Respect

  I fought the urge to say that Lennox wasn’t Carmine’s grandchild, but I refrained. In reality, the generalization was a compliment, coming from Vincent. “He wouldn’t have it,” I said.

  “He told Pop that he tried another route. He offered this guy another option. The old man has money to burn. Pop said his house is a fucking castle.” Vincent shrugged. “Anyway, the guy refused. He said he didn’t want money, only his daughter and freedom. I’m here for only one reason.”

  I closed my eyes and opened them, hoping that maybe I’d be back in the cool car in front of the dilapidated house. When I opened them, I was staring at the same man who’d walked out of that house, but instead of just being the driver, this time I was the assailant. “You’re here for me. It’s like Costello life 101 all over again.”

  “I’m here to help you. We’re here to help this man find his freedom. He’s just going to do it alone. And give yourself some credit,” Vinny said with a too-casual grin. “I’m not a college guy, but don’t the numbers go up? You’re past the 100 level. I’d say if you do well on this trip, you’re ready to graduate.”

  Costello training 400 level. Vincent taught me in my final class that it wasn’t enough to see the intended victim. Not if the cause of death was to be an accident. If this had been a simple hit, no real contact was necessary—simply say goodbye and pull the trigger. This was different. My negotiating skills were needed to learn Russell Collins’s habits, his likes and dislikes. It was like a fucking blind date.

  Just before I walked up to the man I knew wouldn’t be alive in twenty-four hours, I turned to Vincent who was sitting at a table near the back of the hotel bar. “I don’t want this for Lennox.”

  “You’ve got balls. I’ll give you that.”

  I looked to the man who was my wife’s cousin, my boss’s son...to the man who had been my teacher and friend, the man who would one day be in charge. He’d trusted me with his family when times were rough. I wanted to trust him with mine.

  “One day it’ll be you in the big house with the goons. We all know that. It could be you now if you wanted, if the boss was ready to step down.”

  “Ain’t anyone who steps down.”

  “I made my decisions and agreed to all of this the day I married your cousin. One day it’ll be you who makes the decisions. I don’t want this for Lennox.”

  “This life’s an honor. One day I’ll take after my father, who took after his father. It’s what Luca will do, what he should do. The honorable thing. The respected thing. You don’t want Lennox to be honorable?”

  “I want Lennox to have choices.”

  “Family isn’t a choice.”

  “It can be. It can be your choice.”

  “Don’t disappoint me or Pop. The future isn’t written.”

  It wasn’t a promise, but it was the best I’d get. I’d have to hold tight to what Vincent said, knowing that my future actions weren’t for some old man in Georgia to benefit from a debt an old man in Brooklyn owed. What I was about to do was for my son, for the future of Demetri—my family’s future, not the company. What I was about to do was pay a debt so my son wouldn’t.

  For over an hour I talked with Russell Collins. For an Irishman, he was friendly enough and a little too honest. The mess with his wife weighed heavily on his mind. His golden eyes dulled as he spoke about his loveless marriage to an ice princess. He mentioned that her family had money. He didn’t make it sound like it was excessive, yet from what Vincent had told me it was.

  He simply wanted out. And yet when he spoke about their daughter, his demeanor changed. His cheeks glowed with love and pride to match his red hair, and the gold of his eyes glittered. Only three years old, she was obviously the joy of his life.

  “I don’t think I could take my son away from his mother,” I confessed as I sipped my second beer.

  Collins scoffed. “Then I bet your wife is a mother in more ways than just giving birth. You know, like she takes care of your son?”

  “She does it all,” I confessed. “I’m...busy a lot.”

  “My wife isn’t busy. She’s home. She wouldn’t know work if it bit her on her skinny ass. That doesn’t mean she takes care of our girl. No, there’s a nanny.” He lifted his glass. “Damn good one too. I’m hoping she’ll leave with us.”

  My eyebrows rose. “You interested in her?”

