Wiseguys In Love (12 page)

Tony got out quickly and opened the back door.

“You, get out.”

Michael and Michigan got out as Tony knocked on the door of the club. It was opened by Ralphie. Michael held on to Michigan's arm and they went inside.

“Keep a eye on her,” Tony ordered Ralphie, and Michael angrily pushed her into a chair.

It took a couple of minutes before they were beckoned into the inner room.

Lisa had a bad feeling about this.

She looked around, trying to figure out where they were.

There was a long bar at the end, near the door that Michael and Tony had gone through. A man behind the bar, short, balding, with greased back hair, was standing near a machine, waiting for coffee to drip out into a tiny porcelain cup. The smell of dark, strong espresso mixed with cigar smoke from a table where three old men were sitting.

Odd fake wood paneling lined the wall, up to a whitewashed stamped tin ceiling. Fluorescent lights slatted the ceiling. A large wooden crucifix was hung in the center of the back wall, over the bar. Four six-foot Formica tables sat in the room in front of the bar. Empty folding chairs were aligned at them.

She looked at the table of men, all staring silently at her, as though they'd never seen a woman before. Above their table, on the wall, an elaborately robed doll of the Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus was covered with a dirty clear plastic bag.

She stared back at the men and then watched the man behind the bar come around carrying the two cups. He was also staring at her. He stumbled on something, and she heard an odd yelp from the floor.

There was a huge black dog lying at the foot of one of the old men.

“Stunadze!”
The old man growled, and Lisa thought the waiter was going to drop the cups, he was shaking so hard. The man raised his hand to the waiter and then she noticed the oddest thing. Her eyes focused on what the old man was wearing. He was in a brown and white striped bathrobe and faded pale blue pajamas with small brown
V
's on it. Her eyes darted curiously down to the floor. He had on brown leather slippers. She looked back up at his face and was startled to see him staring angrily at her, as though it was a sin to notice his attire.

Another old man, wearing a faded white cap, a windbreaker, a plaid shirt, and a green pair of pants took a cane around front and leaned his arms and chin on it. His eyes were hypnotic, not blinking at her. He did not so much as glance up as the waiter put down the cup, nor when he went back behind the bar and came out with a bottle and two little glasses. She watched him shakily pour the clear liquid into each glass, and the one staring at her, without taking his eyes off her, waved him away.

She looked and gave them a weak smile, watching all three of them grimace, puzzled. Two of them began chewing on their fat cigars, looking her up and down. There was something obscene about what they were doing, and she looked away.

She looked up at Ralphie. He was also fat and balding, but younger, in his fifties, with big brown-tinted glasses in gold frames. His hair was slicked down, with several long strands combed across the bald crown. He wore a dark blue three-piece suit, light blue shirt, and solid dark tie. He leaned down, putting a hand on the table she was sitting at, and her eyes stuck on his large gold pinkie ring. It had an immense diamond in the center, surrounded by rubies in the shape of a horseshoe.

The waiter came over and hovered behind Ralphie, and she looked up at him. He licked his lips and she stared at the floor as hard as she could.

Yep, she definitely had a bad feeling about this.

*   *   *

Solly was popping Rolaids right and left as he listened to Tony talk. His eyes would get round and then narrow. They bulged when Tony got to the part where Michael had convinced him not to whack Michigan.

“So then, Solly, the girl took off an—”

He waved him quiet, and Tony stepped back.

“Aw right, aw right, enough already. You tellin' me you ain't taken care of Giuseppe Geddone yet? Is that what you saying?”

“Yes, Solly,” Tony whispered, looking at the floor. He shot Michael a glare.

“Whatta you
crazy?
I tell you to do somethin', you do that!” Solly screamed, slamming his fist on the table.

“Well you told us to help my aunt Rosa an—”

“Rosa!
Rosa!
Who you work for, me or Rosa, huh?” Solly stood up and Michael felt his knees begin to go.

“You, Solly—”

“Fahcrissake! Whatsa matta wid you? Get Geddone
now.
I don't care about Rosa.”

“Okay. We're gonna do it right now. Right this minute. We gonna go up to Harlem—”

“He ain't there no more. He got in his car, and Ralphie's people says he went to his office. He's probably halfway outta the country with my money. I don't believe it. I don't believe none of this.”

“Look, maybe he's still there. I'll find him, I swear. I'll find him tonight.”

“Yeah, that's right you'll find him tonight. If you don't, you don't come back here. You hear me, Tony?” he said, walking around the desk.

“I promise I'll make it right,” Tony stammered, and began to back out.

He turned after a moment.

“Whatta we do with the girl?”

“What girl?”

“Michigan.”

“Why, whatta you care?”

Tony swallowed, and Michael stared at the floor.

“She's out front.”

“You brought her
here?
” Solly's face was so red, Michael thought he was going to strangle in his collar.

They watched him walk around Tony, getting close to his face.

“You screwed this up, Tony. It ain't like you. Maybe your cousin here, the
smart
one,” he said, smacking the word
smart
like it was a disease, “maybe he got you all mixed up.… You listen to me, and you do everything in the order I say. First, you gonna get the girl the hell out of here. Then, you gonna track down Geddone and get my money back, and then you gonna settle with him for me. You hear?”

They both nodded.

“You do whatever you gotta do for Rosa later,
capisce?
”

They nodded, and Michael turned to the door.

“And the girl, Solly? What about the girl?” he heard Tony say.

“Whack her.”

*   *   *

Rosa Morelli positioned herself at her bedroom window, which faced the street. She had a high folding chair, which was her favorite for watching from the window. She'd taken a big pillow and laid it across the sill to pad her thick elbows from the hard wooden surface. An ashtray was balanced on the edge of the pillow and a liter bottle of cola sat on the floor next to her chair.

