Ray’s nowhere to be found. Tommy says Jersey, but I run into Uncle Exit, who mentions something about a fishing trip with Primo out east. Either way, I’m stuck with Alex, and when he finds out why I’m free to hang around, he isn’t flattered.
Because I see Alex every day at school, I never realized just how out of touch with the guy I’ve become. He’s turning into an embittered hermit, sequestered in his darkened room, chain-watching a never-ending Star Trek marathon. The guy has every single episode on video, and I’m talking classic Trek: The Next Generation, Deep Space Nine, Voyager, and all the movies.
“You know,” I begin carefully while The Search for Spock plays in the background, “you’ve got to snap out of it.”
His eyes never leave the screen. “Snap out of what?”
I take in the room. His computer is half buried in dirty clothes, and there are thirty-seven unopened messages on misterferraridriver.com. His fish tank is so murky that the goldfish are gray, wraithlike figures. His prize Chia Pet is stone dead. I’m sure he hasn’t shaved in weeks, which isn’t terrible because Alex is so blond. But there are three wiry hairs growing out of his chin that would support a full-size tire swing.
How would all this happen? Alex has survived without a girlfriend for seventeen years. Why is it so suddenly unbearable just because I’m in a relationship?
I came over with the intention of asking him to phone Kendra for me. But all of a sudden it doesn’t seem like such a good idea.
That Monday, I get to school earlier than I’ve ever arrived there before. And at that, I have to hold myself back the last half hour. The librarian isn’t in yet, but one of the custodians opens the media center for me. I boot up a computer and pass the time sifting through the latest offering of moronic ads on Meow Marketplace.
I’m placing this ringing endorsement on Madame Curie, a cat I found four years ago at Winn-Dixie. $300—PZ.
I try to look at it with Kendra’s analytical eye. Yes, the price is ridiculous. Who has the gall to ask three hundred bucks for a stray he rescued from a supermarket? The key numbers are there: $300 and four. There’s the weird name. And ringing endorsement is a term that has come up before.
This is a double sale of two cats, first Material Girl, and second, Look Out Below. You’ve never seen such a pair of sharpshooters. $350—MK.
How can a cat be a sharpshooter? Unless he can barf up a fur ball with deadly accuracy. Maybe it really is a coded message. But from who to who? And the biggest question of all: what is it doing on my Web site?
Normally, this would be enough to keep me tearing at my hair for the better part of a week. But this morning I’ve got one eye on my watch. Kendra’s bus usually arrives at 8:05. I want to be the first thing she sees at school today so she knows that the reason I haven’t called all weekend is not that I’m blowing her off.
I cover my face because I’m pretty sure my expression is one-hundred-percent goofy. After Friday, there can be no doubt in her mind that she’s the A-1 priority in my life.
I position myself carefully so I’m right in front of her locker when she appears in the hall.
“Hey, you.” I move to kiss her, but she sidesteps me, and I end up brushing my lips across her backpack.
“My cell phone died,” I explain hastily. “I went by your house a few times, but I couldn’t catch you outside.”
She opens her locker and begins stowing books.
“I should have a new one tonight,” I continue. “Tomorrow at the latest.”
“Great,” she says. It sounds like the wind off an iceberg.
I’m getting alarmed. “Kendra, what’s with you? You know I always call when I can.”
For the first time she looks at me. “Vince, it was fun. But I think we should stop seeing each other.”
If she turned around and pushed a pie in my face, I couldn’t be more amazed. “You’re kidding, right?”
She shuts her locker. The metallic clunk reminds me of the slamming of a cell door in one of those prison documentaries. Harsh. Final.
I’m upset now. “It’s the truth! You know why I have to use a bootleg phone.”
She starts down the hall, then glares back at me. “This hurts twice as much as I thought it would! So just stop!”
“I can’t show you the dead phone!” I plead. “I had to get rid of it!”
“Will you shut up about the cell phone?” she explodes. “It’s not about the goddamn cell phone!”
I start to clue in. “It’s about my father?”
