The Real Thing (27 page)

This is so sad! “How did Connie take it?”

His eyes widen. “Con was
infuriata.
‘What you tell him for?' she says. Her English was not so good. ‘What about Dante? What if he finds out?'” Vincent rubs at his eyes. “I had no words for her. When Con was angry, there was no use trying.”

I think I would have gotten along fine with Dante's mama. Oh sure, we would have argued nonstop, but . . . I like what I hear about this woman.

Maybe not the conceiving of her son in a restaurant part, but...

“When Danny didn't come back,” Vincent continues, “Con made up this story. It wasn't really a lie. She tells Dante he's not coming back, don't ask about him, don't worry, I'll take care of you, we don't need him.”

“After Danny was gone for so long, did you ever, I don't know, want to marry Connie?” I ask.

He nods vigorously. “I wanted to marry her, but . . .” He flattens his hands on the table, and they're Dante's huge hands. “Con was still
infuriata.
So many times I almost told Dante, so many times I hugged him, kissed him, gave him advice about the ladies, slipped him some money for Con, for new gloves, for new shoes, for money to spend any way he wanted.”

This is depressing. Vincent was an arm's length or less from his son, and his son didn't know his father was kissing and hugging him.

“It's good to know Danny's alive and well,” Vincent says. “I was always worried he was, you know, dead.”

“Danny's married.”

“Yeah?”

“He owns a store in Canada.”

“Yeah? He always talked about being his own boss. Danny never liked working for nobody. He got any kids?”

I nod. “All grown, and he has five grandkids. He provided for them, huh?”

Vincent's body jerks. “So did I. You think Con could afford that place of hers without some help? I helped. All my tips went into that place or to Dante's gear. I tried paying for his college classes, too, but Dante was already pro then and could afford them on his own. I begged him to let me help with Con's funeral, but he said he had everything covered. He was stubborn as Con was.”

I agree. “Did you still continue to see Connie?”

“You think I didn't want to? Con was beautiful. She was . . . so frail, like a china figurine. I wanted to, but I couldn't.” He tattoos the table with his fingers. “Carroll Gardens talks. All those stoops. All those women yakking day and night. I was her friend instead. I was Dante's friend, too.”

Unfulfilled. I know just how he feels. I'm only Dante's friend, too. “How do you think Dante will react when he finds out?”

“You are going to tell him?”

I shake my head. “I won't tell him, Mr. Baldini. In fact, I won't write a single word about any of this.”

“Bene.”
He looks at me.
“Grazie.”

I can fully swing the hammer now. “But you will. And soon.”

He nods. “I should. I will. The next time I see him.”

“I'm gonna hold you to that.”

“I should have done it a long time ago,” he says, stealing and eating one of my olives. “I wish I could be at the fight tonight.”

“You won't be there?”

He shakes his head. “I have to work a double shift. We are never busier than when Dante fights. I have not missed a fight of his in New York until this day, and this could be his greatest moment. Monte's letting us get the pay-per-view, though. I will watch.” He touches my hand. “Christiana, I am sorry for all my rudeness. I don't want you to think I am a
boia
.”

I blink.

“I don't want you to think I am a jerk.”

I smile. “Vincent, I think you are a good
boia
down deep.”

He smiles. “You make the jokes.”

I squeeze his hand. “You are his father. I understand how protective a father can be. Dante is just as protective of your grandson, DJ. And trust me, I am fully on Dante's side now.”

“
Bene
. He is a good boy.”

“And he'll make a good son.”

Vincent nods. “What you wrote I said in the
Times.
I meant that when I said that.”

I nod. “And I meant it more when I wrote it.” I point to a spot behind the bar. “You should put that on a sign, too. ‘When you don't know what you're talking about . . .' ”

“Don't say anything,” Vincent says. “I like the way you turned it around, too.” He looks at his hands. “You're his friend, right?”

“Yes.”

“You think you could maybe . . . bring him and DJ here one day?”

I would like nothing more than to be sitting next to Dante here! “I'll try.”

“But when he wins tonight, I'm sure he'll be very busy,” I say.

He pats my hands. “You will bring him here. You have
coglione.
”

I don't know if that is a compliment. “What do I have?”

He weighs something invisible in one hand.
“Coglione.”

Oh.
Those
. “Um, thank you.” I think.

He shrugs and smiles. “I mean it in the nicest way. Dante is wise to have friends like you.” He looks around. “Just go easy on him with your writing from now on.
Mio dio,
you have a mean way with words.”

I stand. “I mean what I write, Vincent. If it just happens to
be
mean, so be it.”

