Extracurricular Activities

by Maggie Barbieri

  Peter Miceli.

  He turned from his task—arranging biscotti on a tray—and greeted me with a huge grin and a wave. Having a Mob boss in my kitchen was not a normal occurrence, but Peter had this habit of acting like we were old friends (we weren’t) and that I was always happy to see him (I wasn’t).

  “Alison, hi!” he called.

  I stood still, rooted to my spot in the hallway.

  He held a large paper cup aloft and waved it back and forth. “I’ve got coffee,” he said in a singsong voice. “And biscotti. The best on Staten Island. Gianna made them.”

  I couldn’t find my voice or the will to move, so I stayed where I was.

  He waved me into the kitchen. “Come on in. I want to have a chat.”

  I remembered the last time we had a chat; he had thrown me out of his car and I ended up with a cut on my leg from which I still had a scar. I shook my head at him.

  He took a few steps toward me. “You might feel better if you get some clothes on.” He gave my bare legs the once-over. “Go get dressed,” he said softly.

  I headed back up the stairs and closed my bedroom door. I looked around wildly for some kind of escape hatch, but since my room was on the second floor at the front of the house, there was nowhere to go. I ran to the window and pulled the shade up only to see Peter’s black Mercedes in front of my house, a beefy, black-clad goon standing beside the car with his hands folded in front of him.

  I decided to take Peter’s advice and found a pair of jeans. Maybe if I was dressed, I would be able to formulate a plan. After standing in the middle of my room in my jeans for a full five minutes, I was no closer to any kind of action.

  I picked up the phone and held it to my ear. There was no dial tone. And my cell phone was in its usual place in my pocketbook.

  I had no choice but to go back downstairs and face Peter. I left the bedroom and returned to the hallway, going down the stairs slowly, my heart pounding so hard that I could almost hear it. I went to the kitchen doorway and stood. Peter was at my kitchen table, dunking biscotti into his coffee cup.

  I’ve seen Peter three times since his daughter, Kathy’s, murder: once at her funeral; once when he broke into my house previously “for a little chat” and the final time, when he kidnapped me. Two of those three times, he had been wearing golf attire; today was no exception.

  He saw me looking at his golf shirt, a bright salmon color. “I’m headed up to Hudson National to hit the links,” he said.

  I continued to stand in the doorway. “What do you want, Peter?”

  He nodded, his bald head gleaming. “Well, first of all, Alison, I owe you an apology.”

  I’ll say.

  “I was out of my mind with grief when we took that drive together.” He threw his hands up. “Out of my mind! Didn’t know what the fuck I was doing!” He grimaced. “Pardon my French.” Dunk, sip. “But things are better now. Gianna is better. We’re getting better. It was an awfully hard summer, but I see a light at the end of the tunnel.” He took a huge bite from the biscotti and continued talking, coffee and biscotti spraying onto my kitchen table. “Counseling is a fantastic thing, I tell you. Fantastic! That head shrinker has given us hope, Alison.”

  I leaned against the doorjamb and crossed my arms.

  “And she’s taught me to make amends. I need to make amends, Alison. With you, in particular.” He jabbed a fat, sausagelike finger in my direction. “Remember,” he said gravely, “I owe you.”

  Peter had left a note on my car last spring to that effect. I didn’t know why he felt like he owed me and I didn’t need any favors.

  “Peter,” I said slowly, finding my voice, “the only thing I need from you is for you to leave me alone.”

  He nodded. “I can understand why you would feel that way. I think that’s called ‘empathy.’ Or is it ‘sympathy’?” He shook his head, confused. “I can never remember. But here’s the thing, Alison: I owe you way more than you could ever know.”

  I shook my head. “You don’t.”

  He insisted. “I do! You were so kind to Kathy, you did everything you could to help find her killer…hell, you found her killer! You solved the case! The fucking NYPD couldn’t even do that with all of those fucking detectives working overtime!” He grimaced again. “Sorry. I have to stop cursing. Old habits die hard.”

