Scratched

by JJ Partridge

  “The idea is to make our wedding and our wedding night very special.”

  Must be something from Bride’s magazine, not Psychology Today.

  “Lots of couples who have been living together do it. I’m not exactly a traditionalist but the wedding and all … as it has gotten closer … I feel different.” She turned away from me. “I’m not going to try to explain it. I don’t think I have to.”

  Nadie, not explain?

  “And it’s not forever, is it? Ten days. It’s just a time off.”

  “A bundling board between us?”

  She responded by reaching out and taking my left hand in hers. “It’s all very new.” She turned to face me with an expression that said I should understand. “The point is …”

  I waited for the professor of psychology to inform me. But instead, she put on her reading light. I decided on a last try. “Let me get you a glass of wine …”

  “I-don’t-want-any” was slowly enunciated.

  I rolled back to my side of the bed and stared at the ceiling. The blades of the fan revolved without much heart. She said, “I love you. Just … be patient.”

  I was not in a mood to be rejected. Hey, I just took down a real bad guy! I huffed in annoyance and slowly got off the bed, donned pajama bottoms that were under my pillow, and went to the bathroom. When I returned, her reading light was off, her eyes were shut. I suddenly had the mental image of us as a married couple, reading novels in bed until we closed our eyes.

  Being hog tied, locked in a car’s trunk, can focus the mind.

  Like what is jabbing my ass?

  I get my wrists to the trunk lock and catch where the metal edges seem rough, maybe sharp enough to cut through the tape. I scrape the tape against an edge without success, then work at my wrists under the slicker’s sleeves.

  I realize that if I can unzip my slicker, get it off a shoulder, a sleeve would loosen, and so would the tape. My teeth eventually find the metal zipper pull and it is like biting ice. With my chin buried in my chest, I work the zipper down its track an inch, then another, it becomes easier further down the track, and the slicker loosens. I rub the slicker against the floor and it grudgingly comes off my shoulder, my fingers edge upward, tips now touching the binding tape, my nails sink into the sleeve, pulling it down as my wrists yank and twist. After minutes of frustration, the tape gives. My left hand is free!

  I rip the tape off my mouth. Ohh, I’ll never kiss again! Then, off my eyes, leaving eyebrows burned and plucked. When I open eyelids that seem pasted to my face, my eyes sting. I stretch forward and release the loop around my ankles. Free at last!

  To do what?

  31 Friday

  I DROPPED NADIE OFF at the Amtrak Station for her bachelorette weekend, got a very long kiss, and drove up to Federal Hill to Pastiche on Dean Street, a favorite café and bakery, for an espresso and a fig scone. The Journal I took from its newspaper rack had a front page feature recapping the Columbus Day controversy, with a sub-headline quote attributed to the faculty senate president: Columbus does not meet Carter University’s standards. Geezus! The President’s letter to the faculty senate raising the procedural issues I had researched, and affirming that this year’s calendar remained in place, was buried in the two last paragraphs on an inside page.

  I left the Mini parked on Dean Street, and walked through DePasquale Square, the cultural center of the Hill, to Atwells Avenue. The Hill, usually gritty, was litter free, spruced up for the coming holiday weekend, decorated with banners, flags, and bunting, with red, green, and white lights strung across streets, red and green stripes newly painted parallel to the existing white stripe down the middle of Atwells. The Italian specialty shops of the Hill would open at nine for early customers avoiding the later rush for pasta at Vendas, veal, quail, snail salad, and Italian cold cuts at Tony’s Colonial, fresh chicken and rabbit at Antonelli’s, and Italian cookies, zeppoles, ricotta tarts and rice pies prepared by Ronci’s or Scialo’s. At Antonio’s Wines, the windows were full of decorative baskets of wine in plastic wrapping.

