“How are you, Brett.”
Sinatra laughed and extended his hand. “I’m Brent,” he said. “Nice seeing you again, Sal. It’s been quite some time.”
“It’s been a minute,” Sal said, shaking his hand. Brent Sinatra. The cop. Sal remembered him well. When they first met over a decade ago, Sal thought they would get along. He was a cop and so was Sal back then, he liked women and so did Sal back then, so he thought, of all the Sinatras, he had something most in common with this guy. But he turned out to be one of those law and order purists who seemed to view Sal as a crooked cop. Although Sal wasn’t exactly straight, he was no bum-runner like the rest of them either. But his old man was a crooked cop, and his father’s brother and some of his other relatives were Mafia, so the suspicion was there. But that didn’t mean Sal appreciated being found guilty by association that way.
He placed a hand in the small of Gemma’s back and pushed her slightly forward. “I want you to meet my lady,” he said. “Gemma Jones.”
“Very nice to meet you, Miss Jones,” Brent said, removing his hat and shaking her hand.
“Nice to meet you,” Gemma responded. What blew her away wasn’t just his big, green eyes that were so big they seemed almost like staring eyes, but the swath of beautiful, jet-black silky hair that dropped along his neck when he took off his hat. This guy was no yahoo, that was for sure, but he wasn’t exactly a flaming liberal either. She could see some restraint in him, some serious caution, but she could see a sparkle there too.
“So what brings you out here?” Sal asked. “Don’t you have neighborhoods to patrol?”
“I heard you were coming. As the chief of police, I wanted to welcome you to our town.”
Ah. So he was the chief now. He was just a beat cop when Sal first met him. “Very good of you,” Sal said.
“And I also,” Brent continued, “wanted to ask if there was anything I can help you with. While you’re here, I mean.”
Sal stared at his cousin. He hated when men beat around the bush. “Make yourself plain,” he said.
“Don’t fuck around, in my town,” Brent said plainly.
Sal had to smile on that one. “Fair enough.”
“We’re a peaceful people here. Very peaceful. But if you act like an asshole, we will take the meaning of the word to another level. Trust me on that.”
Sal smiled. “Fear the hicks, is that what you mean?”
“Don’t underestimate the hicks,” Brent said. “That’s what I mean.”
Sal stared at his cousin. A word to the wise was always sufficient, and he was no fool. “Fair enough,” he said again.
“Need any directions to any particular place or person?”
“No, I got it,” Sal said. “Thanks.”
Brent nodded toward Gemma. “Ma’am,” he said, put back on his hat, and then got in his truck and drove away.
Gemma looked at Sal. “Was that rude or what?”
“It was smart,” Sal said. “He knows my slick ass.” Then he began walking Gemma to his car. “Let’s get this over with,” he said.
The car’s navigation system was already preprogrammed as Sal had instructed. He therefore drove along the countryside, where barns and windmills and big houses and shacks stood near each other on massive swaths of land, until he was in town where rundown trailers and thriving businesses lived side by side. His mother’s house, on Burberry Road, was not in the rundown, trailer park side of town, but it was close.
Sal’s Maserati drove into the driveway and parked behind an old Ford Focus. When Sal and Gemma both looked at the small, block house with a torn screened door and a small porch, they were both surprised. Especially Sal, who didn’t get it.
“Why would she have to live like this?” he wondered. “All she had to do was give me a call. I wouldn’t have my mother living like this. And what about her family here in town? They’re people of means. Why would they allow this?”
“Sometimes it’s not a question of allowing it,” Gemma said. “It’s a question of allowing grown people to live their own lives. She’s a grown-ass woman, Sal.”
Sal exhaled. “Yeah. She’s supposed to be.”
Gemma looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She left her kids with a man she knew was abusive. She was a grown-ass woman then too. So excuse me if I question her growth.”
Gemma considered Sal. His mother’s decision to leave him and his brother was a monumental event in Sal’s life. He lived with it, but he never overcame it. Now he had to confront that past, and it wasn’t easy for him. Gemma took his hand. He looked at her.
“You’re never alone,” she said. “Remember that.”
