The Good Kind of Bad (10 page)

His unscheduled appearance struck me with the memories head on: echoes of the dark, the kitchen, and the vodka. Last night I’d fetched the beer and we’d had a quiet night in, like he’d suggested. We’d laughed at some lame comedian on The Late Late Show and even tentatively discussed the show houses at Summer Pier. Now, after this morning’s revelations, it was like looking into a different face.

I scrutinised his amble across the lounge to the window. He wasn’t staggering. At least, he didn’t
look
drunk.

‘What’s going on? You sick or something? What’s with the bed sheets?’

‘There was a robbery at work. Everything’s trashed so they sent me home.’ I sounded weak. I didn’t like it. It was like I’d forgotten how to speak.

‘A robbery? Jesus. You’re not hurt, are you? I should take you to Sacred Heart and get you checked over.’

‘What for? Joe, stop fussing. Really, I’m fine.’

He moved towards me at his standard leisurely pace, and after he flopped down beside me I completed a cursory alcohol sniff test. Result: negative.

‘Well, as long as you’re okay.’ It wasn’t long before he began pointing wildly at the TV. ‘Laurel and Hardy? I love this one.
Way Out West
is my favourite. Where’s the Stetson?’

It was the most childlike I’d ever seen him: Joe Petrozzi, the closet slapstick fan. He began scrabbling down the side of the sofa for that stupid hat, though soon froze, meeting with my eyes.

‘Okay, what is it? Because this staring thing is freaking me out.’

Doubting my new-found courage, I wrapped the sheets to my face so only my eyes peered out. ‘Are you an alcoholic?’ I murmured.

He blew out his cheeks, the cigarette almost falling from his mouth. ‘What?’

‘I saw you this morning in the kitchen. Your hand was shaking and you were downing vodka.’

‘The kitchen? When? I skipped breakfast.’

With a flurry of amateur dramatics, I ripped away the covers and clambered to my feet. ‘I know what I saw.’

‘And I know you didn’t see shit. You need your eyes tested, baby; that’s what I know.’

‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about!’

‘Think I’m pretending all you want, but I wasn’t goddamn in there! Besides, I don’t know how I can down vodka when we don’t have any. You want me to show you? Come on, come see for yourself.’

I didn’t have a choice. He grabbed my arm and pulled me into the kitchen before moving over to the cupboards and flinging open the doors. ‘You see any vodka here?’

I was pushed in front of a fridge crammed with beer and little else while Joe stood brimming with triumph, his arms folded in stubborn satisfaction as I glared back in my fluffy pink pyjamas.

‘It’s not like you never drink,’ I chided.

‘And? I let off steam sometimes. Don’t deny me my only hobby.’

‘So take up stamp collecting! Alcoholism is not a hobby.’

‘Jesus, I’m
not
an alcoholic! Sometimes I drink, who gives a shit? It’s all I got apart from my buddy’s garage.’

‘And your buddy is?’

‘Buddy.’

‘What, you mean that’s his
name
?’

‘I told you about Buddy, right?’

‘No. You didn’t. You didn’t tell me about Buddy, or his garage. Then again, why would I know anything about your life? I’m only your wife.’

‘You met my friends at Bemo’s, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah, and look how well that went.’

‘You starting this again? You want to go, baby? Come on, let’s go.’

Then it came. His eyebrows furrowed, the mouth tightened, and a sneer grew in place of all those smiles. This was a Joe I hadn’t yet met. As my body stiffened, Joe’s face hardened and I had the sudden urge to flee as he stepped forward so his hot breath bit my cheeks.

‘Listen to me,’ he whispered through a sneer. ‘When I woke up it was
you
who went to the kitchen before I left for work. You dreamed it all.’

‘No, I didn’t!’

‘Look at me. You think I’d lie? I’m your Joe! You never had a dream so real you thought you were awake?’ Then the fist became a palm that tugged gently on my hair. The eyebrows raised and the teeth unclenched. ‘Baby, talk to me. Please?’

I was showered with kisses as he pulled me in close, his angst now replaced by the most affectionate Joe to date.

