I wheel. “Are you out of your mind?”
Jimmy Rat stands there, laughing his stupid head off. The “gun” in his hand is a miniature flashlight key chain.
“Hey, Vince, you should see your face! I really had you going!”
“You had me ‘going’ in my pants!” I hiss. “If I dropped dead of shock, you’d have a lot more to explain to my dad than six hundred lousy bucks.”
He beams at me. “That’s why I’m here, kid. There’s a little surprise waiting in your locker. I slipped it in through the vent.”
The money! I’m so relieved I almost forgive him. Now I can pay off the credit card and put this whole nightmare behind me.
I head for my locker. “Hey, Jimmy, how’d you find out which one is mine?”
“I turned on a little of the old charm with the secretaries,” he explains. “Told them I was your older brother.”
“Yeah, right,” I snort. “From Dad’s first marriage during World War Two.” I reach for the combination lock.
“Hey,” says Jimmy. “That’s not your locker.”
“Sure it is,” I reply. “678.”
“No, it’s 687!”
Can you believe it? Dumb and dyslexic. All rolled up into one unlovable, rodentlike package.
“Jimmy, you gave the money to the wrong guy!”
“Calm down, Vince,” he tells me. “If your stress level is this high now, think what it’ll be like when you get to be my age.”
We move down the row to 687.
“Okay,” I say. “This is Jolie’s locker. I know her. When she comes, let me do all the talking. And pray she isn’t absent today.”
He gives me a superior smile, puts his ear up to the lock, and starts manipulating the dial.
I freak. “You can’t break into a locker! This is a public school!”
“Where do you think I learned this?” he retorts. “Okay, when I count three, cough.”
“But—”
“One…two…”
I manufacture a spasm, and, in that instant, Jimmy smacks the lock to pieces with his multipurpose flashlight key chain. The door swings open, and out falls a notebook, a makeup compact, and a grubby envelope marked VINSE. I guess in his school, where they teach you how to crack a locker, the instructional time is taken away from spelling class.
It’s funny. I don’t run, but I can’t ever remember exiting school that fast.
Short, squat Jimmy matches me stride for stride. “Hey, Vince, don’t you got no class to be going to?”
“I’m on lunch.” Kendra, she’s in the cafeteria, waiting for me. But this is more important. “I’ve got to run this money over to the bank. I borrowed to save your butt, Jimmy. You’re welcome.”
He’s genuinely concerned. “Gee, you shouldn’t have done that. You can get into a lot of trouble going into debt.”
I roll my eyes. “What makes you say that?”
He misses the sarcasm. “I got this friend, Ed. Owns a real classy coffeehouse. You know, where those college pinheads pay four bucks to drink a cup of java that’s half milk and sit on your great-grandmother’s old velvet sofa. He makes money, but he’s got a weakness for the ladies. And pretty soon he’s in for a major chunk of change to some very heavy people. I’m not mentioning any names, but we both know who’s the heaviest around here.”
“Dad,” I say, almost to myself.
“Correct. And Ed’s not feeling too good these days on account of your uncle No-Nose slamming that door on his head during their last meeting on the subject. Not that I blame your old man. Ed’s stiffing him for almost a grand.”
I stop him. “Listen, Jimmy. My father and his people do a lot of things I don’t agree with. But it’s out of my hands. I’m not in the business, and I’m never going to be. It was crazy for me even to get involved in your situation, and that’s never going to happen again. It’s not that I’m unsympathetic; it’s just the way it has to be, okay?”
He puts an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t worry about Ed. He’s got options. He’s got a great-aunt, ninety-three years old, over at St. Luke’s on life support. Stands to inherit, like, thirty G’s when she passes, which is maybe going to be soon.”
I frown. “You mean because her condition is deteriorating, right?”
He shrugs. “You know how it is. She’s been in a coma for months, and the doctors say she’s never going to wake up. She’s like a carrot, practically. But life support, that’s just electricity, you see my point? I mean, people trip on wires all the time. Plugs get pulled out of the wall. It happens.”
