Deadly Embrace (20 page)

Survival meant staying strong, so every day he worked out in the
yard. It wasn't long before he palled up with Gus—a fellow
prisoner doing time for extortion. Gus was a friendly guy who talked
a lot. On the outside he worked for Dante Lucchese, and he was
currently finishing up a five-year sentence.

"when ya get out, ya gotta look me up," Gus said, a couple of days
before his release. "I will," Michael promised.

For the first two years he worked in the kitchen and the laundry,
until eventually he scored a better gig in the prison library, where
he found himself working alongside Karl Edgington, a man who'd gotten
himself locked away for embezzling two million dollars from the Wall
Street firm he'd worked for. Karl was a strange one—well
educated and quiet, he talked constantly about his two cats and his
priceless stamp collection. The other inmates had labeled him a wacko
and left him alone. But Michael thought Karl was an interesting man,
and extremely knowledgeable regarding money and the stock market. He
began picking his brain, getting an education about the financial
world. It was a fascinating subject, and one that Karl was only too
willing to talk about.

"I got a few thousand put away," Michael confided one day. "What
d'you think I should do with it?"

"Do what I tell you, and I can make you a lot of money," Karl
said.

"Yeah?" Michael said, quite apprehensive. "An' why would I trust
you
?"

Karl shrugged. "Sometimes taking a chance is the only way to
go."

"Would you be able to double my money?"

"I'll do a lot better than that."

"Yeah, what?"

"Can you keep your silence and follow instructions when you're
released?"

"Sure."

"Good. Because I have a proposition that will benefit us
both."

"What would that be?"

"Something mutually advantageous."

"So spill."

"I'll give you a number to call. When you're out, you'll contact
this number and we'll take it from there."

He wasn't sure whether he trusted Karl or not, but he wrote down
the number and stashed it in a safe place.

Sometimes, late at night when he wasn't able to sleep, his
thoughts turned to Dani. He had an urge to write her, only what good
would that do? He was a convicted felon, and as such he should do her
a favor and stay away. Dani was an unforgettable memory of better
times—and that's the way it had to be.

The only person who came to see him in prison was Max. Good old
Max. Married man, best friend, and staunch supporter, Max never
missed a visit.

On the day of his release, Max was waiting for him outside the
prison. He was driving a secondhand Ford Mustang and looking very
pleased with himself in his paisley shirt, bell-bottom pants, a
shaggy duffle coat, and Beatles-style haircut.

"What the fuck happened to
you
?" Michael said, choking back
laughter. "That's some pansy outfit."

"Screw you," Max retaliated. "It's the fashion."

"Fashion,
shitl
" Michael said, taking a deep breath of
cold, fresh air. He was free. What a feeling!

"Forget about the outfit," Max said, clapping his friend on the
back. "How about the wheels?"

"Not bad," Michael said, circling the Mustang before climbing in
the passenger seat. "Things must be goin' your way."

"They are," Max said enthusiastically. "Tina's dad made me a
partner in his car dealership, which means that one of these days
I'll
be takin' over."

"Cushy deal."

"Now listen t' me," Max said sternly. "You gotta stay away from
those lowlifes you was mixin' with before you got locked away. Look
what happened to you. If you hang out with them, it'll happen
again."

"Yeah, yeah," Michael said, hardly in the mood for a lecture.

"You'll stay with us," Max continued, revving the engine. "Tina's
makin' up the couch for you."

"Wait a minute," he said. "I haven't gotten out of jail to sleep
on your freakin' couch."

"You've done it before, an' you'll do it again," Max said, driving
like an old fart, with both hands on the wheel. "Y'know, till you get
yourself settled."

"Maybe for a night or two," Michael said, suddenly aware that he
had nowhere else to go. "Hey," he added, "this piece of tin got any
juice under the hood?"

"You prick!" Max said, putting his foot down. "'Course it
does."

Max had turned into a family man. He and Tina had two
children—a four-year-old boy, Harry, named after Tina's father,
and Susie, a three-year-old girl. With the help of Tina's dad, they'd
purchased a small house in the old neighborhood.

