“Yeah, yeah,” Michael said, hardly in the mood for a lecture.
“You’ll stay with us,” Max continued, revving the engine. “Tina’s makin’ up the couch for you.”
“Wait a minute,” he said. “I haven’t gotten out of jail to sleep on your freakin’ couch.”
“You’ve done it before, an’ you’ll do it again,” Max said, driving like an old fart, with both hands on the wheel. “Y’know, till you get yourself settled.”
“Maybe for a night or two,” Michael said, suddenly aware that he had nowhere else to go. “Hey,” he added, “this piece of tin got any juice under the hood?”
“You prick!” Max said, putting his foot down. “’Course it does.”
Max had turned into a family man. He and Tina had two children—a four-year-old boy, Harry, named after Tina’s father, and Susie, a three-year-old girl. With the help of Tina’s dad, they’d purchased a small house in the old neighborhood.
Proudly Max drove Michael there, and parked outside, showing off the tiny patch of grass in the small front yard, which was blanketed in snow and ice.
Tina came to the door and greeted Michael with an awkward embrace. Then she proceeded to tell Max off about tracking snow into the house. It was glaringly obvious that she ruled the household, and wanted everyone to know.
Michael noticed that although she was still very pretty, she’d definitely put on a few pounds. It didn’t matter, because she smelled delicious and felt even better. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to be close to a female. Had to do something about that.
“What are your plans?” Tina asked, linking her arm through his.
“Dunno,” he answered vaguely. “Haven’t thought about it.”
“Sure,” Max said, joining in. “Shut away for five years and you haven’t thought about what you’re gonna do the moment you get out.” A dirty laugh. “I know what I’d do.”
“Max,” Tina said in a bossy voice, “make Michael feel at home. Ask him if he wants a drink.”
“He’s not a freakin’ guest,” Max said. “He’s my best pal. I got no need to ask him, he knows he can help himself to anythin’ he wants.”
Tina shot her husband a vengeful look. She didn’t appreciate the way he was speaking to her, especially in front of her former big crush.
“Where are the kids?” Michael asked, tripping over a toy truck sitting in the center of the floor. “I wanna meet ’em.”
“Max thought it would be a good idea if they spent the night at my mom’s,” Tina said. “So you can kind of get used to being out . . . oops!” she exclaimed, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Is that okay for me to say?”
“Sure,” he answered easily. “I’m not sensitive.”
“What was it like being locked away all that time?” she asked, her eyes wide with curiosity. “Was it the same as prison in the movies?”
“Don’t ask questions like that,” Max snapped. “He don’t wanna talk about prison.”
“That’s okay,” Michael said. “It’s not something I’d recommend.”
“I’m dying to know,” Tina said. “Why did you hold up that truck and threaten the driver with a gun? I mean, it was kind of a stupid thing to do, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, Tina,” he said ruefully. “I guess I learned me a lesson.”
And the lesson was that the next time he got involved in something that wasn’t legal, he’d check out his associates and make sure they weren’t selling him out.
“Good,” she said, playing wife of the best friend. “Now—I’ve been thinking about your future. You’ve got to be more like Max. We’ll find you a nice girl, get you married, you’ll have a couple of kids, and settle down to a proper life.”
Yeah, he thought, and get myself nagged to death.
Max went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and removed a couple of cans of beer.
Michael followed him. “I guess bein’ in the joint is one way of gettin’ out of Vietnam,” he remarked. “How come you didn’t get your sorry ass drafted?”
“On account of my asthma,” Max replied, handing him a beer. “Did ya hear about Charlie?”
“No, what happened to him?”
“Did a tour of duty an’ got his leg shot off. Now he’s on disability; poor bastard can’t find a job. He’s livin’ at home, boozin’ plenty. It ain’t a happy situation.”
“I’d like to see him.”
“We will.”
“At least you’re doing well,” Michael said, taking a swig of cold beer.
“Not bad,” Max answered modestly. “I got my own house, a car, two kids, an’ Tina. She’s the best.”
