Night Work (8 page)

    "Then what's the rush?"

    "I got bills to pay, and a daughter at home."

    "How old?"

    A coy smile slowly surfaced across her otherwise callous face. "Three and a half. Her name's Tiffany."

    "Nice."

    "What do you do? For a living, I mean."

    "I'm a businessman."

    "You do pretty good?"

    Gus shrugged. "All right."

    "As for me, I only work three nights a week. I need to score a certain amount whenever I go out, you know?"

    "I'll flip you another forty for the rest of the night," he said abruptly. "We come back here and go to sleep. In the morning I'll give you a ride home. Be nice to me on the way."

    "I can be real nice for an even fifty."

    "Fine."

    April studied Gus the way a scientist observes lab rats. "Why are you being so cool to me?"

    "I didn't know I was."

    "Maybe you're just lonely?"

    Gus retrieved his pants from the floor and stepped into them with a sudden scowl. "We can go get some dinner or I can drop your ass back on the street, honey. Up to you."

    "Kathleen," the woman said softly. "My name's Kathleen."

    "Augustus Lemieux. My friends call me Gus."

    "Believe me, I've heard some wild names - guys make up all kinds of crazy shit - but I'd bet that's gotta be your real name." They shook hands awkwardly. "Hiya, Gus."

    "You didn't laugh," he thought aloud. "Everybody laughs the first time they hear my name."

    She smiled. "Try going by the name April Showers."

    Gus wrapped his arm around Kathleen and escorted her to the door. He had no way of knowing for sure if her sudden warmth was genuine, or merely the actions of a whore going through the motions after having been paid for the effort. For some reason, it didn't matter.

    It didn't matter at all.

    

    

    The Italian Pioneers Social Club was located on a quiet but accessible side street less than three blocks from the part of the city where Frank had grown up. The neighborhood hadn't changed at all in the six years since his departure, and many of the same people inhabited the streets, corners and alleys. During particularly hot times such as these, the area came to life in a vibrant and lusty way all its own. Children played in the street, rode their bicycles, skipped rope, tossed footballs or baseballs, formed pick-up basketball scrimmages on the local courts, and danced through the powerful spray of freshly de-capped fire hydrants. Older women leaned on windowsills, watching the festivities below, swapping stories and gossip with neighbors, while men, most clad in shorts and T-shirts, took up residence in plastic or metal lawn chairs they had strategically arranged in front of stoops and various establishments. The constant smell of fresh foods and pastries mixed with those normally associated with city life, and a feeling of security and trust unique to the neighborhood blanketed the area.

    Although most of Frank's memories were pleasant, he never visited the neighborhood and generally went out of his way to avoid even passing through it. This was a place where time stood still - a fact that only helped to feed his often-manic desire to move forward with life. And since his parents had relocated four years prior to a nice but modest home in the nearby town of Acushnet, distancing himself from the streets he'd grown up on had become much easier.

    Vincent parked directly in front of the club, an unassuming brick building with a single front entrance and a small dark window facing the street. Two men in their early twenties hung around near the door. "How's it going, fellas?"

    "Good, Vin," the taller of the two said. "How you been?"

    "Beautiful. Is Michael here yet?"

    "Inside," the other man told him. "Nice ride. What'd that set you back?"

    Vincent ignored the question and turned to Frank. "All set?"

    Frank answered with a nod and followed him through the door. He'd been by this building thousands of times as a child, had seen people come and go at all hours of the day and night, but had never once stepped foot inside. Some of the kids in the neighborhood had gotten part-time jobs there serving drinks, parking cars, or helping out with whatever needed to be done, but Frank's father had always forbidden him to associate with that aspect of the community. As he moved into a cramped and dimly lit foyer, he couldn't help but wonder what his father would think of him now.

