by Neil Turner
“Did she say why?”
Pat crosses her legs and pulls her coffee mug closer, tapping her fingernails on the rim while she considers her answer.
“Well?” I ask impatiently. “It’s a simple enough question.”
“If you’ll shut up long enough to let me talk, I’ll tell you.”
I drag my thumb and index finger across my lips in a zipping motion.
Her eye dances. “How frigging cool would it be to actually sew a zipper on that yap of yours?”
I give her the mock stink eye.
“It’s mostly girlfriend talk, but I can tell you a little,” she says. “Brittany doesn’t like her mother’s boyfriend and wasn’t thrilled to be left alone in Brussels as much as she was last year. She did like the other kids and getting around Europe a bit.” She smiles. “Bobby the boyfriend also factors into wanting to stay in Cedar Heights.”
I restrain myself from uttering another “argh” or anything else similarly “stupid.”
Pat grins in approval of my impressive show of restraint. “There may be hope for you yet, Valenti.”
“Thanks.”
She pauses and rests her chin on the backs of her knuckles in a show of deep thought, then smiles brightly. “Oh, and Brittany may have mentioned something along the lines of enjoying life in Cedar Heights with her boorish old man.”
“You didn’t have to tell him that!” Brittany protests as she sweeps into the kitchen, plants a kiss on each of our cheeks, then settles a hip on the side of the counter while she eyes Pat suspiciously. “What else have you told him?”
“Nothing much,” Pat replies with a laugh. “When’s Bobby coming?”
Brittany’s face lights up as her eyes cut to the clock on the microwave. “Any time now.”
I give her a stern look and say, “This boyfriend of yours better be a good kid.”
Pat chucks me on the arm. “This is exactly the kind of dumb shit you say that keeps Brittany from trying to talk to you as if you’re an adult.”
A smile plays on my daughter’s lips as she points at Pat. “What she said.”
Well, color me infantile. I’m spared further humiliation when the doorbell rings.
“Bring him in here,” Pat orders Brittany, who looks skeptical when she turns her eyes to me.
“To borrow Pat’s words, can we please do this without you saying any dumb shit, Dad?”
“I’m actually going to meet the beefcake?” dies on my lips. I nod instead. I do so solemnly. I do so under pain of death if I’m properly interpreting Pat’s warning stare.
While I had a glimpse of him and we exchanged a few words at Ed’s funeral, this is my first up-close-and-personal encounter with Brittany’s boyfriend. Bobby Harland is a bitter disappointment. He’s close to six feet tall. Well put together. Open smile. Good-looking kid. Why couldn’t Brittany pick a spindly, acne-faced boy with zero sex appeal but an appealing personality? Yeah, I know that’s insensitive. A couple of minutes of small talk reveals that he has the personality thing going for him, too. Uh-oh. While he tells me that he’s impressed with the volleyball highlights from my college glory days that my daughter has shown him on YouTube—I’m on YouTube?—Pat smirks.
Brittany draws all eyes when she hefts a solid wooden rolling pin and fixes her sights on Bobby. “Pat told me an interesting story about this.”
“Yeah?” he asks with a smile.
She starts slapping the rolling pin into her palm with a steady rhythm. “Tell him, Pat.”
Pat chuckles. “That rolling pin belonged to my grandmother. She always claimed it was how she kept Grandpa in line.”
“My grandmother had one just like it,” Brittany tells Bobby. “Right, Dad?”
I like how she’s thinking. “That’s right.”
Brittany’s eyes settle on Bobby while she asks me, “And it’s mine now?”
“Why, yes. Yes, it is.”
“Ah, young love,” Pat says with a sigh when the door closes after Brittany and Bobby leave.
“I’ll bring the rolling pin by tomorrow,” I tell her with a grin. The goofy talk has been a welcome bit of levity at the end of a trying week. Of course, the glow of young love hangs a light on the fact that any kind of romantic relationship between Pat and me is going exactly nowhere. Yet the world continues to turn.