  His laughter filled the bar. “No. Not like that. But she loves Alex. She’s more of a mother than my wife could ever be.” He took another drink of his sweet tea. Damn Southerner couldn’t even be a drinker. “Honestly, my wife didn’t have a great example. Her parents are wacked, too. That’s why I have to get Alexandria out of there. I don’t want her to fall in the same mold. I wouldn’t be surprised if my father-in-law doesn’t think he has her whole future mapped out. Not my girl. She’ll be what her mother isn’t, a fighter. I’ll see to that or I’ll die trying.

  “Shit!” he said, looking up at the television above the bar.

  My eyes followed. Across the top of the screen was a ticker declaring Jeff Gordon the winner of whatever race we were watching.

  Recalling my backyard barbeque experiences, I zeroed in on this man’s interests. We’d talked too much about his wife and daughter. His unhappiness may be a cause of heartache, but it wouldn’t work for a tragic accident.

  “You don’t like Gordon?”

  “I’m from Georgia. Bill Elliott is my man. And this win will help Gordon in the points race, not that Bill has a chance. Mostly, I’m pissed the damn race ended on caution. That’s not how any race should end. If they’d lifted it—even with a few laps to go—we could’ve had a sprint to the end.”

  “You said you like racing?” I asked.

  “The faster the better.”

  “Ever think of driving one of those cars?”

  His lips curled upward. “One year, when we were first married, my wife gave me a...” He lifted his hands and made air quotes. “‘...race-car fantasy weekend.’ Let me say, other than having our daughter, it was by far the best damn thing the woman has ever done for me—ever.” He lifted his glass. “She’s not much in the giving department...if you know what I mean.”

  I grinned as I flagged down the bartender for one more beer. While I wasn’t interested in his wife’s inabilities in the bedroom—because we both know that was where this conversation was headed—the information on fast driving was my ticket. This give-and-take between us wasn’t so much a negotiation as it was an interrogation. The trick was not letting him know that. To do that, I needed to share too.

  “I don’t have any complaints about my wife in that department as long as she’s talking to me.”

  He slapped the bar. “Don’t you love that silent bullshit?”

  “No, not really.”

  “It’s like I wish mine would raise her voice or get angry. Instead, she’s dead inside—nothing there, always the perfect aristocrat. It’s bullshit and I’m over it. Telling her our marriage was done was liberating.”

  “I’m not sure I want to admit that to myself or my wife.” I confessed. “I know we aren’t where we once were...” It was the first time I’d said aloud that my marriage was in trouble. I figured it was safe. Vincent couldn’t hear me, and this man wouldn’t be sharing anyone’s secrets after tomorrow. “Oh, but let me say, my wife is good at raising her voice. She can also do the silent thing. I think you’re right: I prefer the fight. It gets the blood pumping.

  “So,” I asked, switching gears. “...the race-car thing does that for you? Gets your blood pumping?”

  “Oh, let me tell you, in 1987, Bill Elliott set a record, not there...” He pointed to the screen of the television again. “...at Talladega. He clocked a lap at 212.8 miles per hour. That would be fantastic! I’ve never come close to that speed. Even the race-car-weekend thing was monitored for safety bullshit. But near Savannah, where I live, there are some open roads. My speedometer tops out on my car at 160. I’ve had it sitting there for miles. The hills and curves..
.it’s a high I can’t even describe...”

  A few days later I was sitting in Carmine’s home office, and he handed me a newspaper clipping. It was the proof of my allegiance. The edges were smooth, the color black and white. The date at the top told me it was from a recent publication, the Savannah Morning News:

  Russell T. Collins, of Savannah, Georgia, passed away unexpectedly early Monday, May 27, 1996, at the age of 31. Russell is predeceased by his parents, Marshall and Joyce Collins. He is survived by his loving wife of nearly seven years, Adelaide Montague Collins. Russell and Adelaide married June 10, 1989. He is also survived by their daughter, Alexandria Charles Montague Collins. Russell is lovingly remembered by his wife, daughter, and all who knew him and his love and devotion for his family and Montague Corporation. Services will be private. The family requests no flowers; however, contributions may be made in Russell’s name to Emory University.

