Mafia Girl

by Deborah Blumenthal

  “Uh…not yet,” I say, filling in the a, e, and o in Michael Cross’s name with my hottest pink marker.

  Clive doesn’t know about Michael and what happened, so I tell him.

  “Oh my God, Gia,” he says. “Did they drop the charges?”

  “Super Mario is on it. But my bigger problem is the cop.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s my latest and greatest crush.”

  “Do you know what I think, Gia? I think you should forget him.”

  “You sound like Ro.”

  “Well, she’s right. It won’t end well. I mean a—”

  “I’m not worrying about how it will end, Clive, I’m worrying about how and when it will begin because I can’t even find him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  I hear keys clicking and he’s spelling out M-i-c-h-a-e-l C-r-o-s-s. “I don’t believe I’m doing this,” he sighs, “but I’m doing it. I am. I’m hacking into my dad’s system…terrific…so give me five minutes and we’ll see.”

  I end the call and begin pacing my room. How can Clive find him? Does his dad have some spy network he plugs into? Connections with the police? All I know is if anyone can figure it out…

  I jump when the phone rings.

  “Gia,” he says. “This is your lucky day. Your guy is a rookie cop who works out of a precinct in Washington Heights, and FYI his dad was a cop too. There’s more stuff, only there’s this security block and I have to find a way to get the password…and I will…eventually. But anyway, Michael Sean Cross lives two blocks from the precinct and I checked Google Earth and there’s a bar called Uptown Lounge half a block away that’s described as a hangout for off-duty cops. So it’s not a stretch to imagine him hanging out there because—”

  “How did you do that? ”

  “My dad has this resource.”

  “Resource?”

  “Sometimes he needs information fast,” he says, which doesn’t explain anything.

  “I owe you. Anything. Tell me…a Fendi weekender?”

  “Just the slogan,” Clive says. “And it has to be good. We have to blow them out of the water. I can’t face being on the losing ticket.”

  “It will be, I swear.”

  “Off to Clive’s,” I tell my mom. “School stuff.”

  “What? At this hour?”

  “I’ll be back soon. We can’t do this on the phone.”

  “Why not?”

  “Maaa, it’s math. Do you want me to fail? It’s complicated.”

  “Frankie will drive you,” she says

  “Clive’s driver is on his way. Don’t worry.”

  My dad is out and my mom buys it because even though I’m grounded, this is schoolwork. I hail a cab a block from my street. It’s raining lightly and the pavement glistens under all the red and green traffic lights giving the world a fresh Christmassy glow. And yes, okay, this feels right and special and positive and maybe there is some kind of magic in the air and this will work out because it’s preordained, if you believe things like that. And when I’m feeling out-there and directionless, which is most of the time although I try not to admit it, I do start to think there has to be a bigger plan that I can’t exactly see, because how else can you explain the way things work?

  Anyway, even if it’s all a crapshoot, I guess I’ll survive. I check my watch because I don’t have much time for fairy-tale magic, especially on a school night when I could definitely get caught by my dad who sometimes has me tailed, and that makes me nervous and I don’t want to be, and shit, if I at least had a beer.

  And then there’s the bar. A grunge bar? Who would be there? Old guys? Ex cops? Off-duty cops? Drug dealers? Junkies? Would the assholes hit on me? Would the bartender see my fake ID and toss my sorry ass onto the street or worse call the cops, which would be a laugh, then again, crap, Super Mario has enough on his plate and he does not need more from me. Washington Heights isn’t exactly Park Avenue and, Gia, I remind myself, you are a candidate for school president and you don’t need something else for them to throw at you because half the kids are already convinced that you’re a lowlife.

  Then for some reason the idea of once again being driven back to that derelict precinct—like hello, instant replay, rewind, do over—cracks me up, and if you are out by yourself laughing so hard you’re in pain, you definitely look like a psycho.

  “What’s so funny?” asks the cab driver.

  “Inside joke.”

