Wiseguys In Love (8 page)

Okay, so she wouldn't go see her family this winter. She swallowed. At least she had Andrew. Well, five hundred was all she could afford to offer her, but at least it was something—certainly better than a lousy bunch of tiger lilies.

She turned down a street next to a small park to get onto Pleasant Avenue but got stopped behind a car. As her eyes began to focus on the block, she felt a bit startled.

At the far end, there were several quaint little houses, some with garages and little yards out front. The street was packed with limousines: three, four, five, eight of them, parked and double-parked.

She stared at a small, beat-up-looking church.

There must be a wedding, with all these expensive cars lined up. Or a funeral …

She was looking for the hearse when a man in a dark suit, who'd been leaning against one of the limos ahead of her, walked over to the car. He tapped on the window and she rolled it down.

“This street's closed,” he announced in an accent that sounded exactly like Mrs. Morelli's.

“Funeral?” she asked.

“Street's closed,” he repeated testily.

“Well, fine. I'm looking for Pleasant Avenue?”

“Go across a Hun' sixteen,” he barked, and then walked away.

Lisa backed out onto First Avenue. She lucked out and found a spot right in front of the building. She took the flowers and looked at her overnight bag in the front seat. Her eyes darted around the street. Oh well, she'd only be inside a couple of minutes, and who would break into a car in daylight? She locked the doors and made her way to the building.

She was standing in the airless foyer of the tenement building where Mrs. Morelli lived. She peeked outside the scraped-up piece of plastic someone had glued into the front door. Her car was still there.

“Mrs. Morelli?” Lisa screamed into a staticky intercom.

“Who wants her?” a voice barked back.

“It's Lisa Johnson, from her office.”

The box clicked off and she waited, holding the flowers.

Nothing had prepared her for the inside of the building. Here she was in the middle of this run-down, dangerous neighborhood, and all the apartment doors had big glass windows in them, some with lace curtains, others covered with old wooden venetian blinds. The halls were spotless. Flat white paint with a shiny green border looked new. There was not a speck of grit, not even in the cracks of the old blue and white tile floor. A huge skylight poured sunshine down the center shaft of the building, flooding the white marble stairs with light.

The smells of pine cleaner mixed with smells of cooking. Aromas of tomato sauces, boiling pasta, roast beef, and chicken wafted out from behind the doors and hovered in the center of the stairwell.

A few eerie notes, picked out on piano keys, began playing as she stepped on the first step. The swingy, smooth sound of a Frank Sinatra recording filled the hallway. She continued up the stairs as horns kicked in. Sinatra's voice rang out as she reached the second-floor landing.

She felt a little fluttery as she continued her climb, listening hard to the song.

“The best is yet to come, come the day you're mine, and you're
gonna
be mine…”

She was finding the lyrics slightly menacing, and his voice faded away as she reached the third-floor landing.

She rapped on the door. It was opened a crack and Lisa looked up at a steel-toned eye.

“Who?”

“I'm Lisa Johnson.… I'm … I'm looking for Mrs. Morelli,” she stammered.

The door was shut. She heard voices inside but couldn't make them out. After a moment or two, the door was opened again. She stared up at the largest human being she'd ever seen up close.

He was massive. There had been a guy in college on the basketball team who was probably taller, but no one bigger. His chest blocked her view of the entire apartment.

“What do you want?”

“I came to—is Mrs. Morelli here?” she asked, half-hoping she had the wrong apartment.

“Tony, let her in,” Mrs. Morelli's voice said, and he stepped aside.

They were standing in the kitchen of a railroad apartment. Blue teapots and little cups adorned the wallpaper. Venetian blinds covered by ruffled plastic window curtains decorated the windows. An old circular fan sat on the sill, agedly blowing in air from the opened window. There was a cold cast to the room from a lone circular fluorescent light set in the middle of a stamped tin ceiling. A clock ticked loudly above a pillowy old-fashioned refrigerator.

Mrs. Morelli had a handkerchief in her hand. She was sitting at a small old Formica table, the kind with flecks of gold suspended in a blood red background. Lisa walked over to the table and set the flowers down.