However certain I was, Joe appeared genuinely offended by my insinuation. For all his faults, the man standing before me, the man that loved me, didn’t look like one ruled by alcohol, obsessing over his next taste of poison. He wasn’t capable of drinking himself to death, never mind hiding it from me.

‘No one said this was going to be easy,’ he purred. ‘We’ll fight and I’ll get things wrong. It’s called getting to know each other, right? But as long as we keep talking, we never have to worry. You and me, that’s all that matters.’

It’d been three days of niceties and smiles, almost like Tuesday never happened. Two of my three workless mornings (due to a still trashed Faith) were spent watching Joe through the bedroom door slats as he poured coffee by the kitchen counter. Coffee. That was it. Nothing more.

It would’ve helped if I knew nothing about it, if I didn’t know the signs, but my friend Olivia’s dad had worshipped the drink. At birthday parties, Christmases and family picnics he’d always looked ill, sallow and pale in the face. Over the years the features turned ashen, like the embers of a deadened fire. It was only after he passed away at forty-six I learned he was an alcoholic and I finally understood ‒ the pressure of being CEO at Fullbright Furniture Ltd had made him a shell of a father years before his death. Olivia had already done her mourning.

Joe wasn’t that man. Not even close. If he was stressed about something, if he had some other secret he was hiding, he sure didn’t act like it.

The only change was his long hours lengthening. He assured me it was to manage the rent, though no extra funds materialised, and it wasn’t like we needed money either. He was too stubborn. He refused to let me pay anything towards the apartment, saying it was a man thing and he had to provide for
me
. Countless times I begged to move somewhere at least half decent and I even left out the Summer Pier housing brochures (for the development we’d talked about; sorry,
I’d
talked about) but I was met by silence. At least he’d relented and we’d bought a wardrobe so I could stop living out of my suitcase.

It seemed silly to do without. We could have the best of both worlds, though Joe was having none of it. His excuse? He’d miss the neighbours. With junkies across the hall and Stateville Prison being the last posting address of most of our building’s occupants, that felt like a stretch.

At least tonight marked my first visit to Nina’s apartment. Now she was back from Wisconsin and with work gutted, I’d been summoned to mull over project ideas, though a chance to scrutinise her ‘gargantuan’ pad and meet the infamous Mickey wasn’t going to hurt.

Left alone on a Friday night with a Shih Tzu for company and cold leftovers in the fridge, I was treating myself to dinner first before heading over to Nina’s. I’d been craving a return to Bemo’s on Harvelle Street since my visit with Nina almost three weeks ago. Well, there had been one other trip. After mentioning at Galvin’s how much I
didn’t
know about him, Joe arranged a meal to meet his friends ‒ a group of rowdy gym addicts more interested in drinking and gambling than conversation of any kind. I felt bad, and I was grateful Joe had made an effort, but I left post-appetiser.

What was I going to talk to them about? How many I could bench press (that’d be zero) and the finer points of bluffing? At least I’d met George Bemo, the restaurant’s proprietor, though Joe hadn’t seemed eager for us to make friends, almost panicking as he practically ordered the old man back to the kitchen. But then, that was Joe. Add that to the incident with Detective Thomasz in the park, and I was realising jealousy wasn’t one of his finer points.

Friday night back in London had meant dinner and cocktails with Olivia. There’d been nothing to trouble us save which vintage to choose with our carciofi in padella. Running shoe totals and newly acquired handbags drove conversation before we pitted Olivia’s dire dates against Will’s boring anecdotes.

That’d been a life carefree but mundane. At least a little drama (robberies, drug-stealing cops and a possible alcoholic husband) now filled my days, even if I did go for dinner alone.

Bemo’s was bursting at the seams as I peered through the streetlight-lit front of the yellowed brick building; every table and spare inch crammed with hungry diners. The restaurant’s recent addition to Chicago’s Top Ten Eateries
had gone down a storm, it appeared.

‘My English Rose has returned,’ George Bemo called as I entered the steamy red-tiled foyer and he hobbled towards me. ‘Wow, I like the dress! You’re like a breath of summer breeze.’

