As the day progressed, the sky grew dark and snow began to fall. Anna Maria busied herself cleaning up the back of the shop, making sure everything was in its place.
A few minutes past two, a buxom blond girl burst into the shop, accompanied by two unruly young men. None of them looked familiar, but Anna Maria smiled politely and asked if she could help them.
The blond’s heavily mascara’d eyes raked Anna Maria from head to toe. “So you’re the foreign tramp who tricked my Vinny into marrying you,” she sneered. “You’re not so pretty, an’ fat as a sow.”
“Excuse me?” Anna Maria ventured, sensing trouble. “My English—it is not so good.”
“I bet it’s not,” Mamie said derisively, tossing back her dyed hair.
Anna Maria turned her attention to the two young men, who were roaming around the shop acting suspiciously as they checked everything out. One of them was flicking through the magazines, bending the pages. The other one was playing with a stack of cans, almost knocking them over.
“Please. Can I help you?” she asked, emerging from behind the counter.
“Yeah, honey,” Mamie drawled. “You can gimme back the boyfriend you stole from me. Although, on second thought, I wouldn’t take the jerk back if you wrapped the dumb creep in dollar bills an’ had him delivered to my door.” She roared with laughter at her own humor. “C’mon, boys,” she said, going toward the exit. “This place stinks of wops. I gotta smell me some clean air.”
The three of them departed, leaving Anna Maria with an uneasy feeling.
Later that day, when Vinny arrived to take over, she’d forgotten about the trio. Vinny kissed and hugged her, told her she was the prettiest girl in the world, and warned her to be careful on the short walk home because the sidewalks were slippery and a storm was on the way.
“Maybe I should lock up an’ walk you home,” he suggested. “There’s nobody out anyway.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, Vinny.”
He hugged her again, nuzzling his chin against her cheek.
She loved the feel of his strong arms around her, especially when the baby was kicking in her belly and she knew that he could feel it too. Secretly she wished for a boy. Life—the way she’d experienced it—was too tough for girls.
Halfway home she remembered the flashy blond and her two lowlife companions. There was something about them she didn’t trust, especially since the girl had mentioned Vinny by name. She recalled that when she’d first started working at the shop, Lani had warned her to report anything suspicious. Well, they were definitely suspicious, and now she felt that she should have alerted Vinny.
In spite of the icy sidewalks and bitter cold, she decided to go back and tell her husband of the incident. As she turned around to retrace her steps, the baby suddenly kicked. Placing her hands on her stomach, she murmured, with a smile on her lips, “My bambino. My piccolo bambino.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance as she neared the shop. The street was dark and deserted; most people were aware of the upcoming storm and had retreated to their homes.
Standing outside, blocking the entrance to the shop, was the blond from earlier, a scarf tied around her brassy hair. She looked startled when she spotted Anna Maria.
“Excuse me, please,” Anna Maria said, attempting to squeeze past her.
“Not so fast, honey,” Mamie said.
“Please move. I wish to go inside,” Anna Maria said, frowning.
“I don’t think so,” Mamie snapped, an arrogant tilt to her pointed chin.
“Oh yes, I think so,” Anna Maria said, asserting herself. And with that she pushed past the blond and entered the shop.
The sight that greeted her caused her to gasp in horror. Vinny was trapped behind the counter with his arms in the air. One of the blond’s companions from earlier had a gun in his face, while the other man was busy ransacking the cash register.
“Bastardo!” Anna Maria screamed, fury overtaking her as every bad memory of the violence she’d experienced in her past came rushing back. “Bastardo! Bastardo!” she repeated, before throwing herself at the man with the gun, arms flailing wildly, her pretty face contorted with fury.
“No!” Vinny yelled, frantically trying to stop her. “No, sweetheart! No!”
He was too late. The man holding the gun reacted fast, pointing his weapon at her, shouting a rough, “Get off me, you crazy bitch!”