  I could see my friend Marco Antonio at the register through glass doors. I knocked to get his attention and grim faced, he let me in. “We got a situation,” he said in a voice as ominous as that of Robert DeNiro about to punish gang members spending the loot too quickly. I followed him past displays of wines from Alto Adige to Sicily into the tiny nondescript office used for giving valued customers a taste and discrete political gossip. Marco sat in an old-fashioned, oak swivel chair behind a cluttered desk; I leaned against one of the battered filing cabinets, prepared for what I expected to be a dirge of bad news. His forehead wrinkled and he intertwined his fingers tightly on the desk. “The fuckin’ faculty. Don’t they know that Columbus is more than a name to Italians? So, Columbus, maybe, he had slaves. So, who didn’t then. Indians had slaves. I don’t hear anything bad about George Washington or Thomas Jefferson because they had slaves, right? C’mon, it’s just easier to dump on Italos than on goddamn …”

  “No name change this year. The faculty senate vote is ...”

  “Yeah,” he acknowledged, “but that means squat, right? I’m past president of the Federal Hill Business Association. They’re coming to me and I got to make a statement for the Gazette. It isn’t gonna be very complimentary. I wanted you to know before. Anyhow, I’m insulted and disgusted! Let us keep our day, the … freaking … Indians can have another!”

  “I get it, Marco, I do …”

  He put an elbow on the desk top and wagged a finger at me. “Cheap shots like this allies the Russo-Lucca gang with the Brow, gives them a soapbox. Chance for them to look good, attacking somebody who’s dissing Italians. Like years ago, when the mob set up fronts to make them look like defenders of our heritage. All part of the act. Frannie Zito, that blowhard, is sponsoring a call out at the Columbus Theatre.”

  “I …”

  “Everybody’s been invited. They got the churches, the Knights, the Sons. Even got that ex-Senator from New York, what’s his name. They’d dig up Al Martino or Sinatra or Louie Prima or John Pastore if they could. This isn’t good for somebody like me who doesn’t buy in. And you might not know this, but Columbus Day is traditionally when the old-timers go in, ask a don like the Brow for favors, and he is duty-bound at least to listen. While lots of that is bullshit, he still does it. Tradition. It gives him some prestige. Especially now.”

  I recalled the wedding scene in The Godfather.

  I said, “I wish I could tell you that this is going to go away quickly, but I can’t. Danby is doing his best …”

  “Look, this is how it is. You hit a raw nerve. The Hill isn’t what it was. It’s hollowed out, if you get my meaning. We got tattoo parlors, hookah joints, Chinese take-out, Mexican food. It’s all changed. Most of the Italian people are gone. Sure, we got the restaurants, galleries, food stores, Holy Ghost and Mount Carmel, but the people who actually live here are Latino or Asian. We got a Spanish Mass now at Holy Ghost. I go into the Bank of America branch on Atwells and everyone speaks Spanish. The census says we got more Guatemalans than Italians. Guys like me, the Italo-American business owners, we go home every night to Cranston or Johnston or North Providence. Look at me, I’m in Dean Estates!”

  His eyes left me for a space on the ceiling. “We live behind a kind of façade nobody talks about, because we think it’s shameful. So, everyone on the Hill is into dramatics, including the bad guys. We put on an Italian show once a year, for us, for the other Italians, for the business, we cling to one holiday tradition, and that’s Columbus Day Weekend. You come along with this stupid name change, and everybody gets to take out their shame on you …”

  I nodded. What else could I do?

  “It’s so goddamn complicated,” Marco went on, clearly in lecture mode. “We got traditionalists and we got the new guys. We traditionalists stand for something, Italian pride, culture, home. The new guys, even if they got Italian names, it’s all about money. They attract the gangbangers who co
me up here now. A few weekends ago, we had street fights after hours! Never happened before. A Lucca, a Scuiglie, for better or worse, stands with tradition. They’ll wrap themselves around old Chris Columbus, provoke a lot of bad feelings against Carter, anything and anybody from the East Side. At the parade, the theme this year is Italo-American Pride. How’s that for timing. You’ll be getting ready for your wedding when the parade is on when up here, things could get out of hand.”

  Marco stood and came around his desk, putting a hand on my arm. “That’s not all. Fausto Tramonti was in here last night, buying wine for his big party on the weekend.” He lowered his voice as though the room walls had ears. “You know, Fausto is not as smooth as his brothers. We got into Columbus Day and Fausto was loud and obnoxious so everyone in the store heard him, so that the Hill knew his stance fifteen minutes later. On purpose, he used me, embarrassed me.”