That’s how I end up in a dark coffee bar in Soho, drinking a four-dollar cup of java that’s half milk, sitting on my great-grandmother’s velvet sofa, talking to Kendra on my cell phone.
“I’m in New York. I had to ditch the afternoon. Something came up.”
“Are you okay, Vince? This doesn’t have anything to do with all those posters about us, does it?”
“No. Just tear them down if you see any, okay? This is—it’s nothing. What’s new at school?”
“Jolie Fusco’s locker got broken into, but she doesn’t think anything was stolen.”
Well, only six hundred bucks, but that was mine. “I can’t really talk now. I’ll call you when I get home.”
I can almost see her reporter’s face on the other end of the line. “Just tell me what it’s all about, Vince. Maybe I can help.”
“I’m fine. Talk to you later. Bye.”
But I’m far from fine. For the second time, I’m deliberately interfering in my father’s business, against my clearly stated sole purpose in life: to stay away from all that.
It’s crazy. I’m crazy. Things like Jimmy’s fingers, Ed’s great-aunt—I’m sure they happen all the time. But I never knew about them before. Oh, how I wish I didn’t know about them now! Things used to be so much easier. Sure, I figured Dad did some bad stuff, but it was all nonspecific. Nobody had a face or a name or a ninety-three-year-old great-aunt on life support.
Suddenly, I’m horrified at who I am and the kind of activities that finance the roof over my head, the clothes on my back, and the food I eat. Maybe that’s why I’m here. Certainly it can’t be for the financial well-being of the silk suit sitting in front of me.
Ed Mishkin is everything Jimmy Rat isn’t: tall, good-looking, suave, with a triple-digit haircut and store-bought teeth. If it wasn’t for the 360-degree bruise from the number Uncle No-Nose did on him, he could pass for a congressman. But he and Jimmy both have the same smile, an oily grin that oozes the words “Can I interest you in a used car?”
“I really appreciate your help, Vince,” he says with the kind of sincerity that could get a guy elected.
“I don’t need your thanks,” I mutter darkly. “I just want your aunt to die of natural causes. Let’s finish this. You’re short nine-fifty. I’ve got six hundred.”
“I’m flat busted, Vince. I can come up with maybe a C.”
I turn to Jimmy. “You’ve got to lend Ed two hundred and fifty bucks to get him past this.”
Jimmy is appalled. “I just paid you! Plus my own vig comes up again soon.”
I get mad. “I don’t know why you two can’t seem to budget. It’s not brain surgery; it’s fifth-grade math! But whatever the reason, the least you can do is help the other guy out. Then, a couple of weeks later, when you’re the one in trouble, you’ve got help coming. There’s double the chance that, at any given time, one of you guys will have a few extra bucks lying around.”
And at that moment, I join a small and select group of people. I am now one of the very few to extract money—voluntarily—from Jimmy Rat. And I don’t even need a hedge clipper to do it.
He digs a hand in his pocket and comes up with some crumpled bills. “I better get this back.”
“The first six hundred pays my credit card,” I tell them firmly.
Ed counts the money. “Hey, wait a minute. This is only a hundred and fifty. I’m still a hundred short.”
&n
bsp; I’ve had it. I walk up to the cash register, pop the till, and count out five twenties.
When I get home, Dad’s out, and Tommy’s hogging my computer.
“You’ve got five more minutes,” I call from the bottom of the stairs. “I need to check my Web site.”
Mom appears from the kitchen. “Thank goodness you’re home. When your father gets back, we can sit down to dinner.”
“Hello to you, too,” I say sarcastically. “Come on, Mom. Surely a few thoughts pass through your head that aren’t about food.”
“Well,” she deadpans back. “We could talk about what’s keeping my seventeen-year-old son so busy night and day—and does she have a name.”
Touché. “What’s for dinner?” I mumble.
Come to think of it, I understand perfectly why her life seems to revolve around meals. Most of the time, the world spins out of her control, and God knows what her menfolk are up to. Dinner is that one shining moment where Captain Mom takes over the helm, and the good ship Luca goes where she steers it.
