Wiseguys In Love (28 page)

Tony looked at his watch. He knew Joey D.'s hangout on the East Side. He wanted to cruise around there just to make sure Angela wasn't with him. He stared in the rearview mirror. He couldn't go looking for Angela with Lisa in the car. He stared over at his cousin. He knew it wasn't fair, but he'd just have to stick Mikey with her for another night. He still wanted to get Michigan out on a date, but his mind kept wandering back to Angela.

She'd finally shown him a little respectability, trying to attack him on the lawn that way. And he liked the way her body had felt underneath him again. She'd dropped a couple of pounds, he could tell.

He stared up at the building and began to rationalize leaving his post. This fruitcake wasn't coming home tonight, anyways. He'd called awhile ago and got one of those machines. And besides, his Aunt Rosa couldn't cash a check in the middle of the night.

“Mikey, I got something to do,” he said, staring over at him. He watched Michael blink. “You want me to take youse back to the Plaza?”

*   *   *

Henry rolled over and opened his eyes to look at the clock. Andy Warhol's head was on four, and his other head was on twelve. He yawned, debating whether or not he should get up. He could go to Downtown Beirut, a club in the East Village. He sat up and the room began to spin from lack of alcohol.

He lay back down. His mother must be joking about his trust, he thought, and began to pass out again.

*   *   *

The same bellhop who had been on duty the night before opened the door to the room.

“No luggage, sir?” he'd asked, knowing full well there was none. Michael didn't even bother to answer. He shoved a single in his hand and closed the door behind him. He leaned against the door and gazed at Lisa.

She slowly walked over to him and ran her hands along the smooth, stiff lapel of his jacket. She slipped her hands inside and ran them up, lifting the coat off his shoulders. He felt it slide down his arms, and he let it drop to the floor next to his feet. She ran her hands across his chest—avoiding his holster—and up to his tie. She silently began to loosen it. He grabbed her hands for a moment, then pushed them away and undid his own tie.

He was going to be strong.

He pulled it off around his neck and she took it from him and dropped it on the floor, on top of his coat. He quickly unbuckled his holster and it dropped to the floor with a thud. He stared down at it as her hands went back to his chest, and he felt himself begin to tingle as she touched him. He let her hands wander down to his waist, and then he grabbed her wrists again. She stared up into his face.

“I am not going to touch you. Do you hear me, Lisa?”

She nodded.

“Last night was … a mistake. And I'm not going to touch you.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew in twenty minutes flat he was going to have his shirt and pants unbuttoned, and she was going to kiss him as she did it, going lower and lower, making him shake and tingle, and he was going to pull her up and undress her the same way, but slowly and carefully tonight. He was going to spend the night making love to her because he'd spent the whole day thinking about it, about why he shouldn't, and how if he was stuck with her again tonight he'd be strong and not lead himself on, all the while imagining what it would be like to touch her again.

He was screwed.

“I am
not
going to touch you,” he added one last futile time as she wrapped her arms around his neck and began to kiss him.

*   *   *

Tony stared at the dance floor. He watched Angela lean over the bar, looking for something, as the music beat so loudly, Tony could feel the floorboards vibrate through his shoes. Smoky lights danced around, zooming up and down and changing colors every thirty seconds or so, it seemed to him.

It made him dizzy, watching them whirl. He stood silently, watching her through the crowd.

It wasn't good she was there. He looked around and couldn't see Joey D.

Scumbag was probably in the bathroom somewhere.

Angela was lighting herself a cigarette, when she turned and waved, and Tony watched Joey D. slip his arm around her.

That was enough for Tony.

He'd missed dinner at his mother's two nights in a row, for what? he thought, getting hungry.

He turned and walked out, down the dark back corridor, and out to the back lot, where the owners parked their cars. A bouncer walked over to him, asking him what he was doing.

“I'm looking for Joey D.'s car. Could youse point out which one it is?” he asked, staring down at this man who was supposed to be the new muscle at the club.