  A finger went to the side of Marco’s nose. “And another thing, you being on the Commission should know that Fausto’s got clients, ward chairs, friends of councilmen with their snouts in this Shoot-Out pie. The limo contract, for instance, vendors like the program printers, the caterers. Just a word to you, okay?”

  32

  MY DAY DID NOT get any better when a few minutes later as I walked back to my car, Nick called on my cell phone. He was matter-of-fact.

  “The funeral home’s books were torn apart by our analyst. Nothing was credible, the balance sheet, profit and loss statement, statement of operations, cash flows, trust accounts, all prepared, or I should say, made up, by Arnie. When questioned, Arnie clammed up, like he was surprised anyone would ask, that this wasn’t a loan application, more like a … gift.”

  I recalled Nadie’s prescient admonition.

  “There isn’t a written trust in place for these prepaid burial arrangements. It’s more like a piggy bank. So long as there’s not an epidemic of Jewish deaths in the boroughs, it could go on forever, taking money in and investing it like it was their own, providing burial services when it was time. Our analyst also found unexplained deposits and withdrawals in the burial trust accounts. He thinks the Gershowitzs invested for other funeral homes, likely for a fee, because there were checks out to funeral homes together with smaller ones, five percent of the larger ones, to the Gershowitzs. Bottom line, that’s illegal. Very illegal.”

  “How much did he ask for?”

  “A million for operations, two for the burial trust. On the operations side, that would be plenty. But another two for the trust? Three million becomes a stretch.”

  “Sorry, Nick. Damn!”

  “Have to say the homes have plenty of collateral, no mortgages on the real estate, and a cash flow no matter how it has been misapplied or skimmed. They could pay off both loans given time, but no private lender would touch them. So, if you want to tap the TF, I can get the paperwork in place quickly, use a shell lending entity not identified with us.”

  Nadie would not expect Nick to find a lender if Arnie and Simon were cooking the books, but would Nadie be believed by her mother and Aunt Ida when confronted with angry denials from her cousins? What would that do to our wedding? Mrs. Winokur’s life? There was no alternative to a loan from the TF.

  “Do I call Arnie, or do you?” Nick asked.

  “Me. I’m family.”

  33

  AN ENDURING LESSON FROM lawyering classes at Champlin & Burrill was that an early arrival at a meeting with opposing counsel allowed time for a deep breath, a review of notes, and importantly, assuming a confident, even nonchalant pose when the opposition arrived. That explained why I was five minutes early for the meeting with the Luccas in the Institute’s ornately decorated conference room. The door to the hall remained slightly ajar; telephones rang, a fax machine chirped, and muted voices came from a distance. Before she left me, Brunotti’s officious secretary reminded me that Il Direttore remained in Italy in the press of business.

  Moments later, Eustace Pine, dressed in a dark suit appropriate for a probate lawyer, placed a battered briefcase on the table across from my chair. His boney nose sniffed. “What’s this ruckus about Columbus Day?”

  I was saved from a response by Brunotti’s secretary. “Senator Lucca,” she announced and stepped aside.

  A diminutive figure, five two or three at most, with a full head of white, curly hair, in a tight, dark blue, three-piece suit, entered holding a glossy black leather case against his chest. His face was flat as a plate, his eyes widely spaced and perfectly round, his nose hovered above a trim pencil mustache of a kind not seen since Thomas Dewey. His furtive glance around the room signaled his ill-at-ease which likely explained why he barely acknowledged our greetings and chose a chair at the far end of the table. It was left to me to apologize for the absence of Cosimo Brunotti, explaining he had been delayed on Institute business in Italy.

  Rudy Lucca’s face darkened at the news, no doubt assuming that Brunotti’s absence had been purposefully arranged. “I should have been told,” he said in a high-pitched voice, like that of a choir boy, as Puppy Dog, in a tan, light weight sports jacket, pink shirt, gray tie, and dark trousers, slinked into the room.