  My stomach twisted as I read...loving wife. It was a nicer spin than the stories he’d told me. Was that how my obituary would read?

  Though my gut continued to churn, my expression remained stoic. I’d done what had been asked of me. Once again.

  But at what cost?

  A part of me died with the red-haired, golden-eyed man, a part I’d never be able to revive. Even so, even with the loss of a part of my own soul, the incident hadn’t been as upsetting to me as Carmine’s shooting. I decided that made it worse. Like Vincent all those years ago at the dilapidated house, I’d accepted my actions.

  The humanity seeped from my soul as I made a small hole in the rental car’s brake cylinder. A few stops would have been doable, but then as the car made its way onto the open highway early Monday morning as Russell Collins drove himself to the airport, the fluid would be gone. Undoubtedly, the pedal when depressed had made its way to the floor. That small defect could have been discovered at the scene were it not for the cocktail containing gasoline within a flammable container in the trunk of the car. Highly combustible, the concoction ignited upon impact. With nothing in the cocktail or the container foreign to the products within any automobile, the mixture was virtually untraceable.

  Perhaps a factory defect?

  The final result was not printed in the obituary. The small clipping hadn’t said that Russell Collins had been driving at an excessive speed, that he had been unable to slow his vehicle despite coming upon a congested area of traffic. It didn’t say that he opted to hit a steel side rail instead of killing another person with his out-of-control rental car. It didn’t say that as an experienced driver familiar with the safety features, he probably assumed he’d walk away with scratches and maybe a broken bone or two. The obituary didn’t say that the car was immediately engulfed in flames. It didn’t say that the fire was so intense that Russell’s realization—the one where he realized that his time on this earth was about to end—probably never fully filled his consciousness. It didn’t say that based on the conversation he’d had the night before with a complete stranger, the stranger assumed Russell Collins’s last thought wasn’t about saving himself, but about his red-haired three-year-old daughter.

  Straight-faced, I handed the clipping back to Carmine and asked, “Sir, have you given the jewelry stores more thought?”

  Chapter 30

  Along with Carmine’s promise to support the jewelry stores in all the territories, Angelina’s uncle made good on his other promise: a gift for Angelina. Though I’d given the idea a fleeting thought, my mind had understandably been elsewhere since Luisa’s First Communion. I had enough difficulty comprehending that a parent would virtually sell her child, the idea that the said child could then be passed to another was not in my way of thinking. It wasn’t even on my radar.

  There had been so much happening that I hadn’t even had time to think about Demetri Enterprises. My mind was consumed with the events of the last few days, the events merely mentioned in the Savannah newspaper. Though I wanted to believe I could move on, I suspected—correctly—that those events would forever affect me. I chose to concentrate on myself, focusing on regrouping. I couldn’t allow my mind to imagine the far-reaching effects occurring in Savannah or the way my demonstration of loyalty would forever affect the Irishman’s loving wife or young daughter.

  They weren’t my concern. I had too many concerns bidding for my attention.

  I thought instead about the jewelry stores—three of them—all approved for my purchase. That was where my mind needed to be.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Standing, I went to the closed door of Carmine’s office. As I opened it to leave, I was caught off guard by the ashen complexion on my wife’s face. Suddenly, nothing else mattered. Angelina was immediately outside the door, her hand poised as if ready to knock. It wasn’t simply her paleness, but her slight trembling that had me instantaneously reaching for her petite frame and pulling her toward me. “What is it?”

  “Did he tell you?” Her blue stare was peering beyond my shoulder to her uncle.

  I was certain she wasn’t talking about the jewelry stores. Angelina didn’t care that much about Demetri Enterprises other than that it supported our lifestyle while infringing on her family time. There was no way she knew about the events in California. Out of options, I shook my head and turned back toward Carmine.

  For the first time in a while, his lips parted and cheeks rose. It was the largest smile I’d seen on his face since Luisa’s party, and at that time it had mostly been extended to the children. Now he was looking at Angelina and me. The adoration in his expression did little to calm my nerves.

