Second Love

by Gould, Judith

  Dear Lord, she thought weakly, this isn't a man; this is an honest-to- goodness, living and breathing sex machine!

  And she knew something else now, too. She wanted him. God, did she ever! She wanted him so badly she could taste him!

  When he came back, he was carrying a drink in each hand, one clear and one golden.

  'Gordon's. Best this joint's got,' he said. He brushed his arm deliberately against her breast as he set the clear drink in front of her.

  Quickly she looked up at him. There was something about his rough- edged, no-nonsense come-on, and subdued air of menace that she found exceedingly sexy.

  And all the while he stood there staring down at her she felt her body temperature growing warmer and warmer.

  After a moment, he sauntered to the other side of the table, swung the wobbly chair around so he could lean forward across its back, and swung a leg over the seat as though it were a saddle.

  He held his glass aloft. 'Here's to beauty,' he said.

  She picked up her vodka and raised it. 'Cheers.' She threw back her head and gulped a third of it.

  After the previous glass, it slid down smooth as velvet. She smiled. 'Major improvement over the house brand.'

  He grinned. 'What wouldn't be?'

  She felt his eyes zero in on her cleavage. Suddenly she no longer felt the least bit awkward, guilty, or repressed. That last slug of Gordon's had done it. Now she was glad she hadn't worn a blouse under her suit. Real glad.

  She thought: Take that, Mother Winslow, and blow it out your ass!

  'Y'know, the view from over here's miiiiighty nice,' he said appreciatively.

  Gloria liked his directness. Here was one guy who didn't waste time beating around the bush.

  Slowly he raised his eyes and met hers. 'Christos Zzzyanopoulos,' he said.

  'Say again?'

  'Christos Zzzyonopoulos. That's my name. Zzzyanopoulos. With three Zs.'

  She burst out laughing. 'You've got to be pulling my leg!'

  'Hey, I'm serious. If I were in the phone book? Mine'd be the last listing in the white pages.'

  She curled the fingers of both hands around her glass. It was glazed and warm and begging to be drunk.

  'Do you have a name?' he asked.

  'Everyone's got a name,' she murmured.

  Then, lifting the glass with both hands, she emptied it in one king- size swallow, and set it back down. She let out a deep, contented sigh.

  He was still staring at her.

  'Glo,' she said.

  He tipped his head sideways.

  'I said,' she repeated, 'Glo. It's short for Gloria.'

  'I hear ya.'

  'That's my name. It's for real, too.' She couldn't take her eyes off him. 'Just like your Zs.'

  He leaned across the table, his hands reaching for hers.

  His touch was like fire—a flamethrower reaching deep inside her.

  'Tell me something, Glo,' he said softly. 'You believe in love at first sight?'

  'Sure,' she laughed derisively. 'Along with Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny!'

  His cobalt gaze was locked onto hers. 'Bet you believe in lust at first sight, though.'

  This time she didn't reply.

  'Tell you what, Glo,' he suggested quietly. 'What do you say we blow this joint, buy us a bottle of something decent, and go someplace?'

  'Go someplace?' she repeated.

  'Yeah. You know.' His callused fingers stroked her hands gently. 'To make love.'

  She drew a deep breath. 'I-I have to be getting back home soon,' she stuttered weakly.

  'So?' He grinned again. 'I'm sure you can squeeze me in.' He gave her his most appealing look. 'It's what you want to do, Glo. Isn't it?'

  She made a flustered gesture. 'This is all so . . . so sudden!'

  'Aren't all the best things in life?'

  She stared at him.

  He stared at her.

  Testosterone and estrogen ricocheted between them.

  'I-I'd better have another drink first,' she said huskily.

  'And after?' he asked.

  Her voice was a whisper. 'We'll get us a bottle of something decent and go someplace.'

  'Awright!' He lost no time getting to his feet. 'Another round comin' right up!'

  'One thing first, though.' She wiggled a finger, signaling him to come closer.

  'Yeah?'

  'Kissy,' she demanded, raising her face and puckering warm, inviting lips.

  Always happy to accommodate a lady, he leaned down and chivalrously gave it his all.

  15

  Midblock on Mulberry Street.

  Sonny Fong brought his black Lexus to a screeching halt, and with a blithe disregard for traffic laws, backed it directly next to the hydrant in front of Mama Rosa's.