But still she attacked him, even though her heart was pounding out of control and the baby was kicking in her stomach.
Vinny jumped into the fray, more concerned with saving his wife than his own safety.
Then it happened. One gunshot. Two. Three.
And the men grabbed the money and ran.
THE NEW YORK TIMES
February 10, 1945
A baby boy was safely delivered by doctors on Saturday night after the mother of the infant, Anna Maria Castellino, was fatally shot earlier in the evening during a store robbery. Her husband, Vincenzio “Vinny” Castellino, was also shot and is currently undergoing an operation to remove a bullet lodged in his spine. The shooting took place at Lani’s, a convenience store in Queens. The police are looking for two male suspects who robbed the store and escaped on foot with a blond female accomplice.
The baby boy, born several weeks premature, weighed four pounds three ounces and is reported to be in stable condition.
And so Vincenzio Michael Castellino entered the world.
It was quite an entrance.
Dani—1948
Dashell Livingston had three wives, even though in the state of Nevada it was not exactly legal. Dashell didn’t care; he called himself a hovering Mormon and boasted to whoever would listen that it was a man’s right to have as many wives as he chose. Dashell had fathered seven children—all girls, which didn’t bother him because he reasoned that girls would take care of him in his old age. Girls were useful—they would never run off and desert him.
Dashell, a big man in his late fifties, with a weatherworn face and a mane of white hair cascading down to his shoulders, was a degenerate gambler. In between raising horses on his run-down ranch several miles outside of Las Vegas, he would make occasional forays to the Vegas Strip and score enough money to support himself and his ever-growing family for the next few months. While there, he would visit the local whorehouse and avail himself of a girl or two. Dashell had a voracious sexual appetite.
Dashell’s number one wife was Olive. Almost forty, she was the mother of four of his children and quite the controller. If Dashell wasn’t giving orders, she was.
Wife number two was Mona, a small, slight woman with a permanently frightened expression. Mona had produced three children for her big bear of a husband.
And lastly there was Olive’s cousin Lucy, who at twenty-one was the youngest of the three women, and also the prettiest, with long, corn-colored hair and bright blue eyes. Lucy had come to live on the ranch after a bad marriage to a man who abused her verbally and beat her on a daily basis. By the time she arrived, she was fragile and exhausted.
Dashell and his two wives had offered comfort and a place to stay, and although she had not found Dashell physically attractive, she soon realized that with him she’d at least be safe.
Shortly after becoming wife number three, Lucy found herself pregnant with her first child. Regrettably, because once she discovered her condition, everyone’s attitude immediately changed. Dashell became cold and distant; Olive, bossy and demanding, forcing her to do more than her share of the household chores. And Mona—who had never welcomed her into the family—chose to ignore her.
Lucy soon realized that joining Dashell’s extended family might have been a big mistake.
But once in, there was no out. She had no money and no means of leaving the ranch, which was located in the middle of nowhere. And she was pregnant.
Dashell, Lucy soon discovered, did not believe in doctors.
“Greedy bastards. All they’re after is a man’s money,” he complained in his gruff voice. “Round here we take care of our own.”
Lucy could not believe he had no intention of taking her to see a doctor, even though she begged him to do so.
“No!” he said sternly. “An’ stop naggin’ me, woman.”
Lucy attempted to elicit help from Dashell’s two other wives.
“What makes you any different from us?” Olive demanded, an unsympathetic curl to her thin lips.
“I . . . I just thought—”
“Well, don’t think,” Olive snapped, while Mona looked on. “You’ll be fine. Dashell takes care of delivering our babies around here. He’s done it seven times
already.”
When Lucy finally went into labor, it was in the middle of the night. With no nurses or a doctor to guide her through the pregnancy, she had no idea what to expect when her water broke.
The lack of knowledge threw her into a panic. And when her contractions started, she began wailing aloud in pain, waking Mona, who slept in the same room along with Emily, her youngest child.
