A Mobster's Independence Day Picnic

A Mobster’s Independence Day Picnic

By Beth Mathison

Copyright 2012 by Beth Mathison

Cover Copyright 2012 by Dara England
and Untreed Reads Publishing

The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Also by Beth Mathison and Untreed Reads Publishing

A Mobster’s Guide to Cranberry Sauce

A Mobster’s Menu for Mother’s Day Brunch

A Mobster’s Recipe for Cupcakes

A Mobster’s Toast to St. Patrick’s Day

http://www.untreedreads.com

A Mobster’s Independence Day Picnic

Beth Mathison

“I wonder if the heat can make firecrackers explode,” Harry said, looking at the colorful boxes stacked neatly on the grass. “Death Star Fireworks” was printed boldly on three large wooden boxes.

“Of course you need heat to make them explode,” Charlie answered. “That’s the whole point of lighting them up.”

“I mean the
sun
,” Harry said. “It’s pretty hot out here, and I’m wondering if the heat from the sun can make them blow up.”

“Ohhhhh,” Charlie said, looking down. They both took a step back.

“Maybe we should get some fans on them,” Harry said.

“We’re in a park,” Charlie replied. “They don’t have wall sockets out here in the wilderness.”

Harry and Charlie stood next to a classic brown 1970 Chrysler Town & Country station wagon. Other picnickers had parked under shade trees before lugging their gear to the picnic area. Harry and Charlie had parked the station wagon in a bright but empty corner of the lot, to give them privacy. They had unloaded three large fireworks boxes and had them stacked on the blacktop next to the car.

“I think we should ask the
Mythbusters
people,” Harry said. “You know, that TV show where they try to confirm or bust myths? We should have them see if the sun can explode fireworks. Maybe we could get on to the show.”

“Maybe it would work if these weren’t
hot
fireworks,” Charlie said.

Harry laughed.

“You know that hot means contraband, right?” Charlie asked.

“Of course I know what you meant,” Harry responded. “For a mobster, I have a highly refined handle on the English language.”

“I would stop lying before the sky opens up and lightning strikes you dead,” Jeremy said, walking up to them. He held a glass of lemonade in one hand, and a fine bead of sweat lined his brow.

“God wouldn’t do that,” Harry said. “It’s just a little fib. And besides, there’s not a cloud in the sky.”

Jeremy eyed the fireworks boxes and took a step back. “That’s even more than last year,” he said. “Those are giant boxes. Where’d you get them?”

“I thought you weren’t interested in the family business anymore,” Charlie said. “You’re in the cupcake business now.”

“I’m interested in your business only because you have a pile of questionable explosives sitting a hundred yards from where my pregnant wife is eating her tofu salad. I’m concerned for the people I love, not the family business.”

“What the heck is tofu?” Harry asked.

“Basically it’s soy milk and bean curd squished into a brick,” Jeremy said.

“Ack!” Charlie exclaimed. “What happened to the traditional brats and hot dogs and burgers? What about the potato chips and watermelon and ice cream cones? I don’t think we can celebrate the Fourth of July without any of those things.”

“Relax,” Jeremy said. “Aunt Shirley’s got all of those things, including the red-white-and-blue gelatin mold in the shape of a flag. Carla’s eating the tofu because she thinks it’s better for the baby.”

“Well, she’s going to be surprised when it comes out looking like a bean curd,” Harry said. “It’s just not natural.”

“Hey, you’re talking about my wife and child,” Jeremy said. “Carla knows what she’s doing, and my son or daughter is not going to look like a bean.”

“Have you ever seen an ultrasound picture of a baby?” Charlie said. “They sure look like beans on those things. I think Carla should eat a big, juicy burger to give her and the baby strength.”

Uncle Tommy walked up to them, dressed in linen pants and a lightweight sports jacket, a pair of expensive sunglasses on his face. Harry and Charlie were sweating through their red flag t-shirts, but Uncle Tommy looked like he just stepped out of a cooler. Uncle Tommy towered over the three of them, glancing at the fireworks boxes.

“Aunt Shirley wants you to stop giving Jeremy baby advice and would like you all to join us for lunch,” Uncle Tommy said.

“How did she know what we were talking about?” Harry asked. “She’s way over there under the trees.”

“Another day, another inane conversation,” Uncle Tommy responded.

“Humph,” Charlie said. “I don’t think we’re insane.”

Uncle Tommy reached down and picked up all three of the fireworks boxes, his neck muscles straining. “We need to move these boxes out of the sun,” he said. Harry, Charlie, and Jeremy walked over to the picnic area while Uncle Tommy put the fireworks in the shade of a large tree.

“There you are,” Aunt Shirley said, handing everyone a paper plate. “I sent Jeremy over to get you, but he obviously got way-laid.”

“There was an issue with explosives,” Jeremy explained.

“Aunt Shirley, I think you’re psychic. There’s no way you could know what we were saying,” Harry said.

Aunt Shirley sighed. “It was just a wild guess,” she said.

“That’s a fine-looking vehicle you’ve got there,” Uncle Frank said, looking across the parking lot at the station wagon. “They sure don’t make them like that anymore.” He adjusted his tie and brushed imaginary lint from his suit jacket.

“You mean with the wood paneling and all?” Jeremy asked.

“No, with the storage space in the back,” Uncle Frank replied. “That rear seat is perfect for hauling merchandise. A minivan just doesn’t do the trick nowadays. When I was young, I transported five thousand hemp peace necklaces in the back of that station wagon. It was a beautiful thing. I’m glad it’s staying in the family.”