Mrs. Morelli looked terrible. Her eyes were puffy and her face was red. An overflowing ashtray sat in front of her, alongside a half-empty gallon bottle of Coca-cola.

“Oh Mrs. Morelli, I don't … I'm
so
sorry.”

“Sit,” she said, motioning.

Lisa sank down into the chair opposite her, then heard a cough. She twisted around and stared at a second man, standing in the darkened living room. He was smaller than the big man. He was normal-sized.

She turned back to Mrs. Morelli and cleared her throat.

“I'm responsible for this, I know,” Lisa began, feeling stupid. “If only I'd have gone in there. If only I wasn't so scared of him. I hate myself for what happened.”

“Who'd have known the bastard would…” Mrs. Morelli's voice trailed off.

“You want me to get you something to eat, Aunt Rosa?” Tony asked, leaning down over her.

He almost made her seem pale and delicate.

“No, Tony. I don't want nothing. I ain't hungry. I ain't hungry. I ain't ever gonna be hungry again!” she said, her voice rising as she got up. “He sentenced me to a life of poverty! My last years, my golden years, spent in shame, trying to feed myself. I wanna die! I wanna die! He stole my money—that SONOFABEECH.”

It was the damnedest thing: Lisa's fillings hurt.

Guilt overwhelmed her. Even if she offended Mrs. Morelli, she had to try to offer her some money.

“It's all my fault. Oh God. Listen, whatever I can do, just tell me. I could help you do your resume or help out around the house.” She swallowed. “Look, I don't want to offend you, but do you need money?”

Mrs. Morelli looked at her oddly. “Whatta you talking about?”

Lisa brightened a bit.

“Well, I was thinking, you probably need some money to tide you over, and I have five hundred dollars in my savings account.” She watched Mrs. Morelli's eyes dart to her nephew. She said something in Italian to him, and the other man came up behind her.

“I don't want your money! I want the bastard dead!” she snapped.

“Believe me, I know. People like that don't deserve to live. If you knew how many times I wished he'd … he'd get run over or something, just die, so I don't have to listen to him.… I mean, why does he have the right to do things like this, huh? Why? Because he's wealthy? I'll tell you something, if he was dying on a street corner, I don't think I'd bend over to help him. I'd let him just bleed to death in the gutter. Some days, I think … I think about sending him a really nasty letter.… I—” Lisa stopped as she caught sight of the smaller man trying desperately to stifle a smirk. “What's so funny?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” Michael said quietly.

His accent was softer than the others'.

“Well, I'm angry,” she snapped.

“I know you are.”

Lisa turned back to Mrs. Morelli, embarrassed. She'd flown off the handle. The tension of the last couple of days seemed to well up inside her and burst. She exhaled and sat down.

“Anything I can do to help, please, please, tell me.”

Mrs. Morelli shot a glance up at Tony.

“Anything? You'd do anything to help me?”

“Just name it. Just you name it,” she said, leaning forward in her chair.

“You know where he'll be tonight?”

“Well … not offhand.”

“Could you find out for me?”

Lisa stared at her. “Are you going to go talk to him?”

“My godson Tony and his cousin Michael gonna talk to him,” she said calmly. “Now, you tell us where he'll be at.”

“Well, I'd have to look in his appointment book. What are you going to say to him?” she asked, looking at Tony.

“I'm gonna tell him to give my Aunt Rosa back her full pension,” Tony said, blinking down at her.

There was an odd look to his eyes. They almost looked crossed, or as if they didn't really focus on anything.

“You don't know Henry Foster Morgan. He's a pretty nasty man. What if, you know,” she said, lowering her voice, “he doesn't
do
it?”

Tony slowly leaned down over her, and she suddenly felt herself sinking lower and lower in her folding chair, feeling as if she was very small as his oversized face got close to hers.

“'Cause I'm gonna kill him on the spot if he don't.”

Lisa sat in the kind of silent confusion you feel when you hear something so outrageously out of the realm of what you consider possible that your brain temporarily gets derailed. She looked at Mrs. Morelli, who stared at her calmly as she squashed out her cigarette in the ashtray. She couldn't see the other man. She looked back at Tony. It was as if his eyes were dead.