Even during the heavy heat that came after the Calabrese murder, with the cops and CNN dug into the lawn, I remember her serving pot roast and saying things like “Vincent, what did you learn in school today?”
When any of us are in transit, you can tell Mom is off her game. The traffic report is blasting on the radio, and trust me, she doesn’t care what roads are moving well. She’s listening for accidents so she can stew over whether any of her loved ones are spread out all over the highway, bleeding.
“Mom, that pileup is in Jersey. What are you so worried about? Was Dad going to Jersey today?”
“How should I know where he’s going?” she says in a wounded tone. “Your father doesn’t provide me with an itinerary.”
Actually, it’s Agent Bite-Me he doesn’t provide with an itinerary. Mom just happens to live in the same house as the FBI’s microphones.
After producing food in mass quantities, worrying is her primary occupation. It’s annoying, but I have to consider that her irrational fears are a cover-up for much more rational ones. Let’s face it, how many guys in my father’s position die at home in bed? Being his wife can’t be easy.
When I finally get my hands on the computer, Tommy hangs around to watch me work on my Web site. Work may not be the word I’m looking for. It’s more like sitting there in mute wonder. I now have over five hundred hits, and 187 ads in Meow Marketplace.
For sale: My cat Excelsior, age 3, knows how to quack. A real show-off. $500—T.S.
“How can a cat quack?” I yell at the screen.
“Must be a trained cat,” puts in Tommy. “That’s why he costs five hundred bucks.”
“There is something very messed up going on here,” I insist. “There are, like, twenty people who call their cat a prime minister! Or a movie star!”
“They live with cats,” he explains reasonably. “They’re freaks.”
My head is spinning. “I mean, sure they think their cats are great! Cute! Furry! Not prime minister!”
“Maybe it’s cat lingo,” my brother reasons. “Every crowd has its own words for stuff. Like you Web site guys talk about getting hits, but in my business, a hit is something completely different.”
The front door slams, and I listen for Mom to unload on Dad about being late. But she’s sweet as pie, which usually means he has someone with him.
Tommy and I head for the atriumlike entranceway where Dad and Uncle No-Nose are taking off their jackets.
“Dad, I need to talk to you,” I say. “Downstairs.”
He raises his eyebrows but starts for the basement.
Uncle No-Nose shrugs back into his coat. “I should get going. I’ve got a few errands in the city.”
“No!” I blurt out. Then, a little more composed, “I think you should hear this too, Uncle.”
Now I’ve got his attention. My noninvolvement in the business is legendary among the uncles. It’s the one rule that everybody follows—everybody except Dad and Tommy.
Downstairs, homemade rocking chairs await us. They were regular chairs in blueprints, but Anthony Luca’s carpentry tends to have the same effect as a fun-house mirror. Dad sits in the best of the four, daring us to comment.
I hand over the nine hundred fifty dollars. “From Ed Mishkin,” I explain.
Uncle No-Nose is confused. “Why’d he give it to you?”
“Vince is a big player now,” Tommy says in disgust.
“I am not,” I say heatedly. “I’m just helping the guy out because he’s ready to pull the plug on his aunt’s ventilator, and I don’t think anyone should be that desperate.”
“That guy’s only desperate because he’s a skirt chaser,” snaps Tommy. “And that’s an expensive hobby.”
“I’ll straighten this out,” Uncle No-Nose promises.
“You’ve got your money,” I interject. “What difference how it comes to you?”
Tommy looks at me. “These guys you love so much—you know they’re dirtbags, right?”
Uncle No-Nose turns to my father, trying to gauge the boss’s opinion on all this. Smarter people than No-Nose have tried and failed to read Anthony Luca. And I include myself and a whole lot of U.S. attorneys on that list.
Finally, my father speaks. “You know I’m interested in this, Vince. You’re a man now, and the choices you make show the world who you are. So tell me, is this the real you? Are you dedicating your brains to baby-sitting a couple of lowlifes?”