  My stomach was sick and I was getting light-headed.

  “Here’s the thing, Alison,” he said, his voice changing slightly. “I need to tell you how sorry I am about Ray.”

  I waited.

  “I didn’t have any fond feelings for the man, obviously,” he said, tears filling his eyes. “I actually wished he would die. But you married the man, you had a life together. I’m sure you’re very sad about his passing.” He shoved half a piece of biscotti into his mouth. “Does your boyfriend have any idea who did this?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I clarified, as if it mattered. “And Crawford doesn’t tell me anything about any of his cases.” I was babbling, but it was the truth.

  Peter stared at me, looking for some kind of sign that I was telling the truth. He chewed on his pinkie nail and considered what I said. I wondered if he was trying to find out if Crawford was linking him to the murder. It made sense, after all. A grieving father, who was also a Mob boss…Peter clearly had motive and opportunity. After a few minutes of tense silence, he got up.

  I decided to go for broke even though I knew I wouldn’t get the truth. “Did you kill Ray, Peter?”

  He looked stunned but I assumed that acting was part of the criminal repertoire of false reactions. “No!”

  I sighed. “Okay, let me rephrase that. Did you have someone kill Ray?”

  He shook his head sadly. “Now why would you think that, Alison?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Peter. Maybe you thought that killing Ray would be one way to repay me for my kindness? Or maybe to avenge your daughter’s death?”

  He smiled slyly. “Now, there was a good idea. Too bad I didn’t come up with that on my own.” He looked up at the ceiling. “You’ll let me know if they find out anything, won’t you, Alison?”

  I wasn’t sure why he would want to know who did it or who the police suspected. I took a step back. No, I wouldn’t let him know anything that I found out, but I stayed silent.

  He approached me and put his hand to my cheek, leaving it there for a few long seconds. He rubbed his hand against it.

  “I’d really like you to leave,” I whispered. My face was hot beneath his clammy hand.

  He dropped his hand to my shoulder. “I always liked you.”

  And I never liked you, I wanted to say, but didn’t. Unable to meet his eyes, I focused on the collar of his shirt.

  “Remember when we were in school together?” he asked.

  I nodded. Peter went to Joliet, a mile or so away from St. Thomas and the original “brother” school to my formerly all-girls college. His proximity, coupled with the flashy Trans Am that he drove, made him tough to miss.

  “You were very cute. Nice girl. Quiet. Not like some of those other slutty girls at St. Thomas.”

  “Thank you, Peter,” I said. “What you think means so much to me.” I didn’t know if sarcasm violated some kind of cosa nostra code of ethics, but I was beyond caring.

  He gave my shoulder a little squeeze. “I know,” he said, and gave me a patronizing smile.

  God, this guy really believes his own hype, I thought. I could only imagine what his Joliet transcript looked like. Whacking: A+. Subtlety in Language: F.

  “I’ll reconnect your phone now.” He chuckled. “Bet you didn’t know I used to work for AT&T?”

  I didn’t know if he was kidding or not, but it really didn’t matter. I’m sure he had a little familiarity with wiretaps and such, but I didn’t see him as a lineman for the county. And I’m sure he knew that the first thing I would have done when I went to put my clothes on was call someone to tell them that Peter was in my house.

  He held
out his arms. “Come here,” he said. When I hesitated, he repeated, “Come here.”

  I walked toward him because it didn’t seem like I had a choice and held my breath while he grabbed me in a massive bear hug and put his lips to my cheek. He smelled like he had bathed in cologne. The stench, combined with the fact that his arms encircled me, made it so I could barely breathe. He finally let go and stepped back. “Enjoy the biscotti,” he said. “The best on Staten Island. Gianna made them.”

  “I know, Peter,” I said, nodding. I didn’t know what else to say, so I said, “Thank her for me.”