“I'm sorry, I can't give out that information. Would you please leave now, sir?”

“Look, I just need to know which one it is—” Tony began as the usual security guy came down the corridor.

“Fred—” he began and then stopped as he caught sight of Tony. “Mr. Macarelli, what can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if you could point out Joey D.'s car for me.”

“Of course, anything you want,” he said, walking out the door and into the lot.

Tony was led to a rented town car, and with much apology the security guy backed off into the club.

“You know who that was?” Tony heard the regular bouncer explain. “Tony Macarelli.”

“Tony Mac? Aw jeez,” the second one said, and then they both were out of earshot.

Joey D. must be dumb, he thought. After what happened to his car last night, anyone else woulda gotten the hint. Tony turned his full attention to the car. He stared through the side door, and saw the keys, hanging in the ignition. He opened the door, got in, and drove it out of the lot. He drove it over to Ninth Avenue to the Westside Car Shop, and pulled it in back. He sat and honked the horn twice, until Gus, the night guy, came out.

Gus was in his usual mechanic suit and he gave Tony a big smile as he walked around the car, appraising it and chewing steadily on a fat cigar he always had in his mouth. He got back to the driver's side as Tony rolled down the window.

“Tony, I ain't seen you for how many years now?” his deep, raspy Louis Armstrong voice rumbled as he held out his hand.

“I dunno, Gus, five, maybe.”

“So you back in the car business?”

“Naw, this is just a special case,” he said, and turned off the ignition, took the keys, and got out.

“How much?” Gus asked after giving the car one last going-over.

“This one's on me, for all the times you took what I had,” Tony said, dropping the keys into Gus's hand.

He watched Gus stare at the key ring.

“Avis, huh?” Gus said as Tony walked toward the front.

“Top of the line. Not many miles on it, neither. See youse around,” Tony added, and walked back out to Ninth Avenue.

He stepped off the curb and hailed a cab back to the club to pick up his car. Gus would probably have the thing stripped down to nothing in twenty minutes. Now he wanted to see what fuckin' Joey D. would do about this here thing he'd just done.

He drove straight back to Brooklyn. Tomorrow, he was going to track down this fruitcake for Rosa if it was the last thing he did. He couldn't waste no more time on this.

He hummed, clicked on the radio, and listened to the early-morning news.

Maybe there was some of that stuffed veal left he could heat up.

*   *   *

Sophia walked into her house and down the hall toward the kitchen. She tapped on Michael's door and waited for a moment, then slowly opened it up. He hadn't come home tonight, either. She carefully closed the door and continued into the kitchen. She put the bag down on the table and took Vincent's old gun out of it. She put it back in the drawer with the string and scissors, muttering to herself that she should just get rid of the thing.

She put a pot of water on the stove for coffee and sat down tiredly. She was not used to being up this late; she was too old for this. She rubbed her chin with her hand and stared at the old enameled kitchen tabletop.

She remembered Rosa's face as she wept about her pension and her retirement and not being able to go to Florida. It was true, she felt sorry and bad for Rosa about what this snake in her office had done, but she was hardly sorry enough to sacrifice her only son. No, there was another way out of this. Sophia glanced up at the kitchen clock, shaped like a teakettle. She couldn't bother Gina this time of night. She wondered where Michael was and what he was doing, and she was going to go to church in an hour or two and pray he hadn't done anything yet. And then she was going to have another long talk with Vincent, as she lit a candle for him, and try and find out what he would have done in this position.

The coffee water was boiling, and she was drowsy as she poured it over the grounds.

*   *   *

The next morning, Lisa was washing her hair in the bathroom and Michael was adjusting his tie when room service arrived carrying a tray with coffee and juice.

Michigan probably wouldn't be so bad, he thought as he paid the guy and closed the door. All right, it would be cold, but what the hell, it was better than going for the big chill here in New York. He poured himself a cup of coffee and heard the water in the shower shut off.

“Lisa, you want a cup of coffee?” he yelled in to her.