Proudly Max drove Michael there, and parked outside, showing off
the tiny patch of grass in the small front yard, which was blanketed
in snow and ice.

Tina came to the door and greeted Michael with an awkward embrace.
Then she proceeded to tell Max off about tracking snow into the
house. It was glaringly obvious that she ruled the household, and
wanted everyone to know.

Michael noticed that although she was still very pretty, she'd
definitely put on a few pounds. It didn't matter, because she smelled
delicious and felt even better. He'd almost forgotten what it was
like to be close to a female. Had to do something about
that
.

"What are your plans?" Tina asked, linking her arm through
his.

"Dunno," he answered vaguely. "Haven't thought about it."

"Sure," Max said, joining in. "Shut away for five years and you
haven't thought about what you're gonna do the moment you get out." A
dirty laugh. "I know what
I'd
do."

"Max," Tina said in a bossy voice, "make Michael feel at home. Ask
him if he wants a drink."

"He's not a freakin'
guest
," Max said. "He's my best pal. I
got no need to
ask
him, he knows he can help himself to
anythin' he wants."

Tina shot her husband a vengeful look. She didn't appreciate the
way he was speaking to her, especially in front of her former big
crush.

"Where are the kids?" Michael asked, tripping over a toy truck
sitting in the center of the floor. "I wanna meet 'em."

"Max thought it would be a good idea if they spent the night at my
mom's," Tina said. "So you can kind of get used to being out...
oops!" she exclaimed, clapping a hand over her mouth. "Is that okay
for me to say?"

"Sure," he answered easily. "I'm not sensitive."

"What
was
it like being locked away all that time?" she
asked, her eyes wide with curiosity. "Was it the same as prison in
the movies?"

"Don't ask questions like that," Max snapped. "He don't wanna talk
about prison."

"That's okay," Michael said. "It's not something I'd
recommend."

"I'm dying to know," Tina said. "Why
did
you hold up that
truck and threaten the driver with a gun? I mean, it was kind of a
stupid thing to do, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, Tina," he said ruefully. "I guess I learned me a
lesson."

And the lesson was that the next time he got involved in something
that wasn't legal, he'd check out his associates and make sure they
weren't selling him out.

"Good," she said, playing wife of the best friend. "Now—
I've been thinking about your future. You've got to be more like Max.
We'll find you a nice girl, get you married, you'll have a couple of
kids, and settle down to a proper life."

Yeah
, he thought,
and get myself nagged to
death
.

Max went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and removed a couple
of cans of beer.

Michael followed him. "I guess bein' in the joint is one way of
gettin' out of Vietnam," he remarked. "How come
you
didn't get
your sorry ass drafted?"

"On account of my asthma," Max replied, handing him a beer. "Did
ya hear about Charlie?"

"No, what happened to him?"

"Did a tour of duty an' got his leg shot off. Now he's on
disability; poor bastard can't find a job. He's livin' at home,
boozin' plenty. It ain't a happy situation."

"I'd like to see him."

"We will."

"At least
you're
doing well," Michael said, taking a swig
of cold beer.

"Not bad," Max answered modestly. "I got my own house, a car, two
kids, an' Tina. She's the best."

"You're a lucky man."

"You can say that again!"

Tina cooked pasta for dinner. They ate it in front of the TV on
plastic plates. Max seemed to have caught Vinny's disease—TV
eyeballs. First he watched
The Red Skelton Show
, then
Rowan
C?
Martin's Laugh-In
, followed by
Monday Night
Football
.

After a while Tina got bored and went off to gossip on the
phone.

Michael noticed that during the course of his TV viewing, Max
managed to consume three more beers and two full bags of potato
chips.

"Workin' on your gut, huh?" he joked, noticing that it wasn't only
Tina who'd put on weight.

"Yeah, well," Max said sheepishly, patting his expanding stomach.
"That's what married life does to you. No point in stayin' in shape
when you got it right there waitin' in the bedroom." He winked.
"That's gotta be your next move, huh? Five years without
pussy—jeez! How'd you manage?"

"You don't wanna know."

"Plannin' on callin' any of your old girlfriends?"

"Naw."

