Malcolm's riveting image went black.
Six
The face looked like it was from outer space. It had a human mouth and nose, but it resembled some mechanical, computerized robot with large peering eyes encircled by silver knurled rings. Around its large oval perimeter were shiny levers, roller-wheels and numbers etched in stainless steel.
Dr. Friedkin, ophthalmologist, swung the ocular refractor device away from the face of Gina DiSantis. She blinked a few times, trying to refocus her eyes after the eye exam.
"So, what do you think, Dr. Friedkin?"
"Not bad, not bad. Nothing to worry about. But you do have a change in prescription."
"A lot?"
"Nah. Just a little one, but enough to need new contacts." The doctor entered some notes into Gina's records.
Gina was an attractive young Italian girl of nineteen. Her shoulder length auburn hair came alive with natural highlights when Dr. Friedkin turned up the examining room lights. She was polite, courteous and respectful of her elders and professionals like Dr. Friedkin. She looked and sounded like she came from a good family. One of those hardworking Chicago Italian-Catholic families that believe in old-fashioned values and traditions. Around her neck was an 18-karat gold cross her father gave her for her first communion, a locket with her boyfriend's picture in it, and the evil eye, classic Italian protection against evil spirits.
Dr. Friedkin was a nice person, too. Tall and thin, he had the body of Abraham Lincoln. But his close-cropped hair was curly and almost all gray. He had a soft voice and an easy smile.
Dr. Friedkin was no slouch. He was a dedicated and experienced eye surgeon. He had examined the eyes of the entire DiSantis family for many years. He knew them all. He met Gina when she was just seven.
"Now, we can give you the same kind of contacts you had before. Let's see, you had that brand for two years, or we can talk about some of the newer types that have come out since then."
"You mean, more comfortable maybe?"
"Uh huh," he acknowledged.
"Oh, that would be great."
He sat down beside her on a rolling stool as she inserted her contacts back into her eyes.
"Hey, why don't you give me colored contacts? Wouldn't I look good with blue eyes?" She fluttered her eyelashes as a comical gesture, hoping the Doctor would agree.
"In all the years I've been examining you, I always thought you looked just fine with the beautiful brown eyes the good Lord gave you.”
"Well, I'd give up the blue eyes if I could also give up putting these things in and out of my eyes every day."
"We could try the newest long-wear lenses. Or," he looked into her records, "we could try radial keratotomy."
"Radial kerawhatame?"
"Radial keratotomy. RK for short. Then you wouldn't have to worry about glasses, or contacts, or cleaning, or anything."
"No glasses? No contacts?"
"Right. It's a surgical procedure, about thirty-five years old in the U.S., that actually changes the shape of the cornea."
"You mean, an operation."
"Uh huh. A very simple one."
"How simple?"
"Here, let me show you how it works." Friedkin picked up a piece of paper and a pencil. He drew a circle representing the cornea. "You see, when an image comes through the cornea, the lens of a normal eye, it focuses at the back of the eye. At the retina. In a myopic eye, the image focuses here, somewhere in the middle. By the time the image reaches the retina, it's out of focus."
"So you change the shape of the eyeball? So the image can hit the retina?"
"You're on the right track. But it's easier to change the shape of just the cornea, instead of the eyeball itself." He drew a half circle. "You see, here's a normal cornea. A nice gentle, even curve. Now, what we want to do is change this curve to flatten the half circle, making it more squarish. If we take the proper measurements, this change in curvature will cause the focal point to hit the retina in just the right place, giving you 20/20 vision."
Gina cautiously and squeamishly ventured a question, "Now, if it's surgery, it means cutting, doesn't it?”
"Yes, it does, but it doesn't hurt. And it only takes about 15 or 20 minutes."
"But didn't I read that the cornea is the most sensitive part of the human body?"
"Yes, but with anesthetics you won't feel a thing."
"Are you kidding, just 15 or 20 minutes to give me 20/20 eyesight?"
"Well, yes, and no. The surgical procedure takes about that long for each eye in an operating room at Chicago General. We’d have to do it there."