  Climbing out unhurriedly, he cased the neighborhood while brushing his lapels with his fingers—a John Gotti touch. Then, playing to the kids on the sidewalk, he leaned into the side mirror, smoothed his hair, and grinned at his reflection.

  He was Mr. Cool. Looked sharp and knew it.

  No Hong Kong tailoring for him. No, sir. Armani all the way: suit, black T-shirt, tinted shades. Plus Gucci loafers in black crocodile and a big gold Rolex.

  Hey—if you've got it, flaunt it. And if you haven't, move over.

  Sonny Fong was in the fast lane. Zooming to 'Big Time' at turbo- charged speed.

  He was slim as a blade and moved with the grace of a kick boxer. Raven hair snipped by a scissored Rodin, cold almond-shaped eyes, and the wiry, muscle-packed body of Bruce Lee. He was twenty-three years old and pissed ice-cold ambition.

  Once on the sidewalk, he aimed his remote at the car. Locked it and set the alarm with the punch of a button. Then, scanning the kids, he selected the oldest and gestured him over.

  'Yeah, mister?' Dark streetwise eyes stared up suspiciously.

  In reply, Sonny fished out a twenty-dollar bill, tore it in half, and held out one of the pieces.

  The urchin made a grab for it, but Sonny wasn't ready to relinquish it quite yet.

  'You watch my wheels, you get the other half once I leave. If they ticket me, forget it. If they try to tow, I'll be in there.' He pointed with his forehead in the direction of Mama Rosa's. 'Got that?'

  'Sure, mister.'

  Sonny still didn't let go of the kid's half of the twenty.

  'Anybody thinks of fuckin' with that car, they're dead meat. You read me?'

  The kid grinned. 'Loud 'n' clear!'

  Sonny loosened his grip on the money and pinched the kid's cheek. 'You'll go far, kid,' he said.

  And whistling confidently, he jauntily approached the five-story tenement, pausing under the canopy that angled sharply down to the garden level in order to peruse the mounted chalkboard:

  TODAY'S SPECIALS

  24 oz. USDA prime shell steak w/baked potato & green salad - $$12.95

  Tonno in padella—tuna & fennel seeds w/garlic-sautéed escarole - $7.95

  Pesce spada alia siciliana—stuffed swordfish Sicilian style w/asparagus - $7.95

  Salsiccia alia siciliana—homemade Sicilian sausage w/spicy vegetables & sliced tomatoes w/ basil - $6,95

  Calamari fritti—fried squid w/ stuffed artichoke - $6.95

  Sonny couldn't believe his eyes. For Manhattan, the prices were cheap—ridiculously cheap. Hell, twenty-four ounces of USDA prime cost more than this place was charging for an entire meal!

  Guess it all fell off a truck, he thought, with a knowing smirk. Mama Rosa's obviously well connected.

  Which didn't exactly come as a surprise. After all, this was Little Italy. A world within a world. Much like Chinatown, the way it was shut to outsiders, its secretive workings shrouded by layer upon layer of mystery.

  And with those thoughts, he descended the eight steep steps, pulled on the oaken door, and entered the ristorante.

  After the cacophonous madness of rush-hour Manhattan, the transition into this hushed, cave like serenity seemed positive
ly eerie, and Sonny stopped to remove his shades. He did an immediate double take.

  'Whoa,' he exclaimed under his breath, staring about in amazement.

  Before him stretched a warren of cozy, low-ceilinged rooms interconnected by open brick arches. Mahogany booths, upholstered in scarlet velvet luxury, lined the right wall; an old, carved mahogany bar reposed splendidly along the left. And everywhere, a sea of tables dressed in crisp white linens stood at the ready, surrounded by lacquered black chairs with upholstered seats.

  As though attending to dining ghosts, waiters in red jackets were circulating, realigning a chair here and straightening a fork there, while busboys in white shirts were making the rounds, silently lighting each table's candle, which was sheltered inside a net-covered red jar.

  But that hadn't drawn Sonny's attention. What had were the paintings.

  There were hundreds of them, in all sizes and shapes—squares, rectangles, ovals, octagons, circles; some elaborately gilt framed, others un- framed—and they covered every available bit of wall surface like strange murals of murky, grisly splendor.

  Without fail, they represented religious subjects.

