The Good Kind of Bad (15 page)

I wouldn’t say they’d been in
awe
after hearing the story of Joe and me, but they couldn’t, make that
wouldn’t
, believe a guy would get married after three weeks, and without a gun to his head. Lauren had spent years trying to get her on/off boyfriend, Colby, to propose. They’d said I was lucky to have found the One. I didn’t tell them everything. Who does? It’s nice to believe in a happily ever after.

We ate lobster rolls, corn crème brûlées and drank overpriced Margaritas, but it mostly left me pining for Nina. Nice was, well, nice, but my life had been so full to the brim with drama recently, nice didn’t cut it anymore. I’d become a drama junkie, waiting for the next hit (metaphorically speaking). Life couldn’t be easy. Where was the fun in that?

Back at Bemo’s, and as the orders chimed like Hector’s bell, my lungs savoured the raucous kitchen’s offerings; the little parcels of deliciousness served up under my nose from the steamy kitchen.

Five minutes later and like Sybil just out of the bath, a drenched Nina launched through the front door, her tan trench dripping rainwater everywhere. Even when she looked like she’d washed fully clothed, it came across as a carefully selected style choice. She still looked gorgeous.

‘Look at me!’ Nina shouted as she headed for the booth.

I laughed, and with considerable volume. Witnessing Nina in disarray was the best thing since last week’s drunken guy outside the Toy Palace swearing at the kindergarteners. ‘Sit down. You’re dripping water everywhere. This is why you’re late, because you were scared to go out in the rain?’

Removing her sopping trench and sliding into the booth, dressed in a summery Florida-orange shift dress, Nina appeared far from amused. Even when she succumbed to laughter over her half-straightened hair, the humourless expression persisted.

Shannon, our favourite waitress who habitually looked like she’d stepped out of a Versace ad, carried over the two glasses and bottle of Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio I’d ordered. Nina was still restless as her slender hand struggled through the frizz.

‘What’s up?’ I asked.

‘Nothing. I’m all about the good tonight.’

Nina did drama by the bucket load. This was far from nothing. It wouldn’t be long before I got the low-down on her latest fracas-filled episode, and at least she’d stopped apologising.

I gave an appreciative smile as Shannon placed down the glasses, Nina still scowling until she snatched a glass and wildly overfilled it.

‘What the hell is up?’ I snapped, stealing back the bottle and splashing wine on my white shirt dress in the process.

‘Oh, my perfect life is all; the one where criminals stake out my lounge.’ She necked a good portion of her wine before pouting like she was sucking a lemon. ‘Jesus, girl. You want to order something better next time?’

‘It’s the best they have. What do you expect? This is Bemo’s, not K2. Wait, what do you mean, criminals?’

She turned to the window. ‘Mickey got another phone call.’

I bit at my lip for effect. ‘Why does this not sound like a good thing?’ Pained to admit it, I was hooked on Nina’s enthralling adventures of Mickey Delacro ‒ I couldn’t wait for the box set to come out. Though, with an arched eyebrow, Nina had noticed my unwarranted excitement.

‘You know what? Forget it,’ she muttered.

If I wasn’t intrigued before, I was now. ‘Come on, bottling it up isn’t working for you. You look like you need to unload.’

She skimmed the rim of her glass with a glossy scarlet talon. ‘I shouldn’t say anything. I’ve already said too much. If Mickey knew . . .’

‘Nina, come on. I won’t tell anyone. I don’t have anyone
to
tell!’

‘You drank Margaritas at Carter’s with Cherry, didn’t you?’

‘Because you hit me in the face, girl!’

Thank god we both smiled. I don’t think I could’ve handled a split lip too.

‘Mickey got one of his phone calls tonight,’ Nina hesitantly began. ‘I tried to listen by the door but couldn’t make out a word, then after five minutes he came storming into the bedroom and ordered me out of the apartment. It was awful. I hadn’t finished my hair, not that it matters now. But there was no way in hell I was leaving. Don’t I have a right to know what’s going on in my own home?’

‘Of course.’ It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway.

