Love or Honor (15 page)

Smiling, she moved past him. Chris found Solly and pointed her out. Solly nodded. “A nice girl,” he said solemnly. “And that's her papa, over there on the side. Know him?”

In fact, Chris did. He hadn't yet heard the name, but he'd heard Harry: “You'll know him when you see him.”

5

She was a tool, a device. It was a lucky break that she was so pretty and so much fun to be with, but Chris viewed Marty only as a means of gaining access to her father.

John had been a killer. He'd handled a shotgun on trucks that were ambushed, in the violent days of Prohibition. Then, Harry told Chris, John had come up through the ranks. Chris didn't like that phrase applied to OC people. He thought it was too clean, too wholesome, and should be reserved for the military, and for paramilitary outfits such as the NYPD. But he knew what Harry meant. John had moved up from armed robberies into a form of white-collar work, dealing with labor unions, settling problems. By the early 1960s, he was a mediator, and had helped settle the Gallo-Profaci gang war. Now John seemed safely detached from the bloodshed. He was involved in legitimate and some semilegitimate businesses, including a real estate firm. He was as successful as he was elusive.

It was precisely because of his status as an experienced, knowledgeable elder that he was so significant a target. A man like John knew more—and could tell more—about the workings of organized crime than a dozen wiseguys whose names splashed across the newspapers regularly. He had layered so many buffers between himself and the soldiers on the street that he'd managed to stay out of the reach of the law.

Now he was just one beautiful arm's-length away.

Chris didn't talk long with her at the christening party. As a hostess that day, along with her mother, she had to circulate. But he got her phone number at work, and when he called, they made a dinner date. He met her in the lobby of the building where she worked, in Manhattan, in the graphics department of an advertising agency. Chris took her to Tre Scalini, which he'd learned was a place her father liked; being seen there with her would bolster his reputation.

He felt they were noticed when they walked in, though that may have been, at least in part, because she was such a good-looking girl. While the stereotype mob daughter wore thick makeup, raccoon eyes, and spike heels, Marty didn't even look Italian, Chris thought. She had fair skin, not olive, and her brown eyes were lighter than his. She was fairly tall, about five seven, with a great figure—not big in the bosom; wiseguys who judged women by their measurements might have called her skinny. Chris thought she was elegant—lean and graceful. She wore a pale-blue dress with a darker-blue jacket, and the Florentine cross she'd been wearing on the day of the party, blue enamel with a thin gold overlay. It occurred to him that they made a nice-looking couple.

Marty was easy to talk to, though Chris was careful not to talk much at first. He said he was a jazz drummer, realizing as he said it that jazz drummers were a dime a dozen; because he wanted her to think well of him, he added that he was a vibes player, too. He'd done some cruises, and was just back from a long time in Vegas, not sure what he'd be doing next. Maybe another cruise. Marty said she loved music, any and all kinds, so Chris picked up on that. They discovered they shared a love for opera—a real passion, and they thought they'd go to the opera sometime soon. “I hope it's not
Aida,”
Chris said. “I don't care much for that one.
Rigoletto
's my favorite. But even if it's
Aida,
I'll go.”

“How did you come to like opera so much?” Marty asked. Chris talked about a neighbor who was an opera fanatic, an old man who used to call Chris, across their backyards in Queens, to come over and listen to the radio broadcasts on Saturday afternoons from the old Met. Even before that, Chris said, his parents had encouraged his interest in music, from the time he was a kid. Then he stopped, not wanting to go too much into his background. “Well, I guess mostly because my father liked it,” he said lamely.

“Mine too,” Marty said. “I guess all Italian fathers like opera.”

Chris was annoyed. It wasn't her fault, but he didn't like hearing her father linked with his, even in the most innocent way. “My father isn't Italian,” he said, more sharply than necessary. “I mean, he wasn't Italian, he was Greek. He passed away.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Marty said. She looked embarrassed, and Chris was a little ashamed at the way he'd spoken. “But my mother is Italian, sort of,” he went on. “She was born in Greece, but she lived in Italy for a while. So maybe she's half-and-half.”