  There were pietas and entombments galore; grotesque Saint Jeromes with skulls, gory crucifixions, about-to-be-sacrificed Isaacs, bleeding martyrs in torment, countless saints enduring gruesome tortures, emaciated Christs with bloody wounds, various descents from the Cross, slaughters of the Innocents, and more decapitations than you could shake a knife at—Salomes with heads of John the Baptist, Davids with heads of Goliath, Judiths with heads of Holoferneses—the majority of which rested, appropriately enough, since this was a restaurant, on a variety of platters.

  Sonny had never seen any place like this.

  Bon appétit, he thought sardonically, wondering who would want to eat surrounded by all these gruesome depictions.

  'Yes?' a voice inquired coldly.

  Sonny turned around. An arthritic, white-haired waiter with startling, bristly black eyebrows had approached, and was staring at him with open hostility.

  Sonny wasn't fazed. As an Asian-American—Chinese father, Chinese mother, but Chinatown-born and thus a U.S. citizen—he'd encountered attitude and prejudice from day one. No matter. Between school and the streets he'd proven himself capable in any situation. It took a lot more than one old geezer to scare him off.

  'Tell me something,' Sonny said. 'People really eat here? Surrounded by all this shit?' He indicated the walls with a thrust of his chin.

  The hostility grew, then the waiter snapped. 'We don't open until six, and require reservations. Now if you'll please—'

  'Step aside, Gramps.' With the flat of his hand, Sonny gently but firmly pushed the old man out of his way. Then, sauntering casually along the bar, he stopped, clasped his hands in the small of his back, and rocked back and forth on his heels as he gazed around some more.

  He shook his head with incredulity. Grisly. Truly an awesomely gruesome spectacle.

  The waiter had limped after him. 'I must ask you to leave.' His voice was high-pitched with affront.

  Sonny was aware of all activity in the room having ceased. He could feel menacing stares emanating from the busboys and other waiters. Obviously, they took care of their own.

  Unconcerned, he stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. 'I'm here on business,' he said calmly. 'Now, why don't you go tell Mama Rosa she's got a visitor?'

  'It's almost dinnertime. She's very busy.'

  'So? Tell her anyway.'

  Slitted rheumy eyes regarded him with suspicion. 'She expecting you?'

  Sonny cracked an insolent grin. 'Maybe she is, and maybe she isn't.'

  The old man clicked his dentures in worried indecision and stared at him some more. It took a few moments, but his face finally wrestled itself into submission. With a reedy sigh, he said, 'Wait here.'

  Leaving Sonny, he hobbled arthritically to the back of the dining room. After what seemed an eternity, female voices and the clanging of pots and pans rose and fell as a door was opened and shut.

  The waiters and busboys continued about their business, but kept a wary eye peeled. Sonny ignored them and paced slowly, peering at another batch of paintings.

  More of the same.

  He shook his head and clucked his tongue softly. If I told anyone about this place, they wouldn't believe me.

  Eventually, the waiter returned and cleared his throat. 'Mama Rosa will see you,' he said, 'but you'll have to go to her. She can't come out.'

  'Just lead the way.'

  Sonny followed him from one arched room into another before the old man gestured at a swinging door. It had a round glass porthole set into it, and through it filtered the sounds of cooking, rapid-fire gossip, and laughter.

  Sonny marched directly to the door, pushed his way through, and entered the kitchen. The blast of heat hit him like a solid wall.

  Recoiling, he looked around, his spiffy threads out of place in this steamy, stifling atmosphere of bubbling pots, sizzling pans, and shrill jabber. It was all the noisy ventilation fans could do to keep up, and he found himself raising his voice to make himself heard. 'Which of you ladies is Mama Rosa?'

  The voices instantly fell silent as the dozen or so women turned to appraise the stranger.

  At a big marble work surface, a huge, red-faced woman stopped cutting out sheets of stuffed dough. Putting down her ravioli cutter, she clapped flour off her pudgy hands and rubbed them on her apron. She used her wrist to wipe aside strands of graying black hair that had sprung loose from her bun and hung down into her face.

  Then she slowly waddled forward. She was wearing a washed-out blue housedress, the bottom half of her apron—the top was folded over and hung down over it—and baby blue vinyl slippers.

  She stopped in front of Sonny, hands resting on ample hips. He could see beads of sweat glistening on her forehead and moist upper lip, where a large brown mole and the shadow of a mustache were all too evident.