Mona sat up in bed. “Be quiet!” she commanded. “Stop that horrible noise. You’ll wake the dead.”
“I . . . I think my baby’s coming,” Lucy stammered, frightened and confused.
“You can’t have it now,” Mona said, as if her very words would stop the baby from entering the world. “Dashell’s gone into town. He won’t be back till morning.”
“Then you must get me to a doctor,” Lucy gasped, as another contraction swept over her with an intensity the like of which she’d never felt before.
She screamed, feeling as if her whole body was being torn apart.
“Can’t,” Mona said flatly. “Dashell took the truck.”
Olive came bustling into the room, tying her bathrobe, a grim expression on her plain face. “Bite on this,” she said matter-of-factly, thrusting one of Dashell’s leather belts at her young cousin. “And for the love of God stay quiet, you’re frightening the children.”
“Please . . . ,” Lucy whispered, unbearable pain sweeping over her. “You . . . you have to get me to a doctor.”
“You’ll be fine,” Olive said, stripping off the bedcovers while Mona shepherded little Emily from the room. “You’re not the first woman to have a baby.”
“Please!” Lucy begged. “I . . . need . . . a doctor!”
“Open your legs an’ push,” Olive said sternly. “And stop making such a god-awful fuss.”
Baby Dani was born twenty-five minutes later.
Her mother bled to death.
Michael—1960
How old are you?” the girl asked.
She was nineteen, Michael knew that for a fact. Nineteen, with big breasts, teased black hair, and the faint shadow of a mustache. Her name was Polly, and she lived a few blocks away. He’d made it his business to find out everything he could about her because he thought she was the sexiest woman he’d ever seen.
“Eighteen,” he lied. Actually he was fifteen, but he looked much older and was confident that he could get away with the lie.
“Yeah?” she said, not quite convinced.
“Yeah,” he confirmed, blinking rapidly—long, thick eyelashes curling over deep green eyes.
“Hmm . . . ,” Polly said, checking him out with an appraising stare. He might not be eighteen, but he was certainly the best-looking hunk of flesh she’d ever encountered. Her sometime boyfriend, Cyril, didn’t come close.
“So you’re really eighteen, then?” she said, convincing herself.
“Sure,” he answered confidently, adding a cocky “Why? You think I look older?”
They were standing on the street corner outside her girlfriend Sandi’s apartment. Sandi had thrown herself a birthday party. Michael had heard about it and promptly crashed. Nobody had questioned his presence, so after a while he’d started making a move toward Polly. When she left the party he was right behind her.
The sound of Elvis Presley singing “Are You Lonesome Tonight” came drifting down from Sandi’s apartment—maybe it was a sign.
“So . . . ,” he ventured. “Wanna get an ice cream?”
“Ice cream!” she snorted derisively, turning up her nose. “You’re not eighteen.”
Actions spoke louder than words. Grabbing her by the arm, he pinned her up against the side of the building and began kissing her—shoving his tongue down her throat.
She started to push him off.
He wasn’t giving up so easily. Working on instinct, he quickly went for her big breasts, fingering her nipples the way he’d seen some ugly guy do it in a porno movie he’d watched with a bunch of his pals.
Bingo! She stopped struggling and gave a little moan.
He felt an erection grow in his pants, and prayed to God that tonight he’d have somewhere to put it. Somewhere, anywhere—he was tired of his hand, and Grandma Lani lurking outside the bathroom door, yelling, “What’re you doin’ in there? It better not be anythin’ dirty or I’ll smack you silly.”
He pressed his body against Polly’s, making sure she could feel his excitement. At the same time he kept up the hand action on her big breasts while wondering if he should maneuver his other hand under her sweater, or was it too soon?
By this time she was kissing him back with a great deal of wet tongue and plenty of enthusiasm. This was a good sign.
Deciding he had nothing to lose, he slid his hand under her sweater, pushed her bra up, and grabbed a handful of soft, warm flesh.