Aunt Shirley had an entire table filled with picnic food and a giant thermos of lemonade. The family spread out over a dozen picnic tables, with a group of kids playing a game of softball in a nearby field. The kids had raided the ice cream cooler and were hopped up on sugar, enthusiastically using water balloons in place of a softball.

Jeremy took a seat next to Carla, rubbing the back of her neck gently as she worked on her tofu salad. Annalisa, still in high school, was the youngest sitting at the table. She loaded up a plate filled with multi-colored gelatin and sat next to Carla.

“Isn’t this nice?” Aunt Shirley said. “Here we are, enjoying a nice normal Independence Day celebration.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Annalisa said. “It’s going to jinx the entire family.”

“I thought you were banned from talking about psychology in the presence of family,” Harry said. “Seeing as you’re sixteen and think you know everything but you really don’t. Even if you are in the advanced classes in school.”

“For your information,” Annalisa began. “I’ve given up my interest in psychology and have moved on to superstitions. That’s why I cautioned Aunt Shirley. It’s bad luck to mention something good, otherwise something bad will happen.”

“Well, I don’t think anything is going to jinx our family,” Charlie said. He stepped over to the picnic table and rapped the top with his fist. “Knock on wood.”

“Some people believe that knocking on wood is a reference to the cross in Christianity, or the mythical bond that wood or trees have with friendly spirits,” Annalisa said.

“I think it’s a sin to believe in superstitions,” Harry said. “I heard that on talk radio.”

“No way,” Charlie said. “I shalt not believe in superstitions is not a part of the Ten Commandments, I know that much.”

“A sin doesn’t have to be part of the Ten Commandments, you moron,” Harry said. “There’s no thou shalt not remove lost merchandize from off the back of a truck. They didn’t even have trucks back then.”

“Well, technically, the Ten Commandments do reference theft in a general way,” Jeremy started.

Mary Charlotte and Betty were sitting at the next table over, working on eating corn on the cob without losing their dentures. Betty was wearing a traditional old-country black dress, and was sweating bullets. Mary Charlotte wore a bright red pantsuit, a giant crucifix necklace hanging from her neck. Harry shouted over to Mary Charlotte to get her attention.

“What’s your opinion?” Harry asked her. “You were in training to be a nun when you were younger, so you’re really qualified in religious matters. Is believing in superstition a sin?”

“I’m not sure if I’m the right person to ask, since I got thrown out of the nunnery,” Mary Charlotte responded. “Dealing those hot rosaries is going to haunt me the rest of my days, although I’m so old I don’t know how many days I’ve got left.”

“I walked under a ladder once and got pooped on by a bird,” Charlie said. “So I can confirm that walking under ladders brings bad luck of the bird kind.”

Everyone had stopped eating and was looking at Charlie.

“I think throwing salt over your shoulder brings good luck,” Annalisa said. “It’s supposed to ward off the devil.”

Half the people at their picnic tables reached for their little paper salt packages, ripped them open, and tossed salt over their shoulders.

Uncle Frank opened up a salt package and sprinkled it over his potato salad. “I’m not letting good salt go to waste,” he explained. “And I need all the flavor I can get after Charlie’s poop remark.”

“Can we for once have a meal without talking about bodily functions?” Aunt Shirley sighed.

“We could talk about finance or politics,” Harry said. “That would spice things up.”

“I don’t have any salt,” Charlie said, searching the tables for extra packets. “How am I going to have good luck if I can’t find any salt?” He tried snitching Mary Charlotte’s salt packet from the picnic table, but she shooed him away.

“I’m going to get pooped on, I just know it,” Charlie said, looking up nervously at the trees.

“I think you need to settle down,” Uncle Tommy said. He had taken his seat at the picnic table and was eating a large green salad.

“The superstition thoughts have got me,” Charlie exclaimed. “I can’t stop myself. Do the spaces between the grass count as cracks? Sweet Mother of Jesus, can I break my mother’s back, even though she’s already dead?” He danced around on his tip-toes, finally giving up and stood on the picnic bench. He crossed all the fingers in his hands for luck, holding them in front of his body.

“I think that’s obsessive compulsive behavior,” Annalisa said.

“Stop!” Aunt Shirley said, lifting up a warning finger. “Remember, no psychology talk at family gatherings.”

“I really think we need some kind of intervention on Charlie’s behalf,” Harry said, looking up at him. An older couple, walking along a path next to the tables, saw Charlie standing on the bench and scurried away.

“Quick, somebody get me some salt before my fingers cramp up,” Charlie said. “I can’t create my own luck for much longer.”

Uncle Frank stood up and splashed his glass of lemonade on to Charlie’s face. Charlie unlocked his fingers and stepped to the ground, sputtering lemonade.

“I would have used water,” Uncle Frank said. “But all I had was lemonade. You’re going to be a bit sticky, but have you calmed down?”

“Thanks, Uncle Frank,” Charlie said with relief. “I feel much better now.”

“I’d like to make a toast,” Betty said, standing up next to the picnic table, swaying slightly. She fanned herself with her free hand, trying to ward off the heat.

“Have you been drinking?” Jeremy asked her quietly.

“Nope,” Betty said. “Not yet.” She paused, taking a deep breath, then held up her paper cup. “I’d like to toast God, family, and this great country of ours. And God, please forgive us for our superstitious natures, if in fact, they are sins. We’re having a little bit of confusion about the issue down here, so any clarification on your part would be much appreciated. Also, thanks a lot for this beautiful day, as some of us have the arthritis that makes it so hard to get around most days, and this warm weather rally helps a lot.” She paused. “The end.”