The Highway (A Benny Steel and Marisa Tulli Novel - Book 1)

by Steven Grosso

  When they arrived, he noticed more hipsters than usual as he and Venice parked in the lot across the street and passed a group of people smoking cigarettes and blowing gray clouds into the air. Thick black-rimmed glasses, beards, tattoos, skinny jeans, flannel shirts or shirts with catch phrases on them, and sarcastic humor were giveaways.

  Steel and Venice crossed the street from the parking lot and headed toward The Piazza. He swiveled his head and noticed a car in the distance, about a block away. The headlights were off, but the vehicle was angled toward them, and somebody was inside, if he wasn’t mistaken, who appeared to be staring at the two of them. Looked odd, but Steel shook it off, thought he was getting a little paranoid.

  He and Venice entered The Piazza, and he said the first words since the car ride, “Nice, huh?”

  She observed it for a minute, before she said, “Yeah, it is. I’ve been here before.”

  The rain had stopped, but the ground was still slick from the moisture. Just after the last drop had fallen, a cool breeze picked up and whipped around, wiping away humidity from the afternoon. Street lights bathed the area and illuminated it, and it seemed as though they’d transitioned from night to morning in minutes. He thought how he’d expect to see something like this in Rome or somewhere else in Europe—not in Philadelphia.

  His heart heated; a dull void rested inside it. His stomach was sore like someone had punched his gut. He sighed and reflected on his life, at the scene in front of him of excited young kids in their twenties drinking, laughing, and listening to contemporary rock and rap music he didn’t recognize, which burst through two mailbox-sized speakers on the stage just under the movie screen.

  At moments like this, it hit him deep in his bones how lonely he was and how much he tried to act as if his loneliness didn’t exist. The ache in his chest was a reminder that he was pushing thirty-three and didn’t have a ring on a woman’s finger, that the reason he was able to pick up Venice after eleven at night was that he had nothing better to do—it was that simple. At that thought, the jabbing at his gut strengthened and knocked the wind out of him.

  While his fellow Philadelphians were celebrating the Fourth of July weekend—packing up their cars with beach chairs and suntan lotion, heading for Wildwood, Atlantic City or Sea Isle City, heading to bed early for a barbecue the following afternoon with family or friends, or shopping on Stub Hub for Phillies tickets—he was clocking hours that he mostly likely wouldn’t get paid for.

  The slick layer of rain on the concrete ground, twinkling in the dark yellow glow of streetlights, flashed his mind back to that cold, damp night in Japan. He had been stationed there for a year and was finishing up his final three months of service in the Marines. It was a Saturday—a Saturday that would have a butterfly effect on the rest of his life.

  He’d just gotten home from a night out of tossing back a few rounds with a couple of his buddies. They’d laughed over some beers, and he’d informed them of his plans of getting married, of deciding whether or not to build a military career or move back to Philly to start his life. He’d discussed going to law school or joining the police force, but whichever, he’d known it would involve the law.

  His apartment complex he had shared with his fellow Marines was on the base—a studio efficiency on the first floor of a three-story building. As he’d entered it that night, he’d turned on the light switch, kicked off his shoes, and raided his refrigerator for anything that resembled meat. After he’d eaten like a hungry dog, he’d collapsed on his sofa and rummaged through a pile of mail on the coffee table. But the words on the letter behind the first envelope would throw his plans right out the window. As his finger had torn the glue off the flap, his eager eyes had lit up. A note from his high school sweetheart had always had that effect on him. After all, it was the same woman who he’d knelt before asking for her hand in marriage over that past Christmas break when home on leave. A note from Tracy hadn’t been uncommon back then. Although they’d had phones, AOL, and e-mail, the basics for the early 2000s, they’d still used handwritten letters. He hadn’t minded; she’d loved it. Steel had thought at the time that it had made her feel like a hopelessly-in-love woman from one of those old World War II black-and-white movies, dreaming of when her big, strong hero would return home. Steel had played the part, even though, at the time, he’d never seen combat. But he had done hundreds of pushups and pull-ups a day and smoked a pack of Marlboros daily and had figured that would satisfy her yearning to be part of a fictional war movie.