George was a stumpy man, immaculately clean-shaven in a pressed white shirt, with two bandy legs supporting a little round belly. He was already planting a kiss on each cheek before I could remove my leather jacket.

‘We’ve missed you, where’ve you been hiding? And where’s Joe this evening? He shouldn’t be letting you out alone, this is Chicago.’ The elderly man glanced over my shoulder, I’m sure searching for my non-existent chaperone.

Following him past the crowded tables and waves of voices and chatter, I mounted a wooden stool and rested my elbows on a counter so shiny I could touch up my lipstick in it. ‘Joe’s working again.’

‘That courier place is open this late? You tell Joe to take a break. He’s too much like his old man,’ George warned, scribbling my order. ‘He’ll work himself into an early grave.’

I wasn’t sure I’d heard right. ‘You knew Joe’s father?’

George expelled a sigh before gifting me a smile that warmed my insides. I liked George. He began hobbling to my side of the counter, though only as fast as his limp allowed; apparently the result of shrapnel from ‘the War’. Despite snow-white hair and a beach ball smuggled under his shirt, he wasn’t ancient enough to have fought Hitler on the battlefield, a story he’d proudly conveyed at our first meeting. It was interesting, which I guessed was the point, but pure baloney.

‘It was forty years ago when Joe’s father and I . . .’ was all he managed before a voice called him to the kitchen. ‘My darling, I’m needed. Paul will sort your sandwich.’ His fingers felt rough as they graced my arm; grafter’s hands, for sure.

As he moved away and swung open the kitchen doors, I caught a waft of something delicious floating towards me. This was so much better than leftovers, not to mention Sybil whining for them.

‘Hey pal, give me a beef, dipped, hot?’ I heard the guy beside me shout at the waiter. Then he turned to me, as if to qualify himself. ‘The service in this place, huh, Mrs Petrozzi?’

It was the last person I expected to see: Detective Thomasz from Faith, aka Mr Blond, with a bottle of Corona in his hand.

‘You tried the sandwiches yet? I think they call them heaven.’ He pointed to the antiquated menu boards above the counter before taking a gulp of beer.

‘Are you following me or something?’ I asked, semi-joking. First the park, then Faith and now Bemo’s? Chicago was smaller than I remembered.

He laughed. ‘What? I was here first! Maybe you’re following me. Ever think of that?’

He was out of his suit, remaining a smart-ass but without the badge like a, well, an off-duty detective. He wore fat, black-rimmed Clark Kent glasses, a cream sweater pushed up at the elbows and a Breitling Chronograph on his wrist. I’d bought the same watch for Will on his last birthday but he’d exchanged it for a Rolex; said it wasn’t his style.

‘I see you’re going for the dipped,’ I pointed out. It was always my dad’s favourite sandwich, not that he ever told my mother. In Chicago, sandwiches came in levels of heart attack-inducing potency; dipped taking the crown but for the ‘triple double’. But that was silly. Nobody ordered that.

‘Hey, don’t pretend you’re not a beef gravy aficionado. Besides, I’m all about the healthy . . . usually.’

Watching him take another gulp of beer, I pondered the real reason Evan was spending Friday night discussing the finer points of Italian beef in a place like Bemo’s. At the ill-fated meet-and-greet, one of Joe’s more talkative friends, Peter Abbaticchio, informed me of the Bemo family’s longstanding notoriety with the Chicago Metropolitan Police, and specifically concerning George’s son. Evan had to be on a stake out. Maybe he was undercover, George and his smile not so innocent after all. There could be a whole gang of Wise Guys in the back room eating polenta and counting up the GDP of a small country in laundered bills. Or maybe Evan had read the rave reviews on Chicago’s Top Ten Eateries
and thought he’d give the place a try.

‘I’m sure I gave you my card the other morning. I’m still waiting for that call.’ He gave me a subtle sideways glance, something blatantly well practiced. Oh my god. Was he
hitting
on me?

‘Call you about the break in? I don’t know anything. I mean, I’ve not heard any rumours floating around, Detective,’ I offered a little too eagerly. I had to be careful. I could still be number one suspect for all I knew.