“What’s that for?” she gasped.
“Something for you to remember me by today.”
“Oh,” she said, laughing softly. “Mr. Romantic.”
“I can be romantic when I want to,” he said, grinning.
“I know,” she said warmly. “And I like it.”
“You do?”
“Yes, Michael. I do.”
She was smart, sassy, and sexy, and although she was still very young, she had an old soul. He was definitely falling for her big time. A surprise, but one he was definitely into.
“I’ve been thinking, Beth,” he ventured.
“Yes?” she said, her brown eyes bright and alert.
“Remember before you had Madison, we were talkin’ about gettin’ married?”
“We weren’t, you were,” she said pointedly.
“It’s time.”
“For what?”
“Plannin’ a wedding.”
“Oh no, no, no,” she said hurriedly. “That’s not for me.”
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he said persuasively. “We got Madison to think about.”
“Madison is a very happy baby.”
“I know. But you gotta consider it.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because what?”
Jesus! She could be stubborn. “Hey,” he said. “Here’s the good news—if you don’t like bein’ married, we can always get a divorce.”
She sighed and tilted her head on one side. “You’re funny, Michael.”
“You’re even funnier,” he countered. “You’re the only woman I know who doesn’t wanna get married.”
“In that case you should be jumping up and down with joy.”
“I’m not,” he said, completely exasperated. “ ’Cause I’ve decided you’re gonna marry me whether you like it or not.”
“I am?”
“Yup.”
“Is that an order?”
“It sure is.”
“Okay,” she said meekly.
“Okay what? You’ll do it?”
She grinned. “I’ll let you know.”
“You will, huh?”
“Maybe.”
“What a woman!”
“Oh, Michael,” she said with a great big smile. “You finally called me a woman. I think I will marry you after all.”
“That’s my girl!”
“No,” she corrected, still smiling. “That’s your woman.”
Most afternoons Michael hung out at the social club with some of the guys. They played poker or pool, sat around watching sports or the horse racing on TV, made a few bets, and had a beer or two.
This particular day, Michael was feeling wary. He knew that Bone had to be suspicious that it was he who’d eliminated Roy. After all, Bone had revealed the details of the crime that had taken his mother’s life, and two weeks later Michael had sprung into action. It didn’t take a genius to work that one out.
But Bone wasn’t there, and nobody else said a word about Roy’s demise.
When he left, around five, he noticed two men standing by a black Cadillac parked across the street. Sensing they were watching him, he casually crossed the road and walked past them. He was not surprised when they stopped him.
“Michael Castellino?” one of them asked.
“Yeah?” he said, recognizing the man from the day he’d tried to get in to see Mr. G.
“Mr. Giovanni wants t’ see you.”
“Now?”
“Yeah, now. Let’s go.”
He got in the backseat of the Cadillac. He was apprehensive—only, what could Mr. G. do to him? There was nothing tying him to Roy’s murder. He’d gotten rid of the gun, weighted it down in a black plastic garbage bag with some bricks and thrown it into the East River. “Never off anyone and keep the piece,” the Chronicle had drummed into him. “It’s cheaper to buy a new one than to hang on to somethin’ could incriminate you.”
Good advice. He’d taken it.
Neither of the men in the car said anything as they drove to Vito Giovanni’s house.
As soon as they arrived, he got out of the car and walked up the steps by himself. Another man opened the door and ushered him inside.
Michael had not seen Vito in six years. The man had aged. Once so dapper in his fine cashmere coats and flowing silk scarves, he was now older and grayer, with heavy glasses and a bad set of extra-white false teeth.
“Mike,” Vito said, clapping him on the back. “Look at you, all grown up.”
“Yeah,” he said warily. “All grown up.”
“It’s nice t’ see ya ugly face. Wanna drink?”
“I’ll have a Jack.”
“I’ll have a Jack,” Vito repeated. “You got the lingo down. Mr. Cool. Mr. Good-Lookin’. You didn’t lose the looks, you got better.”
“Thanks,” he said awkwardly, wondering what the hell he was doing there.
