Wiseguys In Love (7 page)

“Leave me alone.”

“Jessica, they are going to throw me out this afternoon unless you show up at the meeting.”

“So, what do you want me to do?” She shook his hand free.

“Tell them the truth! Damn it, I've worked my whole life for this. My father—” His voice cracked.

“I told them the truth.”

His jaw dropped. That was it—it was over.

“You lying bitch,” he murmured, scarcely able to inhale.

“You stay away from me, Michael Bonello, or I swear I'll get a lawyer.” She turned and walked stiffly away from him, and as she did it was as if Michael was watching his whole life and his last chance to really get out fade with each step she took.

The final meeting, where the board voted unanimously to expel him, seemed to go by in a flash, for something so monumentally life-altering.

He was out and it was put permanently on his record.

Michael walked around New York for a month in a dismal, mostly drunken haze. His whole life had been shot down by a Long Island princess.

He remembered a big bash in New Jersey. His nickname in the neighborhood was “College.” He was trotted out in front of Solly with the same pride that Tony was. That was saying a lot, considering that, as far as Michael knew, his father was little more than a bookkeeper for some of the Soltanos' regular businesses, and Tony helped run the street for the Soltanos.

Michael was going to be the first legit Bonello on American soil. And suddenly, it was all over.

He'd stayed drinking at bars on the Lower West Side—bars where he knew there'd be no chance in hell of running into anyone from the neighborhood. He knew he had to tell his father. He also knew it would destroy him.

That was when the second thing happened.

Michael'd been sleeping one off when the phone call came from his mother.

She was at Brooklyn Memorial. She was crying so hard, she forgot how to speak English. It took him five minutes to connect
padre
and
morte
together.

The first thing he did was throw up. He shaved, put on his best clean shirt, trousers, and jacket. He stopped off for a drink to quell his nausea, and then took a cab to Brooklyn.

It was like walking in on a nightmare as he stood outside the morgue door, staring through a small glass window at his mother, weeping over his father's body. This was just not right. It wasn't right. Everything was happening so fast, so frighteningly fast.

She'd been sitting by her husband in the morgue for a couple of hours by the time Michael showed. It took him fifteen minutes to get her out of the cold tiled place.

That evening, his father was lying in a funeral home, and Michael was sitting at their kitchen table in Brooklyn, surrounded by women, most dressed head to foot in black, swapping widowhood stories in Italian.

He and Tony slipped out, Tony grimacing at him as they walked into a bar.

“Your mother ain't gonna like you drinking, Mikey. It ain't good for you.”

“Uh-huh,” was all he said as he downed several shots of whiskey.

“So what you gonna do, Mikey?”

“I don't know, Tony. I don't know anything.… What do you think I should do?” he asked absentmindedly.

“Maybe I could hook something up for you.”

“Yeah, sure, that would be great,” he remembered answering—sarcastically, he had thought—but he was on his fifth whiskey in less than an hour.

Sophia Bonello didn't or wouldn't or couldn't speak a word of English for two days. Into the third day of viewing, they were seated in front of the coffin at the Cardarelli funeral home near Oyster Bay.

They were in one of the larger rooms, filled with black folding chairs, the windowless walls covered in brownish red velvet. A red light bulb placed behind the open casket kept your eyes stuck to it.

They'd been staring at this thing that had begun to look like a bizarre table decoration. Michael had stood over it again and again, trying to reconcile the man in the casket with his father.

It didn't look like his father. Pop never had had red, red lips. And he'd never had skin that color. He didn't like cut flowers, either. He'd told Michael once that they reminded him of funerals, and here he was, bathed in them. Among the baskets and bouquets of flowers, a huge cross of snapdragons and white mums stood at the head of the coffin. At the foot, white carnations formed a large horseshoe, onto which was tied a big black satin bow. Michael had first thought that one was a mistake until he looked at the card.

It was from a bookie who'd owed Pop.