Over the next two days, Penelope and Ben Larose compare notes and we all kick around ideas about what the Windy City lawsuit against Billy and Rick really portends. Having decided that the truth is on our side, we end up feeling fairly optimistic. Jake calls on Saturday with the happy news that Max and Papa have safely arrived at their destination in Italy. Dinner at Pat’s house with Brittany and Bobby that night goes well; no rolling pins needed, although I did remember to take ours and made sure Bobby got a good look at it.
The renewed glow of puppy love and happy thoughts lasts all of thirty minutes after dinner. That’s when I get home.
Chapter Sixteen
Did I close the blinds? I wonder after hopping out of the Porsche in the driveway. I honestly can’t remember, so I shrug the concern aside and let my mind drift back to dinner at Pat’s. As I unlock the front door while recalling the adoring—hungry?—looks passing between Brittany and Bobby across the dinner table, I make a mental note to develop an intimidating paternal warning scowl before my next Bobby encounter. Then I step inside with a smile and pull the door closed behind me. I’ve shrugged halfway out of my Gore-Tex jacket when the floor lamp in the living room snaps on.
“Good evening, Mr. Valenti.”
I spin around to the pool of light spilling over Papa’s La-Z-Boy recliner and find myself staring at a big, buff stranger who is settled in comfortably with his legs crossed. A massive hand is wrapped around one of Mama’s special-occasion crystal tumblers. It’s filled with amber liquid and rests lightly on the arm of the chair. The intruder is dressed in a pair of tan Dockers slacks, a wine-colored, short-sleeve polo shirt, and brown loafers—an outfit not unlike my own. Mind you, unlike mine, his outfit is drawn tautly over mountains of muscle. His forearms are covered in a mane of black hair, and a tuft of hair bulges out of the open collar of his shirt. Even the backs of his knuckles are a little furry. The guy fairly reeks of testosterone. His eyes settle on mine while he offers me a half smile that is utterly bereft of warmth. His hooded eyes are equally chilly as he appraises me. The only hair on his polished head is a pair of menacing bushy black eyebrows. Yet the tone of his gravelly voice is almost warm when he invites me to “have a seat.”
“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in our home?” I demand.
He doesn’t appear to be the least bit alarmed to be facing down an angry six foot five inch man when he lifts his glass as if he’s about to offer a toast. “Decent bourbon. Pour yourself a glass and join me.”
It’s not a suggestion. Something in the man’s demeanor warns against doing anything other than exactly what he’s told me to do. So, as ridiculous as it seems, I pour two inches of Maker’s Mark into the tumbler he’s thoughtfully left on the table with the bourbon bottle. Then I prepare to have a chat with a man who looks like some sort of gangster. A little dart of fear pricks my heart when we lock eyes after I settle into Mama’s well-worn easy chair. I stare at his Mediterranean olive skin, prominent nose, and full, sensual lips that suggest Italian ancestry not unlike my own. There’s an effortless confidence wafting off this guy, whoever the hell he is. I steel myself in anticipation of being told that Papa and Max have walked into an Italian buzz saw a few thousand miles from where we sit.
“I couldn’t help noticing that your father isn’t here,” he says conversationally. “Only a single toothbrush in the bathroom, along with one lonely razor and a single bath towel. You haven’t moved out, have you?”
He knows damned well that I haven’t. I don’t respond.
“Where is Francesco?” he asks.
“I don’t know. He left last week.”
“Really?”
“Re
ally,” I ape.
His eyes narrow, and a soft chuckle escapes his lips. “Your instinct to cover for Francesco is admirable, yet pointless, Mr. Valenti.”
I choose to remain mute while a shaft of worry wiggles down my spine at the easy familiarity with which he refers to Papa as Francesco.
“So, you’re playing your cards close to your vest while you think things through,” he says with a note of approval. “I see how you were successful in court during Francesco’s trial and at the village hall when you kept your neighborhood intact. Bravo to that, by the way. I was impressed. Very few people get the better of Titan Developments.”
Like I give a shit what you think, pal, I think, feeling a little cockier now that I realize that Papa and Max are safe.
“The situation you find yourself in this evening isn’t as simple as you probably believe it to be, Mr. Valenti.”
What situation? I force myself to settle back in Mama’s chair and cross an ankle over my knee in an effort to match this asshole’s nonchalant manner.