  “Inside joke, what’s ‘inside joke?’” he says with an accent from someplace not on my got-to-go-to itinerary.

  “Uh…well…” Then my phone rings.

  “Where are you?” Ro asks.

  “Going up to the bar to meet Officer Hottie,” I say, laughing harder at that than the fact that I’m running for president.

  “Gia, what are you on?”

  I look out the window. “Dyckman Street.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “We’re here, lady,” the driver says.

  “Gotta go, Ro.”

  “Be careful,” she whispers.

  “What do you think I’m going to do?” I hang up before she can answer and use the backseat as a dressing room, peeling off my flannel shirt, spraying it with cologne because it stinks, and stuffing it in my bag, and then changing into heels while the driver is repeating, “What’s inside joke? What’s inside joke?”

  “Something funny…to only you and your friends…like my sorry life.”

  I slam the door, inhale, and stare at the sky. It’s dark and hazy and I can’t find even one teensy star to wish upon and this is all so…out of the box.

  Then it hits me. I have my campaign slogan.

  SEVEN

  Mick Jagger is singing as I walk in. I can’t get no…no no no…no SAT-IS-FAC-TION, which makes me think that maybe God has my direct line after all. I hold up my head and push past the crowd along the bar.

  “Hey, hot mama!” A thick arm snakes out and grabs me around the waist. I slide out of it and keep going. The place is jammed. Heads turn as I walk, but I pretend not to notice as I search and search for him, but he is not here, at least not yet. I check my watch. Ten. Is he off work yet? Maybe cops hang out at bars when their shifts are over, but what the hell hours are the shifts and why didn’t I think of that before?

  I’m probably wasting my time. No, I am wasting my time. I make my way up to the bar and order a beer. “ID,” the bartender says, all flirty-eyed. I smile and hand it to him.

  “Looks good to me,” he says. It should—it cost enough from that sleazo East Village forger from the Balkans. I find a back corner of the bar and stand there nursing the piss-awful beer as I glance at my watch for the tenth time like an obsessive compulsive. Not much time left because the stupid taxi got stuck in horrendous traffic because of construction and an accident that involved a pimp from New Jersey duded up in a white suit with a cowboy hat who planted himself on the hood of his white stretch Hummer so people passing by all slowed down and were like, whoa, w-h-a-t? Bottom line, it took almost an hour to get to this dump, never mind the fare. So, Officer Hottie, if you’re coming, you better get here soon because my mom will start calling and I don’t want to answer from a bar with blasting music because, hello, that does not exactly sound like I’m in Clive’s apartment sweating over math. And if my parents find out, I’ll be shackled and homeschooled.

  “Refill?”

  The guy is older than my dad, seriously. I shake my head and manage a weak smile, then glance at my watch. Officer Hottie now has five more minutes. If he doesn’t show, I’m out of this pit.

  Now that I rethink this, I realize what a stupid idea it was. What was I thinking? Then I start going over the trouble I went through to get here, based on nothing more than Clive’s guess that he hangs out here because he lives nearby. As I take a sip of my beer, I feel a hand on my ass and turn quickly.

  “Do you mind?” I slap away the arm but his BO smell lingers and he laughs and shrugs and I look
at my watch for the twentieth time and start the final countdown. The place is a total dump and I am out of here because this was about the uncoolest thing I have ever done.

  I walk toward the door saying, “excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, excuse me” a hundred million times but the music is loud and suddenly everyone seems drunk and deaf and pissed and oblivious. And then I’m thinking about how it probably won’t be easy to find a cab going back and why didn’t I think of that before and what if my dad finds out? And then because I’m so obsessed, not to mention making my last ditch effort to case the place for Officer Hottie, I don’t watch where I’m going, so the tip of my shoe catches on the leg of a bar stool that’s sticking way the hell out, and I lose my balance and careen to the side. And then—wham—crash into someone going by. An arm suddenly reaches out and braces me, or I would have been sprawled on the floor.