"How is this procedure done?"
Friedkin picked up a plastic model of an eye about the size of a bowling ball. "First, we take very careful measurements. Then we anesthetize the eye so there’s no pain." Gina winced. "No, really, you won't feel a thing. Then we make very careful small incisions with a tiny diamond blade. The number of cuts, the length and the depth of them are all carefully planned in advance.”
Gina listened intently, eager to learn all about it.
“This procedure was actually discovered by a Russian ophthalmologist in 1974 who treated a boy who fell off a bicycle. The boy's eyeglasses broke and bits of glass cut the boy’s eyes. It improved the boy’s vision to about a perfect 20/20."
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all. It’s a fact. Today, of course, there are more modern versions of it, but it's all pretty much the same and it all started with that Russian doctor and a little boy.”
Gina showed a little doubt and fear. "But, doesn't it hurt when the anesthesia wears off?"
"Oh, a little. Like something in your eye. The eye clears up in about four or five days and stabilizes within about four to eight weeks."
"Is it safe?" She was hopeful.
"I wouldn't let you do anything that wasn't safe, you know that. I've been performing this procedure here in Chicago since 1987. In fact, I was the first eye surgeon in Chicago to perform radial keratotomy. Haven't lost a patient yet." He said with his winsome smile.
"But, what if something goes wrong?"
"If something goes wrong, you'll end up with an under correction, less than 20/20, and you might have to wear contacts again. But, if we have an over correction, your vision will be better than 20/20."
"Better than 20/20?"
"Eyes like an eagle."
• • •
The small Italian woman lifted the lid off the large pot and steam puffed out in a cloud. She sniffed the contents. As she was just about to sample a taste of the red sauce, a hand fell on her shoulder and she jumped.
"Hi, Mom."
"Oh, Gina! You scared the hell out of me! I didn't hear you come in. My mind must have been a million miles away."
"Sorry, Mom. What's for dinner?"
"Ravioli."
Gina sat at the kitchen table and began handpicking morsels from a bowl of freshly made salad.
"Don't spoil your appetite. I made this sauce with the sausage your uncle Carmen gave us when we went to visit last week."
"Is this the stuff he makes himself that he claims he can't make enough of?"
"This is it. And I believe him. You should have seen how good it looked before I put it in the pot. And I made braciole. Your father loves braciole."
"What's the occasion? Somebody getting married? Like my brother?" She was kidding.
"You must be dreaming. The day he gets married your grandmother will dance on her grave. God rest her soul."
"But Mom, it's Saturday, not Sunday. Why are we having our Sunday dinner on Saturday?"
"Your father has to work tomorrow. And I had to use the sausage, that's why."
"Where is Dad, anyway?"
"Taking a shower."
A young man in his mid-twenties popped into the doorway. Above the doorway was a wishbone from a Thanksgiving turkey. The young man wore nothing but dress pants. He had black hair and not a single hair was out of place. "Hey, Gina, if you're looking for yo
ur hairdryer, it's in my room. Mine broke."
"You got a date tonight, Anthony?"
"Yeah, why?"
"With Angela?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Well, when you're out tonight, buy a hair dryer. I want mine back."
"So take it. Who wants it anyways?" Anthony left the doorway, but Gina yelled so he could hear, "And did you take a shower?"
No answer.
"Mom, I thought you said Dad was taking a shower?"
"He is. You brother took one long ago. You know it takes him three hours to get ready for a date. Don't worry, there's plenty of hot water. What did Dr. Friedkin say about your eyes?"
"Well, they got worse."
"Oh, dear.”
"But that doesn't mean they're bad. I just need new lenses, or an operation.”
"An operation! My God, what's wrong?"
"Nothing, Mom, nothing. Really! You see there's this, ah, procedure called radial, ah, radial kera...kera something and..."
