The Good Kind of Bad (43 page)

I couldn’t muster a reply.

‘Take care Mrs Petrozzi, and ring if you have any questions.’

I scribbled down the nursing home name, and after staring at my phone for a good ten minutes, trying not to think about the phone call or what I was about to do, I shed my robe and took a long hot shower. Dressing in jeans, a striped top and blazer, I googled the Abbey’s address on my phone, retrieved the key from the dictionary, collected my bag, put Sybil on her lead and, outside on West Superior, hailed the first taxi that passed.

After first dropping Sybil at the Doggy Depot, on the drive out to Skokie, watching the world from the window, I was consumed with thoughts of Joe, of how the police were closing the file and why. In my rush to leave, I’d discarded all reasoning, even forgetting Evan could return at any moment and find me gone.

After crawling through the traffic and heading out to the suburbs, we entered a more affluent neighbourhood than I’d envisaged, and on Holling Road pulled into the gravelled front of the Abbey Nursing Home. It was an elegant brick house encompassed by manicured gardens and pristine lawns, the sun ebbing through the leaves as we came to a stop by the reception. After thanking the driver, I followed the snaking gravelled pathway, and entered the reception wearing an understandably nervous smile.

The converted interior of the ageing house was overtly clinical, the essence of antiseptic coupled with the faint aroma of urine. It was more like a hospital or clinic ‒ another reminder of Evan’s probable threats to have me committed if I didn’t surrender the money to him.

A woman in white then approached me in reception.

‘Can I help you, miss?’ the nurse asked, clasping her hands.

‘I’m looking for Mr Petrozzi. Nicholas Petrozzi?’

‘Are you family?’

I paused before smiling. ‘Yes. I’m his daughter-in-law.’

After introducing herself, Nurse Dinan led me past a television lounge crammed with wrinkled residents in high-backed chairs. Shafts of light travelled in through the windows, creating a haze through the dust. The residents gazed at that which couldn’t be seen, clutching memories still as real as ever.

‘I haven’t seen you here before. Is this your first visit to the Abbey?’ the nurse asked.

‘My husband told me Mr Petrozzi, his father, had died in a car crash, so I never knew to visit before.’

Maybe she hadn’t heard me. She didn’t even flinch. ‘Well, this is Nicky’s door, go right on in. He’s back from lunch so he’ll talk you into tomorrow if you’re not careful.’

With a hand on the heavy door, I pushed.

The blinds were drawn in the small room. I could only make out the edges of a few items of cumbersome furniture as boxes covered the floor; the contents of a whole house shoved into a poky retirement flat. The striped wallpaper was a nasty shade of brown after several years’ worth of tar deposits and the room smelled musty and old, like it’d been forgotten.

‘Hello?’ a voice barked from another room, the gruff tones followed by a cough. ‘Who’s there?’

I pushed open the bedroom door to face a gaunt man with shaved white hair, dressed in red braces and a vest and sitting in a wheelchair, puffing on a cigarette.

‘Have you come to change the sheets?’ he asked, the roll-up bobbing between his lips.

Before me sat a man I was never supposed to meet, a father who’d perished in a tragic
story
. A man who didn’t know his own son was dead. He looked up at me, puffing away on the roll-up.

‘I haven’t come to change the sheets, I’ve come to see you. I’m your daughter-in-law; I’m Joe’s wife. He told you about me.’

The raspy sound from the back of his throat grew louder. ‘Wife? You’re not Joe’s wife. You look nothing like Maria.’

He then signalled me aside with his open palm as he wheeled himself into the lounge, grabbing the television remote from the side of a chair and settling on a game show at high volume.

I promptly followed, standing behind the television. ‘Maria? Who’s Maria?’

‘Joe’s wife. You didn’t know?’ He stubbed out the cigarette in a grubby Kansas City Chiefs ashtray before continuing to stare at his show.

‘Mr Petrozzi, please. I need to talk to you about your son, about Joe.’