  He threw his arms out wide. “And now, off to the links! What a glorious day.” He exited through the back door.

  I stood in the kitchen until I heard the Mercedes pull away from the curb five minutes later, hearing the gravel spray onto my front lawn. I picked up the phone on the counter and listened for the dial tone.

  It was back. I dialed a number I knew by heart.

  Crawford put the girls on the train, walking them all the way down the platform and making sure they were in their seats and on their way to Greenwich before leaving. He watched their faces as the train pulled away and took some solace in the fact that Erin actually smiled at him and blew him a kiss. Meaghan was too busy fooling around with her iPod to notice that he was still there.

  He stood on the platform until the train lights were out of sight. Every time they left was hard; it never got any easier. He had gotten used to the fact that they didn’t live together, but he wished there was more time to be together. Work had taken hold of his life and wouldn’t let go. He’d be interested to see how Fred would make it work once he was married. Crawford certainly hadn’t figured out how to balance on the high-wire act of life versus the “Job.”

  He had just passed his sixteenth anniversary on the police department. Graduating from the academy just five months before his daughters were born, he felt like he had everything: the job he always wanted, a wife, and soon, a family. It all came very quickly, shortly after he had left college, but it was what he wanted. Nothing more. His father had fought him on joining the police department; Frank Crawford had spent twenty unhappy, tedious years as a beat cop, hating every minute, counting down the days until he retired. But Bobby saw it as his calling; his time on the Job would be different from Frank’s. He promised Frank that he would finish college at night, as soon as the twins were born and things settled down. Frank wasn’t stupid; he knew that that would never happen and it never did. Bobby had managed to eke out two full years of school, but never got his bachelor’s degree. A couple of courses at a community college got him his associate’s, but he had never found the time to make good on his promise to Frank.

  Christine had been with him since high school. They had met in the neighborhood; her father owned a local bar and she worked there. She was inclined to agree with Frank—she saw Bobby in a different job but she accepted that police work appeared to be his calling. But she had supported them while he attended NYU, slaving away in her father’s bar, and she was tired. She wanted to go to college, too, but had sacrificed in order to make sure he got out of school first. The police department, to her, was her ticket out of drudgery. From what Crawford could tell, she never anticipated the strain it would put on their marriage.

  He took the crosstown shuttle to Times Square and then the subway home to Ninety-seventh Street. He knew that Sunday night was Bea’s bingo night at the church, so he was safe. He walked in, no tiptoeing, and made his way up to his apartment at the top of the stairs.

  Upon entering, he threw his keys onto the dining room table and checked his phone messages, his nightly ritual. The machine sat on the counter that separated the galley kitchen from the dining area. He went into the kitchen while the tape rewound and took a beer from the refrigerator.

  “You have two new messages,” the disembodied voice announced. The first message clicked on, but nobody spoke. He could hear breathing on the other line and then silence as the line disconnected. The second message came on immediately. “Bobby, it’s me.” Fred. Crawford listened to the message, detailing Peter Miceli’s visit to Alison, and then hit the button that told the day and time of the call—it had come in right after he had left for Grand Central that morning. Fred said that he and Max were on their way to Alison’s to check on things.

  He grabbed his keys and left the apartment.

  He found himself speeding through the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, not sure how he had gotten there but completely aware of where he was going. Everyone knew where Peter Miceli lived; his house had been used during a movie shoot and its location had been both published in every New York paper and broadcast over every major news station in the area. Crawford knew exactly where he was headed, even if he wasn’t really sure why he was going.

