Maybe it was just me, but it was as if the music abruptly screeched to a halt and the lights went down, other than a bright spotlight that shone directly on Nicole.

Griff picked up on my interest.  He elbowed my gut and said, “She’s the boss’s daughter, bro.”

“I know.”

“Things are going good for us.  Don’t blow it.”

“I know.  I know,” I snapped.

“Use your head, Sean.”

I turned towards Griff and said firmly, “I heard you.  I know.”

But the truth was I didn’t know shit.  I was smitten.  I don’t know why.  I don’t know how.  Love at first sight maybe?  Sounds like bullshit.  Sounds too hokey, right?  But I had no control over myself when it came to Nicole Torretta.  From the moment I laid eyes on her, my fate was sealed.