He groans. “So glad you no longer write for the
Times.
”

I lean down and whisper, “I'll be going back to the
Times
next week.”

He drops his head to his chest.
“Coglione.”
He shakes his head, rubbing his chin on his chest.
“Dio santo!
I hope he wins.”

I lift his chin. “He will win, Vincent. He has to. He's your son.”

My driver, sated and not smelling of alcohol—I check—returns me to the office, and I pay him one hundred twenty dollars. He hands back a twenty. “Whenever you need a car, and you're going to Monte's, ask for Paolo Mancini. Do not ask for Paolo Olivera. He does not appreciate fine dining as I do.”

In my barren office, I reconsider the last year working for
Personality
. I've had every so-called “story” handed to me. I've been “handled” by publicists and agents. I've met people I wouldn't even share a cab with on the coldest and rainiest of days. I've taken posed pictures of celebrities posing as people. I've been to surreal places with otherworldly views and have met surreal
people
with otherworldly views.

I need to put my feet back on the pavement. Just talking to Vincent sealed it. I've been blindly going through life in so many ways, writing spoon-fed stories that didn't challenge me or give me a real reason to work hard. Other than my interlude with Dante, this past year has had less drama, fewer surprises, and much less danger than the
quietest
year I spent at the
Times.
I've been leading a soft and sweet marshmallow existence, but I've eaten so much of it I'm feeling sick.

I'm sick of puff pieces. I'm sick of fake people. I'm sick of the surface-ness of life. I know that's not a word, but it should be. The world is not hunky-dory. Celebrities cannot save the planet no matter how many hybrid Hummers they own. Celebrities cannot solve the world's hunger problems with one concert. Celebrities cannot stop terrorism with one movie. Celebrities cannot save rain forests they've never seen nor fully understand AIDS without seeing its many victims up close. They claim to be environmentally conscious, but are they conscious? Do they really know how 99.99% of the world really lives?

An actress
plays
the part of a crackhead or a waitress. An actor
plays
the role of a tough cop or heroic firefighter. They only play at reality, then go home and lead extraordinary lives. And how does
Personality
reward them? By giving them a glossy cover for surviving their
first
year of marriage while millions of real couples survive many years more.

Do I respect their gifts? Sure. I can't do what they do nor would I even want to try, because I'm too busy living. Celebrities are too distant from the very people they're trying to depict. How can they ever provide realistic portrayals of people they've never been or met? Sure, I identify with some of the characters they play, but again—it's only play. Someone yells, “Cut!” when things get too intense or dangerous. Stars get to replay scenes that don't go well. I only get to replay them in my mind or relive them in my fantasies. We the people don't have their luxuries. No one yells, “Cut!” when someone cuts us off in traffic or butts ahead of us in line. No one gives us a do-over when the police pull us over, we miss the train, or we write or say something we shouldn't have written or said. No one provides us a stunt double when the building we work in crashes to the ground. No one makes us look beautiful every morning or makes dresses especially for us. We the people have to work at it. We the people have to be real all the time.

It's time for me to be real.

I call and leave a message with Mel. “I'll be in your office Tuesday.” I have to use Monday to clear out of my office and turn in my keys and credentials. It might even be a Monday in New York that doesn't suck.

I am going to resign and go back to the
Times.

Typing a letter of resignation takes me about a minute:

Christiana Artis

I print it out and slide it under Shelley's door. Hmm. The cleaning staff might toss it. For good measure, I paste my resignation into an e-mail and send it to Shelley. Then, I get ready for the fight, curling my hair in the bathroom.

I start humming “My Way” and pose for the mirror.

I'm almost myself again.

It feels good.

When I hit the doors to the street for what will be the
second
to the last time ever, I say, “Brooklyn has left the building.”

Chapter 30

T
axis creep past as I walk through a world lit up by rainbows down Sixth Avenue to Forty-second Street. The year's first snow filters through those multicolored lights turning Times Square into a land of magic. I duck under some Kodak screens in front of the Marriott Marquis on Broadway and call Red's cell phone.

“Girl,” Red says, “you and your mouth show up at the worst possible times. HBO cameras are filming me taping Dante's hands as we speak.”

I look up at the Astrovision screen on the Reuters Building and see Red taping Dante's left hand, a cell phone pinned to Red's ear by his shoulder. “Red, I see you. I'm in Times Square watching you on TV.”

“I'm kind of busy here,” he growls.

The ten-foot-tall Red's lips move just a tick slower.

This is so surreal. I must be having an out-of-body experience. “Just give Dante a message for me.”