“Um,” she squeaked. “What makes you think he'll keep his word?”

“'Cause we're going back to his office, and he gonna put through the paperwork and sign a check over for all the trouble he caused.” Tony's breath was hot against her cheek and smelled faintly of chocolate.

“He could just … cancel the check and tear up the paper on Monday,” she said with a flutter.

“I don't think so.”

“Why?”

“He's gonna have a accident right after he signs.”

Her neck craned back as he straightened up, and she felt a little dizzy. She stared straight ahead at his belt buckle and then stared over at Mrs. Morelli and the other man. Her mind raced through what was being said. Of course, over the years she'd joked around about killing her boss, just the way everybody did who had a boss like hers, but there was something about the way these people were talking …

She stood up.

“I know just how you feel,” she said, pointing a finger at Mrs. Morelli. She picked up her bag. “And he really deserves it, too. Well, my car's illegally parked and I have to be in Connecticut tonight for a barbecue and—”

Tony blocked the front door and the other man stood, his arms crossed, staring at her.

They were not laughing.

“Where is this appointment book you was talking about?” Mrs. Morelli snapped. Her voice was harsh.

“Look, you can't be serious. I mean, you can't kill a man because he fired you.”

She felt Tony's large hands rest heavily on her shoulders. She wiggled free and looked up at him and then over at Mrs. Morelli.

“He deserves it. You said so yourself. 'Cause he's bad for people.”

“Yes, but … you could take him to court, get a lawyer—”

“I'll be dead before they give it back to me. Where's the book?” she demanded, motioning to Tony.

She felt his huge hands wrap easily around her upper arms, like manacles.

“Hey, wait one darned minute.” She struggled.

“Tell us where the book is,” the other man ordered, stepping in front of her.

She stared into his eyes and he looked away quickly, as if he was embarrassed. Tony tightened his grip on her until all the blood seemed to get cut off from her lower arms.

“Where is it?” the other man demanded, carefully avoiding her look.

“It's in his lower desk drawer, but it's locked!” she yelled at them.

Tony loosened his grip. They were all silent.

“What do we do now, Aunt Rosa?” Tony asked in a deep voice after a moment.

“What are you?
Stunadze?
Take her to the office. She got the keys for all them drawers,” Rosa snapped.

“Okay, Aunt Rosa,” Tony said as the other man opened the apartment door.

Lisa found herself being lifted off the floor like a rag doll and swung toward the door. Suddenly, Tony turned back to Mrs. Morelli, and Lisa felt her feet swinging out.

“Don' you worry, Aunt Rosa. I'm gonna take care of you. I love you. I'll be back wid what he owes … and the rat bastard's ears so you can send 'em to his mutha.”

Lisa looked in horror at Mrs. Morelli, then at the other man, who turned his face away.

*   *   *

Michael held his gun up right below her chin as they sped down Fifth Avenue in the Cadillac. He could feel her whole body shaking as he held one arm. She began squirming, and he looked over into her eyes. They were pretty green eyes. They were filled with terror and disgust at him. He looked away.

He was frantically having conversations with Vincent in his head, thinking, Pop, Pop, how did you do it? How did you dance on the edge with these guys for so long without becoming one of them? Where did you find that line?

He kept going back to when he was a kid. His father's pie-plate-shaped face appeared slightly above his eye level. His crown of dark hair, cropped to less than half an inch on his head, his steady dark eyes, straight nose, rounded and spread out at the nostrils, and Santa Claus cheeks stared deadpan back at Michael.

“Your father's a bookkeeper.” His mother's voice floated past the two of them, and Michael again saw his father slowly nod up and down, keeping Michael's eyes on him. And at the time, being a child, he didn't question anything. But there had been a hint of something in his father's eyes, something a nine-year-old couldn't put his finger on.

Now he knew what had been in his father's eyes. It had been embarrassment and shame. Maybe he hadn't carried it on his sleeve each day, but at that moment, having to lie to his own son, it must have bubbled up in him, because Michael suddenly remembered that it was not long after that he was transferred to a school outside of the neighborhood.