“You lied to me!” she rages. “You said you had nothing to do with his business!”
“I don’t!”
“I saw pictures!” she almost screams.
“That’s impossible.” I reach for her, but she bats my hand away.
“You’re a loan shark,” she accuses me.
“What?!”
“There’s evidence! The FBI—my father—they’ve got pictures of you taking money from people! That sleazy guy from the parking lot, for one!”
When the pulse of horror has run its course through me, I’m left with a feeling that’s sickeningly familiar. I had it when the cops locked me up for driving a birthday present I didn’t know was stolen. And when I popped my trunk on Bryce Beach that night. It’s the mixture of shock, queasiness, and understanding that comes with the realization that my last name has cost me something important. Again.
But this time the price is too high. “It’s not what it looks like,” I plead. “I’m helping those guys! They got in over their heads and came to me to put in a word with my father! But then I got sucked in too….”
Even as I’m talking, part of me is listening through Kendra’s ears. The fact is, I don’t even believe myself, and I know I’m telling the truth. But my story sounds like a bad lie, and I’m tripping over my own facts as my mind struggles to recount the tale while at the same time processing some pretty big new information. The FBI has pictures of me. The FBI thinks I’m a gangster.
Kendra’s crying now, and we’re attracting a pretty big crowd in the preclass rush. A school the size of Jefferson is always good for a couple of breakups a week. But I never thought Kendra and I would be center stage.
“Shut up! Shut up!”
And I do, because at this point, I don’t know what I’m saying anyway.
“Just—stay away from me!” she sobs, and runs off.
I’m almost crying myself. I am crying inside, but for some reason it just doesn’t break the surface, as if Luca men are born with defective tear ducts.
It hurts so much, as if the weight of all the good times we’ve had together has just landed on top of me. I don’t even consider going to first period. I head out to the parking lot and sit in my car, stunned and bitter. I curse Dad and Tommy and Ray and the uncles and their crews and all the connected guys who work for them. I double curse Jimmy and Ed for being so weak and stupid and drawing me into their mess. I curse the FBI for suspecting an innocent kid while ax murderers run free.
And that’s when it hits me. The only question I haven’t asked myself yet is the most important one: how did Agent Bite-Me find out about Kendra and me?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“VINCE, THE GUY’S AN FBI agent,” Alex tells me. “We have to concede that he’s got the skills to at least figure out who his own daughter’s boyfriend is.”
It’s after school and we’re in my Mazda, Alex at the wheel. I’m too distraught to drive. I’ve got the passenger seat in full recline, so I’m flat on my back, staring up at the sky through my leaky sunroof. The clouds are dark and lowering, just like my mood. A K-Bytes cassette plays on the tape deck, and every note from that throaty voice is like a piece of shrapnel in my abdomen.
Just the thought of no more Kendra has put a spring in Alex’s step, and I hate him for it.
“You’ve got to be philosophical about this. With a girl like Kendra, you never should have had a chance to begin with, considering who your dad is. Face it, any action you get off an
FBI agent’s daughter is pure gravy, so you’re way ahead of the game.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
He’s offended that I would even think such a thing. “When you bleed, I bleed,” he insists. “It’s my love life too, remember? You think I’m not feeling the pain?”
I know he’s not feeling the pain.
“You’ll never have a friend as supportive as me,” he goes on. “As of today, I’m imposing sanctions on Kendra out of solidarity with you. She and I are finished as friends. She is a great singer, though,” he adds, as my ex belts out “My Heart Will Go On” over the Mazda’s tinny speakers.
“Yeah, I remember what a big fan you are,” I snap. “Especially when you overdubbed her tape with ‘Sounds of Bodily Functions.’ That was a nice tribute.”
Suddenly, there’s a popping sound, and the song changes in mid-word. Now she’s crooning “Yesterday.”