“You’re a lucky man.”
“You can say that again!”
Tina cooked pasta for dinner. They ate it in front of the TV on plastic plates. Max seemed to have caught Vinny’s disease—TV eyeballs. First he watched The Red Skelton Show, then Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In, followed by Monday Night Football.
After a while Tina got bored and went off to gossip on the phone.
Michael noticed that during the course of his TV viewing, Max managed to consume three more beers and two full bags of potato chips.
“Workin’ on your gut, huh?” he joked, noticing that it wasn’t only Tina who’d put on weight.
“Yeah, well,” Max said sheepishly, patting his expanding stomach. “That’s what married life does to you. No point in stayin’ in shape when you got it right there waitin’ in the bedroom.” He winked. “That’s gotta be your next move, huh? Five years without pussy—jeez! How’d you manage?”
“You don’t wanna know.”
“Plannin’ on callin’ any of your old girlfriends?”
“Naw.”
“Hey,” Max said enthusiastically, “maybe tomorrow night you an’ me can go out—like old times. Tina won’t mind.”
“Tina won’t mind what?” she asked, entering the room.
“Uh . . . you wouldn’t mind me takin’ my old buddy out tomorrow night?”
“I’ll come too,” she said, gathering up empty beer cans and depositing them in the kitchen.
“It’s not that kinda night out,” Max yelled, grimacing at Michael.
“Then I do mind,” she said, coming back into the room. “I don’t want you hanging around any of those sleazy strip joints.”
“Wasn’t what we had in mind, hon,” Max said innocently. “Just, y’know, drinkin’, catchin’ up on old times.”
“Fine,” she said sharply. “If you’re doing that, then I’ll go out with the girls.”
This got his attention. Max was very possessive of Tina. “You know I don’t want you doing that,” he said, scowling.
“Too bad,” she answered tartly.
And they started to bicker.
Christ! Michael thought. Is this how I’m spending my first night of freedom in five years? Watching these two go at it?
“I’m kinda beat,” he said, interrupting them. “I wouldn’t mind gettin’ a night’s sleep.”
“Oh, sorry,” Tina said, immediately contrite. “I’ll fix you up a bed.”
She fetched pillows and a blanket and made up the couch, then she and Max said good night, went upstairs, and left him to it.
He tossed and turned restlessly, listening to Tina and Max continue their argument, their loud voices drifting downstairs.
It was a strange feeling not being locked into a cell and having the lights go out at a certain time. If he wanted to, he could get up and walk the streets, do anything he liked. He was free.
The problem was that there was only one thing he had on his mind, and that was to find out who’d set him up.
Tomorrow, that’s exactly what he planned on doing.
“Mikey!” Mamie exclaimed. “I don’t believe it!”
“Believe it,” he said. “An’ quit callin’ me Mikey.”
They were standing outside the Giovanni house. There was fresh snow on the sidewalk and it was freezing cold. Mamie had just emerged and was
on her way to a chauffeur-driven gold Cadillac standing curbside. She was enveloped in a big fur coat, and as usual her face was caked with an excess of makeup. Mamie Giovanni was beginning to show her age.
A young bodyguard stepped forward. “Everythin’ all right, Mrs. Giovanni?” he asked, glaring at Michael.
“Yes, Mo,” she said, waving him away, her beringed fingers catching the morning light. “Well, well, well,” she said admiringly, checking Michael out. “You sure grew up, didn’t you?”
“It’s amazing what five years in the joint will do,” he said caustically. “Oh yeah—an’ thanks for all the visits, it meant a lot.”
“I don’t do prisons,” she said, patting her beehive hairdo. “You here to see Vito?”
“That’s the idea.”
“I’m sure you’ve got an appointment?”
“Do I need one?”
“Yes, dear, you do,” she said, moving toward her car.
The young bodyguard threw him a surly look and opened the door for her.