As the audience clapped and cheered, he collected the remote and muted the volume. ‘Do you want to sit down?’ He pointed to a chair covered in old newspapers. ‘That’s Hugo’s chair but you can sit there.’

After seeing no evidence of a pet, I moved the newspapers aside and gingerly perched on the edge of the wooden slats.

He folded his arms and sighed, already appearing weary of my presence. ‘What do you want to know about my Joe?’

I cleared my throat, wondering what I was doing. Why I’d come. ‘A police officer rang. Detective Zupansky. The guy you’ve been talking to. He said Joe’s no longer missing, that he’s been to see you.’

‘That’s right, he came a couple of hours ago. He’s a good boy; I always said he was the good one. Frankie never did anything except ruin our name. Frankie only calls when he wants something.’

Now it wasn’t only Joe, Frankie was back to breathing too.

‘Joe was here? It was definitely your son?’

‘Of course it was my son. What do you think I am, lady, nuts?’

‘Mr Petrozzi, no disrespect intended, but that’s not possible. Joe is . . .’ I couldn’t bring myself to say it, but he’d stopped listening anyway, now busying himself with the sideboard coffee cups. ‘Mr Petrozzi, you’re positive he was here?
Joe
was here?’

He squinted at me over his glasses. ‘Who did you say you were?’

‘I told you. I’m Joe’s wife.’

His face contorted in confusion. ‘Get out. Go on, get out of here!’ He began flapping his arms as he wheeled towards me, causing me to back to the door. ‘I don’t want you in here. Get out!’

After tripping over the edge of the dresser, I practically fell through the front door before he slammed it in my face.

‘Everything all right there, sugar?’

Out in the hall, I was met by another kindly looking nurse in a blue uniform. I was still struggling to catch my breath. ‘Please, I need to get out of here.’

She looked at the door from which I’d emerged and rolled her eyes. ‘Has he been at it again? Don’t you worry about Nico, he can be a miserable old man sometimes. He didn’t upset you, did he? He gets confused, don’t recognise me some days and I bring him his meals morning, noon and night.’

‘Confused?’

‘Mr Petrozzi has Alzheimer’s, most of the time he’s living in the past. He loves telling me his old gangster stories, though between you and me I think he watches too much television,’ she finished, with a burst of laughter.

‘He said I couldn’t be Joe’s wife because I wasn’t
Maria
.’

She nodded knowingly, guiding me down the corridor with a gentle arm across my back. ‘Maria was Nico’s wife. She died in a house fire along with his young daughter, oh, it must be twenty years ago now. I don’t think he ever got over it. Nico told me they were murdered, that someone set the house alight as revenge, but I think the fire was his fault. Joe said his father left a cigarette burning and the whole place went up like the Fourth of July. In fact, I think it was the Fourth of July. He never forgave himself, used to take it out on his sons; beat them ’til they were blue, Joe said.’

He was confused. He probably didn’t know what year it was. Of course Joe had crawled out of his grave and paid him a visit. Nico Petrozzi was slowly going senile.

‘He said Joe, my husband, came to see him, but Joe has gone to live . . . in Winnipeg.’

‘I didn’t know he’d moved away. I was wondering why I hadn’t seen him around. And you’re his wife? You seem like a nice girl, what are you doing with Joe? Disturbing the neighbourhood with grim reaper rock blasting out of that damn car. Handsome though. You make a cute couple. Winnipeg? That’s up north, right? You going to Canada too?’

I smiled. ‘The jury’s still out on that.’

Back in the lounge at West Superior, it was already approaching late afternoon as I backcombed my hair until the golden strands turned straggly. The illusion of a girl on the edge, a girl ingesting a daily cocktail of hallucinogens, had to be maintained, for the immediate future at least ‒ a girl needy, frightened and drugged.

There was a shuffling outside the front door. The taxi driver from Skokie had broken the land speed record to deliver me home, I hoped, before Evan, and now it looked like another close call.

Panicking, I shoved my brush and hairspray into the desk drawer and sprawled myself over the chaise longue, a palm to my forehead for effect.