He appears mildly amused by my play. “Aren’t you curious to know how your predicament isn’t quite what you think?”
“I can do without the cat-and-mouse bullshit. I figure you’ll eventually get to the point.”
“Ah, a man who likes to cut to the chase,” he retorts in a mocking tone. His voice hardens as he continues, “There are two interests to be served where you are concerned, Mr. Valenti.”
I silently wait for him to continue.
“The first is the obvious concern that someone is anxious to see your father draw his final breath as soon as possible.”
There’s a news flash, I think, but dare not say.
“The business with your father from the old country isn’t our chief concern, though.”
He looks as if he expects a response. I stay silent.
“It may surprise you to learn that we have a keen interest in the lawsuit that Windy City Sky Tours has filed against your client,” he continues. “We’re also monitoring the claim Senator Milton has filed against our friends at Windy City and AAA Avgas.”
What the hell?
“You see, Mr. Valenti, we and our friends have a mutual interest in seeing that R & B Ramp Services is found to be at fault in that unfortunate incident over Lake Michigan. If not fully at fault, then at least primarily so.”
I drop my foot to the floor and lean forward with my elbows braced on my knees to lock eyes with the intruder. His connection to AAA Avgas cements my earlier suspicion that this guy is Mafia. By all accounts, AAA Avgas is a wholly owned holding of the Luciano criminal empire. “You, whoever you are, are colluding with Windy City against my client?”
“Now, now, Mr. Valenti. Let’s be civilized about this, shall we?”
The Luciano family civilized? Right. I wave an open hand between him and me. “You find this civilized? Me and you having a nice chat in my home, which you’ve just broken into?”
His eyes flash. “You really don’t want to antagonize me, Mr. Valenti.”
Fuck that. “You’re here on behalf of the Luciano family, aren’t you? What the hell’s your name, anyway?”
The eyes flash again, this time dangerously. He ignores my question about the Luciano family. His voice takes on a harsh edge when he replies, “You can call me Joe.”
Right. “Joe,” I parrot with dripping sarcasm.
He uncrosses his strapping legs and adopts my aggressive pose so that our noses are two feet apart. I stare into his dead eyes and battle the instinct to back off… and the sudden urge to wet my pants.
“Your clients were offered an opportunity to work with Windy City on this, weren’t they?” he asks.
I don’t reply.
“So they’ve made their choice. Or perhaps you made it for them, and this is where you now find yourselves. Perhaps that should serve as a lesson to you, Mr. Valenti. Never mind little old me,” he says as he settles back into his seat. “Worry about those Windy City motherfuckers. Man, in some respects we’re choirboys in comparison. At least we have some scruples and a sense of honor in our own way—even if people like you fail to appreciate it.”
I can’t even begin to formulate a response, at least not one that won’t antagonize this prick.
“Where is your father?” he asks sharply.
“I already told you what I know.”
“If you’ll excuse the harshness of the term, Mr. Valenti, I believe you’ve just told me to go fuck myself.”
Like I’m going to confirm that. Good guess, though.
He drops all pretense of civility. “That isn’t a wise decision. Why not make it easy on yourself and just tell me where Francesco is?” When I don’t reply, he continues, “We’ll find him if we want to, Mr. Valenti. You know that. I’m here tonight to ascertain how cooperative a man you can be.”
Bullshit.
“I must say that I’m disappointed with you so far,” Joe continues. “You don’t wish to disappoint people like me, Mr. Valenti. It’s not healthy.”
The menace that has lurked just below the courteous veneer of the last few minutes is now in the open. What the hell do I do now? There’s no telling what this guy might pull next. If I were to venture a guess, I suspect it will be painful. I meet his dead gaze. Well, fuck him. They don’t have a clue where Papa is and have no idea how to go about tracking him down. If they did, “Joe” wouldn’t be here. I stare him down for a long, intensely unnerving moment before forcing a conversational tone into my voice. “Well, Joe, you obviously don’t know my father.”
A sinister smile spreads over his face. “You probably don’t want me to, Mr. Valenti.”
He’s got that right.
