Lance released a slow breath. Rese really couldn’t argue. She’d expressed the same when Star took off before. And she had more experience with Star’s behavior than Rico.
She pressed her palms to her forehead. “Why does she do this? It’s like she’s possessed.”
Across the room, Chaz opened his eyes. He’d been in silent prayer, Lance knew, since the whole thing unfolded. Now his face drew tight.
“People do things for all kinds of reasons, Rese.” Lance didn’t like the way Chaz had fixed on those thrown-off words. She hadn’t been serious, but Chaz came from a place of voodoo and violence. They’d contended with forces of darkness before, only not in this living room.
Circumstances on the island were clear, but this … How much was Star’s recklessness, her choice? Human frailty. But Chaz started to speak, binding spirits, his voice soft yet vehement. Rese lowered her hands and stared. Slipping an arm around her, Lance tried to convey normality. But unexpectedly, his spirit ignited.
As Chaz spoke the spirits into submission, he saw them bound and flailing, a vision clearer than anything he’d experienced before. He no longer thought of Rese in his arm, or Chaz across the room. He hardly even thought of Star, so deep was his realization of God.
After a time, he realized Chaz had stopped speaking. His thoughts slowly coiled back, and his eyes unglued. Rese became solid under his arm. He straightened.
“Are you okay?” She scrutinized him.
Chaz grinned. “We lost you for a while, mon.”
“I’m fine.” Lance slid his fingers into the back of his hair. “But I think this fight is real.”
Chaz locked his gaze. “A principality?” He wasn’t really asking; he’d sensed it too.
Rese looked from one to the other. “You don’t mean seriously … I was just talking.” She slid back in the couch. “You bound evil spirits?” She resisted, naturally, but he was not up to the battle. More than anything he wanted a quiet place to regroup. One didn’t recover lightly from an encounter with the living God—which sounded bizarre even to himself.
Chaz said, “Through the same Spirit that raised Jesus from the dead, all fallen things are subject to us.”
Lance swallowed. Though he’d referenced an actual evil, this was more than he’d gone into with Rese.
She turned on him. “You said the dead don’t threaten the living.”
“We’re not talking about ghosts.”
“Demonic spirits can harass us,” Chaz said. “And sometimes they are invited in.”
Rese stood up and paced. “So … the thing I felt in the tunnel was real?”
How had she jumped to that? Lance crossed his ankle over his knee. “It was fear, Rese. You can’t ascribe everything a demonic nature.”
Chaz said, “But it could have been real.”
She spun. “Walter was real?”
Chaz had no reference for her question.
Lance shook his head. “Walter was part of your mother’s illness. Someone who became real to you as a child alone with her.”
She turned back. “I felt him down there.”
Lance reached out a hand to her. “Something, maybe. But don’t be too quick to name it.” He drew her back down beside him.
She shook her head. “I don’t believe this.”
“The powers of darkness are real,” Chaz said. “But you can’t look for them behind every bush.”
“Or wine rack,” Lance added.
She glared. “There was something down there, and it wasn’t your great-grandfather’s skeleton.”
“Great-great-grandfather.”
She glowered, then turned to Chaz. “Is Star possessed?”
“Possession is very rare.” He spread his hands. “But her beliefs and actions are risky.”
Rese closed her eyes. “I don’t believe this.”
Lance squeezed her hand. “We don’t know,” he said, though the vision clung to his mind. He hadn’t anticipated anything like that, but something had shifted. He didn’t know what or why, but he knew what Rese said was true. Things happened for a reason. And he could not doubt now that he was part of it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Two days later the walls echoed. The windows shook. Hair flying, skin dripping, Rico beat on his drums, wincing with every shift in position, his left arm doing the job of two—not pretty, but indomitable, working out his hurt and anger and maybe a little regret. Lance had seen him like this before, and there was only one way to communicate. He plugged in the electric guitar and matched Rico’s rhythm, then laid down the lead and lyrics of one of the edgier songs he’d written in their dark phase.
“Scream. Plead. Bleed out your heart.
What does it matter? What does it gain?
It doesn’t stop the pain.
When hope is escaping, where do you start?
How can you matter? What can you gain?
Nothing you do stops the p-a-i-n… .”
“Every degree the planet turns
Someone burns, someone burns.
Every heart that pumps with greed Someone bleeds, someone bleeds.
But no one stops the pain… .”
Rico’s voice joined, and for the first time in too long they found their harmony, he and Rico blending pitch and tone and dynamics. They sang the second verse and chorus, the third and fourth. Facing off, eyes locked, Lance absorbed the anger and frustration and hurt, adding verses he hadn’t written yet, words that came as the music built.
“Have you looked into the eyes of hunger in a child
Crunch your crispy fries; like your chili hot or mild?
What does it matter? What does it gain?
Have you walked among the ghosts,
hands out hoping for a dime?
Outta my way, outta my way;
Can’t you see I don’t have time?
Scream, plead, bleed out your heart.
What does it matter? What does it gain?
Can’t, no, can’t, no, can’t stop the pain… .”
And when the words ran out, the instruments spoke on. Reverberations numbed his ears. His forearm screamed. Eight minutes. Ten. Fourteen. Playing until Rico slumped on the stool, chest heaving.
