by B. B. Hamel
“Here we are,” he said and got out.
I followed as he pulled out my bags. I went to take them but he waved me away. He walked to the stoop, carried them up, then unlocked the door and pushed it open.
I followed him inside and sucked in a breath.
The walls were painted a pale olive green. The couch was low and mottled gray and white in a Midcentury Modern style with thin tapered legs. A flat screen hung on the wall across from it, and beyond that was an open kitchen and dining room area. A large midcentury table dominated the space with seating for eight. The kitchen had all granite countertops, and the refrigerator looked like it was straight out of the 1950s, big and oblong and teal, with a long handle and a gleaming silver GE badge in the front.
“Okay,” I said as he put down my bags. “I didn’t expect this.”
He tilted his head. “Didn’t expect what?”
I gestured around me. “This. It’s really…”
“Nice?” he asked.
“Nice,” I said and laughed. “Sorry. Maybe that’s mean.”
“I get it,” he said. “I’m a mobster. You expected ratty leather couches, crosses on the wall, maybe a dead body or two and some cocaine on the coffee table.”
“Glass coffee table,” I said. “And pretty much.”
“Well, welcome to my Philly house.”
“Wait, you don’t even live here,” I said. “Who stays here when you’re in New York?”
“Nobody,” he said. “When I’m in town, this is all mine. But mostly it’s just empty.”
“You have an entire empty house all for yourself,” I said.
“Pretty much.”
“And I live in a tiny studio apartment in a bad neighborhood.”
“You went into the wrong line of work, journalist.” He grinned and walked to the kitchen. “Want something to drink?”
“No, thanks,” I said.
As he rummaged around for a glass and a bottle, I looked at the pictures on the wall. Most of them were fine art prints of famous landscapes, pretty generic and simple stuff. But a few of them were guys I didn’t recognize, young men with lean faces and hungry looks. I spotted a young Vince in one of them, smiling and surrounded by a few other guys, all of them in suits, most of them with guns tucked in their waistband.
“What’s this?” I asked, pointing at the picture.
He poured himself a glass of whiskey and walked over. He squinted at it then let out a breath.
“That’s the day Steven was made,” he said and pointed at a handsome, lanky guy at the far left. “We were just kids back then.”
“You look so young.”
“We thought we owned the fucking city,” he said and pointed at another guy right next to Steven. “That’s Dante, one of my father’s best Capos. That’s Sergio, the old guy at the end, and that’s Mikhail and that’s Gennaro. Mikhail and Gennaro are dead now, God rest their souls.”
I chewed on my lip and looked at their young eyes, their short haircuts, their baby fat cheeks.
“How old were they?” I asked.
“Gennaro died a year after this picture,” he said. “There was a war with the Chinese. Then Mikhail a couple years after that in a little skirmish with the Russians. I wasn’t in the city at the time, so I don’t really know how it went down.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Price of the game.” He sipped his whiskey and turned away from the picture. “Come on. Let’s go see your room.”
I lingered for another minute, trying to imagine what they were thinking back then. Those guns, those suits, they probably felt rich and immortal. And now two of them were gone, dead before they were really adults.
Just the price.
I turned away and followed him up the steps. The landing led down a short hall with a door at the far end, two doors on the right, and another staircase leading up.
“Your room’s here,” he said, taking me to the last door at the end of the hall. I caught a glimpse of a little office in the first room on the right, a full bathroom in the second room, and stopped on the threshold of the last room.
He pushed the door wide and flipped on the light. I expected a bare mattress on the floor, maybe some ammunition and some drugs lying in the corner. At least, that was the cliché idea I had in my head about what I’d find.
Instead, it looked like a nice suburban extra bedroom. There were generic flower prints in black frames on the walls and the bed was queen sized with a big frilly flower print bedspread with some nice decorative pillows thrown on top. The nightstands each had fake flowers on then, and the right one had a clock with red glowing letters. There was a bureau against one wall, a rocking chair in the corner on the left, and a closet door on the right.
“Here you go,” he said and walked in. A window let in nice, bright light and cast long shadows on the floor. He walked to the closet door and pulled it open, revealing nothing but empty hangers and a suitcase stuck in a corner.
“This is really…” I trailed off, not sure how to put it.
“It’s girly as all fuck,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s really, really girly. I mean, where did you get all those pillows from?”
“Marshal’s,” he said. “I think.”
“I can’t picture you pillow shopping,” I said “Seriously, Vince, you didn’t actually go pillow shopping, did you?”
He laughed, picked one up, and threw it at me. I managed to catch it before it smashed into my face.
“An ex did this,” he said. “Not my style, but I haven’t bothered to change it.”
“An ex, huh?” I tilted my head. That made a lot more sense.
“Don’t get started on that,” he said.
“If an ex changed up this room, I’m guessing you two lived together,” I said.
“Don’t get started.” He frowned at me, arms crossed. “You know what? Fuck it, I’ll tell you about her so you’re not bugging me later.”