People had filed past them each day from eight in the morning till nine at night, with a special private showing for Solly and his family. Mass cards were everywhere on the black stands on either side of the box. And since that had filled up fast, they had begun tossing them inside and on top of the coffin. The red light reflected off the plastic-coated ones lying on his father's chest, giving him the eerie impression of breathing. There were so many by the end of the thing that Michael figured every church in the metropolitan area was going to be busy blessing Vincent Bonello for the next year.

Why not? Pop was popular in the neighborhood. He'd been a good man. There was always an extra place to be made at his table, always an extra buck if one was needed. Yeah, he was known for being a bit of a pushover on money. But that was part of having a good heart.

He never wanted Michael, his only child, to grow up doing what he did. He wanted him to be main-line American—a lawyer or doctor, something with dignity. He sent him to private schools, made sure he kept his grades up, and kept spoken Italian to a minimum in the house.

The morning of the third day, his mother, puffy-eyed and wearing the black uniform she'd be in for the rest of her life, looked over at Michael and finally spoke English.

“You gonna get in trouble with your school for being out like this?”

“No,” he replied flatly.

He took his mother's hands and they both sat in silence as Father D'Amico made the sign of the cross as the mortician's assistants sealed the coffin.

It was all so final, Michael thought. What had happened to the second chances of his childhood? And why was it that when a terrible thing happened in life, it took such an unfeeling split second instead of the long time it should merit because of its importance and ramifications?

Tony silently drove them to the burial site and stayed by the car during the brief ceremony. Mourners returned to their cars, leaving Sophia and Michael holding on to each other's hands in silence.

“Come on, Ma, let's go,” he said finally, choking on the words.

She looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears, and silently he dropped her hands and made his way back to the car, giving her time to say her last good-bye to her husband in privacy.

He was weeping when he got to the car, and Tony gave him his handkerchief. They stood leaning against the car as Michael tried to pull himself together.

“I don't know what I'm going to do,” he murmured, and glanced at Tony.

A big smile moved across Tony's face, and that was when the third thing happened.

“Don't worry, Mikey, I got you taken care of. Solly says take some days, then come in when you're ready.”

“What?” he asked, not following.

“You said you needed a job in the bar.… I had to pull a lot of strings, but I got it okayed.” Tony put an arm around Michael's back and gave a quick hug that nearly dislocated his shoulder. “I'm gonna teach you everything I know. You got a job. Solly's gonna take care of you, just like he does me.”

So now he owed Tony twice—once for his life and now for his “new career.”

Michael sat dumbfounded as Tony drove them back to the city. He thought he'd been sarcastic. He never expected Tony to take him seriously. He felt his palms get wet, and he began to think about it. What were his options? He was going to tell someone who kills for a living that he didn't want this “favor”? After all, if he didn't accept and Tony was made to look like a jerk … He couldn't think about that.

By the time they reached New York, Michael was resigned to having to accept Tony's offer, at least for now. He'd just be real smart about it. He'd keep a low profile, ride with Tony for a couple of weeks, and then slide out of it. After all, his father had never gotten deeply mired. He'd managed to dance on the outside. If Pop could weave and dodge not getting involved with the dirty side of the business, he certainly could. He could prove he was Vincent's son.

That had been two years ago.

A tap on the window brought him back to the present. He rolled down his window and looked up at Ralphie.

“He wants to see youse now.”

*   *   *

Lisa threw a bathing suit into her small overnight bag and went into the bathroom. She took down all the stuff Andrew referred to as “that face crap” and tossed it into a plastic Gristede's supermarket bag. She walked back into the bedroom and dropped the bag into the overnight case. She zipped up the whole thing and carried it into the living room. She should set the answering machine. Otherwise, she'd never hear the end of it from Andrew.

She leaned over it and was just about to press the message record button when instead she went over to her handbag and took out a piece of paper. She picked up the receiver and began to dial the smeary number the woman at the office had given her. A rough, coughing voice came over the line.