I smile in spite of myself. When Kendra has something she wants to record, she’ll pick up the nearest tape, jam it in the deck, and start singing. All the K-Bytes cassettes are like that, songs taped over songs, in the middle of songs, songs interrupted, and songs resuming partway through. Most people would take the time to put in a new tape, or at least forward to a blank part. But when Kendra wants to sing, it has to be now. For a girl who’s normally logical to the nth degree, it’s an attractive impulsiveness. At least it was in the good old days, before 8:06 this morning.
There’s another clunk, and now she’s halfway through “Hit the Road, Jack.”
Alex brays a laugh. “Yeah, that’s funny.”
“You’re supposed to be bleeding,” I mumble.
Finally, we pull up in front of Alex’s house. I get out and come around to the driver’s seat.
Alex enfolds me in a bear hug. “We’ll get through this, Vince.”
“Let go of me before I kill you.”
But when he scrambles inside, I realize that even Alex’s company is better than being alone right now.
I start the car, but make no move to put it in gear. Going home isn’t a good idea. I couldn’t deal with Luca headquarters, with seeing Dad and Tommy.
But to be honest with myself, it wasn’t even Dad and Tommy who sunk me this time. Kendra already knew about the family business. No, I did it to myself by getting involved in the seedy lives of Jimmy Rat and Ed Mishkin. I broke my own rule, and it cost me.
Savagely, I hit the eject button on the tape deck. K-Bytes pops out and lands at my feet. That cassette has something I could really use in my life: a rewind/erase function.
I replay it in my mind a hundred times: Jimmy Rat approaching me in the school parking lot, and me telling him to shove it.
But even knowing what I know, how could I have turned my back on Jimmy and Ed when they needed me? I wouldn’t turn my back on them now if it wasn’t for the fact that I have no choice. Thanks to Dad, those guys don’t even dare talk to me long enough for me to warn them that the Platinum Coast is a sham.
After all my scrambling, my frantic phone calls, my trip to the city, those poor guys are in every bit as much trouble as they were before I started “helping” them. And I’m out six hundred dollars and one girlfriend for my troubles. Not to mention that the FBI is investigating me as a loan shark.
In the golden age of screwups, this will make the top-ten list. And the sad part is I’m sitting here like a spectator, watching it all unfold, and there’s still nothing I can do about it.
Or is there? The idea hits me with such force that my whole body jumps, and I bang my knee against the steering wheel. It isn’t even my idea, technically. It came from Jimmy and Ed. They wanted me to talk to Boaz and use my name to convince him that I speak for my dad. Well, I can’t get through to Jimmy and Ed anymore, but there’s nothing to stop me from going to see Boaz myself as a “representative” of Anthony Luca.
I love the plan so much so fast that it’s almost scary. Is it the recklessness brought on by getting dumped, the way some guys drive too fast when their love lives go toiletsville? I really don’t think so. Boaz may be a thug, but he’d have to be a suicidal thug to lay a hand on Anthony Luca’s son. I’m like a walking insurance policy. I could go to the White House and give the president a wedgie, and when the Secret Service comes at me, I just flash my driver’s license.
The only downside I can see is that Dad will hit the ceiling if he ever finds out. But frankly, that relationship is not a priority with me today. And anyway, Dad told me to stay away from Jimmy and Ed. He never said anything about Boaz.
If I can go head to head with Boaz and use my dad’s name to get Jimmy and Ed their money back, then they can pay off their debts and start fresh. That could save those guys’ fingers and bones and great-aunts, even their lives. I may be a washout as a boyfriend and a Web master. I may be under federal investigation for loan sharking. But surely there’s no more worthwhile achievement than helping people in trouble.
I put the Mazda in drive and point it at the Southern State Parkway. Thunder rumbles. If it’s supposed to be an omen, I ignore it.
I don’t relish another hour-and-a-half creep into the city, so I flip from station to station, getting traffic reports. All anybody seems to care about on the radio is a line of violent thunderstorms that’s heading our way. It seems somehow fitting that this weather apocalypse is unleashed on the very day that Kendra and I break up.