“I’m all ears,” I say and toss him the pillow.
He put it back on the bed. “Her name was Lynn, we dated for three months, and she was fucking intense. She never lived here, but I’m pretty sure she planned on moving in eventually.”
“What happened to her?” I asked.
“She got clingy, started talking about marriage. And then I moved to New York. Sorted itself out.”
I sighed and shook my head. “So you’re an asshole.”
“Darling, what did you expect? A Boy Scout?”
“I guess not.”
“Come on, get yourself settled, and don’t worry about Lynn.”
“What’s she doing now?”
He shrugged and moved toward the door, coming close to me.
“Married, two kids, looks happy. At least as far as I can tell from her shitty Facebook posts.”
“You go on Facebook?” I asked.
“Of course I go on Facebook,” he said. “I couldn’t do my fucking job if I didn’t.”
“What does Facebook have to do with being in the mob?”
He grimaced. “I’m not in the mob, first of all. And second, Facebook is one of the best tools for researching people. Do you have any clue how stupid the average gangster is?”
“So you are a gangster then,” I said.
He stepped closer to me and I took an involuntary step back. I ran up against the doorframe and he loomed over me, his eyes hard, a smile on his lips.
“No,” he said. “But I know a lot of them.”
“So you like to research gangsters then?”
“Got to make sure I’m dealing with the right people,” he said. “More often than not, the wrong people make it pretty obvious. The average person is pretty fucking dumb, and half the world’s stupider than that.”
“Right, true.” I smiled and took a deep breath. “So Facebook’s just one of many tools you gangsters use.”
“Something like that.” He lingered close to me for a few heartbeats, his head cocked like he was staring
right through me, except his eyes roamed down my body. I felt a chill run down my spine and I wondered if I was making a huge mistake.
Probably. No, definitely.
“But you’re not a gangster,” I said.
“Right.” He slipped past me and moved out into the hall. “I’ll bring up your bags. Feel free to unpack and get yourself set. Bathroom’s right here, first door on the left, that’s all you. My room’s upstairs, and it’s off limits.” He looked at me over his shoulder. “If I catch you anywhere near my bedroom without my permission, you’re out of here and the deal’s off. Understood?”
“Understood,” I said.
“Good.” He looked away. “Feel free to use the roof deck, though. Damn nice up there.” He headed down the hall and back downstairs.
I stood in the doorway and stared after him.
A gangster with a Facebook and a roof deck.
And a girly as hell room.
What a strange man. I felt a shiver again as I turned to look at the room. The walls were painted a very pale teal color and the hardwood gleamed in the natural light from the large window. I walked over to the bed and sat down on it, surprised at how comfortable the mattress was.
I was in the lion’s den. But the lion’s den had fake flowers and mid-century modern furniture.
I wanted there to be bullet holes in the floor and syringes lying on the kitchen counter. I wanted there to be some proof that I was dealing with a real killer, a real gangster, a real criminal.
Instead, I couldn’t read Vince at all.
I had to keep telling myself I had the right guy. If I was wrong, and Vince really wasn’t in the mafia, then I was going to waste a lot of time following him around.
But if I was right, and this girly room was just another way to throw me off…
Well, it was a risk I had to take.
7
Vince
I sat downstairs and made a few calls while Mona spent the next few hours in her room. I wasn’t sure what she was doing up there, but I never once heard her move around. The hardwood up there in the halls made a damn racket anytime someone tried to walk on them, so there was no sneaking around my house.
Still, it was strange to have someone else in my place. Even if this house was barely mine at all, and only a glorified hotel for when I was in town, it still had some memories. It still felt like my own space.
I’d never had a woman live with me before. That psycho Lynn would’ve moved in and gotten pregnant in a heartbeat, but I kept her at arm’s length. She managed to give that guest room a little makeover, but beyond that, she didn’t succeed in breaking into my life any more than the countless other women I’d been with over the years.
So having Mona upstairs was a pretty confusing fucking proposition. I mean, she was a journalist, she was supposed to be the enemy,
But she was also hot as hell and made my blood boil just thinking about her.
Around seven, I headed up the steps. I told her to be ready by eight, and I wanted to make sure she was on track. I reached the top and saw her bedroom door open at the same moment. She came out with a towel wrapped around her middle, already undressed, a little toiletries bag in one hand, her black bra and matching panties in the other.
She froze in the doorway, her mouth hanging open.
I stared at her and tilted my head. Her dark hair was up, showing off her long, lean neck and tiny, cute ears. I took a step closer, the floorboards creaking under my weight. I felt my body go tense as desire washed over me. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a naked woman in my house and didn’t take at least a taste of her.
“Vince,” she said like she was trying to ward off a demon.
“I caught you at a bad time,” I said as a smile slipped across my face. “And I can’t say I’m upset about it.”
“Vince,” she said again.