“Hey, Luigi,” Vito called out. “Fix Mike a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks, an’ one for me, too.” He turned back to Michael. “It’s Sinatra’s favorite drink. Had the pleasure of meetin’ the man a few months ago. What a swinger! My kinda guy.”
Personally, Michael was not into Sinatra; he preferred Elvis or Beth’s wild salsa sounds.
“You’re probably wonderin’ why I asked ya here,” Vito said, lighting a big fat cigar with a solid gold lighter.
“Yeah.”
“I got someone wants to talk t’ you.”
“Who would that be?”
“Another old friend of yours,” Vito said, snapping his fingers for Luigi to open the door.
Luigi did so, and enter Mamie. What a sight! Yellow teased hair with inch-long jet black roots; swollen red eyes; slightly heavier, and she still dressed like a teenager, with her short leather skirt, tight orange sweater, and hooker heels.
Michael stared at her with contempt. Now that he knew the truth, he hated her.
“Ya probably heard that Mamie an’ me—we’re no longer together,” Vito explained, puffing on his cigar. “However, since Mamie was my wife for many years, I keep the respect, an’ if she comes t’ me with a problem, that means I got a problem. Capisce?”
Michael nodded, wondering where this conversation was leading.
“So, y’see,” Vito continued, sitting down in his favorite armchair, “Mamie’s got a big problem.”
“She has?”
“You know,” she said furiously, glaring at Michael with red-rimmed eyes. “My cousin Roy. My best friend. Him an’ me was like brother an’ sister.”
“Somebody offed Roy,” Vito said, as casual as if he was talking about a lost wallet. “An’ word on the street is that somebody might be you.”
“Why would I do somethin’ like that?” Michael said, making sure his expression stayed completely blank.
Luigi walked over and handed him his drink. He took a swig. He needed it.
Vito let out a weary sigh. “Lemme tell you the story that’s goin’ around,” he said. “It seems many years ago your mama got herself shot in a robbery, an’ people are sayin’ you might’ve thought Roy had somethin’ t’ do with it, so you offed the little prick.”
Keeping his face blank, Michael said nothing.
“This is the first I’m hearin’ of it,” Vito continued, slurping his drink. “My wife,” he added, indicating Mamie, who was now slumped on the couch, still glaring at Michael, “she comes to me hysterical. Take a look at her.”
Michael stared straight at Mamie, his eyes sending her a message. Yes, I shot Roy. And I’d shoot him again if I had the chance.
“Roy was everythin’ to me,” she sniveled. “I want the person who shot him. I want revenge.”
“I know how you feel,” Michael said, repressing the urge to spit in her over-made-up face. “I’d like revenge for my mom’s murder.” He took a long beat, his mind racing. How had the story got out so fast after all these years of silence? Was Bone responsible? And if so—why? “An’ while we’re talkin??
? about word on the street,” he continued, deciding to go for it, “I heard a mention that you might’ve had something to do with that robbery. Bullshit, Mamie? Or the truth?”
She glanced quickly at her husband. “Where’d you hear that?” she asked, narrowing her red-rimmed eyes.
Now it was Vito’s turn to stare at her. “Did ya have anything to do with it, Mamie?” he demanded. “ ’Cause if you did, you’d better fuckin’ fess up.”
“No,” she said guiltily.
“Doesn’t it seem to fit?” Michael said, pressing ahead. “You were datin’ my dad. Then he met my mom, knocked her up, married her, an’ the next thing, somebody’s robbing the store. The newspapers said the cops were lookin’ for a blond woman an’ two men.”
“Mamie,” Vito said, his voice hardening, “you’d better tell me the fuckin’ truth here.”
“I came to you for help, not to get the third degree from this punk kid,” she spat, full of venom.
Vito suddenly laughed. “You did it, didn’t you?” he said incredulously. “You fuckin’ did it.”
“No, I didn’t,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Oh yeah, you did,” he said, putting down his cigar and getting up. “You never was good at lyin’. What happened—Roy pull the trigger?”
