Gorilla Beach (34 page)

“What a dump,” groaned
Mr. Violenti as he pulled up to the club in what had, until recently, been Fredo Lupo's white Caddie convertible with the red leather interior. He loved his new acquisition. He parked carefully and killed the engine. A cluster of Shore kids hung around outside, smoking. No neon signage or velvet rope? You call this a nightclub? Looked more like a neighborhood social club that catered to grumpy men with cigars and stories about the old days.

His enforcers, the Costello twins, Lou and Elvis, were in the backseat. Not moving. Just sitting on their fat asses like they had all night.

“Open the friggin' door, you mooks,” instructed Mr. Violenti.

Lou sprang into action, opening the driver's-side door. The boss man stepped out, righted his jacket lapels, and strode in his Italian leather shoes to the entrance.

A fetching brunette with a curvy body sat on a stool outside, playing hostess. A barrel-chested Mexican with a
VENUS SECURITY
T-shirt loomed next to her.

“Good evening,” said Mr. Violenti. “Is this Venus?”

“Yup,” she said. “We don't have a sign yet, but this is the place.”

“May I introduce myself?” he asked, taking her hand. What
glorious hands! Dark and cracked as alligator hide. And her lips. Frosted as a pink doughnut. Her hair was captivatingly black, with a striking platinum streak. “My name is Vito Violenti, businessman and bachelor.”

“I'm married. And probably knocked up. I don't know for sure yet. I'm gonna pee on a stick later. But right now, I could vomit a river.”

Charming! What refreshing candor!
To the security guard, Mr. Violenti said, “All of the good ones are taken.”

The man didn't speak. He didn't nod. He stared, though, as if he could see through Mr. Violenti's skull and directly into his brain.

“Ahem,” said the boss man. “We're going in.”

The giant Mexican didn't object, so he nodded to his twins, and the three of them walked into the club. Once inside, Mr. Violenti assessed the scene. Crowded bar, with people waving twenties at three different bartenders. A packed dance floor. The thud of monotonous house music the kids loved for some inexplicable reason. He inhaled and picked up the scents of drying paint, spilled beer, Axe body spray, Aqua Net, sweat—and money. The place reeked of money.

This was his special gift. His version of ESP. Mr. Violenti could tell, in one deep whiff, if any venture would be a success. This rinky-dink watering hole with the amateur murals and plastic cups and bad lighting? It was worth a friggin' fortune. Soon to be
his
fortune. Whoever ran the place just got himself a brand-new, controlling partner, whether he wanted one or not.

To the twins, he said, “Follow me.”

Picking his way toward the back of the club, Mr. Violenti bumped into a familiar freckled face on the edge of the dance floor. “I should've known it was you poaching my staff,” he said to Erin Gobraugh. “So you landed on your feet. Or your back.”

“Who let this reptile in here?” asked Fredo Lupo, appearing at Erin's side.

“Fredo,
paesano
! We meet again.”

Fredo put his hand on Erin's shoulder. She put her hand over his. It was almost touching to see them like this. Despite Mr. Violenti's best efforts to poison their relationship, they were still together.

“I'll ask you to leave our club,” said Fredo.

“Not so fast, Fredo. I'm generously offering myself to be your majority partner in this entertainment venture. You still owe me, remember.”

“You called us even right before you stole my car,” said Fredo.

“Since you poached half a dozen people from my hotel staff, I deserve a finder's fee.”

Erin's face turned another shade of red. “You mean the staff you underpaid, threatened, manipulated, and lied to?”

“I always knew you could manage a club, Erin. I was only teasing you when I fired you. You can come back to Nero's and manage Midnight. Now go powder your face or whatever you do in the bathroom. Let the men talk business.”

Fredo whispered something in Erin's ear. She said, “I'm not leaving you.” The couple smiled supportively at each other.

“Ahem. You need a protection policy,” Mr. Violenti said.

“I have insurance.”

“Not the kind I'm talking about.” The twins laughed menacingly on cue. “You never know when a fire might start, or kids might break in and smash up the bar, or the entrance is hit by a truck. Also, you need someone to handle waste management.”

Fredo shook his head. “This isn't Atlantic City. Things are different in Seaside Heights.”

“People bleed here,” said Mr. Violenti. “Their bones break.”