  “Zio?” Angelina said, her voice cracking.

  “Here...” He stood. “The two of you need to talk.” His large hand landed upon my shoulder. “Son, I know I told you that talking wasn’t the way it worked, but this time it is.”

  Another Costello riddle.

  This one resulted in another rarity—Angelina and I alone in Carmine’s office. I’d never been in his office without him. I wasn’t sure anyone had. It was then I turned my concentration to the woman in my grasp.

  “Mio angelo, are you ill?” No, Carmine wouldn’t be happy about that. “What is it?”

  Her head moved from side to side as I directed her to the sofa along the side of the room.

  “I said...” she began, “...when Aunt Rose and I spoke...but I didn’t mean.” Her eyes opened wide. “I don’t know. I want to, but then there’s Lennox and you, and we never have enough time. But she’s so lost.” Angelina took a deep breath, her blue eyes filled with tears as she looked my way expectedly...

  I knew the look staring directly into my eyes...waiting. I’d seen it before. Yet I had no idea what she was saying or expecting, or of what answer I was supposed to provide.

  “Baby, I’m lost.”

  She stood and paced a small path. “Oren, you never listen.”

  I couldn’t even begin to respond. Nothing would be what she wanted to hear. When I said I was lost, I meant lost as in on a deserted island in the middle of the Pacific—Gilligan’s Island kind of lost. I didn’t mean that I was in Chinatown and I’d meant to be in Little Italy. This was uncharted. “Please give me a little more.”

  Her chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “Do you remember the conversation we had a while ago, about Silvia?”

  Silvia...?

  “Yes, the girl who was here.”

  “She’s still here.”

  “Okay, I haven’t seen her. I remember.”

  Angelina came back to the sofa and sat beside me. “Before she was ever found, one afternoon...” She shrugged. “I don’t even remember when...I was with Aunt Rose and Bella. We were talking about Luisa. I mentioned how after they’d stayed with us, when Luisa was little, how you and I talked about a daughter.”

  I remembered that too. We’d talked about a lot of things during that time. It was after Carmine’s shooting and emotions were on overdrive. We both talked about how sweet Luisa was, how unlike the boys, how her energetic and charming pr
esence was the one thing that kept us all from falling into our own worries. Watching her play and interact made it seem as if there really was an inner sense that told the little girl she should love dolls instead of trucks.

  However, that was when she was three years old. Now that she’s six, I believed one day she’d give her brother a run for his money. She had the Costello spitfire gene for sure. If it wasn’t Luca who she’d give a run for his money, it’d some poor man who she’d have wrapped around her little finger and begging for mercy.

  We also talked about Carmine, what had happened. His shooting was even more personal than when Gotti killed Paulie. This was more than family business: it was family. It all confirmed our earlier decision that we couldn’t—wouldn’t—take the chance of having another son. There was no way to guarantee a daughter.

  “We did talk about that and we decided not to...” Carmine’s words before California came back. He’d mentioned something about a daughter. I’d said I’d need to talk to Angelina about it. We never had.

  I let out a deep breath recalling the last few minutes.

  Carmine’s smile.

  His pat on the back.

  His words: ‘I told you that talking wasn’t the way this worked. This time it is.’

  “Go on,” I finally said, trying not to jump to conclusions.

  “We discussed it, and we did agree. Now...she is...” A tear cascaded down Angelina’s cheek as her neck straightened. “Let me go back to explain.

  “When Aunt Rose asked if we’d want a little girl, Luisa was right there, her sweet curls and big eyes, the way she was trying to mimic her mother. I looked at Bella and said yes. I know we said no more children, and I’m content, but there’s a part of me that as a woman would like a daughter.” She took a ragged breath. “I’ve convinced myself that someday that daughter will be Lennox’s wife...but maybe...?”

  “You want to have another baby?” I couldn’t believe that ten years after Lennox’s birth we were having this conversation. We were both now in our early forties. Weren’t there medical concerns?