  “God,” I yell out, trying to balance myself. I spin around all spastic, and I am staring into a face that stares straight back at me and doesn’t respond, at least at first. It dawns on both of us at the very same nanosecond, and my heart starts thrumming and drumming and omigod, he looks so, so, so, so help me FABULOUS.

  “Gia,” he says, the muscles in his jaw pulsing.

  “Michael,” I say, steadying myself by reaching out and grabbing his shoulder, pinning our bodies together.

  He looks so different out of the blue cop uniform. More real, more present, more blood and guts sexual and alive and strong and gettable and electrifying—if that is possible. Jeans, black running shoes, a black fitted T-shirt that hugs his strong shoulders and tight chest, never mind the tattoo below the sleeve peeking out like a tease on the swell of his bicep, begging to be touched.

  I am aware of the heat of his fingers and the pressure of his grip on my upper arm that remains for a few seconds more than it has to. I let go of his shoulder reluctantly and step back.

  “What are you doing here?” I straighten up and pretend to breathe.

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “Just slumming, you know.”

  “You’re not old enough to be in a bar,” he says, his jaw tensing.

  “The Dairy Queen was closed.”

  “Get out of here or I’ll take you in for underage drinking.”

  “Is that your idea of fun, Michael?”

  He looks at me and doesn’t answer.

  “I forgot, you’re the strong, silent type…anyway…I was just going. Want to walk me?”

  “What are you doing up here?” he asks again. “Buying?”

  “I’m not a goddamn junkie, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Then what?”

  “I came looking…for you.”

  He looks at me in disbelief. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Why?”

  “Stop it, Michael.”

  “Go home,” he says dismissively.

  “Will you call me?”

  He closes his eyes and shakes his head.

  “Well at least walk me to the door.” I go outside and he follows.

  “So what,” I say, glancing at him over my shoulder, “you don’t like Italians?”

  He looks at me with a steady stare and doesn’t answer.

  “Or maybe you don’t like girls.”

  A half smile. “Right.”

  “At least you can kiss me good night then,” and before he can answer my lips are on his, and for maybe one or two real seconds, he stands there immobile and doesn’t kiss back but doesn’t resist either. But not only that, his mouth starts to open like his body is willing even if his cop brain isn’t, but a moment later he eases back and pushes me away.

  “I can’t do this,” he says in a husky voice.

  I step back, waiting, not knowing what to do. Score another point for Gia making a complete fool of herself. Not that this is the first time. Run, stupid. GO! my brain says. Only I can’t.

  So he makes the decision and turns his back on me and heads for the street with one arm up to hail a cab. I didn’t have to worry because when you don’t want one, the cabs drop from the sky. It stops with a gut-wrenching screech, which kind of kills the mood.

  “Go home,” he says, turning back to me.

  I pull out a Chanel lipstick called Attitude then grab his arm.

  “What the—” he says then falls silent watching me scrawl my cell in giant numbers from his wrist to his elbow.

  He shakes his head in disbelief.

  “Call me,” I say, getting into the cab.

  “You’re crazy.”

  The cab speeds downtown and I stare out the window.

  Crazy, the operative word in our family. My dad is crazy—pazzo—too, so it’s in the genes.

  Only his is a different crazy. It’s a there’s-so-much-shit-going-down crazy and I-have-to-keep-it-together-to-handle-it crazy, so he does things like turn on the water to make coffee and then walk off and leave it running. Or go to his closet and take out one tie after another because he’s suddenly blind as to what goes with what, even though his ginormous closet is set up by his tailor every season with each suit next to the shirts and ties that go with it. Then he’ll sit on the edge of the bed, lost, until my mom walks in.

  “Gio,” she’ll say softly. Then she’ll pick out the tie that matches the shirt and knot it around his neck and then kiss him on the forehead like his guardian angel. I’ve seen that happen.