Sal smiled, and squeezed her hand. But as he squeezed it, they heard a loud crash sound. When they both looked back toward the house, they saw a petite white woman falling out of the screened door as if she had been pushed out. With a can of beer in her hand, she fell back on her ass.
“Who in the world is that?” Gemma asked, amazed by the view.
Sal couldn’t believe it either. “Jacqueline Gabrini. My mother,” he said, and began unbuckling his seatbelt.
Gemma was shocked, especially when a man came out onto the porch, grabbed Ms. Gabrini by the catch of her shoulders, and threw her back into the house, as if he wasn’t finished with her yet.
“You stay here,” Sal ordered as he began to hurry out of the car. But Gemma, instinctively, began unbuckling her belt too. But Sal pointed his finger at her before he closed the door. “Don’t fuck with me, Gem,” he warned her, knowing her penchant to want to check things out. “I don’t want anything happening to you. Keep your ass in this car!” And then he slammed the door, and hurried toward his mother’s house.
By the time he hurried inside the house, the man, a tall, wiry man, was choking her on the sofa. Sal hurried up to him and grabbed him.
“Get him, Salvie!” his mother yelled as Sal punched the man so hard that he fell against the far side wall. The man then cowered and slid down to the floor, crying. It was only then did Sal see the bruises already on the man’s face, and arms, and his torn and battered clothes. He looked at his mother, who didn’t have a scratch on her.
“What happened here?” he asked her.
She smiled. “It’s so good to see you again, Salvie,” she said. “Come and give your mommy a hug.”
Sal couldn’t believe the sight of her. She had always been a gorgeous girl, incredibly so, and even in her drunken, rundown state he could still see that Sinatra charisma. But the years had not been kind. She looked beat up to him, not from physical beatings, but emotional ones. She looked as if she had given up. She looked as if she had completely let herself go. This was not the glamorous, always well put together woman he remembered.
“What happened here?” he asked again. “Who’s this guy?”
“What are you too high and mighty for me now? You can’t give me a hug? Give me a hug, boy! I’m your mama. I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age, and you don’t even hug me?”
It felt surreal to Sal. Didn’t she realize he should want to murder her, not hug her? But he went over to her, bent down, and hugged her neck. He was a sucker. When it came to his folks, to his mother and even to his father when he was alive, he was a sucker.
She reeked of alcohol as he hugged her, and when she kissed him on the cheek, and he felt her saliva on his skin, he cringed. A part of him hated this woman. He felt as if he was in league with his enemy when he allowed her to touch him. He stood back erect.
But Jacqueline Gabrini, whom everybody called Sprig, failed to see the problem. “You look so handsome now,” she said, as she took a sip of her beer. “You used to look pudgy when you were a kid. Pudgy Sal, that was you. Not Tommy though. Tommy was an Adonis. He was sooo good looking, oh my goodness! Everybody loved Tommy’s great looks. He looked more like a Sinatra than a Gabrini, and your father used to hate me when I said it. That’s why I kept saying it.” She laughed. Then she frowned, undoubtedl
y thinking, Sal figured, about life with his father.
“I love her,” the man said and Sal turned in his direction. “But you see how she treats me. But I still love her.”
“Ah, shut the fuck up!” Sprig yelled. “And get the fuck out of my house! He loves me. Well I don’t love you, you henpecked punk! Get out of my house before I fuck you up again!”
The man stared at her, pain in his bloodshot eyes. “I love you, Sprig,” he said.
“I’m not telling you again, Craig. Get out now. Get out!”
“I love you, Sprig.”
“Okay,” Sprig said, shaking her head. “You think I’m playing with your ass?” She moved to stand up from the sunken down sofa, and although she spilled half her beer and had to sit back down, it was enough for the guy. He jumped up from the floor and took off out of the house. Sal hurried up behind him, to make sure he didn’t start any nonsense with Gemma, but the guy was running on down the street. He was afraid of Sprig Gabrini. Sal nonetheless motioned for Gemma to come inside the house. Gemma got out of the car.