    Illumination remained sparse as the lobby emptied into a larger main room. The walls were an odd tan color, the floor a basic industrial tile, and since there were no windows the only light was provided by hooded lamps suspended from the ceiling. Against the back wall sat a classic neon-faced jukebox in pristine condition, Vic Damone crooning through the large metallic speakers. The piece looked out of place - too ornate in such an otherwise drab setting. Several tables were scattered about; a few of them occupied by old men sipping coffee or playing cards. None of them looked up or acknowledged Vincent and Frank's arrival in any way. In an alcove at the rear of the building was a full kitchen where numerous mouth-watering smells were overshadowed by the predominant aroma of garlic.

    A fat man dressed in slacks, suspenders that hung loosely at his sides and a T-shirt stretched to the brink of destruction over his enormous belly, stood peering into a pot of tomato sauce, looking as if he'd mistakenly dropped an item of value into it just seconds before. His face bore an expression of discomfort as perspiration trickled the length of his bloated cheeks. The few black strands of hair that remained on his head had been combed straight back over his sweaty dome, and his pencil-thin mustache seemed only to underscore the sag of an already immense nose.

    "Hey," someone to Frank's right said. Two men sat at a table in the corner next to a small bar. Vincent approached them, greeting his brother Michael with a bright smile. They embraced as if they hadn't seen each other in months then turned their attention to Frank. "Mike, you remember Frank."

    "Sure," he said, extending his hand. "Good to see you."

    "How are you, Michael?" Frank nervously accepted the much larger man's hand. In a lightweight v-neck sweater and a pair of pleated slacks, it was the first time Frank had seen him in anything but a suit. "You're looking good."

    Michael Santangelo was a taller, thinner version of his brother. He had the same thick hair, the same black eyes and a similar gait, but his nose was smaller and his chin less pronounced. "You're looking good yourself." He possessed a smile considerably more reserved than Vincent's. "How's the family?"

    "Good, good."

    The second man at the table, Gino Fratenzza, remained seated throughout. Dressed in a polo shirt, chinos, and an expensive pair of Reeboks, he looked more like a banker on his day off than the terror Frank knew him to be. His salt and pepper hair, slightly receded, was cut short and styled accordingly, and his striking ice-blue eyes contrasted nicely with his olive skin. He was lean but still powerfully built for a man in his early sixties, and his handsome features combined with his overall demeanor to form a nearly elegant presence.

    "Mr. Fratenzza," Vincent said fondly as they shook hands, "you look terrific."

    He smiled, revealing a set of capped teeth. "It's good to see you, Vincent."

    Vincent moved aside, put a hand on Frank's shoulder. "I'd like you to meet Frank Ponte."

    "Hello, Frank."

    They shook hands. Fratenzza's palm was soft, his grip firm but not aggressive. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

    "Sit down," Michael told them.

    Fratenzza smiled at Vincent. "I see you're still working out."

    "Sure, now and then."

    "Just be careful not to take it too far. You don't want to wind up looking like one of those freaks. I can't understand how anyone finds that attractive."

    "Now they got broads doing it too," Michael chimed in. "Have you seen this? Freakin' disgusting. There was a bunch of them on TV just the other night. I swear to God some of them had dicks. They looked like guys in eye makeup and bikinis, for Christ's sake."

    Fratenzza motioned to the man stirring the tomato sauce in the kitchen. "Now there's a perfect example of a guy who took the whole workout thing too far. He never knows when to take a day off from the gym, this one."

    "A regular Mr. Universe," Michael chuckled.

    Vic DeNicco wiped sweat from his brow with a paper napkin and smiled. "Sure, sure. Pick on the fat man."

    "How you been, Vic?" Vincent asked.

    "Hungry."

    "You're amazing. You never seem to gain a pound. You been right at that four, five hundred mark since I was a kid."

    "Hey, blow me."

    "Like I got all day to look for that little thing."

    "Kiss my ass then."

    "Spit and gimme a clue."

    "Lick my brown eye, homo."

    Vincent turned to the others at the table. "I'd have to roll him in flour and look for the fucking wet spot."