“You tell him, but talk fast.” Red hands the phone to Dante on the screen.

“Are you here?” Dante asks.

Just to hear his voice after all these months . . . And I'm
seeing
him speak to me. I have to get a video phone. Oh. And so does he. Hmm.

“Christiana?”

He said my name! I have fully left my body and am floating over Times Square. I'm jaywalking in the air!

“Christiana?”

Any lip-readers in Times Square would have “heard” my name! “Um, I'm not there yet, Dante. I should be there soon. I'm watching you talking to me on the big screen in Times Square.” I notice a man leaning in toward my phone. “You're, um, huge,” I whisper.

The eavesdropper leans even closer, and I back away.

“Good!” Dante says. “Thank you for sending me your picture. Did you catch anything that day?”

“No.” I'm in Times Square talking about fishing with a boxer. Only in America. “Red Hook fish don't attack like Canadian smallmouth. You have any luck in Virginia?”

“Nothing like what you caught.”

My eavesdropper is getting even closer. I step completely away from him and stand close to the Marquis. “I just wanted to say good luck.”

“
Grazie.
I read the
Times
this morning.
Saggia
. Finally, I say to myself, an honest writer with heart.”

“Grazie.”
Whoo. I'm starting to sweat. “Keep jabbing, okay?”

“I will.
Ciao
.” He hands the phone to Red and makes a fist with his left hand, flexing his fingers, and smiling directly. . . at me. Okay, he's smiling at thousands of other people in Times Square and millions of people around the world, too, but . . .

That smile was for me.

The eavesdropper clears his voice loudly. “Were you just talking to Dante Lattanza?”

He seems harmless enough, both his gloved hands where I can see them, one hand clutching a camera like the
turista
he most likely is.

“Yeah,” I say, and I start walking.

“No kiddin',” he says, falling in step beside me. “Dante ‘Blood and Guts' Lattanza.” He points to the screen where Red is taping Dante's right hand.

“Yeah. He's a . . . he's a good friend of mine.”

The man smiles. “Well, what do you know? I guess it's all or nothing tonight, huh?”

“Yeah.” I start to move more quickly down Broadway.

The man walks a few paces behind me. “No disrespect, but I bet with my head. My money's on Washington.”

I stop and face him. “You wasted your money.”

He shrugs. “Hey, I hope Lattanza kicks his ass seven ways to Sunday, but . . .” He shrugs again.

I look up at the snow drifting down. “I hope he wins, too.”

The man fades into the crowd, and I fade into a little pity party as I walk. I haven't had one of these in quite a while, and I really should be feeling good about my life. I mean, I realized I was working at the wrong place, and I quit before it was too late. I know I'll have a job at the
Times
on Tuesday. I also found Dante's daddy, and though it's up to Vincent to reveal himself to Dante, at least I had the
coglione
to start the process. I am in the best shape of my life. I am more of a
corpo provocante
than I've ever been before. Men are looking hard at me even now as I walk confidently wearing a
pericoloso
jacket.

But I'm walking alone.
Merda.
I'm walking alone.

If Dante wins, I lose. I know he's going to win. He'll go back to Evelyn, and I'll restart my life at the
Times.
Fresh starts all around.

And then I'll really be alone.

I turn down Seventh Avenue, hoping the scenery will change my mood. This is such a magical place with all its magical lights and magical snow. Tonight New York is miraculous. New York is be-
you
-tiful.

Back to the pity party.

Okay. If by some miracle, let's say Dante loses. Geez. It hurts my heart just to think that. But let's just say, all right? He doesn't go back to Evelyn, he's heartbroken again over this woman, and he'll go into hiding from the press, especially the woman who alerted the press to his “fighting for love” claims in the first place....

I lose again.

One little problem.

I love him.

I even told him to his face, and there were times his eyes told me that he loved me. He said he believed that sex could only come after love, and we had lots of sex. Yes, he's hot and the sex was hotter, but I actually want to be friends with Dante for the rest of my life. Yeah, he makes my heart flutter and all my naughty bits tingle, but I liked myself when I was with him. I was busy with him. I didn't just get busy with him. He let me be a woman.

I've always wanted a man like that.

And I not only love him.

I like him.

That in itself is an earth-shattering and priorities-rearranging statement.

I like him.

I know how Lelani feels. I
like
Dante Lattanza. I like who he is. I like what he represents. I love all that granite, mind you, but behind his granite is a truly likable man.

I've been wearing the cross under my blouse for so long I sometimes forget it's there. I pull it out and kiss it, saying a little prayer:

“God, make it end in a draw. Maybe then I'll have a chance.”