Home for the Holidays (14 page)

It was late afternoon before Van Allen got the call. He checked his watch and said into the cell phone, “I can be there in half an hour.”

The Snug Harbor sounded like the perfect place—a crummy bar in downtown Ridgeway. No one would know him there. Nice people like Peter Van Allen didn't go to places like that.

O'Farrell was waiting when he arrived, sitting with a pipe in his mouth and smoke swirling around his curly blond hair. He looked up and winked at Van Allen but said nothing. Van Allen slid onto the barstool next to him and said to the bartender, “Vodka martini. Dry.”

Van Allen watched the man pour his drink, and slid a brown paper package out of his jacket pocket onto
O'FarreU's lap. The Irishman took the money without a word and put it into his own jacket.

“Thanks,” Van Allen said as the bartender set his drink on the bar and walked away. Then, without looking at O'Farrell, he said, “Okay. Give.”

“His name's Nick, or Nicky,” O'Farrell said. “And he's got a friend, a tough-looking lad who sounds like he's from Brooklyn.”

Van Allen turned to O'Farrell and said, “And?”

“And nothing,” the Irishman said. “That's it.”

“What?
Twenty-five grand for ‘Nick’?”

“If I'd known his last name, my friend, I'd have asked for fifty—and you'd have paid.” O'Farrell got to his feet and leaned close to Van Allen. “Ta-ta for now. And good luck.”

Van Allen gulped his martini and asked for another. Nick?
Nicky?
He tried to stay calm, and to think. Had he ever known a guy named Nick?

There was Nick the Nose, with the big sneezer, but he was from Atlantic City, and he was dead. There was Nicky Noodles, who never ate anything but pasta, but he was from Buffalo, and he was in prison. There was Nick the Nap, who always fell asleep in class, but that was almost forty years ago, in second grade. Nick the Nap had grown up to be a dentist.

Van Allen didn't know any other Nick, with or without a friend from Brooklyn.

What
was
this? Was he being hustled? Maybe O'Farrell had made the whole thing up. Of course! How could he have been so stupid?

He never should have gotten involved with O'Farrell in the first place. But he'd needed help. When he'd stopped being Patrick Arlen and reinvented himself as Peter Van Allen, he had needed someone to destroy his police files in Ridgeway. He couldn't ask a cop. So he looked for the next best thing—someone who knew the story and was friendly with the cops. He found O'Farrell …

… who was now double-crossing him. What a rat! What a world! You couldn't trust
anyone
, not even your own partner—a lesson that poor old Nicholas Borelli was about to learn with the Fairport deal. Come Monday, when they got to the bank and Borelli saw the actual paperwork …

Well, that wasn't Van Allen's problem. Borelli, the sap, had been foolish enough to trust him, and now he was going to pay the price. Too bad, in some ways. Nicholas Borelli was a pretty good guy. Nick Borelli was the kind of guy who—

Nick Borelli!
Nick!
Van Allen choked on his drink. It was Borelli!

O'Farrell had said “Nick” and a friend who sounded like he was from Brooklyn. Borelli's brother was from Brooklyn! And he was a cop!

Holy cow! It had been right under his nose the whole time! Van Allen slid a twenty-dollar bill onto the bar and went outside. It was just getting dark. But inside his head, it was very bright—bright and hot and angry. He'd fix that Borelli.
And
his little brother from Brooklyn.

∗ ∗ ∗

By dinnertime, Tommy had fallen asleep in the den. They didn't wake him. Nicky's mother wanted to. But Grandma Tutti said no.

“You know the saying. Let the lying dog sleep,” she said. “I'll warm up leftovers when he wakes up. Now sit, everybody.”

It was another gigantic meal—minestrone soup with a loaf of fresh bread, followed by ravioli in a meat sauce, followed by braciole with broccoli rabe, roast potatoes and grilled fennel. And a ricotta pie for dessert.

“That was a great meal, Ma,” Nicky's father said. “You're spoiling me rotten. What will I do when you're gone?”