“You’ve got to let me do this,” I insist. “It’s important to me.”
“They’re playing you like a piano!” Tommy roars.
“Then it’s my decision who I get played by,” I say stubbornly.
Dad speaks to Uncle No-Nose first. “Nose, you get a pass on Ed Mishkin for a while. However bad my son screws it up, it’s no reflection on you. And your points stay the same.”
Uncle No-Nose looks surprised. “You got it, Tony. But it doesn’t make any sense.”
“No kidding,” Dad sighs. To me he says, “Go find yourself. And don’t take too long doing it.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
OF ALL KENDRA’S GOOD qualities, this has to be number one: she never holds it against Alex that he can’t stand her. Think about it. He hates her for no other reason than the fact that she’s my girlfriend. Which means there’s nothing she can do short of breaking up with me that will make him like her any better. It’s a classic no-win situation. Yet while she finds plenty to complain about where I’m concerned, she never utters a single word against Alex.
In fact, she tries really hard not to leave him out of things. She invites him along to movies and to hang out with us at the mall. And he always accepts, which is pretty weird, because every minute he spends with us, he’s totally miserable. I know it, and he knows I know it.
“If you’re not having fun, stay home!”
He glares at me. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“No!” I insist. “We invited you. We want you to come. But if you hate it—”
“There’s nothing to do at home,” he grumbles.
Next Christmas, I should buy him a satellite dish.
Kendra bends over backward to be nice to the guy. She even lets him listen to her K-Bytes karaoke tapes, which he professes to love. I know for a fact that he made a copy for himself and dubbed in thirty minutes of strategically placed burps and raspberries. I saw the cassette cover. In between K and Bytes, he scribbled the word really.
This is my best friend in the world. What am I supposed to do? He’s not going to change, and I’m not going to dump Kendra. Stalemate.
So we’re in the multiplex on Saturday. Kendra and I are watching the movie while Alex spits Gummi Bears at the screen because he hates Gwyneth Paltrow almost as much as he hates Kendra.
The mall always seems extra bright after two hours in the dark. We’re standing there, squinting in the light, when a voice from above calls, “Hi, honey.”
Kendra turns and looks up
at the mezzanine. “Hi, Daddy.”
My bones turn to Jell-O. A man is heading toward the elevator on the upper level where the offices are. Her father. Agent Bite-Me.
My voice, when I can finally access it, sounds like a two-year-old with a stomachache. “He’s coming here?”
Kendra nods. “He had a dentist appointment, so I thought we might run into each other.”
“No!” I croak. I catch a glimpse of Alex, who’s smiling for the first time in days.
Kendra gapes at me. “Vince, what’s the problem? You got something against a free cup of coffee?”
The elevator is on its way down. “We talked about this!” I rasp.
Storm clouds are gathering on her brow. “This isn’t the same thing,” she says sharply. “This is ‘How’s it going?’ and maybe ten minutes over coffee. It won’t kill you.”
The elevator stops at the mall level. “I can’t meet him.”
“What, is there another girl somewhere?” she demands.
“You’ve got it all wrong—”
“You’re never going to admit we’re together!”
“No—”
But my feeble protests are no match for the Wrath of Kendra. “You must have a screw loose!” she exclaims. “If you can’t do this, you and I are through as of this second! Give me one good reason why you can’t shake hands and introduce yourself to my dad!”
Agent Bite-Me is off the elevator now, threading his way through the shoppers toward us. I’m out of options. Considering that I always knew this moment would come eventually, I’m shocked, bewildered, and panicked. It’s the proverbial rock and a hard place. I’m dead.
And then it just comes pouring out: “My father is Anthony Luca. He’s a suspected Mob boss, and your dad has been trying to put him in jail for the past five years!”
If I whacked her upside the head with a dead fish, she couldn’t look more thunderstruck. As we stand there, staring at each other, I realize that I have absolutely no idea what’s going to happen next. Over the past month and a half, I’ve come to know practically everything about this girl. But I don’t have a clue what she’s going to do now.
Son of the Mob Page 10