The Real Thing (26 page)

Danny Boy doesn't respond right away. “What's that got to do with me?”

Everything, DB. The key to getting people to say something they
don't
want to say is to beat around it steadily until they get tired of the suspense. “Weren't you married to Connie Tucci of Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn?”

“What's this about?”

Evasive, are we? I had better hit him with what I already know. “You served in Vietnam from 1968 to 1969 in Company G of the Second Battalion, Ninth Marines.”

I hear a heavy sigh. “That was forty years ago. Look, I've got work to do, so if you don't—”

“I've just talked to Red,” I interrupt. I had noticed that “Red” (no last name) was the 2/9's Web site administrator. It's only a partial lie. I
have
been reading his site. “You attended a reunion in 2003 in Arlington with your wife, Li.”

“Red certainly has been running his mouth.”

Not exactly confirmation, but pretty darn close. “So all of this is true.”

“Look, like I said, that was a long time ago.”

My fingers are getting sweaty. It is now time to swing dat hammer! “Are you Dante Lattanza's father?”

“No.”

Withdraw hammer. Either he's in denial, or . . . “No?”

“No. I am not Dante Lattanza's father.”

Either he's in
deep
denial, or . . . “Was Connie pregnant when you married her?”

“No.”

If I had the marriage record, I could make absolutely sure. “Then how do you know—”

“I know, all right?”

This seems to be a touchy subject for Danny Boy. “Well, do you know who Dante Lattanza's father is?”

No answer.

“Any suspicions?”

“Why is this important?”

There are so many good reasons why this is important. A boy needs his father, right? A child needs a parent in his life. “Dante is fighting for a world title tonight. He's a public figure. I'm planning to write his biography, and this is vital information.” Well, I can always
plan
to write it, right?

“Look, I don't know what you want from me.”

So reluctant! “When and where did you marry Li?”

Silence.

“Did you marry her in Canada?”

“No.”

“Did you marry her over in Vietnam?” Duh. He had to. They wouldn't have let her just traipse along with him on the government tab unless they were married.

“Why is that important?”

That's not even a definite maybe! “Mr. Lattanza, I can easily get copies of
both
of your marriage certificates if you don't want to cooperate with me. Then all I have to do is check the dates to see if they overlap.” Yeah, right. Getting those marriage records from Vietnam won't be easy. Finding military records that may not even exist, even if he had a military wedding, will certainly tax me, too. The 2/9 chaplain might know, right? I'll have to look him up, too.

After another lengthy pause, Danny Boy says, “Can you keep Li out of this? She's been through enough hell in her life.”

Danny Boy would make a great politician. I can't get him to confirm or deny anything. Swinging dat hammer: “You were married to two women at the same time, weren't you, Mr. Lattanza?”

“Look,” he says, his voice quieter, “if I tell you what I know about Dante's father, will you leave us out of this? We have a life here. We have grown kids and five grandkids. I've been here forty years, you understand? I have a life here. People know and respect me.”

“Mr. Lattanza, I can't guarantee that I'll keep you two out of anything I may write.”

“Ask at Cammareri's.”

Che?
“It's closed down now.”

“Really? That's a shame. Then ask at Monte's.”

I was just there yesterday! “Who do I talk to?”

“Talk to Vincent.”

Goose bumps creep up and down my legs. Vincent, my waiter?

“Vincent Baldini?”

“Yeah. That's him.”

Geez, Vincent was staring me in the face with Dante's eyes
the entire time
! “Vincent Baldini is Dante's father?”

“I have customers. It's a Saturday. We're very busy.”

Still not exactly confirmation, but is that fear I hear in his voice? Sadness? “Is there anything you'd like me to tell Dante?”

“Just that . . . Ah, geez. Tell the kid I'm sorry, all right?”

I need more than that. Dante will need more than that. “Aren't you at least a little proud of him?”

“Yeah,” his voice becomes a whisper. “I'm proud of him. I have ten scrapbooks full of that kid. I gotta go.”

If I ever write Dante's biography, I will have to go out to Langley, British Columbia, to visit Danny Boy, his wife Li, their children, and his five grandchildren. Danny Boy can't be evasive if I'm standing in his store with a camera.

All this means I can't just call up Vincent and expect him to cave. I need to grill him face to face, so that if he lies to me, I'll be able to tell.

I am, after all, a
giornalista
. A liar can spot another liar.

I have to make sure he's working, so I call Monte's, hoping someone else will answer.

“Monte's,” a female voice says. “This is Liz.”

I try to sound Italian. “Is Vince there?” I sound ridiculous.

“He won't be in till one,” Liz says. “Wanna leave a message?”

I check the time.
Perfetto.
I can get there by one-thirty, no sweat. “Nah. I want it to be a surprise.
Ciao.
”

This is the fun part of the grind. The chase is the adrenaline rush that fuels the grind and makes the wheels move swiftly.

Now look who's being pretentious! The chase is, simply, a rush.

But I'm in no hurry. I don't have to be at the Garden until nine. Since technically I'm working on a story for
Personality
—I mean, it
could
run in the magazine one day—I can have all my transportation and meal expenses paid. Instead of taking a taxi all the way to Monte's, I call Dial 7 Car and Limousine Service, mainly because it's the only phone number for a car service in my cell phone. I arrange for them to pick me up at one.

Then I wander the halls looking for a hammer and some nails to hang my pictures. I don't find any, as if I thought I could. Who brings a toolbox to
Personality
? That would be too real.

I take this as a sign. It will be so much easier packing up my office if I leave those pictures where they are.

A black Lincoln Town Car (how nice!) picks me up, and I'm off to Monte's in style. “To Monte's,” I tell the driver.

“Yeah?” He turns and smiles at me. “You know you've got me for two hours, right?”