Winded himself, Lance waited. He’d known Rico to regenerate, but his hand dropped, dangled the stick, then let it fall. He spoke one word in Spanish that pretty much summed it up.
Lance took off the guitar. “You need a shower, ’mano.”
Rico raised his arm and sniffed. Lance didn’t need that proximity to know Rico had purged poisons. Another wave wafted as he got up and stripped his shirt, wiped his head with it, then walked stiffly to the bathroom.
While Rico showered, Lance heated oil in a skillet on the hot plate, fried the plantains he’d purchased that morning, warmed some rice and seasoned it with sofrito—a blend of cilantro, garlic, oregano, and minced peppers.
Rico emerged ravenous, as Lance had known he would, given the scents of his heritage and his exertion. He devoured the offering, then sat back and sighed. “You were right.”
Lance rested his forearms on the table. “About what?”
“It wasn’t really her. She was only going along.”
“Still had a good thing, Rico. What did Saul say about your sound?”
Rico tipped his eyes up without raising his face. “What does it matter?”
Lance let out a slow breath. He’d seen Rico do surgery on his heart before—the reason his father, Juan, had no place there. It had been two days since he’d cast Star out, and now he’d purged more than toxins on the drums. “What are you going to do?”
Rico shrugged, looking down at his arm, strapped tight to his chest. “We’ll see, won’t we?” Then he straightened. “Except you won’t. You won’t be here.”
He was right. “Rico …”
“That’s life, man. It comes at you, and if you don’t get out of the way, it runs you right over.”
As good an explanation as any.
“Where
’s Rese?” Rico looked around the room as though just realizing they were alone.
“She’s fired up Pop to tackle every project he’s let slip. I’m not sure if it’s a competition or a buddy club. But they’re building Dom a curio shelf while they wait on the plaster in the kitchen.” He shook his head with a laugh. “Pop had to admit the job she did with the wood patch was better than any he’d seen.”
Rico grinned. “So now she’s not a girl.”
Lance laughed. “Not sure he’ll go that far. But he told me last night I should get my head on straight and marry her.”
“Does he know it’s against your religion?”
Lance rocked back in his chair. “I’m thinking of changing that.”
Rico shook his head. “Right.”
No surprise Rico didn’t believe him. He’d seen the crash and burn of every other relationship, knew the moment Lance would turn and run. “It’s different this time.”
“It’s no different, man.” Rico’s face took on a strange expression. “Love is for mortals.”
Lance huffed. “And?”
“You’re something … else.”
“I think maybe you did hit your head.”
Rico spread his hand. “Look in the mirror.”
“Get outta here.” Lance brought the legs of his chair down. “I’m going to sit with Nonna. Want to say hi?”
“I spent time with her yesterday. She slept, though. Don’t think she knew I was there.”
“She knew.” If anyone could see in her sleep, it was Antonia Seraphina Michelli. And she wouldn’t miss Rico in any event.
Though she knew he was the devil on her grandson’s shoulder, she’d had a soft spot for the scrawny boy from the first day Lance brought him home. He was like an alley kitten, skittish and starved for affection. They’d found solace and shelter in her kitchen, brought her laughs and trinkets. She’d made Rico return his mother’s jewelry, but kept all their bird’s nests and marbles and drawings, displaying Rico’s side by side with his.
Lance hadn’t realized until he was older that their situation was unusual. He’d adopted Rico and assumed the rest would too. And they had, becoming Rico’s family in every way that mattered. Momma stuffed him, and Pop got as much work from him as from his sons in return for cheap rent. Chaz helped, too, once he entered the picture, and now Rese was balancing the score.
Not really though. If Pop had ever collected what he could, he’d have retired long ago. But at sixty-three he was still setting the example. Work hard and give generously. Don’t talk about it.
————
I am large with child when Marco tells me my sentence is over. His pop has laid brick for an apartment building in the Bronx. Its financier is on the point of ruin, and Gustavo Michelli is no fool. He has taken the building off the man’s hands in payment for his work. All I hear is that we’re leaving the tenement that has been my personal hell these last eight months.
With a squeal, I encase Marco’s neck. I don’t even care if his mother scowls. Her scowl is a permanent fixture. Her Marco, her prize, married without her knowledge to a Northern snob. The ball of my belly presses between us and the baby kicks. Marco laughs, then eases me back in deference to his momma.
“We’re moving up, Momma.”
Suddenly I can’t breathe. She’s coming too? But of course she is. The building is her husband’s. I’ve seen Pop Michelli enough to know they’re married, but I can’t blame him for getting as far away as he does. Who would want to contend with the sour spirit I must face every day?
Like his pop, Marco is still gone too much, and my hearts aches without him, but when he comes back, I give him the best of me. What man wants to return to a shrew? He is mysterious about his job, but I don’t press it. I’m just glad he’s working.
It would crush me to see him in a breadline, to worry about him in a communist labor strike. I feel for those people, but I have no wish to join them. “When do we go?”
“The building isn’t complete. A couple months yet.”