"Hey," Max said enthusiastically, "maybe tomorrow night you an' me
can go out—like old times. Tina won't mind."

"Tina won't mind what?" she asked, entering the room.

"Uh ... you wouldn't mind me takin' my old buddy out tomorrow
night?"

"I'll come too," she said, gathering up empty beer cans and
depositing them in the kitchen.

"It's not that kinda night out," Max yelled, grimacing at
Michael.

"Then I
do
mind," she said, coming back into the room. "I
don't want you hanging around any of those sleazy strip joints."

"Wasn't what we had in mind, hon," Max said innocently. "Just,
y'know, drinkin', catchin' up on old times."

"Fine," she said sharply. "If you're doing that, then I'll go out
with the girls."

This got his attention. Max was very possessive of Tina. "You know
I don't want you doing that," he said, scowling.

"Too bad," she answered tartly.

And they started to bicker.

Christ
! Michael thought.
Is this how I'm spending my
first nisht of freedom in five years? Watching these two go at
it
?

"I'm kinda beat," he said, interrupting them. "I wouldn't mind
gettin' a night's sleep."

"Oh, sorry," Tina said, immediately contrite. "I'll fix you up a
bed."

She fetched pillows and a blanket and made up the couch, then she
and Max said good night, went upstairs, and left him to it.

He tossed and turned restlessly, listening to Tina and Max
continue their argument, their loud voices drifting downstairs.

It was a strange feeling not being locked into a cell and having
the lights go out at a certain time. If he wanted to, he could get up
and walk the streets, do anything he liked. He was free.

The problem was that there was only one thing he had on his mind,
and that was to find out who'd set him up.

Tomorrow, that's exactly what he planned on doing.

* * *

"Mikey!" Marnie exclaimed. "I don't believe it!"

"Believe it," he said. "An' quit callin' me Mikey."

They were standing outside the Giovanni house. There was fresh
snow on the sidewalk and it was freezing cold. Mamie had just emerged
and was on her way to a chauffeur-driven gold Cadillac standing
curbside. She was enveloped in a big fur coat, and as usual her face
was caked with an excess of makeup. Marnie Giovanni was beginning to
show her age.

A young bodyguard stepped forward. "Everythin' all right, Mrs.
Giovanni?" he asked, glaring at Michael.

"Yes, Mo," she said, waving him away, her beringed fingers
catching the morning light "Well, well, well," she said admiringly,
checking Michael out. 'You sure grew up, didn't you?"

"It's amazing what five years in the joint will do," he said
caustically. "Oh yeah—an' thanks for all the visits, it meant a
lot."

"I don't do prisons," she said, patting her beehive hairdo. "You
here to see Vito?"

"That's the idea."

"I'm sure you've got an appointment?"

"Do I need one?"

"Yes, dear, you do," she said, moving toward her car.

The young bodyguard threw him a surly look and opened the door for
her.

She climbed in, flashing a great deal of thigh. "See you around,
Mikey," she said. "Gotta run."

He watched her car drive off. It was quite obvious that Mamie
Giovanni was no longer a fan.

As soon as her car was out of sight, he approached the house and
rang the doorbell.

Another unfamiliar face answered the door. "Yeah?" the guy said,
peering at him suspiciously. He was a goon who looked like he was
carrying a piece.

"I'm uh ... here t' see Mr. Giovanni. Name's Michael
Castellino."

"Wait," the guy said, shutting the door in his face. The man
returned a few minutes later. "Mr. Giovanni's in a meeting. He said
to ask you what it's about."

Christ! When the Giovannis closed a door, they really closed it
hard.

"Personal," Michael said.

"So write him a freakin' letter," the goon said, and once more
slammed the door shut.

What was going on here? Once he'd been next in line to be Vito's
new right hand, now he was out in the cold, an ex-con looking for a
handout. Except he wasn't looking for anything except to straighten
things out.

He walked around the corner to a coffee shop, where he quickly
downed two cups of strong black coffee. The waitress flirted with
him. She had frizzy yellow hair and a feint shadow of a moustache. He
ignored her, lit a cigarette, and headed back to the house, where he
waited across the street.