“Cut it out!” she giggled, surfacing for air. “We’re on the street, anybody can see.”
“No they can’t.”
“Yes they can.”
“Let’s go somewhere else,” he gulped, hoping he wasn’t about to come in his underwear.
“Like where, Mr. Smarty Pants?” she asked, pulling her sweater down and recovering her composure.
“How about a hotel?” he suggested.
“What kind of a girl do you think I am?” she said indignantly.
A girl I’m gonna fuck, he thought, or die trying.
She threw him another look. He was so damn handsome. And hot. And big where it mattered. All the things that Cyril was not.
“You got money for a hotel?” she asked. “ ’Cause I live with my parents, which means we can’t go there.”
“I got money,” he boasted, trying to control his excitement at what might lie ahead.
“Then what’re we waiting for?” she asked, slipping her arm through his.
Holy cow! He was finally about to get laid. He couldn’t believe it. The furthest he’d gotten before was with a girl at school, Tina, and although Tina was pretty and popular, she was not into experimenting. The most he’d ever gotten out of her was a few French kisses and a quick feel of her breasts—which were no way as large as Polly’s, and always fully covered.
“Sex is for marriage,” Tina had often told him, her pretty face deadly serious. “We have to wait.”
Like he was ready for marriage. No way. Besides, he was fed up with waiting. He knew what he wanted, and if he didn’t get it soon he’d go crazy.
He was fifteen. He was a man. He needed sex.
One day he’d attempted to raise the subject of sex with his dad, who unfortunately was confined to a wheelchair. Vinny had stared at him for a few silent minutes before shaking his head in a gloomy way. “Stay away from falling in love,” he’d warned. “It only leads to heartbreak.”
Michael knew that his dad was bitter, although it was hard to ignore that Vinny never had a good word to say about anyone or anything. He sat in his wheelchair, either at home or in the store, and rarely spoke. If he wasn’t at the shop, he was stuck in front of the TV, his favorite place.
What kind of a life is that? Michael thought. Certainly not the kind of life he wanted.
He’d never known Anna Maria, his mother, although he certainly knew what she’d looked like. There was a big picture of her in the cente
r of the mantelpiece, surrounded by candles. Every Sunday at six o’clock his dad lit the candles and said a prayer.
Lani had explained to him that some bad men had shot his mom and that he’d been born a short time after she died. When he’d first heard the story it hadn’t meant much to him, but as he grew older he started thinking about it more and more. Instead of having loving parents like Tina, he was stuck with a grandmother who barely had time for anything except work and a dad who was trapped in a wheelchair. It made him think about his mom, imagining how different things might have been if she’d lived.
It had been occurring to him more and more lately that he wanted to know how the crime had happened, so one day he’d taken himself to the police station and asked if they could look up the case and give him some more information.
The detective in charge was a jovial fellow who knew Lani, so he’d obliged and retrieved the file. “Not much to tell, except that they never caught the perpetrators,” he’d said. “Sorry, son.”
“Did anyone find out who they were?” Michael had asked.
“Nope.” The detective had shaken his head. “ ’Fraid the case is closed.”
It seemed strange to him that in a neighborhood where everyone knew everyone else’s business, nobody had any clue who’d shot his mother, crippled his father, and robbed the store.
Polly clung to his arm as they walked along the street. She smelled sort of flowery. He wondered what she’d smell like when he got her clothes off.
He had a plan; it wasn’t as if he’d pulled the idea of a hotel out of the air. His best friend, Max, had a night job working as an assistant porter at a small fleabag hotel. Max often boasted that if he ever needed a room, it could be arranged.
Okay, Michael thought. Let’s see if he’s full of crap.
The hotel was dark and dismal looking, the pungent aroma of cooked cabbage lingering in the air. Holding tightly on to Polly, Michael marched up to the small reception desk, where a bespectacled old man sat behind the scratched desk leafing through a well-thumbed girlie magazine.
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