She climbed in, flashing a great deal of thigh. “See you around, Mikey,” she said. “Gotta run.”
He watched her car drive off. It was quite obvious that Mamie Giovanni was no longer a fan.
As soon as her car was out of sight, he approached the house and rang the doorbell.
Another unfamiliar face answered the door. “Yeah?” the guy said, peering at him suspiciously. He was a goon who looked like he was carrying a piece.
“I’m uh . . . here t’ see Mr. Giovanni. Name’s Michael Castellino.”
“Wait,” the guy said, shutting the door in his face. The man returned a few minutes later. “Mr. Giovanni’s in a meeting. He said t’ ask you what it’s about.”
Christ! When the Giovannis closed a door, they really closed it hard.
“Personal,” Michael said.
“So write him a freakin’ letter,” the goon said, and once more slammed the door shut.
What was going on here? Once he’d been next in line to be Vito’s new right hand, now he was out in the cold, an ex-con looking for a handout. Except he wasn’t looking for anything except to straighten things out.
He walked around the corner to a coffee shop, where he quickly downed two cups of strong black coffee. The waitress flirted with him. She had frizzy yellow hair and a faint shadow of a moustache. He ignored her, lit a cigarette, and headed back to the house, where he waited across the street.
At two-fifteen Tommaso emerged, setting off along the sidewalk with a purposeful stride.
Crossing the road, Michael fell into step beside the heavyset man. “Tommaso,” he said. “Long time outta sight.”
“Jesus Christ!” Tommaso said, startled. “I thought you got eight years.”
“Y’know how it is,” Michael said. “Out in five for good behavior.”
“So,” Tommaso said gruffly, “you’re back.”
“Looks like it.” A beat. “I, uh, tried to see Mr. G., got told he was busy.”
“ ’S right,” Tommaso said, nodding his bullet head. “Mr. Giovanni is a real big shot now. You gotta plan a meet six or seven weeks ahead of time.”
“I do, huh?”
“That’s the way it is,” Tommaso said, still walking.
Michael lit up another cigarette. “I got a coupla questions for you.”
“Yeah?”
“I had a lot of time t’ think, bein’ locked away for five years. Y’know what it’s like—a man’s got nothin’ much else to do.”
“What questions?” Tommaso said abruptly.
“It’s like this,” Michael said, expelling a stream of smoke. “When I met with Mr. G.’s lawyer, he informed me Mr. G. knew zilch about the truck thing. Now ain’t that somethin’?”
“There was a truck thing?” Tommaso said, staring straight ahead as he continued to trudge down the street.
“The truck hijacking you sent me out on,” Michael said. “Remember?”
“Dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” Tommaso replied, a totally blank expression on his beefy face.
“You don’t, huh?”
“Got no clue.”
“You prick,” Michael said in a low and steady voice as he grabbed the big man by the collar. “You set me up to get me outta the way. Why? ’Cause I was gettin’ too close to Mr. G.? Is that how it went down? Is that fuckin’ it?”
Roaring with anger, Tommaso shoved him away. “Mr. Giovanni don’t have time for punks who go off on their own an’ pull shit-ass jobs,” he said, red in the face. “He don’t like it when you try draggin’ his name into it. So don’t come near him again. An’ sure as shit don’t bother me, ’cause if you do, you got my word you’ll be real fuckin’ sorry.”
“I will, huh?”
“Wanna try it?”
“Fuck you,” Michael said, and walked away, smart enough to know that at this particular moment it was a no-win situation.
But revenge would be his. In jail he’d become a patient man. And a much smarter one. One day Tommaso and Roy would pay the price. Oh yes, they certainly would.
Dani—1970
The teenage boy hovering outside the stage door was shaking with nerves. “Excuse me, miss—can I have your autograph?”
“Certainly,” Dani replied graciously. “What’s your name?”
“M-mark,” the boy stuttered, hardly able to believe his luck.