  'Who wants to know?' she demanded harshly, beady black eyes drilling right through him.

  Sonny stared right back at her. 'I do.'

  'Well, you're talking to her.' She drew herself up with dignity. 'I,' she said proudly, thrusting out her massive double-prowed bosom, 'am Mama Rosa. Now, what do you want?'

  He lowered his voice. 'I've got to get in touch with Carmine,' he said softy.

  The big woman's face closed. If the name registered, she wasn't letting on.

  'Carmine?' she repeated, with a theatrical frown. Then, one eye squinting shrewdly: 'Which Carmine? Down here, everybody and his brother is named either Anthony or Carmine.'

  Sonny held her gaze. 'I'm looking for the Carmine who's also known as the Sicilian.'

  Pendulous breasts jiggled as Mama Rosa heaved rich, deep peals of laughter. 'Take a look around you.' A wave of a fat hand encompassed the entire kitchen and the women who were watching. 'Everyone you see in here's a Siciliana.'

  He frowned slightly. 'You mean . . . they're all Italian. Right?'

  'Wrong! We are not Italian!' she spat, her eyes narrowing in magnificent fury. 'The Neapolitans, the Venetians, the Romans, the Milanese'—she gestured deprecatingly—'bah! They are nothing!' Then her voice took on a note of pride. 'We are Sicilianos. And we only socialize with other Sicilianos, so the only Carmines we know are Sicilianos, too. Not Milanese or Neopolitans. Sicilianos! Capite?'

  He nodded slowly. 'Yeah, I do see. It's like us. People think we're Chinese, but we're not. I am Chiuchow, since my parents came from Swatow. That makes us neither Chinese nor Mandarin nor Cantonese nor Szechwan. We're Chiuchow. It is a matter of ethnic pride.'

  She nodded approvingly. 'Good.' She patted his arm warmly. 'Then you understand.'

  'The Carmine I have to find,' he confided very quietly, 'is said to be your son.'

  'My Carmine?' Her eyes widened and she raised both plump arms. 'In nome di Dio!' She squinted suspiciously at him. 'What would you want with my Carmine? Eh?'

  'I . . .' Sonny look
ed around furtively. 'I've come to offer him a job,' he whispered.

  Mama Rosa turned around. 'Giovinettas!' she called out loudly to the other women. 'You have to hear this! He says he has a job—for my Carmine!'

  The women burst into high-spirited gales of laughter.

  Sonny Fong flushed, and was momentarily flummoxed. Here I am trying to be discreet, and meanwhile she's all but shouting from the rooftops. Shit! This is one crazy mama!

  'What's so funny?' he wanted to know.

  Mama Rosa let out another bray and slapped her thigh. 'Madonna! Hey—giovinettas! Now he wants to know why you're laughing!' She joined in the hilarity. 'Maybe one of you should tell him, eh? Maybe that way, it won't sound so much like a mama's boasting.'

  'Carmine's already got a job,' one of the women chortled.

  'And I bet it's a better job than any you can offer!' added a young one, with a saucy flounce. 'You should see the way Carmine takes care of his poor mama!'

  'Such a good boy,' spoke up a third, her voice wistful. 'All our sons should be like her Carmine!'

  Mama Rosa sniffled and wiped a tearing eye and beamed. 'You see?' she told Sonny. 'You're wasting your time. Carmine doesn't need any job.'

  'Look, it's important.' Sonny dropped his voice for emphasis. 'Real important.' He paused, and asked: 'Does the name Jimmy Vilinsky mean anything to you?'

  Mama Rosa frowned. 'Jimmy . . . who?'

  'Vilinsky.'

  She screwed up her face and looked thoughtful. Finally she shook her head. 'Nope. The name doesn't ring a bell.' She glanced over at the white marble work surface. 'Look, I got to get back to my minni di Sant'- Agatha.'

  'Just give me a minute to explain!' Sonny pleaded. 'Please?'

  She shrugged. 'So explain. But you better do it while I work.'

  He followed her to the worktable and stood back as she yanked open an oven door. Using her apron as a potholder, she expertly slid out one cookie sheet after another, slipping each into a big stainless steel baking rack to cool. Then she slammed the oven door shut, and with a sigh turned back to the dough awaiting her.