“Papa has always gone his own way,” I say. “The guy who raped his sister found that out the hard way, didn’t he?”
Joe frowns. “We do not approve of what was done to your aunt.”
The bastard’s sanctimonious bullshit rubs me the wrong way. I mean, these people are killers, drug peddlers, pimps, and worse. Stashing Brittany at Pat’s has never seemed more prudent. There’s more to fear in this world than the wrath of my ex-wife.
“How touching, coming from a choirboy like you,” I retort.
Joe purses his lips and gives his head a slow shake while he digests my insult. His cold eyes bore into mine. “Have it your way, Mr. Valenti. I’m afraid you’ll have to live with the responsibility for what happens next.”
Chapter Seventeen
My drinking companion the next evening is a decided improvement on Joe. For starters, I know and like Billy Likens. He called a couple of days ago to suggest bonding over a bottle. Perhaps he’s as disturbed as I have been to find us sniping at each other over all the lawsuit bullshit. With the menace of Joe’s visit fresh in my mind, I resisted Billy’s offer to host our little get-together. I don’t want to put his family—wife, Shelly; seventeen-year-old daughter, Melanie; nine-year-old son Kenny; and possibly twenty-five-year-old son Craig, if he happens to be visiting—at risk. Nor did I feel comfortable dragging Billy himself into the line of fire by having him over to our house. In an inspired moment, I suggested meeting at the Cuff & Billy Club, a cop bar within spitting distance of the Cook County Courthouse. I don’t imagine that Luciano family thugs are welcome here, and that’s whom I hope to avoid tonight. The place is a bit of a dive—think of a roadside greasy spoon, wipe a damp washcloth around here and there, and you’ve got the Cuff & Billy Club. It even smells like an overripe kitchen rag. We’re seated at a little table for two in a dimly lit back corner. The noise generated by the boisterous, well-lubricated crowd affords us plenty of privacy.
We begin the evening chatting about sports, Billy’s passion. He’s a rabid Chicago Cubs baseball fan. Mel had led him astray from the Likens family tradition of being Southside blue-collar White Sox baseball fans. In the winter he’s a Blackhawks hockey fanatic and plays recreational pickup hockey. He’s not just a sports fan, though; he’s also a relief pitcher in the thirty-plus Chicago Centr
al Baseball League, and he’s damned good. Billy turned down baseball scholarship offers so he could go to work after he knocked up Shelly with Craig when they were eighteen. He’s also into rocks; a rock hound and a rock climber when he isn’t digging them up. He’s allowed to take the kids rock hounding, but rock climbing is forbidden by Shelly—not even on the twenty-foot hill in their neighborhood park, “lest they also lose their minds and start risking their necks hanging off the sides of mountains.” He’s a fun guy to hang with.
My eyes stray to his hands while he bitches about the Hawks blowing a three-goal lead in the third period of last night’s game before losing in overtime. At Shelly’s insistence, Billy’s hands are surprisingly clean for a mechanic’s, at least when he’s not working—“don’t be touching the kids with filthy hands and leaving oil stains on their clothes!”
Billy steers our conversation to the topic we’d agreed to take a break from tonight. “That FBI stuff is eating at me, Tony. We didn’t do anything wrong.”
I relate the conversations I’ve had with Penelope and Ben Larose, complete with our conclusion that the NTSB can’t make a solid case for structural failure. “Larose doesn’t think they’ll even try. The most likely scenario is that Windy City and/or AAA Avgas is casting aspersions to try to pin the blame on you in civil court. They’re probably whispering bullshit in the investigator’s ears to get the FBI sniffing around.”
“Why?” Billy asks in exasperation.
Joe’s visit last night offered a disturbingly stark explanation of why, but it’s not something to be shared with Billy. Or is it? Doesn’t he have a right to know everything about a situation that has the potential to destroy his livelihood? I decide to park that consideration until I’ve had time to think it through. Which prompts me to realize that I need to have a discussion with Penelope about what I learned during Joe’s visit. What a mess. I tell Billy that we think something might be amiss with the paperwork about the hundred-hour inspection.
“How can that be when we’ve given the NTSB the paper trail for the work?”