  I get nervous when he gets like that. It tells me that something is about to go down even though I don’t know what it is because he never tells us anything. We find out more from the six o’clock news unless it’s really bad. Then someone yells pack, and he sends Frankie to get us, and—boom—ten minutes later, we’re in the car speeding to an out-of-the-way motel in Jersey for however long. We pass the time playing cards and watching TV while my mom crochets afghans or sketches dresses because before she was married she made clothes for Valentino. And everyone mutters prayers and we order out and then complain about the takeout and my mom goes on a rant about how “everybody cuts corners and nobody makes their own sauce anymore,” which makes her crazy.

  Only now that I’m at Morgan, I can’t disappear and go into hiding no matter what because I’d miss everything and fail and never become president. And even if I could, I mean, how would it look to disappear for days without a sick note, which is a joke anyway because in my life, about everything is sick crazy and not normal because for us the only normal is abnormal.

  EIGHT

  As I’m coming in the door after school the next day, the home phone rings. It’s usually for me or Anthony. Or it’s Aunt Mary calling to go to the mall with my mom. But we always check caller ID before we answer. Now it’s ringing and no one is home and I’m checking and it’s New York 1, the all-day news channel calling, which scares me because we’re not exactly listed in the phone book, so how the hell did they get our number?

  “Romano funeral home,” I say.

  There’s a pause. “Excuse me, I was trying to reach…” The voice drops off.

  “Sorry, wrong number.” I hang up and it rings again. I go through the same charade, but they’re on to me.

  Silence.

  Are they putting a tracer on the call? A few minutes later there’s another call. CNN now. I freak and call my dad.

  “We’ve had two calls from the news.”

  “On the home number?”

  “Yes. Daddy, are you okay?”

  Ten-second pause.

  “Don’t worry, Gia,” he says, his calm, blanket answer to everything, which makes me worry more

  “It’s nothing, nothing. You know how they chase me.”

  “But I don’t want them to.”

  “Gia, I’ll see you later, don’t worry so much.”

  There’s a knock on the door a few minutes later. My mom isn’t home because she’s at the church helping them get ready for the women’s bingo lasagna luncheon. Do I answer it? If I don’t, maybe they’ll break in. I go upstairs and look out
my bedroom window. A cop car. Now a finger is glued to the door bell.

  I open the door. Two cops, one with his hand resting lightly on the top of his gun.

  “What do you want?”

  “We’re looking for your dad.”

  “He’s not home.”

  “Where is he?”

  “You know more about where he is than I do.”

  Cop one turns and looks at cop two.

  “Let’s go,” he says.

  They give me one more lingering look and then get into their car and drive away.

  I was ten when I found out about my dad. It was something my parents always worked hard to hide from me, to keep my innocent world intact and at arm’s length from reality, at least their reality.

  I remember everything about that day. It was snowing lightly in the late afternoon. I had been up in my room watching the snowflakes hit the windows and then slide down in slow moving, slushy drips. The room was cold and I remember putting a sweater on Beppo, my teddy bear, to keep him warm even though I was old enough to know that was silly. My mom was making minestrone and the whole house smelled good from the onions and garlic that she browned in olive oil in the giant soup kettle.

  When important things happen in your life, your brain has a way of archiving them so later on when you want to go over them again the memories are preserved, like a prom corsage pressed between the pages of a diary.

  When I was little, I thought my dad was in construction or in the restaurant business. We would be in the car and my mom or dad would point out office towers or apartment buildings.

  “See, Gia,” they’d say, “that’s daddy’s building.”

  I thought he built the buildings. I thought he made them himself, putting one brick on top of another, the way Anthony and I built our mansion houses with red, blue, and yellow Legos.

  Later on I thought my dad was in the carting business even though I didn’t even know what carting was. Then I found out and knew they used the word carting because it sounded fancier than garbage. Well, he was in the garbage business, but not the way I thought. He was in other businesses too, like restaurants, bars, dry cleaners, used car business, casinos, and places outside the city too that I didn’t even know about.