“It wasn’t Roy,” she said spitefully, letting out her venom. “Roy couldn’t handle a piece. It was Bone killed the tramp, an’ only ’cause she was tryin’ to attack him. He had t’ do it. It was self-defense. There—” She glared at Michael. “Satisfied?”
He stifled a desire to smash her fucking face in. “You sick bitch!” he said. “How can you live with yourself?”
“So that’s the thanks I get for takin’ care of you all these years,” she said, her face contorted with fury.
“You didn’t take care of me. You used me t’ try an’ get rid of your guilt.”
“Ungrateful loser!” she shouted. “You’re exactly like your no-count daddy. You’re both losers!”
“Jesus Christ, Mamie!” Vito exclaimed in disgust. “Get the fuck outta here.” He clicked his fingers. “Luigi—drive her home.”
“An’ what’ll you do to him?” she asked, pointing at Michael, her voice rising. “He murdered my Roy. My own cousin. You’re not lettin’ him get away with it, are you?”
“Retribution is a strange an’ wonderful thing,” Vito said. “It always has a way of comin’ back an’ bitin’ you on the ass.”
“You’ll pay for this,” Mamie screamed at Michael as Luigi took her arm and began leading her from the room. “You’ll pay good.”
“Women—you can never trust ’em,” Vito said as soon as she was gone.
“I’m sorry—” Michael began.
Vito held up his hand. “No apologies. You did what ya thought was right. Only now you’d better take care of Bone.” He laughed dryly. “You might’ve gotten yourself a new job.”
“What job would that be?”
“You wanna be a hitter? You’ll get paid plenty.”
“It’s not what I do,” Michael said slowly.
“You’re happy to be nothin’ but part of a crew in the Lucchese family, huh?” Vito said, cradling his drink.
“I got no complaints,” he said, not about to reveal his other lucrative business.
“I was thinkin’ you might wanna work for me again,” Vito said. “There was a time I had big plans for you.”
“That’s what I thought,” Michael said. “So as soon as I got outta the joint, I came t’ see you. Problem. I was told I had to make an appointment six weeks in advance.”
“Didn’t know nothin’ about that.”
“I would’ve come back to work for you, even though it was Tommaso an’ Roy set me up.”
“They did?”
“You must’ve known about it.”
“Shit, no.”
Michael wasn’t sure whether he believed him or not. “Where is Tommaso anyway?” he asked.
“In the hospital,” Vito said. “Poor bastard got caught in the crossfire.”
Michael nodded. A couple of weeks ago he’d read in the newspaper about a shooting outside a gambling parlor. Apparently the shooter had missed Vito, and the bullet had caught Tommaso in the shoulder. Too bad it wasn’t a direct hit.
“How about it?” Vito said. “You comin’ back?”
“I’m makin’ good money where I am.”
“You’ll make better money with me.”
“I always liked being close to you, Mr. G. I felt a loyalty. Thing is—when I couldn’t get near you, it kinda soured me.”
“Loyalty,” Vito said, rubbing his hands together. “That’s what’s important. When you got power, you gotta have people watchin’ your back. People who care.”
Michael nodded his agreement.
“You wanna think about it?” Vito said.
“I’ll do that.”
“Good, good. Only don’t make me wait. I’m not a patient man.”
There was something Michael had to do, and much as he dreaded it, he got on a plane and flew to Miami, where his father had taken up residence in an oceanside apartment. He knew exactly where Vinny was living, he’d kept tabs on him over the years, even though they’d not spoken since Vinny had packed up and left him with three hundred dollars and nothing else.
When he told Beth he was planning on visiting his father, she’d pleaded to go with him.
“No,” he’d said. “It’s not necessary.”
“Oh yes, Michael, please!” she’d said, throwing her arms around his neck. “It is necessary. Miami. The sun. The music. The food.” A long, meaningful pause, and then that seductive smile of hers. “The sex.”
“No, Beth,” he’d said firmly. “You’re stayin’ here.”