  Steel’s excitement for the letter had sunk to despair in three short sentences, and to outright depression, after the words: it’s over. Just like that. The note had explained how she’d felt they’d grown apart over that past year or so, said she was in her early twenties and didn’t feel ready, and that they had met in high school and never had time to explore the world outside a relationship. She’d written that she’d drop off the ring at his parents’ house, repeated that she was sorry over and over, and that he could call her to talk about it. Talking would be as far as it would get—her mind was set on the breakup.

  Steel had stopped skimming through after two or three paragraphs, but his mind had still raced, while his body, motionless. That had been the biggest shock of his life—that quickly—all his plans shattered—everything he’d worked for gone. The woman he’d dedicated six years of his life to…gone. The woman he’d dreamed would carry their children…gone.

  Just before the note, and the smashing of his innocence, he’d had all the young, innocent, naive hopes and dreams for the two of them. As if life would just work in their favor. As if things would happen for his benefit. As if pieces just fell into place because they were supposed to. It was as though they’d marry and float away together in a bubble that would be unable to be popped by the real world. His imaginary bubble had popped that day. Life had smacked him hard in the face, and it’d stung like hell. And there had been nothing he could do about it—a reality check, welcome to adulthood.

  He’d never bothered to call her back. The remaining three months of his military service had gone on to be the toughest. Depression had hit him like nothing he’d ever experienced before—an experience during which his mind and body had constantly battled with his soul and forced his soul to go through hell to see the light again. During that time, he’d barely made it through the day, fighting constant thoughts of suicide. Fierce anxiety had squeezed his throat like a sadistic masseuse. He’d never left his apartment in his free time. He’d been unable to eat or sleep or concentrate. He’d lost weight; and had constant fear and dread as if impending doom had awaited him. He had thought he was going insane and would end up in a straitjacket and had reasoned that he had two options: go home to his family, try to get well, and survive or put a bullet in his head. He was always glad he hadn’t chosen the latter, although it had taken every ounce of strength and sheer will of the human spirit not to. That hadn’t been the way he’d wanted to kick off his life he’d so strategically crafted together, and he’d known he was going home to nothing. That wound still reopened at times but was only a shadow of the first episode and never like the first gash that had ripped its way through.

  Steel broke from his inner world of memories and pointed at a diner thirty feet away. As he and Venice stepped in, a woman approached them. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-two or twenty-three. She was attractive but pale, her skin almost translucent. Her hair was dyed the lightest shade of purple Steel had ever seen, and she wore ripped jeans and a black tank top. She smiled as she greeted them and held two menus in her hands.

  They followed her to a back booth with red seats and the usual assortment of ketchup, mustard, a metal napkin container, and salt and pepper shakers. College students at the table behind them laughed and carried on as the manager glared in their direction, and each wore retro clothes, resembling Will Smith and Jazzy Jeff during The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air days, only two decades too late.

  Steel laughed. “H
ipster diner.”

  “Excuse me?” Venice said as she slid her buttocks into the booth.

  He flipped open his menu. “Ah,…it’s a hipster diner.”

  Venice’s eyes grew, and he could tell he’d lost her but was too tired to go into details about trivial things. He’d come here for a reason.

  They both took a minute or two to look over the menu. Steel was pissed off that his menu was damp from syrup and cringed as it stuck to his fingers every time he touched it.

  The waitress hurried over and took their order. Steel ordered a slice of New York cheesecake; Venice ordered eggs, home fries, and a side of wheat toast. Both ordered a cup of coffee.

  Steel moved his rear end back and forth and got comfortable. “So, Venice, what’s on your mind?”

  Her expressions weren’t foreign to Steel—the blinking, weary eyes—and they gave her away. He knew she’d held back information—most family members and close friends of victims of violent crimes do. Fear often clouded their thinking, so they held out.

  She shoved her hair behind each ear and stared into Steel’s eyes. He noticed she had a different disposition than the last time they’d spoken—more independent, more relaxed.

  “I just feel there may be someone else who could know about Tom,” she said.

  Steel’s mouth opened, and he leaned forward but stopped himself, trying not to seem too anxious. “Who?” he asked, moving his head from side to side as if someone was watching.

  “My cousin, Hector Illiteo. He bought from Tom a lot, but he didn’t like me in a relationship with Tom. He didn’t want me with a dealer. I know he bought from him because Tom told me. Tom would say that Hector shouldn’t tell me nothing because he isn’t any better.”