‘All right, technically it’s Mickey’s apartment, but I live there, don’t I? I organise the cleaner, the chef on weekends, that little Columbian woman who irons his shirts . . . does he think I pull them out of my ass or something? Then there’re the golf lessons, not to mention the masseuse I’m seriously thinking of firing. She’s been over twice this week already. But when I refused to leave, that’s when he told me Victor was coming over.’

Oh. It was Victor time. ‘The weird guy?’

‘Weird? Try certifiably insane. But I wasn’t going anywhere. It was time to speak to
Victor
 myself.’ Nina smoothed down her napkin, a grin curling her plum-stained lips. ‘So five minutes later the scumbag arrives,
and
his muscle.’

‘Muscle?’

‘That old Mexican guy, Rafael. He stood in the corner while Victor was all long black coat and tailored suit
with
waistcoat. Didn’t he get the memo about it
not
being winter? Even his eyes were black,’ Nina whispered fervently over the table, her elbows out at right angles. ‘I was sitting on the couch when he followed Mickey into the lounge, looking me up and down like I was a piece of crap on one of his four hundred dollar shoes. Sure, first I was intimidated, but then I got angry. Mickey was sucking up to him like some puny jackass. It was pathetic, so I ordered Victor to stay away from Mickey.’

‘What about Rafael?’

‘What about Rafael? What was he going to do? Hit a girl?’

‘It does happen,’ I murmured.

‘All right, so I was reckless and dangerous, sue me later. Then after I’d said my piece he glared out from the fireplace, Victor I mean. He said nothing. I said nothing. Mickey and Rafael didn’t open their mouths. Victor just
glared
, like some psycho or something. I mean, who does that?’

‘Psychopaths?’ I offered.

‘Then he moved in close. In my face, he said, “Do you value your life, Nina? How much do you want to keep it?” Mickey was trying to keep me quiet and pushing me out the door the whole time. I couldn’t believe how scared he was of that dick. Anyway,
that
’s why I’m late, because a psycho cop threatened to kill me.’

I shifted in my seat, the leather stiff as the boards dug into my spine. Now Nina’s exciting world of Mickey and Victor had become unsettlingly cold-blooded, I prayed she
was
making it all up. This wasn’t a rogue cop roughing up suspects; this was getting ugly.

We decided to order, and were halfway through our panzanella salads before I dared mention Joe’s increasingly erratic behaviour. Dismissing her own fun-filled drama, Nina insisted on hearing what happened the night I left her apartment.

Eager for a new perspective on our little disaster movie, I described Joe’s apology, his outburst over the phone call, the criminal past and murdered brother revelations and the revenge attempt on Anton that followed. Maybe my life wasn’t so TV movie after all.

‘I know you don’t want to hear this . . .’ Nina began, stabbing a piece of pepper with her fork.

‘What? That it’ll only happen again? Spare me the clichés.’ Maybe that was harsh, but Nina sure liked to lecture for a woman engaged to a guy who counted Victor amongst his friends.

‘Sure, it starts off small time, a slap in the face, but before you know it you’ll be bleeding alone on a street somewhere. I went out with this guy once, Cash Cohen. He was a model from an Elle shoot. At first he couldn’t be nicer, until he knocked my tooth out for coming home late from my friend’s birthday drinks. The next day after he went out, I packed a bag and left. This is a false tooth right here,’ she half-mouthed like a ventriloquist, tapping like a woodpecker on the acrylic canine. ‘If I’d stayed, hoping he’d grow angel wings or something, who knows what would’ve happened? It’s not just guys like Joe, you know. Cash might’ve loved coke more than he loved me, but he fronted a Diesel campaign in Times Square and lived in a penthouse on 5
th
Avenue and East 76
th
, right opposite Central Park. Enough of a cliché for you?’

I frowned. ‘People like
Joe
?’

‘You know what I mean.’

Nina’s stories were always so matter-of-fact.
My fiancé kills people for a living
,
my model ex-boyfriend knocked my tooth out ‒ you know
,
no biggie.

‘And you went out with a model called Cash Cohen?’