Her eyes followed the traffic on the avenue as she waited for Tony to come to her. Down below the sound of smashing glass drew her attention. She watched two men breaking into an old rusty station wagon parked in front of her building. They quickly pulled an overnight bag off the front seat and took off around the corner before she could blink her eyes.

What asshole would leave a car parked in this neighborhood with a bag on the front seat? she thought.

Must be one of them people from outta town, she concluded. She reached down and grabbed the soda bottle, then looked back down the avenue for signs of Tony.

*   *   *

Sophia's eyes were stuck on the kitchen clock, ticking away loudly in the silence of the room. There was a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach as she watched the big hand move to five past nine. The
trota
was wrapped and sat on the counter, like a beacon to the fact her son had not come home.

Why hadn't she said something that morning?

She began to drum her fingers on the kitchen table, trying to drown out the sound of the clock. She couldn't stand looking at the plate with the fish on it, so she got up and put it into the refrigerator. She looked tensely around the kitchen. All the dishes had been done, the floors and surfaces had been washed; she couldn't start washing the walls this time of night.

She sat down again and drummed her fingertips to the ticking as the words of the priest—she knew which one—went through her head again.

The dark confessional chamber of that morning came back to her and she was there.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.…” It had begun normally.

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

“Yesterday afternoon,” she'd answered quickly.

She had detected a sigh from the other side of the partition.

“And what are your confessions, my child?”

“I…” she had wavered. “I have neglected my child.” The words cut through her like a knife.

“In what way?” the familiar voice asked.

“I have been … grieving for my husband and I have neglected my child.” Her voice broke on the word
child.

“Mummhuh.”

“I heard some disturbing things this morning, Father D'Amico. About my son, my only son,” she said, breaking the anonymity of the confessional. She waited to hear him reply.

He did not.

“I had my son late,” she began. “I was already thirty ah…” She let her voice trail off, not wishing to add the exact age. “And he was the only child I had, we had, Vincent and me. We agreed, Vincent and me, that he would not be a common criminal, and now I find…”

She couldn't continue the thought.

“And now you have found…” he prodded her.

“He is in with very bad people—” She caught herself, as even explaining this to a priest was iffy. “Just people which his father and I had hoped would not be in his life, would not be his employers.” She groped for the words.

“And what do these people want him to do?”

“Something, something bad, I don't know what.”

“If you don't know what, how can you say it is bad?”

“I know these people, I know it is bad. These are not good people. He's doing this because he has no focus in his life. And he is being led through this confusion and I don't know what to do,” she said, then exhaled sharply.

“And what do you blame this on?”

She exhaled and then drew a sharp breath.

“Me.”

There was a long pause, and she could see the outlines of Father D'Amico as he rubbed his chin, the way he did when there was something he had to say. She waited and waited. At last, she heard him cough.

“Sophia, you have been coming to my church for the last two years.”

“Yes.”

“And while I'm not in the habit of discouraging regular attendees, I can honestly say that you've been here sometimes more than my nuns have.”

“I wish to be a good Christian,” she defended herself quickly.

“Yes, and you are, you are a good Christian, Sophia Bonello, but”—he gave a sigh—“for twenty-eight years I see you for the holidays maybe, and that is all, but since the tragic death of your husband two years ago, now, all I see is you. I am not ungrateful, understand me, but you are not a nun, and here you are always, every morning when I come in, and every evening when I leave.”

“I know,” she said near tears. “I
know.
” She began to weep.

“Grieving death is a necessary and good thing. We must do it; we must remember our dead and all the joy that they brought to us but…” His voice trailed off.

“But what?” she asked almost frantically.

“But there comes a time when you have to say, ‘I am alive, I am still here, and I must continue on and have a life which the good Lord wants.' Otherwise, he would have taken you, too. To make yourself no life on this earth is to spit in God's face, Sophia. I watch you here, day after day, and believe me, I wish I had as many people as dedicated, but you are masking your life with this grief. I watch you at the candles, lighting them for hours. After you have gone for your cannoli and your chitchat, you come flying back here!”

She bowed her head, nodding in recognition. Yes, she did that. She did that for a stupid, superstitious reason.

It was just after Vincent died. She couldn't eat. She would lie in bed, eventually falling into a light sleep for a moment or two and then would wake with a start.

“Vincent? Vincent? I had the worst nightmare,” she would begin, half in a dream state, and grope beside her in the empty bed, until a thunderbolt would go through her as she realized it was not a dream, that he really was gone. After so many years with this man, she could not sleep without his familiar weight sagging down the mattress next to her, the rhythm of his snoring lulling her to sleep. It was now dark and quiet, empty and alone in her bed.

In church, she felt better, and that was when the eerie thing began to happen. She would light candles for him, trying to light up every candle on the eight-tiered rack. The first time she got all the candles lighted, she stood back, watching them, and suddenly they began to flicker, and a cold breeze hit the back of her neck, like a cold hand gently caressing her, as if Vincent was standing behind her, caressing her. She had turned quickly and the feeling had gone away. The odd thing was that she had been all alone in the church; there were no open doors or windows.

She began to light candles every day, waiting for the breeze.

She thought back with scorn to her mother's warnings when she'd announced her intention to marry him.

Her mother was Piedmontese, high Italian, who scorned Vincent because of his ancestry. His people were from Vico Equense, not quite as bad as Naples in her mother's eyes, but unthinkable still as a marriage partner.

“You never go with them. They will bring you many years of unhappiness. They are all crooks and murderers,” she'd said, dismissing the thought. That was all a near-Neapolitan merited. “The people in the south, they have no education, no sense of beauty or style. They eat all those red sauces, which ruin their stomachs—the only people worse are Sicilian; they are the true pigs of the earth.” The words still rang as clearly in Sophia's ears this day as the day her mother had said them.