  “But what’s his motive?”

  Venice shook her head rapidly, repeatedly. “Oh…no, no. I’m not saying he did it, but he might know who may have. He hangs with all those guys. I want to know who did this to Tom, and if he might know…it’s a start, I guess.”

  Steel reached into his pocket and pulled out a pocket-sized notepad he never left the house without. He gripped a half-size pencil without an eraser between his fingers—a pencil one would use at any office that required filling out paperwork—and looked up at Venice. “The name again?”

  She leaned over and glanced at the page. “Hector Illiteo,” she said slowly.

  He scribbled it down, lifted his eyes. “Hector’s on drugs—a steady user?”

  “Um…I don’t know how much. I know he did them sometimes, definitely pot and maybe cocaine.”

  “So, you knew Tom sold coke then?” Steel said, his voice firm. “You lied to me when I asked you.”

  “I knew he sold weed, but I didn’t know about the cocaine…I…I swear. I watched Hector do a line one night, when me, him, and Tom went to some club up Old City.”

  Steel held up his hands. “Let’s not get off track here…you’re not on trial. But I need you to be honest with me from now on.”

  The waitress’ footsteps shook the table, and she smiled and slowly lowered two cups of coffee with shaky hands and bent knees, followed by an additional saucer that held five single-serve creamer cups. Steam rose from the black liquid. The coffee shifted in white mugs, some spilling over the edges. Steel studied Venice as she pulled hers close, blew a few soft breaths into it, poured one creamer until the color turned light brown, and then stirred it with a metal spoon, the coffee swirling into a whirlpool. He tried to imagine how she’d made it to this table. How she’d found herself talking to a detective in a diner about the murder of her boyfriend who sold drugs. He couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for her. She seemed intelligent and kind and was an attractive woman. Her deep, dark brown eyes, almost one solid color throughout the entire eye, no shades or tints, not even in the pupil, complemented her caramel skin. Steel thought she was a cross between Jessica Alba and Mila Kunis.

  Venice sipped her coffee, then gripped a napkin and wiped her lips. “Tom wasn’t the best person or anything, but he wasn’t the worst, either. He had his bad temper and all, but I thought I could eventually change that. I met him when I was a bartender in Old City, and I fell for him. He had his eye on me, and I liked the lifestyle. What do you want me to say? Thought I could change him.”

  “But you hadn’t?”

  She lowered her eyes, squeezed the cup, and shook her head. “It was, just, I don’t know. He couldn’t let go of his demons, his upbringing, his messed up childhood. How his parents weren’t around growing up. And his mother’s death…he loved her so much. He just couldn’t let go of any of that, you know?”

  Steel listened, and although he couldn’t relate in the same way, he knew, in a subjective way, what it felt like not to be able to let go of the past, of past demons that ate away at his soul day by day. He knew that life had once kicked him hard, and there had been nothing he could do about it. He tended to hold on to those memories going forward, just waiting for the present and future to crumble to pieces the same way the past had. He reasoned that that mindset led to fear, which further led to the what-if questions in life. If that hadn’t been like that, or if I had gone that route, or if someone hadn’t done that to me, and on and on—the scenarios endless. And he knew those trap questions led to anger, resentment, bitterness, and rebellion. He lived it daily—although much differently than Thomas Hitchy.

  After thinking, he froze for a moment, but then said, “Look, I’m not here to talk morals. Tom was what he was—no excuses—but why do you think your cousin is involved in his death?”

  “Again, he might know something. He’s out in the streets. Don’t tell him I told you, though.”

  “No, I won’t. You have my word. Do me a favor. Write down his address on this sheet of paper.” He spun the notepad and watched her hand as she scribbled cursive, giving him his biggest lead yet.

  25

  Marisa checked the clock that hung above the refrigerator in her kitchen, 7:10 a.m. She’d woken ten minutes earlier and thrown a red bathrobe over the clothes she’d slept in—a small white t-shirt and red boxer shorts, which were cut just below the bottom of her cheeks and revealed her sleek, dark thighs. She’d tied her hair back into a ponytail. Her puffy morning-face hadn’t lost its beauty because she wasn’t wearing makeup. Her good looks were natural; the makeup only enhanced her piercing, sharp brown eyes, and perfect smile. Her beauty had turned many of heads over the years. When she walked through Center City, guys took one look at her face and did a double take.