“Does he know about Madison?” she’d asked, playing the family card. “Surely he’d like to see her? After all, he’s her grandfather.”
“Vinny’s not the grandfather type. He’s . . . y’know, got a bad attitude. Besides, I don’t want him knowin’ anythin’ about Madison.”
“That’s not fair,” she’d said, sulking. “I want to come to Miami. It’s a cool place, it’ll give me inspiration for my designs.”
“Sorry, honey, fair or not—you’ll just have to live with it.”
“Fuck you, Michael,” she’d said, brown eyes flashing major danger signals.
One thing about Beth, she certainly had spirit. And a mouth. She was completely different from any woman he’d ever known, and he loved her for it.
“I’ll be home tonight,” he’d said. “Don’t wait up.”
“Like I’ll be waiting up,” she’d said scornfully. “I’m going out. Catherine will baby-sit.”
“Why can’t you stay in?”
“Why should I? You’ll be in Miami without me.”
“What’s that got to do with anything? I’m seein’ my dad.”
“I know, Michael, so while you’re there, I’ll hit the town with friends. After all, as you pointed out, we’re not married.”
Why had he suddenly felt jealous?
There was something about Beth that made him want to keep her all to himself.
Miami was hot and humid. Michael took a cab from the airport straight to Vinny’s apartment. The cab pulled up outside an old, sturdy building painted a lurid pink. He paid the driver and walked into a musty lobby. Then he got into the elevator, which smelled of overcooked cabbage and stale cat piss. It slowly creaked its way to the third floor, where he got out and knocked on the door of Vinny’s apartment. He was startled when a woman opened it.
“Yes?” the woman said in a none-too-friendly tone. She was in her mid-forties, thin, with lank brown hair and a long nose. She wore an old flowered housecoat and once-pink fuzzy slippers on her feet.
“I’m lookin’ for Vinny Castellino,” he said, wondering if he had the right address.
“You’re not the only one,” she said sharply.
“Excuse me?”
“If you’re lo
okin’ to collect on a debt, you’re outta luck. He went bankrupt last week, so screw off!”
This was not exactly the greeting he’d had in mind. “I’m Michael,” he said quickly, blocking the door with his foot before she slammed it in his face. “Vinny’s son.”
“Oh,” she said. “In that case . . . you got any money? ’Cause your daddy’s stone broke.”
“How can he be broke? He sold the house an’ the shop. He must have plenty of money.”
“Medical bills,” she said vaguely. “Crap like that.” A weary sigh. “An’ then there’s the gambling.”
“Gambling?”
“A man’s gotta have some pleasure in life, don’t he?”
“Is he around?”
“You’d better come in,” she said, throwing open the door.
The apartment was bright enough. So bright that he immediately noticed thick layers of dust on all the surfaces, and a kaleidoscope of stains decorating the worn carpet. A large balcony overlooked the ocean.
Vinny sat out on the balcony in his wheelchair, a portable TV perched on his lap, a mangy orange cat curled up by his feet.
Michael approached him warily. “Dad,” he said, the word almost sticking in his throat.
Vinny turned his head. Not a flicker of surprise crossed his once-handsome face. “I heard you was in jail,” he said brusquely.
Nice greeting. Michael hadn’t expected anything else.
“Wasn’t surprised,” Vinny continued. “Your grandma always said you was gonna turn out no good. I tried to keep you on the straight and narrow. Trouble is, you wouldn’t listen to nobody.”
“I came here to talk to you.”
“About what?”
He glanced at the woman who was hovering by the balcony door, eager to hear every word. “It’s personal,” he said. “Do you mind?”
“Get lost,” Vinny said, waving her away.
She marched inside.
“Your, uh . . . lady friend said you recently went bankrupt.”
“Don’t tell me y’came here expectin’ money?”
“You’re the one took all the money and left me with three hundred lousy bucks, an’ you’re surprised I got into trouble,” he said heatedly. Then he realized he was getting off track, and that was not his intention. “No,” he said, determined to forget old grudges, “that’s not why I’m here.”