Marty's full name was Martina, but the only person who'd called her that was her grandmother, for whom she was named. The Florentine cross had belonged to her grandmother, who'd been a very special person, and Marty treasured the cross. “When I was little, everybody called me Tina,” she said. “But as soon as I was old enough to have something to say about it, I changed it.” She looked curiously at him. “Christian is a beautiful name. Do you have a nickname?”

So much for the jazz drummer story, Chris thought; most mob guys had nicknames. He wanted to say no, but he also wanted her father to consider him someone he could do business with. “Well, sometimes,” he said. “Some people call me ‘Curley.'”

She nodded. “I won't call you that. I'll call you Christy.”

The evening was pleasant, with casual small talk. Marty was an only child, though she had lots of cousins; the christening party was for the son of her cousin Rosemarie. She lived at home with her parents on Long Island. Chris mumbled that he lived with his aunt out in Valley Stream, and she wasn't at all well. “Oh, I'm sorry,” Marty said again.

Chris offered to drive her home, but she said she had her own car in a garage near her office. They walked over to Park Avenue, then down, enjoying the warm spring evening. Chris waited until the garage attendant drove her car up the ramp, then waved a casual good-bye.

He called her the next day. “I had a really good time last night,” he said. “When can I see you again?”

“I had a good time, too,” Marty said. She sounded as though she really had had a good time. They made another dinner date. “Let's not go to Tre Scalini again,” Marty said quickly. “I'll show you a little place I love.”

The restaurant was on the far east side, near the river, almost under the bridge—a tiny place, only nine tables, run by a Frenchwoman and her two grown children. “I thought Italian girls only liked spaghetti,” Chris teased, as they settled at a table. Marty smiled. “Maybe you're not such an expert on Italian girls, then.”

Chris frowned at the small menu, hand-written in a curly script. “All I ever learned to say in French was ‘Ouvrez la porte' and ‘Fermez la porte,'” he admitted. Marty laughed, and read through the menu, translating as she read. Chris was impressed. “Where did you learn such good French?” he asked.

“In Paris,” Marty said. “I studied art there for a year.” Chris liked the way she said it, in a simple, matter-of-fact way, without sounding snobbish.

He was dubious about French food, though, and ordered a lamb chop, the most familiar item on the menu. The sauce was unusual, but he liked it, and he felt comfortable in this little place. It was so far off the beaten track that he didn't worry about being seen by somebody he knew, or by somebody who knew Liz.

He didn't press Marty with questions about her father, because he didn't want to make her suspicious. Take it easy, he told himself; slow and easy. The luxury of working in intelligence was that he had no deadline. Some cops spent years infiltrating various groups—the Black Panthers, the FALN. Considering that the Mafia had been around for at least half a century in the United States, and in Italy a lot longer, what was the rush?

It seemed to him that the best way to develop this friendship was to do it as normally as he could, getting to know this girl and letting her get to know him, at least as far as he could allow her to get to know him. So they talked of ordinary things—the opera, movies, where they'd gone to school. Chris talked of his elementary school, where he'd enjoyed the art classes best. “We didn't wear uniforms in my public school,” he said, “but once a week, when we had assembly, the boys had to wear a white shirt and a red tie. I don't know if the girls had to wear anything special. I wasn't paying much attention to girls in those days.”

Marty grinned. “I'm glad you know better now,” she said.

Marty said she'd gone to parochial school, then to a convent school—all girls—for high school, with uniforms every step of the way. Then her father insisted she go to Marymount for college—more women—where she studied art. When she graduated, her parents rewarded her with the year in Paris. “I guess they spoiled me,” she admitted. “But I didn't mind. They even gave me a car for high school graduation.”

“Hey, me too.” Chris said. “Bright red. Boy, did I love that car!

“I had a great childhood,” he went on, enthusiastically. “I wouldn't trade my neighborhood, the one I grew up in, for anybody's neighborhood in the whole world. It was such a mixed bag, where I grew up and I learned so much.”