The twins pounded their fists into their open palms. The gesture
was old-school. Kind of stupid. No wonder Fredo and Erin laughed when they saw it.

Fredo said, “In Seaside, a man stands with his whole family. I've got the Lupos at my back. We handle our own protection and waste management.”

“You mean your father, Luigi, who told me to put you on the Atlantic City bus? That guy?”

“Uh, boss?” said Elvis. “Look around.”

Mr. Violenti tore his eyes off Fredo and saw that a circle had formed around them—a circle of big, hairy guidos and guidettes, closing in. And all of them were mimicking the twins, hammering their fists into their palms.

“Meet my cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, and friends.”

Luigi Lupo, built as solid as a submarine, stepped forward and clasped Mr. Violenti's shoulder. “I'm Fredo's father. We finally meet. Now tell my son the truth. We never spoke on the phone. I would never okay you stealing my son's car or threatening him. Not on your life, which is getting shorter by the second.”

The hand on Mr. Violenti's shoulder tightened like a steel vise. “So I exaggerated to make my point.”

Erin said, “Now tell Fredo the truth about me.”

Luigi squeezed harder, and Mr. Violenti's knees shook. “I lied, okay? I lied to my advantage. That's what businessmen do. You understand that, don't you, Luigi?” The circle of Lupos tightened. The twins huddled close at Mr. Violenti's sides.

Luigi said, “In Seaside, we might cheat, steal, and bend the truth. But we know where to draw the line. We've got honor.”

Mr. Violenti scoffed, “You're a small fish in a small pond. A puddle! You're nothing, Lupo. You're a friggin' anchovy. You're all anchovies!”

“That may be true,” said Fredo, “but we've got strength in numbers.”

In a flash, the cousins, uncles, aunts, nieces, and nephews surrounded them. They grabbed Mr. Violenti and the twins by their respective limbs. Then the AC sharks were carried through the club and out the door on a wave of anchovies. They were unceremoniously hurled into the gutter. Mr. Violenti could appreciate the irony. This was how he'd had Fredo ejected from Nero's.

“The Lupos manage the waste at Venus. We'll start by flushing the three of you,” said Fredo, wiping his hands of the AC rot. He held up Mr. Violenti's toupee. “I'm nailing this to my wall. Now get out of here.”

The brunette cougar watched the ousting from her perch on the stool, the Mexican next to her silent as the moon.

Mr. Violenti struggled to his feet. He rubbed his aching behind. He'd be black-and-blue tomorrow. “Come on, fucktards,” he said to the twins. “We'll never speak of this again. Now let's get out of here.”

“Boss,” said Lou. “Where's the car?”

Mr. Violenti spun around. Their parking spot was empty. “Did you see anyone take my Caddie?” he asked the brunette.

“What Caddie? Juan, did you see a Caddie parked here?”

The giant Mexican shook his head and grinned malevolently.

“Boss, look,” said Elvis.

On the ground in the empty parking spot, next to an oil stain, lay a piece of paper. “What's it say?” Mr. Violenti asked.

“It's a map,” said Elvis. “It says, ‘U R here,' with a little drawing of a building with musical notes around it. A club! Venus!” The goon had peanut butter and bananas for brains. Following with his finger, Elvis continued, “From ‘here,' there's an arrow pointing a few blocks to the right, then a few to the left, to a building. It's got a picture, and a sign.”

“What's the sign say?” asked Mr. Violenti.

“‘Seaside Heights Bus Station.'”

Flipping the piece of paper over, Elvis saw another drawing. A hand with the middle finger extended. On the finger? A long, squared fingernail with a whiskered leopard face on it.

“What now, boss?” asked Lou.

What else could they do? Mr. Violenti consulted the map.

With his own middle finger, he pointed. “This way.”

Gia, Bella, and their
dads had decided to get some air. They'd been dancing for a while, and the old dudes needed a break. Hanging outside the club, the girls listened to Charlie tell a story about taking care of Joe's baby the other night. Part of his agreement with Joe and Rhonda was that, if he was going to mooch their spare bedroom, he had to help around the house, and with the baby. So when Georgina cried at three in the morning, Charlie got up, fed her, and changed her. Proud of his work, he held the baby, who smiled, then unloaded a Fralinger's store's worth of fudge into her diaper.