  It was Pine’s turn to be wide-eyed—damn, I had forgotten to tell him of Puppy Dog’s entry into the case—and I quickly explained that the Luccas were representing the Republic of Italy, and Puppy Dog was now local counsel to the claimant Vittorio Ruggieri even as I wondered about the split of fees among counsel. Puppy Dog stretched over the table to shake Pine’s reluctant hand and sat next to Lucca and across from Pine. A tiny piece of tissue covering a shaving nick had been forgotten on his chin; Lucca signaled to Puppy Dog by touching his own chin, and Puppy Dog picked it off and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. The adversaries were now in position.

  “For the record,” Lucca said as he unzipped his case, “Vittorio Ruggieri of Rome, Italy, is the recognized son of Professor Italo Palagi, a citizen of the Republic of Italy. I am here as the Consul of the Republic of Italy in Providence and as a lawyer for the Republic of Italy. Mr. Goldbloom is the attorney for the son, Vittorio Ruggieri. We all know that Signor Palagi only recently learned that he had a son from a … liaison in Rome many years ago. We also know that Signor Palagi as distinguished scholar and citizen of Italy, when informed of his son’s existence, visited him in Rome, and was shown evidence of his paternity. Signor Palagi legally recognized Vittorio as a son and heir in accordance with Italian law.” Lucca looked in turn at Pine and me for objection while Puppy Dog inspected his ragged finger nails. “Good. No issue,” Lucca intoned and removed a clutch of documents from his case. “These are certified copies of all relevant documents,” Lucca said and distributed clipped pages replete with multiple shiny seals and ribbons. “I also have authenticated translations for you,” Lucca said as he sent pages across the table.

  Pine placed a pair of half glasses on his boney nose and responded stiffly. “Our counsel in Rome will review the official records regarding acknowledgment of paternity.”

  “No doubt you will learn that in Italy a father may not disown a son,” Lucca replied curtly.

  “If Italian law applies, which is doubtful,” Pine said looking over his glasses. “Palagi was for decades, of course, domiciled in Rhode Island. Section 3 of Article 9 of the Inheritance Laws of Italy makes it clear that domicile is the essential element of any determination as to whether the laws of Italy apply, or not, to a decedent’s estate, despite retention of Italian citizenship.”

  “We’ll leave that to Judge Cremasoli,” Lucca replied reeking with confidence. “Palagi’s will? And the trust? You have our copies?”

  Pine dipped into his briefcase, then withdrew his hand with a quizzical expression. “You’re not suggesting that there is anything at issue with his trust, are you? Surely you realize your client can have no legal claim against any assets in Italo Palagi’s trust which are outside probate court jurisdiction.”

  Lucca’s fingers brushed his moustache. “The trust is part of his estate plan. Sig
ned at the same time as his will, right? If Palagi had then known of Vittorio’s existence, no one would believe that he would have ignored his son and placed the bulk of his assets in trust to benefit others.” Lucca’s voice rose in ascending notes. “Anyway, it is neither here nor there. Italian law applies and Italy will not permit his son to be cheated.”

  “Cheated?” Pine’s voice expressed shock at Lucca’s choice of the word.

  Lucca turned to me. “I’d like to hear Direttore Brunotti on this.”

  Of course, he would, and very likely had.

  “The University,” I replied, “expects to retain all assets granted under Professor Palagi’s will and trust. Although what you’ve presented today may be prima facie evidence of his acceptance of paternity, Palagi was in his eighties, perhaps easily fooled. There are DNA tests for paternity. We would insist on such tests in the case of a claim by Mr. Goldbloom’s client …”

  Lucca’s hand and face made unified gestures of irritation and dismissiveness. Puppy Dog, letting Lucca carry the meeting, didn’t react. Seemed almost disinterested, twisting a yellow pencil in his fingers.

  Pine cleared his throat and distributed sets of documents. “Copies of the probate petition and the will. You will note in particular sections of the will that make it clear that your client’s claim, if prosecuted, will result in denial of any part of the estate.”

  “Boiler plate,” Lucca replied.

  “The petitioner is the University as beneficiary. We have a chamber’s conference with the judge on Tuesday.”

  “Where’s the trust?” Lucca interrupted.

  “I’ll get back to you.” Pine replied.

  “We’ll get it by subpoena if you don’t hand it over.”

  “That’s up to the University’s counsel …”