  She knew the effect she had on men and often played the game. Sometimes she flirted back but never strung guys along. Flirting was where it ended. She had demons of her own in the relationship game.

  A previous relationship had followed her over recent years, nagging her at times, and she often felt the lingering ripples in the morning hours, when she’d open her eyes and realize she was alone. This was one of those days.

  She sat on her sofa and thought.

  In her senior year of college, she’d met who she’d thought at the time was her future husband. In fact, the day they met, she’d called her mom and told her about her love-at-first-sight encounter. The man was Mario Romano. Turned out, Mario had lived only eight blocks from her, but they had never seen one another until they sat side by side in a business law class at Temple University. Marisa had realized Mario’s interest in her after he’d asked to borrow a pen and white-out within five minutes of first smiling at her. The smile had never faded. Her interest had been instant. After class, they’d hit the cafeteria for coffee and talked for hours, both missing their remaining scheduled classes for the day.

  A week after they’d gone to lunch, they had been holding hands and talking on the phone late into the night. Marisa had told her friends she’d met the one. He’d played it off to his friends as if she was just another girl, but they’d seen right through that. Eventually, Mario had met Marisa’s parents, and Marisa had met Mario’s. Both had been thrilled—young and
in love. It had been as if their lives were set, destined, everything picture perfect. A movie couldn’t have depicted it any better: two Italian-American young adults who fell in love, both loved their close families, worked hard, and ate pasta on Sundays. It had Scorsese written all over it.

  For the first two years of their relationship, love chemicals had danced around each of their brains like club-goers at a New York City bar on New Year’s Eve after six shots of vodka. He’d proposed, and she’d accepted with tears of joy. Their lives set, together—let the plans begin, or so she’d thought.

  Shortly after their engagement, Mario’s actions had become inconsistent and strange. He’d lost weight, called her less frequently, opted out of his year lease for a studio apartment he had been renting in an up-and-coming section of South Philadelphia, Passyunk Avenue, and moved back in with his parents.

  After Marisa had pleaded with Mario for answers, she’d found out, on her own, from her bank account. Her savings wiped out. Mario’s parents had explained to her that he had a habit—that after he’d proposed to her, he sort of went through a crisis, felt like his youth was slipping away. He’d started hanging out with old buddies from the neighborhood and begun taking Xanax and other drugs in the same family on weekends, and then before work, and then after work, and then all the time.

  At the time, Marisa hadn’t been able to understand how he could’ve fallen into that. He had a good job at a top Philadelphia bank, been in the process of getting an MBA from Temple at night, and had a loving, close-knit family. She’d sat with her father one night after she’d found out, and he’d explained to her the common plight of a young male in a lower-middle-class section of the inner city. He’d explained that the neighborhoods were usually a mixture of have-a-littles and have-nots. Some families worked blue-collar jobs; some barely got by however they could’ve. Parents prayed and cared about their kids’ education and hoped they’d choose college but lacked knowledge about it since many hadn’t gone themselves or didn’t have money or funds set up to pay for it. Many directed their kids to counselors and financial aid offices in schools that often times were less prepared than the parents. While earning a Bachelor’s degree was an expectation in an upper-middle-class neighborhood. It was a huge accomplishment in one like Mario and Marisa’s, because they were frequently the first members of their family to go to college. Nicky Tulli had reassured his daughter that he “sure as hell” hadn’t had the opportunity to get an education as a kid, hadn’t been able to afford it. He’d further discussed that the boys in those environments could go either way with their lives: the streets or school. And since many of them had started at local community colleges or state schools because they hadn’t had the funds to move away, it was easy to deviate from an education while still having one foot in the neighborhood and one foot out of it. Most didn’t have the luxury of living at college and escaping from the real world for four years, where everyone had the same goal: graduate. Most of the lower-middle-class locals stayed home, commuted to college, and were tempted by the lure of the streets. The boys were pressured when they’d see friends hanging around who didn’t go to college or work—it seemed so easy, so safe. Drugs were always there. Clubs were always there. Bars were always there.