    Everyone laughed, including Vic, who pointed a stubby finger at Vincent and waddled closer to the table. "I ain't seen this little prick in what - four or five months - and already he's breaking my balls?"

    Michael looked at Fratenzza. "You shouldn't let him talk to you like that, Gino." Again, the room filled with laughter. Vic, laughing harder and louder than anyone, headed back to the kitchen.

    Once they had all settled down Fratenzza leaned back a bit in his chair and crossed his legs. "It's good to see young people laughing and having a good time," he said smoothly. "I enjoy being around people who don't take everything so seriously. These days everyone's too easily offended. We've lost the ability to laugh at ourselves."

    A sudden vision of this placid man pinning a woman to the ground and severing her ear with a knife flooded Frank's mind. He ignored it.

    "You're absolutely right," Michael said. "That's why having somebody like Vic to laugh at is so important."

    Fratenzza sipped espresso from a small cup while the others chuckled. When they had finished he'd dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin and looked directly at Frank. "Vic's been with me for a lot of years, even longer than Michael. He's loyal - do anything in the world for me - and never has a gripe. In twenty-some years as friends I don't ever remember hearing him complain. Making fun of him has become something of a tradition around here, and as with everything else, he takes it all in stride. But let me tell you something: Men like Vic are hard to find."

    Frank nodded, unsure of what to say.

    "He's a good egg," Michael agreed.

    "Tell me about yourself, Frank," Fratenzza said.

    "What would you like to know?"

    His face hinted at a smile. "Good answer."

    "I'm originally from the neighborhood. I've known Vincent and Michael since junior high school."

    "Is your father alive?"

    "Yes."

    "What's his name?"

    "Joseph."

    Fratenzza thought for a moment. "Joseph Ponte doesn't ring a bell. Do I know him, Frank?"

    "I don't believe so."

    Frank suspected Fratenzza already knew the answers to the questions he was asking, and was putting him through the process for reasons that had little to do with ascertaining accurate responses to such mundane inquiries.

    "What does your father do for work?"

    "He's a teacher at Saint Mary's in Fall River. He and my mother moved out of the neighborhood a few years back."

    "Are you married?"

    "Yes."

    "Children?"

    "Not yet."

    Fratenzza nodded, deeming the reply acceptable. "I always like to see young men attempting a better life. Too many youngsters are lazy today. We've got an entire generation of people convinced the world owes them a living. Between MTV, the ridiculous clothes kids wear today and that horrible rap music they listen to - which isn't even music to begin with - their brains are rotting. It's a shame."

    "It's the niggers." Michael sighed. "They're the problem. You got white kids running around trying to be black. I mean, Christ, you can't turn on the TV or the radio without having nigger after nigger jammed down your throat, you know? It's fucking ridiculous. Seen an NBA game lately? Good luck finding even one white guy on the court. Ten percent of the goddamn country and we let them run the place."

    "I have a lot of respect for the colored," Fratenzza said evenly. "You've got girls who already have two or three kids by the time they're fourteen, fifteen years old. They sit home and watch TV while the government pays for everything. You think that's stupid? You got kids who don't even graduate high school walking down to the corner welfare office for checks every month - teenagers who've already figured out how to milk the system - they never work a day in their lives. That doesn't sound too stupid to me. The stupid one's the kid who goes to some sucker job for minimum wage when he can get it for free. No, I respect the colored. I don't want them living next door to me, don't misunderstand, I'm only saying they're not as stupid as people make them out to be, and at the rate they're having kids it won't be long before they're the majority. Then you better pray they never get organized."

    "They're too busy shooting each other and selling drugs in their own communities to be a threat to anyone else," Michael scoffed.

    "Michael, you're terribly racist."

    "Fuck them."

    Frank tried to mask his discomfort. Unfortunately racism was always a potential part of any neighborhood, but he had not been raised that way and didn't share the bigoted views being tossed about so effortlessly. In normal company, had anyone said anything like that he would have spoken up immediately and vehemently. But this time he sat silently and let their hatred spew freely like the palpable thing it was.