After the key twisted in the lock, I heard him stride the hall. Stomp, stomp, stomp.
Go with it, take the abuse, let him think you’re weak.
At least I knew this wouldn’t be my life for much longer.

Dressed in the tailored deep-blue suit and gold-flecked tie, Evan strolled in, the aviators nestled in his hair. He clutched a small brown paper bag, which he placed on the coffee table. Taking a guarded glance at the package, I could’ve sworn it was blood-stained.

‘You’re dressed.’ He sounded surprised.

Moving to sitting, I brushed down my blazer. ‘I wanted to be clean. I wanted to look normal.’

‘You do look normal, considering,’ he mumbled. ‘Any phone calls?’

‘Phone calls? No, nothing.’ Hmmm, convincing. Said no one ever.

He put his hands to his hips, jutting out his chin as he leant forward. ‘You sure?’

‘There were no phone calls, will you give it a rest?’ I felt like kicking myself.
Tone it down. You’re supposed to be delusional.

‘We should get to the bank, honey, before it closes. I’ll phone our faux Mr Heller. Mickey’s talking about two million if we don’t get the cash to him soon. I’ve landed enough bruises for you already. Come on, get your lazy ass up.’

Now he assumed I was in
la-la land
, he’d ditched any attempt at nice.

In imagined pain, I groaned and whined, scrunching my eyes until my vision blurred. ‘I have a headache. It hurts every time I move.’

‘It’ll have to hurt then.’

He grabbed my wrists, but I shuffled up, kicking at his arms. ‘You’re hurting me, let go!’

Pulling me forward, I soon slid off the chaise longue and thudded to the floor. He began to walk, dragging me over the boards as I tried in vain to get my footing, to loosen his grip. I kicked out my feet, aiming for his legs as our battle of strength reached the door.

He stopped. I could see by his frown he was confused, my resistance greater than he’d anticipated, but the scuffle didn’t end due to my pleas or his mercy. His phone was ringing. With a look of disgust, I was released as he reached for his pocket.

‘Yeah, speak,’ he answered.

His words were quiet and I strained to hear, but there was a whole lot of mumbling going on.

‘Always when I’m in the middle of something.’ Hanging up the phone, he smiled down at me like he’d not tried to wrench my arm from its socket. ‘Looks like I’m heading out, honey, and for a while.’

‘Again?’ This time, I was going to follow him.

‘You and I are going to that bank tomorrow. Even if I have to chop your legs off and drag you there, we are going to get
my
money.’

I was ninety percent sure we wouldn’t be going to the bank, seeing as he needed my father for the cosignatory, and Evan and this mysterious stand-in Mr Heller had no way of knowing my father’s fake signature. I was surprised there hadn’t been more questions from Evan, specifically of the Heller-shaped variety. The identity of my cosignatory didn’t seem to concern him. Although I’d said I didn’t know Heller, he hadn’t probed like I thought he would, over his age or race, and banks usually held the date of births of their customers. They’d have security measures in place, especially if someone turned up after fifteen years trying to withdraw a million dollars. But Evan had simply found a stand-in. It was out of character. From what I’d witnessed, Evan had planning OCD, intricately anticipating each chess move. Mr Heller was the only thing throwing a spanner in the works. And yet, it didn’t seem to be a problem.

As a shiver ran through me, parting my thoughts, Evan grabbed the paper bag off the coffee table, marched off down the hall, rummaged around in the bedroom for a time and then slammed the front door.

In relief, my body deflated against the bottom of the door like a balloon. Sinking to the lowest depths of despair, I’d survived the onslaught: the constant conflict of my thoughts and the veiled fight against Evan. I could hear the blood cry on the wind, disturbing the silence of my now still mind; the battle may have ended but the war was still to be won. Even though I was poised to report him to the cops, I still needed my solid-gold proof on Evan ‒ that he’d ordered Nina’s killing, that he was Victor, and that my money was for him, not Mickey. I had to see the real Evan, who he was when
I
wasn’t around. Only by following him could I witness the truth.