“Yeah?”

“Mrs. Morelli, please.”

“Who's this?”

“Mrs. Morelli? This is Lisa Johnson, Henry Foster Morgan's secretary … from the office?”

“Yeah…”

“I just heard. I am so sorry.… I was wondering if you'd mind if I dropped by for a moment this evening?”

There was a muted sound on the other end.

“All right. When you think you gonna be here?”

“Within the hour.”

“All right.” The line clicked dead.

Lisa hung up and then stared at a photo of Andrew and her on vacation four years before. She stared at Andrew's face.

He had piercing blue eyes and sandy blond hair. He was wearing a Lacoste shirt, British navy shorts, and Top-Siders. He looked like a walking ad for Ralph Lauren.

On to Connecticut, she thought. She turned on the answering machine and left the apartment.

Getting out this weekend was going to do her a world of good, Lisa thought as she waited by the elevator. It was going to be fun to be around new people and do something besides sit inside and watch television. And barbecues were her favorite. The elevator opened and Lisa got on, and for the first time all day she really gave herself a smile in anticipation of two whole days of pools and trees and hamburgers and fun people.

*   *   *

Rosa Morelli lit a cigarette and took a swig from the glass of cola in front of her. She stared up, red-eyed, at her nephew—her wonderful godson Tony.

“She's comin' up here in the hour.” She nodded to Tony and then darted a glance over to his cousin Michael. “She'll lead you to the sonofabeech.”

*   *   *

Lisa took the car out of the garage on Seventy-fourth Street and stared at the address.

One nineteen Pleasant Avenue.

She drove the car up the ramp. She was going to tell her how sorry she was.

She should buy flowers.

She pulled up at a red light on Third and Eightieth and looked over at a Korean fruit stand on the corner. A nice large bunch of speckled tiger lilies caught her eye. By the time the light had turned green, she had the bunch lying next to her on the front seat. She continued driving, stop and start in the heavy traffic.

The flowers began to bother her.

Well, Lisa thought, she'll get another job and … Then it hit her. Where was a sixty-four-year-old woman going to find a job? Who was going to hire someone only a few months away from retirement?

She had no family except for some godson. Who knew if the kid even lived nearby. She was all alone. Seriously, Lisa speculated, how was she going to get along?

And then Lisa felt even worse, realizing just what kind of a sacrifice had been made because she was too scared or too cowardly or … guilty. She was feeling guilty.

Flowers were not going to cut it.

Money. What she had to do was offer her money—without making her sound like a charity case. And she could darn well do other things—maybe help her around the house, do her resume. Lisa made a list in her head.

She swung back around to First Avenue. The woman from the office had assured her that Pleasant Avenue was up here, on the East Side, and she could easily find it.

She had five hundred dollars in her savings account. How could she offer it to Mrs. Morelli?

Maybe if she just said it was a loan?

That was always what her mom did with her Uncle Joe, and heck, he never paid back a cent, or at least that's what her dad always said.

The neighborhood began to change as she left the nineties. Tall, low-income housing projects mushroomed along the littered streets. The sun was beginning to set and she just wanted to find Pleasant Avenue. Three tattered men pulled aside a piece of tin covering the doorway of a burned-out building, and Lisa watched them slip inside. She shivered slightly as she caught sight of a fat gray rat foraging in a pile of garbage near a fire hydrant. The hydrant was open, lazily splashing water over an old mattress.

All right, so where am I? she thought, trying to take her mind off the devastation she was seeing.

Okay, she could say, “You know, I have this extra money just sitting around, not doing anything, and you could probably use a little something—until you get another job.”

Another job. She felt herself wince. No, better not bring that up.

Her mind snapped back to the streets. Rows of burned-out buildings were separated by vacant lots with garbage piled high. It reminded her a little of pictures she'd seen of London during the Blitz.