Upstairs, Tony DiSantis, Sr. walked into his bedroom with a damp towel tied around his waist. Tony's salt and pepper hair was still wet. He had a part on the left side that looked like a white line drawn with a ruler. Tony was built like a bull. For years he had worked at developing his heavy-boned, five-foot-eight-inch frame, strong shoulders and thick arms. But now, at fifty-nine, his shoulders were more rounded, his arms had lost their definition and he had a paunch from his sternum down. Yet he carried himself reasonably well.
DiSantis had lots of hair on his chest and sparse ringlets of hair on his shoulders and back. On top of his bureau was a black and white wedding picture of he and Camille taken twenty-four years ago. Draped over a corner of the picture was a gold chain strung with a small crucifix and another gold chain carrying the famous Italian evil eye. He slid both over his head.
He opened a drawer of his bureau. He put his gun, a holstered blued .38 Special on top of the bureau right next to the wedding picture. He laid his detective's badge next to his gun and continued to get dressed.
"...and if they under correct, I'll have not-so-good vision, I'll have to keep wearing contacts."
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" Mrs. DiSantis was grating Parmesan into a bowl. Gina was holding a pencil and a piece of paper with two circles on it.
“And if they overcorrect, I'll have better than 20/20 vision." Gina DiSantis didn't know whether she wanted to talk her mother into letting her have the radial keratotomy procedure or if she wanted her mother to talk her out of it.
"Gina, nobody needs better than 20/20 eyesight, do they? I mean, am I right or wrong?"
"A superhero does!"
"Hey, is somebody talkin' about me again?" Tony DiSantis was carefully groomed, as always.
"Oh, hi Daddy!"
Mrs. DiSantis spoke up: "Dr. Friedkin must have rocks in his head. He's trying to tell Gina she needs an operation! An operation that might make her eyes worse, or a lot better! You try to figure it out Tony, 'cause I can't."
"No, momma, most of the time, almost all the time, it works out just fine."
"What's this about an operation, Gina? You need an operation? What kind of operation? What's this all about?"
"It's nothing Daddy, really. I don't need an operation. Dr. Friedkin told me about a very simple procedure that can correct my vision, so I'll never have to wear glasses or contacts or anything ever again."
"Of course, the surgeon recommends surgery. What else? I'm surprised at Friedkin. After all these years." DiSantis poured himself a cup of coffee and lit a cigarette.
"Daddy, a lot of people have had this done already. It only takes fifteen minutes, that's for each eye, and..."
"And what's this about makin' your eyes worse or better? Don't they know which way it's gonna go?"
"Dr. Friedkin says it works out just fine practically all the time. But sometimes somebody might end up with less than 20/20. So they wear their contacts. And, once in a while, somebody might end up with better than 20/20 vision."
"In which case you wear glasses, right?"
"No, Daddy, you wear nothing. Just imagine, no cleaning contacts anymore, no losing contacts anymore, no…"
Mrs. DiSantis couldn't hold her tongue any longer. "And how much will this fifteen-minute operation cost?"
"He said around eighteen hundred."
"My God!" Tony DiSantis said. "I always knew I was in the wrong business!"
"Oh, speaking of business, you had a phone call when you were in the shower. Somebody from the station, I think. Didn't leave his name, he was in a real hurry. He hung up before I could get his name." Mrs. DiSantis was setting the dining room table as she talked. "Said you'd be interested in knowing that he heard a report about a plane crash in Florida. Thought you should check it out right away."
Tony DiSantis put down his coffee and put out his cigarette. He got up from the kitchen table.
"Daddy, what do you think? Is it too much money?"
"I don't care about the money, baby. If you need it, you need it. If you want it, you want it. I can't talk about it now, I gotta go in."
"Now?" Mrs. DiSantis exclaimed.
"Now."
"This very minute you gotta go in? You can't eat first?" Tony left the kitchen. She called after him. "It'll only take five minutes, Tony!"
"Jesus, can't Daddy ever give up? I mean, this obsession to bring every drug dealer in Chicago to justice. He's a workaholic. Why doesn't he let somebody else do the work for a change?"
"Your father's very head-strong, you know that. And you're the same way. When you don't get your way, you don't give up. He's determined. I don't think that's bad."