“Nice name,” she said, accepting his rather battered autograph book. To Mark, with love, Dani Castle, she wrote with a stylish flourish, using her professional name, because “Dani Froog” had hardly seemed suitable, and Sam hadn’t minded that she’d chosen not to use his surname. “Castle” had a nice ring to it; she’d gotten it out of a travel magazine.
“Gee . . . thanks,” the boy stammered, blushing beet red.
“You’re welcome,” she said, flashing him a warm smile.
Dani was now one of the lead showgirls in the Krystle Room at the Magiriano—an enormous luxury hotel where they treated their talent like human beings and paid them well too. Working at the Magiriano was a big step up from dancing in the chorus at the Estradido. The show was a lavish extravaganza, and the costumes quite amazing. Every day she realized how fortunate she was to have landed such a dream job.
After giving birth to her son, whom she’d named Vincent, she’d returned to work at the Estradido.
Shortly after that, she’d been plucked from the chorus by a talent scout from the Magiriano, who’d immediately hired her. It had taken a lot of work and endless rehearsals, but gradually she’d risen to be one of the main showgirls—a coveted job.
Her life was her son and her work. And then there was Sam, her husband, who went on drinking binges on a regular basis.
Not only did Sam drink, he’d also taken up gambling too, and with her money.
She kept him on a strict allowance, refusing to let him get his hands on her paycheck. After putting a down payment on a small house, she was saving her money to make sure that Vincent received the education she’d never had. And she was entitled to save, because now she was the family breadwinner since Sam had given up work altogether.
This suited her fine, because it meant he was there to look after Vincent, who was now almost five, and the most gorgeous child in the world. She couldn’t take him out without people stopping her to admire his long, silky eyelashes and dark, deep-set eyes. “He’s going to be a lady-killer when he grows up,” was the general comment.
Not if she had anything to do with it.
He looked exactly like Michael, which in a way was good, because he was so handsome. In another way it was bad, because he was a constant reminder of her one-night stand.
As far as she was concerned, Michael was dead, and she hoped she’d never have to set eyes on him again.
She was twenty-two now, not so naive, and quite well versed in the ways of men.
When she looked back, she saw herself as an innocent lamb being led to the slaughter. How Michael must have laughed at her naiv
ete. Pretty virgin Dani. I’ll take her by the hand and lead her up to my hotel room. She’ll love every minute of it. Then I’ll move on to the next innocent flower.
Damn him!
But she’d had the last laugh—she’d gotten married, given birth to a healthy son, and had a rewarding job. What more could she ask for?
A little love and romance. Because after their one jackrabbit sexual encounter, Sam had never made love to her again. He’d tried a few times but had been unable to maintain an erection.
It didn’t bother her; in fact, she was relieved. Sex did not interest her. She was perfectly content with the way things were.
The good news was that Sam truly believed Vincent was his.
The bad news was that when he was drunk, he was unreliable, and she couldn’t trust him with her boy.
The only person who knew that Vincent was not Sam’s son was Angela, and ever since Angela had left the Estradido chorus line, they’d lost touch, although Dani had heard that her ex-roommate had given up dancing and taken to hooking full time. Apparently she was doing very well at it.
Dani had acquired a new best friend—Gemini, a pretty French brunette who performed alongside her. Gemini was a divorced mother with a son, Nando, who was a few months older than Vincent. The two children often played together, and Dani and Gemini had plans for them to attend the same nursery school.
Sam didn’t like Gemini; he wasn’t fond of anyone he considered a threat. He wanted Dani and Vincent to himself and was fiercely jealous of outsiders. His jealousy manifested itself in an occasional petulant outburst, which Dani tried to ignore.
Basically, Sam was on a downward spiral. He’d never gotten over Emily’s disappearance, and there was nothing she could do to help him forget. Emily was always there, hovering between them. Dani had learned to accept that this was the way it was.
Vincent was her savior. To look into his handsome little face and see the love there was everything she’d ever needed. “Love you, Mommy,” he said every night when she tucked him into bed and read him a story before going off to do her show.