Marty seemed genuinely interested. “What did you learn?”

“Well, I learned how to box, and how to play stickball, and how to make wallets from leather scraps,” Chris recalled. He felt a little foolish, then, having just heard about her privileged background. “I guess that doesn't sound like a lot, probably. But it was terrific. What I really learned, I guess, was that there are all kinds of people in this world, you know, and I think I learned a lot of things you don't get in school. I really didn't like school, after the early grades.”

“I think it sounds like a lot,” Marty said. “Some people get very good educations and never learn anything they ought to know. Why didn't you like school?”

“I just found it boring,” Chris said. “My Pop thought I was just lazy. I liked it all right, up to a point.” He grinned. “Up to the point where I got thrown out.”

Marty looked surprised. “You don't sound like somebody who got thrown out of school. You must read a lot.”

“I do,” Chris said. “Not as much as I used to, though.” That was certainly true. It was all he could do, on this job, to scan the headlines; it was hard to concentrate on anything else. He couldn't remember when he'd last read a book.

They talked about books. Marty liked history, though she admitted she'd never come across one of Chris's favorite publications,
The Civil War Times. “Bulfinch's Mythology
is my favorite book of all time,” Chris said. “There's always a lesson there. And I liked biographies, especially stories about inventors. I could tell you the names of the guys who invented the X ray, and the paper clip, and the zipper.”

“Who
did
invent the zipper?” Marty wondered.

“Well, to tell you the truth, I don't remember,” Chris said. “Maybe Edison. He was the greatest inventor of all time. A little eccentric, but a brilliant man. Maybe even Thomas Jefferson, because he got involved in everything. Especially architecture—he was great at that. Someday I'm going to drive down and take a look at Monticello. He was so knowledgeable—I mean, his train of thought was unreal. He opened up the whole wide USA, you know, with the Louisiana Purchase, and Lewis and Clark. He wasn't afraid to take chances!”

Marty was smiling, and Chris realized he'd been rambling. “Hey, sorry, I didn't mean to get carried away,” he said. “I just really enjoyed reading about those people.”

“I've enjoyed hearing about them,” Marty said. “You must have started reading when you were very young.”

“I don't remember exactly when I started,” Chris said, “But once I learned, I didn't want to stop reading. I know I was reading the newspapers when I was seven or eight. I liked stories about the military, and war heroes, and for a while I wanted to go to West Point. I guess that's why …” He was about to point out the link between the military and the department, then caught himself. “I guess that's why I like movies about the military.”

“Why would you have wanted to go to West Point?” Marty asked. She seemed fascinated by the idea. Chris guessed she didn't run into many guys in her father's world who'd wanted to go to West Point.

“Oh, I don't know,” he mumbled. “I guess I'd been seeing pictures of soldiers or something. Or maybe because I'd been reading about the Korean War. I can remember sitting on the curb on Columbus Avenue and seeing a big headline in the paper about a place called Pork Chop Hill. I remember that really clearly, I guess because the name was so funny. Pork Chop Hill. When the movie came out, I think I was the first person in line, I was so anxious to see it. I couldn't wait.” He laughed. “I'm just thinking, you probably weren't even born yet when I was reading about Pork Chop Hill. You're just a kid.”

“I'm not a kid,” Marty protested. “I may be a little younger than you are, but I'm not a kid. I'll be twenty-five this summer.”

“Twenty-five!” Chris exclaimed. “An old lady! Twenty-five and not married yet! I'll bet your mother's lighting candles all over the church for you.”

Marty laughed. “Well, how about you?” she countered. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-six,” Chris said.

“Thirty-six and not married yet!” Marty said. She looked at him thoughtfully. “Were you ever married?”

“No,” Chris said.

“Well, then, maybe somebody ought to go around and light some candles for
you,”
Marty teased. “It's just that my father insisted I go to college, so I went, and then I wanted to work. I really love graphics, and I'd like to do my own designing someday. My father wanted me to go to college because he didn't have much education.”