All the other drivers must be heeding the forecasters, because there’s practically no one on the road. I make it through the Midtown Tunnel in forty minutes. By the time I hit Thirty-Ninth Street, it’s so dark that I’ve got my lights on, and the wind is blowing newspapers and candy wrappers all over the place. I’m worried that the Platinum Coast might be closed up, with this big storm coming. But no, there’s the pink neon, tasteful and urbane as ever.
I park (leave it to Jimmy and Ed to invest in a business on the only street in Manhattan where you can always find a spot) and head for the mirrored door.
Once inside, my eyes are instantly drawn to the stage, but there are no dancers. And anyway, the biggest guy in the world materializes in front of me within a second or two.
“Beat it, kid.”
I give him what I hope is my father’s stare. “I need to talk to Boaz.”
The welcome wagon is unmoved. “When your zits clear up. Take a hike.”
“The name’s Vince Luca.”
And the mountain is suddenly a molehill. “He’s with Rafe over at the bar.”
I take a couple of steps and freeze. Two men are perched on bar stools, deep in conversation. Boaz is a Middle Eastern–looking guy with curly hair and a dark tan. The reason why I know it’s him is because I recognize Rafe. I know him as Rafael. Remember Johnny from my one and only football game? Well, Rafael is his dad. He also happens to be a member of Uncle Uncle’s crew. And Uncle Uncle is under Uncle Carmine. And all of them are under Anthony Luca.
The kick in the pants sizzles all the way up my spine and rattles my pituitary. The Platinum Coast—the scam—it’s a Luca operation!
I turn tail and run out of there before either man sees me. I feel dazed, as if I’ve taken a physical blow. I don’t know what I expected, but it definitely wasn’t this. I turn it over in my mind, but it always comes up the same way: Jimmy and Ed are falling behind in their debts to Anthony Luca because their money is being drained by a con game sponsored by Anthony Luca. Talk about a lose-lose situation!
I’ve had issues with my father’s business before. I’ve seen him accused of a notorious homicide, for God’s sake! But this has to take the prize. To steal someone’s money, and then be coldhearted enough to send enforcers over to inflict vicious harm when he can’t pay you, that’s…
Tears are streaming down my cheeks. I couldn’t cry over losing Kendra, but this has me blubbering like a baby. I guess it’s just that I never saw my father as a bad person. Sure, I knew he was behind a lot of criminal activity, but I never thought he was intrinsically rotten. Until today.
&nb
sp; I’m out of options. I’ve got to go home and face down my father over this. I don’t know if it’ll do any good, but my plan is to keep screaming until I get my point across. Luca communication skills.
But first I have to warn Jimmy and Ed not to hand over one more cent for the beautification and support of the Platinum Coast. That might be the hardest task of all, because both those guys have been threatened to stay away from me.
The rain starts on the way down to Java Grotto. This adds a ticking clock to my mission. If this storm is as big as the weathermen say, I’ve got to get my Mazda into some kind of shelter before Noah’s flood comes through the cracks in my sunroof.
Bad luck: Ed isn’t there. Even the bimbo hotline has been left unattended.
“Listen,” I ask the girl behind the counter, “I need to find this club. Have you ever heard of a place called Return to Sender?”
She hasn’t. I get blank stares from the customers too, until one guy waves me over to his corner table. Mohawk, pierced tongue, fish scales tattooed on his arms and neck. A real fashion statement. He gives me directions to Jimmy’s club on Norfolk Street, finishing with a single piece of advice: “Bring a bodyguard.”
When I get there, I can see what he means. Return to Sender is a basement; dungeon might be a better word. The stairs that lead down into the bowels of New York City are littered with broken glass. The smell is a mixture of vomit and cigarettes. On the door is scratched something that, if anyone ever said it to you, you’d have to go into therapy for years. There are no windows, no signs; just a piece of paper covered in grubby Saran wrap nailed into the brick wall, reading WE CARD.
The rain picks up, puddling in the garbage at my feet. I can see flashes in the western sky, lightning over New Jersey.
I push open the heavy door and step inside. There are a few customers at the dingy tables—bikers, punks, and some of the stranger goblins from The Lord of the Rings.
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