Sal went back inside, and took a seat in the chair that flanked the sofa. For some reason he was suddenly drained. He had to sit down.
Gemma walked into a house that had the scent of alcohol all over it. And the furniture looked more like Salvation Army surplus than any kind of furniture she could ever imagine a Gabrini utilizing. And the woman, seated on the sofa, reminded her, not of Sal, but of the man who had met them at the airstrip. She had those same big, green eyes, and that straight nose, and long, black, silky hair down her bone thin back. Only she didn’t possess that natural beautifulness that Brent seemed to possess. She looked more pinched-faced, as if something akin to bitterness had sunken her jaws and kidnapped her beauty. Because she was once a very beautiful woman. Sal had told her so.
She looked toward the door when Gemma walked through it.
“Who is that?” his mother asked.
“That’s Gemma,” he said. But he didn’t say, that’s my lady, the way he normally did. And he didn’t stand up when he was introducing her, the way he normally would. Sal was in a state, Gemma could tell it.
Gemma took over. She smiled and walked up to his mother, extending her hand as she came. “Hi,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Gabrini.”
“Don’t call me that,” she quickly said, shaking Gemma’s hand. “Call me Sprig. Everybody does. And who are you? His assistant or something?”
For some reason that caused Sal to stand to his feet, despite his drain. “What assistant?” he asked frowningly. “This is my lady. Gemma Jones.” He said it as if he dared her to say anything negative.
But his mother nodded. “Very nice,” she said. “You finally acquired some taste, it’s about time. I used to hear tell of all of those biker chicks and dance hall whores you used to go for. At least this one looks like she’s got something going for her other than her body. Although,” Sprig said with a grin, “she’s got that going for her too.”
Gemma smiled. Sal relaxed, in as much as he could. “Have a seat, babe,” he said to Gemma.
He expected Gemma to sit in the chair he had just vacated, but she didn’t. She sat beside his mother.
Sprig turned and looked at her. “So what do you do for a living, Gemma? You work somewhere?”
“I’m an attorney,” Gemma said.
Sprig smiled. “A lawyer? My my. Now that is surprising. Sal with a lawyer lady. And you’re strong too. I can tell. That’s good. That’s real good. You have to be strong to stay with a Gabrini. Because if you become weak at any point, if you ever show even the slightest hint of weakness, it’s over. They will take advantage of you. Mark my words. They will eat you alive.”
Sal didn’t like what she was telling Gemma, but Gemma fully understood what she was saying. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, but she knew Sal’s sensitivity. She immediately changed the subject. “You said everybody calls you Sprig. Why Sprig?”
She smiled. “They’ve been calling me that since I was a little girl. Mainly because I was tiny then and never got much bigger. And also because I was bound to be the lesser of my siblings, since I was the only girl of male kids and the least favorite of both my parents.”
Gemma understood methodology. She understood how bad things could happen to good people, and how they, in turn, could do bad things to other good people. As an attorney she saw vicious cycles every day. “Well, you’re still here,” she said. “That should account for something.”
Sprig laughed. “That’s right,” she said, looking at Gemma as if she was a refreshing sight to see. Then she held up her beer. “Would you care for something to drink? You and Sal?”
“No, we’re fine,” Gemma said. She knew Sal wasn’t about to drink so much as a drop of water in that house, so she answered for both of them. “But thanks.”
Sprig patted Gemma’s jeans-clad thigh and looked at Sal. “I’m glad you got you somebody special, Salvie,” she said to her son. “You need somebody. Tommy, he can make it alone. But you can’t. You never could.”
Sal had had it. “Yeah, I could never do anything right in your eyes, so yeah, I see why you would think that. You’re wrong, but I see why you would think that.”
Sprig cut him a look something harsh, and all smiles were gone. “Don’t get snippy with me, young man. I’m still your mother. And you will,” she belched, covering her mouth. Sal shook his head. “And you will respect me as your mother.”
“Respect you?”
“That’s right! I’m your mother. Warts and all. I’m your mother. I did the best I could do for you. Was I perfect? No. But you need to blame your father for that, not me! Your father was a bad man, you just don’t know. He was a very bad man!”