  Staten Island is really part of New Jersey, Crawford thought, and flashed back to the secession movement that had gripped the borough in the late eighties. It borders the really ugly part of New Jersey and is virtually impossible to get to from the five boroughs. It’s an island only in the most literal sense without all of the attendant lushness and beauty that usually accompanies the word. Crawford had found out—after they had gotten married—that Christine’s late mother’s family lived way out on Staten Island. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered Christine casually mentioning her family out there, but when push came to shove, he would swear under oath that he never remembered her saying that they visited said family twice a month. He, Christine, and the twins had spent many a Saturday afternoon sitting in traffic on the Gowanus Expressway, inching their way closer to hell: Christine’s Polish grandmother, her spectacularly bad Polish food, and her small, overheated, figurine-filled Cape Cod house. Trying to keep toddling twins away from a display of Precious Moments figurines almost became Crawford’s full-time job during those days; an ill-timed trip to the bathroom to relieve himself of the cheap, domestic beer he consumed while there could spell disaster. And a Polish curse on his house from his suspicious grandmother-in-law.

  He wondered, just for the sake of argument, if failure to disclose Staten Island relatives was a reason for annulment.

  He exited the Staten Island Expressway and made his way onto Richmond Road, where small, attached homes eventually gave way to old, big, expensive estates. Peter Miceli’s Italianate stucco monstrosity was somewhere off Richmond Road and Crawford knew that he would find it easily. When he got a sense of the house numbers—evens on the left, odds on the right—and saw that they were getting larger as he drove, he knew he was getting closer.

  Miceli’s house was about a quarter mile down the road on the left. Surprisingly, there was no gate in front of the house and Crawford was able to pull right up to the front door at the center of the circular drive and adjacent to the fountain in the center of everything. Peter’s Mercedes, as well as other cars, were in the driveway—all late model and all American made—making Crawford think that perhaps the Micelis were entertaining. He pulled the Passat up as close as he could and turned it off, taking a few deep breaths as he sat in the car.

  He had no second thoughts as he walked up the wide stone steps to the front of the house. He pushed the doorbell and waited, hearing footsteps falling on marble inside the foyer. When the door opened, he was surprised to find himself face-to-face with Peter Miceli.

  Miceli, on the other hand, didn’t appear surprised at all. Recognition flashed in his porcine eyes and he smiled broadly. “Detective!” he bellowed, as if he had been waiting for Crawford all night.

  Crawford shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket, fingering the gun under his right hand. “Mr. Miceli.”

  Peter held out his hand, forcing Crawford to remove his from his pocket to shake. “What brings you here on this balmy evening?” Peter asked, sniffing the breeze. “Smells like rain.”

  “Can I have a word with you, Mr. Miceli?” Crawford asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Miceli stepped out of the house and onto the gran
d front porch. Once off the inner step of the foyer, he lost several inches and stood at his full five and a half feet, looking up at Crawford. If Crawford had to guess, he would say that they probably weighed the same, however. “What can I do for you, Detective?” he asked, an innocent gleam in his eye.

  Crawford got right to the point. “I’m going to have to ask that you leave Alison alone, Mr. Miceli. She doesn’t know anything and can’t help you with whatever it is that you want.” He tried to remain fairly convivial; he was already in violation of about half a dozen department rules and he didn’t want Miceli to feel threatened in any way.

  Peter considered what he said, staring up at Crawford’s face. He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. “She’s an old friend, Detective. She was very kind to my daughter. Occasionally, I like to drop by and remind her of how grateful we are.” His face turned hard. “I don’t see what business it is of yours.”

  Crawford took a step back. “It’s entirely my business, Mr. Miceli.”

  Peter paused another moment. “Stay out of it, Detective. It doesn’t concern you anymore. From what I hear, Alison doesn’t want to spend a lot of time with you right now.” He smiled. “You’ve got a wife. I’m sure that didn’t sit well with Professor Bergeron.”

  Crawford swallowed. “Please. Stay away from her.”

  Peter laughed. “Or what? Are you gonna have me arrested, Detective? For what? Visiting an old college friend?” He gave Crawford a look. “You’re out of your league here, Detective. Let it go.”

  Crawford looked down at him. “Don’t go there again. That’s all I have to say.” He turned to leave, making his way down the first two steps of the porch.