I moved closer. “You look better in just a towel,” I said. “But I wonder if you’d look best without it.”
“Stop,” she said. “That line was terrible.”
I shrugged. “You don’t seem to mind bad lines.”
“I’m going to shower now,” she said, speaking slow. “And when I’m done, we can go to dinner.”
I smirked and stopped halfway down the hall. She was still frozen, her eyes wide, and I knew fear when I smelled it. I could smell it all over her, wafting off in waves, a thick perfume of anxiety. I knew she was terrified of what I wanted to do, and goddamn, I wanted her to be afraid.
I fucking liked that she was finally starting to understand.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Shower up.”
“Alone,” she said.
“Your loss.”
She took a step toward the bathroom. I didn’t move. She stared at me as she walked into the bathroom and put her toiletries bag on the vanity. She turned and caught my eye, her face pale, her expression drawn and tight.
I smiled as she slowly closed the door. I heard the lock click into place.
I let out a breath and laughed to myself.
The little princess didn’t really understand what she’d gotten herself into, but maybe now she was starting to see. Maybe my house was decorated nice, maybe some stupid ex fuck toy made my guest room look all girly and cute, but this little delicious journalist had embedded herself right into the heart of a monster’s lair.
And I wasn’t the kind of monster that let my prey go without biting down deep first.
I smile and turned away. She’d be ready on time, I was confident of that at least.
I leaned against the kitchen counter, a whiskey in my hand, my favorite suit buttoned and fitted. I heard her heels on the stairs as I checked my watch.
Right on time.
I left the kitchen and watched her reach the bottom of the stairs. She turned to face me, a little smile on her lips. She held her hands out to the sides like she was presenting herself and gave me two little half turns.
“What do you think?” she asked.
I cocked my head and stared. She wore this tight, short black dress with a long, plunging neckline that just barely covered her full breasts. Her hair was up in this artful little bun, two curled strands framing her face. Her lips were a light red, just pink enough to drive me wild, and she carried a little black bag in one hand.
“You look good,” I said.
She laughed. “Good? I look fucking awesome.”
I grinned and walked toward her. I gave her a look and walked a circle around her. I could tell that set her on edge a little bit, but I stared at her high, tight ass. She wore heels that only made her lean legs look that much more gorgeous.
“All right,” I said. “You look fucking awesome.”
“Thank you,” she said, nodding her head.
“Now come on. Let’s get going.” I headed to the door, pushed it open, and held it for her. She followed me outside and waited on the sidewalk while I locked up.
“Where’s your car?” she asked.
I held out my keys and clicked them. My car beeped a few spots away. She frowned and blinked before staring at me.
“You like it?” I asked, walking past her. I stopped next to my black vintage BMW from the 1960s. It had two rows of seating, though only two doors, and the front swept back in a graceful swoop. She stared at it, her jaw hanging open.
“That’s incredible,” she said. “I thought all gangsters drove, like, boring black SUVs?”
“They do,” I said. “But I’m not a gangster.” I opened the passenger side door. “Go ahead, get in.”
She hesitated. “Let’s keep the top up,” she said.
“Whatever you want,” I said.
She climbed in then I walked around to the driver’s side. I fired her up and enjoyed the little purr of its engine as I pulled out into traffic and headed south.
I took her down to Passyunk Ave. It was packed with people walking from bar to bar. The restaurants were all crowded with young people, young parents with their families, older retired folks. Pas
syunk was one of the best spots in all of South Philly, and my family owned every single fucking inch of it.
We drove slowly down the street and I spotted a few guys I knew. I waved as the group of them called my name and gave me a salute. They were Steven’s guys, young soldiers out for a good time. I spotted a few more people, some doctors and lawyers in the area I knew, and gave them serious nods.
“You know everyone,” she said.
“You have no clue,” I said and smiled to myself.
This was my town.
Sometimes out in New York, I forgot what it felt like to be the king. Out there, we were a small family just fighting for a little territory and a little respect. I carved out a nice niche for us, and I was building our empire brick by brick, day by day, but in Philly the work had already been done. We already owned the city, we already had respect.
When I was in town, I was a king again, and that felt fucking good.
But I had to remember it was temporary. This wasn’t my home, not anymore. My father built this world, my father earned this respect. I was given it because I was his son and I was an important member of his organization, but I hadn’t earned it all, I hadn’t created it out of thin air like I was out in New York.
I couldn’t let myself forget.
I parked the car down toward Mifflin Street. We walked along Passyunk Ave, heading north. I didn’t have any particular place in mind, and as we went, I stopped and greeted the people I knew. Mona hung close, sometimes her body pressed against mine, and I felt a thrill of excitement to be spotted out and about with her. For a little while, I forgot that she was a journalist.
“Do you come out here often?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Sometimes. It’s a good spot.”
“How do all these people know you then?”
I gave her a little smile. “My family owns a lot of businesses in this area,” I said.
She laughed. “Interesting answer.”