“Now stop!” Nicky's mother said. “I've had enough of this. You've all been making fun of my cooking ever since your mother arrived, and I'm tired of it. I've put healthy food on this table for years and years, and I don't remember anyone saying a
word
about it until she got here. I'm sorry you don't appreciate what I'm trying to do for you. If you want unhealthy food, you can cook your own meals from now on.”

“Now wait a minute,” Nicky's father said.

“No,” Nicky's mother said. “I don't want to hear another word about it—except ‘I'm sorry.’”

“You're right,” Nicky's father said. “And I'm sorry.” He got up and put his hands on Nicky's mother's shoulders. “You are a wonderful cook. A loving cook. I guess I never realized how seriously you took the health thing. I thought it was just, you know, like, that you wanted to stay thin, or that it was, I don't know,
trendy
to be vegetarian.”

“But I—”

“Stop!” Grandma Tutti told Nicky's father. “You're making it worse. ‘I'm sorry’ was a beautiful thing to say. After that, not so beautiful. I'll go make coffee.”

Nicky's mother got up from the table and wiped her eyes. “You boys go into the den. I'll help Tutti serve the ri-cotta pie.”

Nicky and his father sat with their feet up, waiting for their coffee and dessert. Tommy, lying on the sofa, snored quietly.

Nicky's father said, “You know, you probably saved his life today.”

“I know,” Nicky said.

“Now he's your responsibility forever.”

Bringing in the coffee cups and dessert plates, Nicky's mother said, “It's almost time for you to get ready for the ball. What are you going to do about Tommy?”

Nicky looked at his watch and said, “I don't know. He'll hate me if I go without him.”

“Go without me where?” Tommy said. He sat up on the sofa, blinking at the room.

“We're talking about the Snow Ball,” Nicky's mother said. “But you probably don't feel much like going.”

“Who, me?” Tommy laughed. “You don't think I'd miss the Snow Ball just because of a little dip in the lake.”

“I don't know,” Nicky's mother said.

“Aw, I'm fine!” Tommy said, and jumped to his feet. “Look!”

“His temperature was normal,” Grandma Tutti said.

“Please?” Nicky asked.

Everyone turned to Nicky's father. His face was stern. He turned to Nicky's mother and said, “What do you think? Should we make him stay home?”

“What do
you
think?”

Nicky's father smiled. “Go get dressed. Clarence will drive you over.”

“Yes!” Nicky said. “Thanks.”

“Your uncle Frankie will show up at some point with Donna,” Nicky's father added. “Your mother and I will stop by later. Have fun.”

“Come on!” Nicky said. “Let's get ready.”

11

T
he Carrington Country Club was decked out for the Snow Ball. The long sloping drive and the outside of the reception hall were strung with lights. The inside had been decorated to look like an igloo. Men and women in white fur-lined parkas welcomed the visitors to the ball, taking their coats and overshoes and leading them to the main ballroom.

It, too, was a winter wonderland. The ceiling was hung with “icicles.” The walls were banked with “snow.” Roaring fires burned in the huge stone fireplaces at each end of the ballroom. The air smelled of woodsmoke and pine. Soft rock music played—the Eagles? Or was it Fleetwood Mac? It was the kind of stuff Nicky had heard on his
parents' '70s and '80s compilation CDs. The dance floor was already half filled with couples, most of them Carring-ton parents, dancing cheek to cheek.

“Wow,” Tommy said. “Some layout. Where's the food?”

“We just ate!”

“I know, but we didn't have dessert.”

“This way,” Nicky said. “There's punch and cookies over there, I bet.”

Chad and Noah were hogging the punch bowl. Jordan tugged on Nicky's necktie and said, “What is that— curtains?”

“It's paisley,” Nicky said, straightening his tie.

“You look like furniture.”

Chad told Tommy he knew about Nicky's dance lessons and wanted some for himself. Noah told Tommy he was already a great dancer and didn't need any lessons.

“Who asked you?” Tommy said. “So go dance.”

When Noah was gone, Nicky said, “You notice someone missing?”

“Like who?”

“Like Mr. Van Allen,” Nicky said. “He's the club treasurer. He should be here.”

“Maybe he's busy killing someone.”

“Don't say that!” Nicky said.

“Maybe it's Dirk,” Tommy said.

“Don't say that, even.”

