When he came back out, Stacy was standing in the living room, wearing a black minidress made out of sweatshirt material under a tan trench coat. She flipped her long corkscrew curls over her shoulder and looked at him with sad eyes. She looked washed out, like she’d been crying a lot. “Hi,” she said. It was little more than a whisper.
“Hi.” He was buckling his belt as he stepped closer. “You want some coffee?”
She shook her head and pushed the hair out of her face. She kept looking at him as if she expected him to do something.
He felt strange standing there in his bare feet and T-shirt, her with her coat on. “So … how’ve you been?”
“Angry.”
He nodded. “At me, I assume.”
She nodded. “Yeah. At you.”
“Look, Stacy, no one feels worse about this than I do. John was my friend—”
“I’m not angry about the … about John dying. I’m sad about that. It’s you I’m angry at.”
“Why?” He knew why. He just didn’t know what else to say.
“Because you hurt me. I thought we had something together. I thought you were different.”
“Stacy, you don’t understand.”
“Why did you try to pawn me off on John that night?”
Tozzi looked at his feet and sighed. He had incredibly ugly feet. “I know that’s the way it seems, but believe me, I wasn’t trying to pawn you off. I was only thinking of you. I just thought you needed someone more appropriate—”
“How the hell do you know what I need?” She whipped her hair back. “I know what I need. You don’t know. I need…” She stared at him for a moment, then looked away.
“Stacy, I—I don’t know what to say to you.”
“Yeah, I know. You never know what to say to me. You have a lot to say to everybody else about me, but you never have anything to say to me.”
Tozzi felt awful. He wanted her to understand that he wasn’t deliberately trying to be a shit, but how could he tell her about his problem? It was humiliating. Besides, as incredible as she was, he’d already made up his mind that they were wrong for each other. Lorraine was right: He was incapable of sustaining a relationship with a woman. And face facts, he was old enough to be Stacy’s father. It was all wrong. It wouldn’t work.
“I came here to find out where I stand, Tozzi. If you want me to go away, then I’ll go away. But if you want me to stick around, you’ve got to show me you’re worth it. I’ve been showing you all my cards right along. Now it’s your turn.”
Tozzi looked down at his crotch and sighed. He wasn’t holding any aces.
“Talk to me, Tozzi. I have to know how you really feel about me right now, or else I’m gone. For good.”
Tozzi sighed. “Stacy … Look, I’ve gotta go to—”
She snapped her head back. “No more excuses, Tozzi. I want to know now, and I want to know for sure.”
“Look, Stacy.” He stepped closer, but she did, too, and suddenly he had his hands on her hips. The toe of her black suede miniboot was rubbing against his bare foot. She smelled like spearmint and honey.
“Well?” Her face was inches from his.
All of a sudden he felt a little faint. The spearmint-and-honey fragrance was making him high, it seemed. Then he felt it, in his underpants. He was getting hard. He was growing like Jack’s beanstalk. The blood must’ve been rushing to his crotch, that’s why he felt the way he did. It was the kind of hard-on you could do push-ups with. It was so big, it ached.
Oh, my God.
Without thinking he pulled her closer and touched her lips with his. His head was spinning. Their lips touched again, lightly, then not so lightly until they were pressed together. His brain was speeding down a mountain, out of control. He didn’t want to let her go for fear that he’d lose it. He wanted that kiss to go on forever and ever.
Her hands were flat on his chest at first, but now they started to roam. He wasn’t aware that they were on his butt until they started to drift up his back. Then suddenly she pulled away from his lips.
“What’s that?” Her brow was furrowed.
“What?”
“That thing on your back.”
“Oh, that. It’s a tape recorder.”
She looked puzzled, then pissed.
“No, Stacy, I’m not taping you. I was getting ready to go to work.”
“You’re back at work now? I thought you—”
“No, not officially. But I’ve got a little job to do this morning.” He glanced at the mantel clock. Shit. He had to get moving if he was gonna make that funeral.
She pushed him away, frowning. “Now you’re gonna tell me you don’t have any time for me? You’re too busy?”
“No. No. I wasn’t thinking that.”
Not exactly.
He pulled her close, trying to figure out how long it would take to get to Howard Beach by cab. He linked his fingers around the small of her back. He was so horny and confused, his hands were shaking. He wanted her badly, but he just got through telling himself he was no good for her. Shit.
Her eyes were liquid. “So? Are we going to?”
Tozzi’s pulse was gushing.
“Well?” she whispered. “Are we?”