“Yes, I'll be out in a minute.”

Lisa stared at her face in the mirror. She'd slept with him again. She'd thrown herself at him, something she had never done.

God, it felt good.

Michael sipped his coffee and looked out the window at the hot, steamy city. In the end of August in New York, a smoky film of haze always settled in, sometimes looking like fog, but all the time trapping hot, dirty air amidst the walls of skyscrapers.

He stared out at it and then walked over and switched on the TV. He poured a cup for her as she walked out, a large white towel wrapped on her head like a turban. She kissed him and took the cup, holding it in both hands like a precious egg. She took a sip and sat down on the couch.

“So I thought—” Michael had just begun when he heard a gasp and the sound of a breaking cup behind him. He turned and saw her, pale and shaking, standing up, pointing at the television.

His eyes immediately darted to it. The sight of the union office building, surrounded by police cars and reporters, was staring back at him. He grabbed the remote and turned it up just as the screen flashed back to the studio. He heard the anchor say, “And now for the weather.”

“Oh God! Oh my God!” he heard Lisa say, her voice high and panicking. He shut the thing off and grabbed her, shaking her by the shoulders.

“Stop it! You've got to get a grip on yourself!” he said as loudly as he could, trying to bring her past the thoughts he knew were running through her head.

“Michael, they found him … they found him, oh my God! I should have turned myself in. I should have done it last night—”

“Stop it, Lisa. Just stop it,” he said, and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her.

She was shaking all over and whimpering into his shoulder. He began to talk fast.

“Okay, they found him, they were going to, anyway. It would have been better if they had done it on Monday—we could have gotten out of town by the time they figured out—but they haven't figured out anything. Listen to me, Lisa. They don't know it's us. They don't have anything on either one of us. All we have to do is get out of town and away from Tony and all this crap.”

The phone rang and Lisa let out a scream and jumped to her feet, staring at it, frozen. It rang again and Michael, who had been just as paralyzed, finally snapped to and picked it up. He stood still and nodded as he listened to Tony, then hung up.

“We're late. He's on his way up,” he said, staring at her.

“He's here?” she squeaked at him, and he gave her a rough hug.

“Now, let's calm down. We have to stop him fast and get out of town.”

“We'll never get away from this. We'll never get out. Why didn't I call the police? Why didn't I go back to Michigan last year? Oh God, why didn't I go to Connecticut, why—”

“Yeah, why didn't I just go back to school—but I didn't and you didn't. Now listen to me. I don't want to chance sneaking out. He'll shoot on sight if he needs to. We're going to have to shoot him,” Michael said.

They stared at each other, startled.

“I can't shoot another person, Michael. For God's sake, I shot the last guy I—”

“Not kill him, just maim him, to slow him down,” Michael said quickly, and they both stared at each other again.

It wasn't until he'd just heard it come out of his mouth that he knew it was the right thing, the only thing to do. No, he couldn't kill his cousin. But if he could just shoot him, maybe in the leg or the arm, and then run.… Michael thought this over.

Tony was there to pick them up and go back down to the loft on Grand Street. They could wait until he was getting out of the car, then Michael could pull the gun on him and shoot him in the thigh or the arm. At that close a range, he could probably even hit him. He looked at Lisa. She was a better shot than he was. She had sunk down on the couch.

No, he'd have to do it. Then what?

Michael began to pace back and forth. He walked over to the door, bent down, and picked up the holster and his jacket. He dropped the jacket on the couch, took the gun out of its holster, and stood staring at it, feeling the cold weight in his hand. He felt himself exhale shakily, trying to reconcile actually using the thing, and he passed it from one hand to the other, almost as if he was trying to decide which hand it felt best in. He'd have to disarm him. He knew Tony. Even shot in the leg, he'd go for them. And
he
was a good shot, a real shooter.

He stared at his jacket. He'd have to keep it in his pocket. He couldn't take the time to reach into his holster if he was going to pull it on Tony.