"Yeah, but as long as I can remember, he's tried to be in too many places at once. He's here at home about to have a nice family dinner and he runs out. It's nothing new, but it still bugs me. I mean, are there that many people dealing drugs that he's this overworked?"
"It wasn't always this bad. The past three years have been the worst. But he was busy when he became a Lieutenant seven years ago, too. It wasn't easy, Gina. He worked hard to get where he is. He's taken a lot of...crap. And he hasn't forgotten it. And when you're a kid from the streets, and you have an opportunity to become a detective, and then a lieutenant...hey, listen, he's a good man. We've never wanted for anything. His family means a lot to him, you know that."
• • •
"One-eleven, this is four-seven."
"Copy, DiSantis, go ahead."
"Patch me in to Klempner please, Suzie."
DiSantis drove with his left hand and keyed the radio mike with his right. "Klempner, here.”
"Hey, Marv.”
“Hey, Tony. I thought you were off today?”
“I am, but I'm comin' in. I wanna check somethin' out. I got a tip from one of my stoolies. Did you hear somethin' about a plane goin' down in Florida?”
“I haven't been watchin' the news. You mean like an airliner?”
“No, no, no, I mean a small plane. Like a drug plane?”
“Not yet. But that doesn't mean anything. I'm always the last to know even though I'm supposed to be the first to know.”
“Well, look into it. This could be the big connection we've been looking for. I'll be there in twenty minutes.”
Tony DiSantis had pulled his basic police-issued four-door out of the driveway of his modest Oak Park home. He was already driving through the suburban neighborhood, down Chicago Avenue past one of the original homes and studio of Frank Lloyd Wright, then South on Oak Park Ave. past the birthplace home of Earnest Hemingway, then to the entrance ramp of the Eisenhower Expressway.
Oak Park was full of well-to-do types, upwardly mobile yuppies, as well as established business people and entrepreneurs. There were quite a number of millionaires in Oak Park. The DiSantis family was lucky to live there, if only on the edge of it. Tony bought his house years ago, before Oak Park had assumed its present cachet. Tony added to his house a couple of times over the years, with the coming of his two children. Now the neighbo
rhood, and his house, had real value. In another couple of years, when he retires from the force, he’ll be able to cash it all in and move far away where he can forget about all the garbage he had to walk through all his life.
As he drove toward the downtown station house on Madison, only one-mile North of where he grew up, he lit a cigarette and thought about how things had changed so dramatically over the years.
DiSantis came from the Mother Cabrini section of Chicago, better known as Little Italy, a run-down neighborhood that, to this day, hasn't improved all that much. It was, and still is a ghetto of hard-working immigrants, a hodge-podge of many nationalities, but mostly Italian. A twenty-four-block grid of real life. Tough life. It was a community of Sunday worshippers, old-fashioned values, age-old traditions and small family-run businesses. It was also a community of petty thieves, vendetta killings, the code-of-silence and the Mafia.
It wasn’t easy for Tony’s father to raise three kids in that environment. But his father, Dominic, and his mother, Adriana, did the best they could. When young Tony stepped out of line, he would face the strap. Off Dominic’s pants, the strap would come, making a whip sound as it flew high in the air. The lashing would leave welts that teenage Tony we feel for a week. Dominic was old-school.
When Dominic was only six, he left the old country with his parents bound for America. They fled Italy in 1929 to escape poverty and overpopulation. They followed the millions of Italians who immigrated in the forty years before them. The year they ended up in Chicago, the stock market crashed and the Great Depression began, immigration quotas were reduced and Admiral Byrd flew over the South Pole. They arrived on the very same day as the St. Valentine's Day Massacre.
As little Italy grew, so did little Dominic. By the time he was sixteen, he had learned a trade. Welding. He was forging a life for himself. But just two years later, at eighteen, everything changed. Exactly one week after the attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, Dominic was drafted and put into a special military unit with other aliens. After that, Dominic saw Italy from a whole different perspective.
Saving an Innocent Man Page 4