“Right.”

“And, well, the food at Monte's is
magnifico
.”

My driver knows Monte's. I thought he sounded Brooklyn. “What the hell. You can eat, too.”

He nods. “I'll cut you a break on the rate.”

I smile. “Fuggedaboutit,” I say with a giggle. “It's on the company's tab.”

He pulls away from the curb. “It's going to be a be-
you
-tiful day.”

My driver, Paolo, who I find out lives in Queens but misses Brooklyn “to death, swear on my mothah,” opens the door for me at Monte's. I tell the hostess—Liz—to give him whatever he wants, and he zips off. She leads me to a booth, and I wave off the menu. “Just tell Vincent that Christiana's here.”

Vincent strolls over eventually and sits across from me. “Saw the
Times
this morning. You trying to butter me up or what?”

I'm not only going to butter you up, I'm going to get you to admit you're Dante Lattanza's father. “I talked to Danny Lattanza today.”

Liz brings me an espresso. “You didn't drink yours yesterday, you know,” she tells me, and she fades away.

Vincent nods slightly. “So you talked to Danny.”

“Yeah.”

“How's he doing?”

“Fine.” I sip my espresso, looking at him over the rim of the cup. “He had a lot to say.”

“Yeah? I'll bet he did. Danny Boy could talk.”

Liz brings me a cold antipasto plate. “You hardly touched it yesterday,” she says. Vincent waves her away.

“So, you know why I'm here,” I say. I have to get Vincent to say it. He has to say it.

“What'd Danny Boy say?” Vincent asks.

I savor a hunk of salami. “He said to ask at Cammareri's. You ever work there, Vincent?”

He blinks. “A long time ago. So what?”

“I told him Cammareri's was closed, and then he said to ask at Monte's.” I smile. “Is there anyone other than you who works here now who used to work at Cammareri's?”

“Just me. Again, so what?”

The indirect approach isn't working. Since I'm in Monte's, though, I have to swing a tiny, red-velvet-covered hammer. “He said to ask at those two places about who Dante's real father is,” I whisper. “He said to ask you.”

Vincent doesn't blink. “Oh.”

I have missed playing cat 'n mouse so much! If it weren't such a serious subject, I could say I'm actually having fun. It is
so
much better to be the cat.

“Why would he want me to ask you, Vincent? What do you know?”

Vincent motions for Liz. “Liz, a glass of wine, please.”

“Oh,” I say, “no thank you.”

“Go on,” he says to Liz. “It ain't for you. It's for me.”

Hmm. Stress. Drinking on the job. “What do you know, Vincent?”

Liz brings him a glass, and he downs half of it. “I . . . I know a few things.”

“Such as?” I don't show my claws yet, but they're ready to strike.

“I know that Danny isn't Dante's
papino
.”

Confirmation from another source. Good. “So . . . who is?”

He takes another gulp. “I can explain. You see—”

“Are you Dante Lattanza's father?” I interrupt. My claws are now out and in shredding mode.

He finishes the wine and slides his fingers around the base. “Well, it's like this.” He looks up at me but doesn't speak.

“Yes?”

He leaves his seat and slides next to me in the booth. “He is not to know,” he whispers. “Dante is never to know. It was his mama's dying wish. I never asked Con why. Con was very clear. She did not want the shame to follow him.”

Though I think I know, I have to ask, “What shame would follow him?”

He sighs, adding a little shrug. “She was not married to the man who was the father to her child.”

“And she knew?”

He nods.

“You two had an affair.”

He nods again. “I did not plan to.” He runs his hands through his hair. “Ah, Christ, we were just kids. Danny and Con were just kids when they got married, right out of high school. They were crazy. Who does such a thing anymore?”

He's trying to get us off the subject. I ain't biting. “Tell me about the affair.”

“Why should I?”

I shrug a little, trying to mimic him. “Better me than the
Times.
When Dante wins and I run with what I know, who knows who'll be coming through that door.” I feel like the Godfather. “I'll tell you what. You tell me everything, and I'll keep whatever you don't want out from getting out.
Capisci quello che sto dicendo?
”

He blinks. “You speak Italian?”

“Per certi versi.”
I smile. “I still have a lot to learn.”

“You sound”—he bobs his head side to side—“authentic.”

“Grazie.”
I want to tell him that my first teacher was the best, that my first teacher was his son. “Was Danny at boot camp when your affair occurred?”

“No. Danny was up in the city at a Yankees game with some friends of his, and we were here working late. The Yankees win, we have more people, you know? The Yanks trashed the Red Sox that night, and we were still here at three-thirty. Con was . . .” He shakes his head. “I always loved her, always. We were both lonely. This is a romantic place. We were just two dumb kids. You understand?”

I don't need any more details. Dante Lattanza was conceived at Monte's, just off the Gowanus Canal. Even the most despicable journalist wouldn't print this.

“When did Danny find out?” I ask.

He closes his eyes. “I think Danny always knew. One look at Dante and he didn't see his eyes or his nose or his jaw. I saw myself. Danny didn't say nothing about it, but he knew. He knew, all right? Dante was scrawny, like me. Danny was huge. Anybody could see it.” He opens his eyes and sighs. “And then . . .”

“Then what?”

“You are not writing anything down.”

I tap my temple. “I have a great memory. Then what?”

“I wrote Danny a letter while he was over there. I felt so guilty. He was my friend.”

Whoa. “You wrote a letter and
told
Danny you were Dante's father?”

He nods. “Not the bravest thing I've ever done. I should have told him to his face. He would have . . . I like my nose the way it is, all right?”

I like it, too. “Did Danny write back?”

He shakes his head. “I don't blame him. That kind of thing. I don't know what I would have done.”