“She can crap twice her size,” said Charlie, laughing. “She's a miracle baby!”

Joe was laughing, too. “Just like Gia.”

“Me?”

Joe nodded. “Tiny baby, sweetest face, could melt a stone. And a devil diaper bomber.”

“I still do some tremendous work in the bathroom,” said Gia.

Bella held up her hand. “I can testify to that!”

The four of them cracked up and it felt like good old times. Gia didn't want it to end. She flashed back to those family reunions, grilling burgers and hot dogs at her old house. Joe and Charlie rocked mullets back in the nineties and wore jean
jackets with the sleeves cut off with high-belted jeans and tucked-in T-shirts from Bruce Springsteen concerts. Denim suits and mullets! They thought they were so gangsta! Gawd, Gia just had a brilliant idea. She'd find one of those photos of the two brothers-in-law circa the “Hungry Heart” era and have Will reproduce it in a painting! They could hang it at Joe's house, and every time he looked at it, her dad would crack up and think about how thoughtful his (first) daughter was, and how much he friggin' loved the hell out of her.

Squee!

Bella squinted at Gia. “What're you so excited about?”

“I'm happy we're all together and having a blast, duh.” Gia would tell Bella about the Mullet Twosome idea when she could get her alone later. She'd love it.

“You guys about ready for another round?” asked Gia. To Joe, she added, “Dad, I want to introduce you to the genius behind our club's drink, the Black Out. His name is Tanner and he's a really awesome bartender.”

“Is he your boyfriend?” asked Joe.

If it was possible to smile and frown at the same time, Joe was doing it right now. Any conversation about boys always made him queasy, going back to first grade when Gia kissed her first guido.

Uncle Charlie said, “If he's anything like Bella's new friend Will, then Tanner has to be a decent guy. Relax, Joe. The girls are grown women. They should have boyfriends.”

“I know that. But no sex until you're married!” Joe laughed.

“Okay, Dad,” said Gia, rolling her eyes, smiling. The guy was tragically not funny. But his lame attempts cracked her up anyway.

Bella laughed along. “I'm glad you like Will,” she said to Charlie. “I think he's a keeper.”

They were about to go inside and get another round of drinks when a white Caddie convertible pulled up to the curb.

“Block me!” said Gia, moving Joe to stand between her and the street. Bella, too, moved so that she was obscured.

Charlie asked, “Who is that?”

“The guy who broke my nail,” said Gia. “He stole Fredo's car, too.”

After a minute, Vito Violenti and the Twins disappeared into the club.

“That guy stole this car from your friend?” Joe asked. “We should steal it right back.”

Bella said, “Yes!”

“How?” asked Gia, following Bella and Charlie as they jumped into the backseat. Joe took the driver's side and Gia the passenger seat.

“Whaddaya mean
how
? We hot-wire it,” said Joe, who reached under the steering-wheel panel and pulled out some wires.

Gia was, like,
pause
. “Daddy? You know how to hot-wire a car?”

He grinned at her as the engine turned over and purred. “Ahhhh. Just like old times. I was young once, too, Gia.”

At that moment, Gia had never loved her father more. He was a true American guido.

Charlie said, “Just like old times.”

“What does that mean?” asked Bella.

Charlie and Joe just laughed. “Ready to roll?” asked Joe.

“Wait!” yelled Gia. “I have to leave a note.” She found a piece of paper on the floor and scribbled directions to the bus station, and a simple hand drawing that was her personal message for Violenti. “Done.”

Joe steered the car out of the spot. Gia threw the note in the vacated space. They he slammed the gas and they roared down the street, hooting and tearing up the Seaside night.

Arthur Sanders, aka Arthur
Ponzirelli, aka Arthur Buongiorno, took a taxi from Belmar to Seaside Heights for this kinky, goth church human-sacrifice party with the horny MILFs. He wore a vintage Giorgio Armani suit that had actually belonged to his father, a legendary swordsman/douche bag. Arthur had learned the tricks of the trade from his father. While Arthur's mom stayed home, cooking and cleaning, her husband racked up the gumars. Revoltingly, around the time Arthur turned sixteen, his father's girlfriends started hitting on him.