Enough of this bullshit, Sal thought. He knew what his father was, he knew it better than she did since he lived with him longer. He didn’t need her to tell him anything about his father. “What do you want?” he asked impatiently. “You wanted me to come here, I came. Now tell me what you want from me.”
“Oh, Sal, Sal, Sal. It’s a long story,” she said.
“Yeah, well, that’s the way it goes. What’s the story?”
She looked at him, angered by his impatience. “You’re just like him,” she said, and Sal jumped up, ready to leave.
Gemma, however, stopped him. “Sal,” she said, in that don’t do it voice of hers that he always responded to. He sat back down. Then Gemma looked at Sprig. “Your son is a good man. I know him very well. Don’t bullshit him, and you will have his attention. Play games with him, and he’s out of here. And where he goes, I go. Just tell him why you asked him to come.”
For some strange reason, there was instant respect between the two women, which Sal found odd in the extreme. How could Gemma respect a woman like that, and he’d always assumed his mother was the racist his father was. How could they respect each other at all?
But they did. It was immediately apparent. Because, instead of Sprig lashing out at Gemma and telling her to mind her own business, or some such admonition, she nodded her head. And cut the bull. “There’s a contract out on my life,” she said.
Talk about getting to the point, Gemma thought, when she heard such dramatic words. She looked at Sal. Sal was just as astounded as she was.
“What did you say?” he asked her.
“You heard me, Sal. There’s a contract out on my life.”
“Who would put a contract out on you? Who are you, all the way up here in fucking Maine?”
“I called you to help me, not to demean me.”
Sal settled back down. He glanced at Gemma, and then looked at his mother. “So who is it? Who put papers on you?”
Sprig sat her beer can on the magazine-filled coffee table, picked up a pack of cigarettes off of the table. She began looking around and feeling her chest area, as if she had matches inside her bra or something. Then she looked at Sal. “Got a light?” she asked.
“No I don’t have a light! Who put papers on you, Ma, just
tell me that?”
“Oh,” she said, when she spotted her liter on a side table across the room. She looked at Gemma. “Baby, could you get me that liter over there, please?”
Gemma, seeing the liter, was about to stand and go and get it. But Sal stood for her, and went and got it instead.
“Next time you need something, you ask me, not her,” he said as he handed his mother the liter. “She’s not your flunky.”
Sprig snatched the liter from her son’s hand. “You’re a mother’s dream, you know that?”
Sal sat back down. Then he and Gemma both waited while Sprig lit her cigarette, leaned forward, and took a couple puffs. Then her look changed, as if she was inwardly realizing the gravity of her situation. “The Noose,” she said.
Sal was certain he had heard her wrong. He didn’t respond. Gemma was looking at him, expecting him to comment, but he didn’t say a word.
Sprig looked at him. “You heard me right. The Noose put papers out on me. The Noose put a contract out on me.”
“Nicky the Noose?” Sal clarified.
“Nicky the Noose,” Sprig said.
“But how? How in the world could you get mixed up with that crazy fucker all the way up here in Maine? What is Nicky the Noose doing in Maine?”
“He wasn’t in Maine, alright? And stop acting like we’re in another country! One of his guys was a close friend of mine. We used to date back in the day when I lived in Jersey.”
“While you were married to Pop?”
“I’m still married to Pop, as far as that goes. He wasn’t going to never let me divorce him, and I stayed married to him until the day he died. So I wasn’t thinking about your father. I saw whomever the hell I pleased, just as he was doing. But Stanley was a good guy. He treated me right. Even when your father broke us up, and I eventually fled here to Maine so that my people could protect me, Stanley stayed in touch.”
Her eyes looked faraway, as if she was remembering something unpleasant. “The Noose started accusing Stan of double-crossing him, of stealing some of his money and some other shit that wasn’t true. He was scared of Stan’s muscle and the fact that his soldiers like Stan’s leadership better, that’s all that was about. But nobody could tell him differently. Stan was double-crossing him, that’s all he wanted to believe. So he killed him.”
Sal Gabrini 3: Hard Love Page 9