I can’t hide my dismay. I don’t want this baby born here. “Oh.” My voice gives me away.
Momma Benigna pounces. “Now she’s complaining. Gustavo works himself toward an early grave to give us this, and she’s complaining.”
If anything puts him in an early grave it won’t be me. How badly I want to say it aloud! But I’ve promised myself I won’t put Marco in between as she is always doing. How she makes me regret that I ever wished for a momma. But I will not ruin the moment. Marco must know the gift he’s given me with his news—hope.
Antonia realized she’d done it again, drifted off while Lance waited patiently beside her. “Io lo fatto.” Her apology came effortlessly for once.
“Don’t worry about it.”
His eyes were gentle. She had seen them flash and seen them cry, seen them hungry and rebellious. She’d seen him full of righteous anger, but most often she’d seen him with the look he wore now. He had the letter ready, but waited for her, wondering if she could bear it. She had put him off long enough.
“R … ead.”
He lifted the pages. “Sure?”
No, but clinging to the hope in her memory, she nodded.
Lance read.
“With Vittorio inside, my job was more field marshal than foot soldier. I’d worked it both ways and generally preferred the latter, but Vittorio was discreet, partly why Jackson had brought him in, no doubt. That worked both ways now.
“Though he knew from me the bank was dirty, and Jackson dirtier, Vittorio maintained his deference to the boss. He pulled it off better than I’d expected, and I thought if we got out of it intact, I’d recommend him to the Bureau. More than one agent had come out of similarly shady situations. They provided useful insights. And frankly, I liked the man, though I admit I was more favorably disposed to you and Quillan. It became a priority to insure all your welfare. In that I failed, though I didn’t understand why.
“I’d kept the operation straightforward, learning early on that simplicity worked best—one reason I preferred a cover to clandestine meetings. Vittorio agreed. His part was to record what he witnessed without judging its usefulness. Dates, times, transactions, meetings. He would be my eyes, and I’d decipher what all he gave me. A simple plan that would have worked—if I’d received the information.”
Lance looked up. “That must be the envelopes I found in the cellar.”
Antonia pulled herself into the present. “En … ve … lopes?”
He winced. “Never mind.”
“L … ance.”
He shook his head. “If you don’t remember, forget it.”
She glared. “Tell m … e.”
He sighed. “From the cellar with the money. I showed you. Then you got theatrical and made a scene.”
Insolent! She swatted his hand. “Sh … ow me.”
“Nonna.”
She gave him the look that brooked no argument. It may have been a shock before, but now it was Marco, a part of him he’d never shared. And Papa too. All these years she’d judged him, hidden him away in her heart, ashamed of the love she still felt. All these years …
“Okay.” Lance got up. “But if you scare me again, that’s it. I’m burning it all.”
————
Lance went into his apartment. Rico must have gone out, because it was empty and completely silent except for the ceiling fan rocking in its bracket as the blades moved the air around. He got the box he’d tucked away after Nonna’s ministroke. He had sprung it on her the first time—stupidly—but now she was asking. Maybe she recognized the purpose that seemed to be driving it all, purpose even Rese had seen.
He got the box and held it for a moment before going back to Nonna. Rico’s contention that he was anything other than painfully human was crazy, but as he stood with the box he almost felt outside himself, as though he wasn’t quite solid. Something tugged inside … something undeniable. He wanted to resist but couldn’t.Was that how Tony had fe
lt, charging into the tower when every human sense must have screamed to turn back?
Closing his eyes he whispered, “Here I am. Such as I am.”
The fan click-clicked as he stood unmoving. Whatever it was lasted only a moment; then he opened his eyes and wondered if he was imagining all of it.
He brought the box back to Nonna. It felt strangely heavy as he set it in her lap, or maybe that was his own fear weighing. He didn’t want another setback.
The envelopes were at the bottom, so after helping her open the lid, he lifted out the items he’d shown her before, watching intently for any sign of strain as he handed each over. This time she seemed to take them like old friends, unafraid of what they might tell her. He should have waited on God’s timing. When would he learn not to force his own will?
She seemed reluctant to let go of her diary, but set it aside at last and looked at the envelopes. She studied the names penned there. “Th … is is Papa’s penm … anship.” Her face tightened when she reached Arthur Jackson’s file.
Lance knelt down beside her. “Are you upset, Nonna?”
She looked into his face. “You’ll kn … ow when I’m u … pset.”
He squeezed her hand. “Your pop might have been involved with something he shouldn’t, but as soon as he knew, he did the right thing. He worked with Nonno.”
She nodded. “Arthur J … ackson m … urdered Papa.”
Lance shrugged. “Maybe. But it wasn’t his idea.”
Her brow pinched. Confusion filled her eyes.
He took out the letter he’d gotten from Sybil, the one she’d copied from her father’s safe, a bit of family lore. The time her great-granddad hired a hit man—only the assassin had approached Arthur Jackson, informed him, offered his services.
Nonna read the letter, her face moving side to side as she read, a mute denial. She dragged her gaze from the page. “Wh … o?”
Lance shrugged. “The guy knew Nonno was a federal agent. He might have figured out your pop was the inside man, but it looks like it started with Nonno.”
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