“I'm only kidding,” Tommy said. “Pour me some punch.”

The ballroom began to fill up. Nicky introduced Tommy
to some more of his school friends. One of them said, “You're the guy who knocked out Dirk Van Allen!”

“Not me,” Tommy said. “I roughed him up some, but—”

“I heard you broke his nose,” another kid said.

“Well,” Tommy said, “I might've bruised it a little.”

“That's enough, bruiser,” Nicky said. “Look who's here.”

Tommy turned. Marian and Amy Galloway had just entered the ballroom, tall and elegant, like a queen and her princess daughter.

“Wow,” Tommy said.

“You got that right,” Nicky said. “Wow.”

The two Galloways walked directly toward Nicky and Tommy.

“Good evening, boys,” Marian Galloway said. “I don't think I see your parents here, Nicky. Or your uncle.”

“Hello, Tommy,” Amy said. “Hello, Nicky.”

“Hi,” Nicky said. “They're coming. My uncle is driving down from Brooklyn, with another friend of ours.”

“Could that be Donna, that
friend!”
Amy asked.

Nicky began to blush. “Well, I …”

“I
thought
so,” Amy said. “Is she bringing a friend for Tommy? I hate to think of him being all alone at the Snow Ball.”

“Don't worry about me,” Tommy said. “I'm with
you.
Let's dance.”

Amy allowed herself to be escorted onto the dance floor.

“Brooklyn charm!” Marian Galloway said. “Who knew?”

A few minutes later, Nicky saw Uncle Frankie come into the ballroom. On one arm was Grandma Tutti. On the other was Donna.

To Nicky, she was a vision.

That made him shy. Donna seemed shy, too. Even though it had been only days since they had seen each other, Nicky felt funny saying hello to her.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“So, you made it.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you drive down with my uncle?”

“In a police car. Unmarked.”

“Cool.” Nicky couldn't think of what to say. “Suburban?”

“No,” Donna said. “Crown Victoria.”

“Cool.”

The song ended. Tommy and Amy stopped dancing. Nicky's grandmother had noticed Father David across the room. She waved and excused herself, saying, “Nicky, don't get into trouble with all these girls here.”

“Yeah, take it easy, you little heartbreaker,” Tommy said. “Let's dance. Can you do something about the music?”

“Maybe,” Nicky said. “See if the girls want some punch, and I'll find out.”

“Ladies?” Tommy said, and offered Amy and Donna his arms. “This way.”

Nicky found Walter Wager, the kid Tommy had saved
from Dirk Van Allen, working the music. “Hey,” Nicky said. “They made you deejay?”

“Yeah,” Walter said. “You haven't seen Dirk tonight, have you?”

“Maybe he's not coming,” Nicky said. “Maybe he's ashamed of himself, acting like that at the mall.”

“Yeah, sure—Dirk Van Allen, ashamed,” Walter said. “That'll be the day.”

“Well, he's not here now anyway,” Nicky said. “Since you're doing the music, could you put on something different? Like, something actually recorded in our lifetime?”

Walter grinned and said, “Oh,
yeah.”

Young people got up all over the ballroom when the new music started. Kids were jumping and hopping. Nicky found Tommy already on the dance floor with Amy and Donna. Tommy winked at him and said, “Go, dude.”

Nicky began to dance. He tried to remember the moves Tommy had shown him. There was the one where you twisted from side to side. There was the one where you pumped your arms back and forth, in and out. He tried to remember to pick up his feet a little. It felt very unnatural. He smiled at Donna and tried to look relaxed.

At the end of the first song, Tommy took his arm and said, “What are you
doing
?”

“I don't know. Just dancing.”

“That's not dancing. What's the problem?”

“I'm just trying to be careful and not make any mistakes.”

“Well, stop,” Tommy said. “Being careful is the worst
thing you can do. You have to lay it out there, see? You have to go for it. If you're going to dance, you have to
dance.
If you try to look good, too, you're going to look like an idiot.”

The next time, Nicky cut it loose. He went all out. He closed his eyes and listened to the beat and let his body move. And it felt
great.
Did he look like an idiot? He didn't care.

“Yeah!” Tommy said. “That's what I'm talking about.”