‘Don’t change the subject. Joe is a coward. You stay with him and this won’t end well.’ Nina took another gulp of wine. ‘Okay, I admit he’s attractive, but apart from his looks there’s hardly the basis for a lasting relationship. Why did you even marry him? All right, the say-yes plan. I get the whole danger thing and tattoos and mystery, but it’s a mystery you’ve solved! He’s probably served more jail time than Frank DeLuca.’

‘Who’s Frank DeLuca?’

‘Honey, just remember you’re living with a guy who shot someone,’ she warned.

I gave her a poignant grin. She didn’t get it.

‘All I’m saying is, shouldn’t our conversations be more like:
isn’t Joe the sweetest
?
He took me out to dinner and paid for it
. We shouldn’t be talking about how he hit you or threatened you. Besides, you think this garbage about a shooting is his biggest secret? It’s got to be a cover for something bigger . . . for something else.’

‘Not too different from Mickey, then?’

‘Touché. Don’t you love that word? Touché?’

Uncomfortable conversation navigated, I noticed George waving at us from behind the counter, like he was heading out to sea. He embarked on a slow limp over, cheerfully oblivious to our tête-à-tête.

‘My English Rose! We’re honoured with your presence tonight.’ Dressed in another crisp white shirt and with a hand on the small of his back, he placed down the bill in a black leather wallet.

‘George, this is my friend Nina,’ I announced with an outstretched palm. I was more than grateful to George for the distraction, Nina’s preaching becoming uncomfortable to say the least.

‘Lovely to meet you,’ George said, receiving Nina’s hand before planting a kiss that caused a giggle. She, too, appeared relieved at the old man’s presence.

‘George, you were telling me about Joe’s father last time, remember?’ I’d been waiting to discover a real truth about Joe, one evading his own questionable censorship.

The elderly gentlemen thought for a moment, his brittle nails tapping the table top. ‘Of course, about Joe. Such a loyal son, not like most of the boys around here and I include my own in that; Anton never shows me enough respect.’ He shook his head towards the kitchen. ‘They don’t know where their loyalties lie, but Joe, he’s a good boy. 
Tal padre, tal figlio
. Anton said Joe still visits his father every week. Every Sunday.’

I felt hurt Joe had never taken me to the grave or even bothered to mention he went. All those secret errands. Had some of them been to visit his father? What about his mother? Was she buried there too? And Joe revelations aside, George had a son called
Anton
?

‘It’s a real shame,’ George continued. ‘Nico’s memory isn’t so good no more and he’s in a wheelchair now. I told him all that drinking and smoking was bad for him. You know he’s only sixty-three? But he gets back to the 
quartiere
, the old neighbourhood, whenever he can. Not too often now. I guess you’ve been to see him in that hospital place in Skokie? I won’t go, the silly old man won’t let me. Too proud.’

I shot Nina a sideways glance, and a nervous one. ‘George, we are talking about
Joe’s
father?’ I didn’t want his answer. Joe’s censorship did have its upsides. At least that way the truth lay buried beneath his layers of lies.

‘Yeah, Joe’s father, Nico Petrozzi. The nurses keep him under lock and key but I know Joe sneaks him out and takes him to the horses!’ After my dumbfounded silence, George looked at his watch, if only to excuse himself. ‘Well, I’d better get back. Take care now, and lovely meeting you, Nina.’

The old man with fake shrapnel in his leg limped back to the kitchen, shouting to his son about Genoa Salami while my open-mouthed stare mirrored Nina’s. Joe’s father hadn’t drowned in a lake. He’d never lain macerated in a mortuary, waiting for a fourteen-year-old Joe to identify what remained. He was alive, breathing; asleep in a nursing home chair somewhere across town.

‘Oh my god,’ Nina muttered.

I said nothing.

A sickness travelled my throat. If his father was alive then maybe so was his mother. And then there was Frankie. What became of the child pushed to find comfort in a gang after his own family perished, a life that ended his own? The story was so convenient now I thought about it, so perfect and neat. Parents die, kids mess up, younger brother gets shot and Joe’s sent off the rails too. Nothing’s his fault again. There’s always the tragedy to blame it on.