Tozzi couldn’t speak. He most definitely wanted to, but he knew he shouldn’t. But his pecker was in working order again, and you know what they say: Use it or lose it. But he had to get to that damn funeral, he had to stop Sal Immordino. But this was Stacy Viera he was holding, the Pump-It-Up Girl. But he just swore to himself that he wasn’t gonna do to her what he’d done to all the other women who came before her. But on the other hand…
Their lips collided again, and his tongue went searching for hers. His head was flying around the room, bouncing off the walls, and it wasn’t until they started to fall onto the bed that he realized they weren’t in the living room anymore.
They grappled and kissed, out of their minds, rolling on the unmade bed. Tozzi was on his back, the Nagra digging into his flesh. He reached around and yanked it off, his skin smarting from the tape. He came up for air long enough to put the tape recorder on the night table, and in that instant he caught a glimpse of his suit jacket hanging on the closet door. The black pinstripe suit. His funeral suit.
Shit.
Stacy was on her knees, straddling him, her hair tumbling down over his face. She flipped it back and nuzzled his ear, licking the lobe.
“Tozzi?”
“Hmmm?” He was looking at the clock radio on the night table.
“Are you paying attention?”
“Of course I’m paying attention. Whattaya think?” He was so big he thought he was going to explode. He rolled her off him and onto her side, and one of those incredible breasts landed on his forearm. The erect nipple nestled in his chest hair.
“You should see your face.” She was laughing, her bronze eyes sparkling.
Tozzi caught another whiff of spearmint. He looked into her eyes and she stopped laughing. Their lips had another collision. Tongues clashed. He was dizzy again.
The kiss went on and on and on. He was skiing straight down a mountain, a hundred miles an hour right in his face. Stacy murmured through their kiss then, and suddenly he was back in the bedroom. He opened his eyes a crack. His suit jacket was staring down at them, waiting.
Chapter 20
The windshield wipers sounded like they were going to a funeral. One … two. One … two. One … two. Real bummed out. Sal leaned forward in the backseat and pointed. “Why don’cha park over there, Cil? Near the side door.”
“Why don’t you be quiet, Salvatore, and let me drive?” Cil was crawling down the block, looking for a space that was big enough for Lucy’s little Datsun.
“I just wanna go in the side way, Cil, that’s all. I think I saw a guy with a camera out in front of the church. I’m sick and tired of those guys.”
“Oh, really? You weren’t sick and tired of t
hem yesterday or the day before that. You were parading up and down the sidewalk, posing for the cameras then.”
Emerick started shivering again. “Where’s Charles? I want Charles.”
Sal put his arm around him to calm him down. “Don’t worry, Donnie. We’re gonna see Charles later. In a little while.” He wished to hell Cil would stop with that testy tone of voice of hers. It was making Emerick all jittery and shaky, like one of those little toy poodles.
“C’mon, now, Donnie. Take it easy, take it easy. She doesn’t mean it.”
“This is so bad. So very very very bad.” His face crumpled, and he spoke without breathing, as if he were bearing down to take a crap. Sal hoped he didn’t start crying again.
“Why don’cha turn around, Cil? Park on the other side of the street near the church, by the side door over there. I see a space.”
“I know how to drive, Salvatore. I’ll park where I want to.”
Cil was in a real mood today. She was wearing the heavy-duty habit, which she probably would’ve worn anyway on account of Mistretta’s funeral, but it seemed that whenever she wore that thing, it made her crazy. The rest of the time she was pretty much okay, a little bazingy in the head, but basically okay. But when she put on that long black thing with the headpiece and all, that’s when she really turned into a nun, a real nun, like the ones Sal remembered from Catholic school. Brutal.
She was mad because Emerick was here. She wanted him to stay home with Lucy, but Sal told her they had to bring him. After all, they were all out of pills and Donnie boy had been cold turkey for two days now. Couldn’t leave him alone with an old lady and all those girls. Sure, he was a real sweetie pie when he had his pills, but you couldn’t be too sure about him now. Look at how nervous he is. That’s what he’d told Cil. She didn’t want to believe that her nice little Donnie boy might do something naughty with her girls, but in her heart of hearts Cil believed that all men were filthy animals, and she wasn’t about to risk it even though she kept saying that bringing Donnie to Mistretta’s funeral was totally inappropriate, totally inappropriate.
Sal grinned on one side of his face and looked at his own eyes in the rearview mirror. “Inappropriate” wasn’t exactly the word he’d use. Maybe “memorable.” If everything went the way he planned it, they’d definitely remember Donnie Emerick after today. Sal wiped his forehead with his sleeve and looked at his watch. Another hour or so and it would be all done. Just one more hour.
Unless the shooter finds him first. He tried not to think about that, but it was hard not to. It would be considered very disrespectful to try to pull off a hit at a funeral, but you couldn’t trust anybody these days. Nobody played by the friggin’ rules anymore. Sal sighed, wishing the goddamn butterflies in his stomach would go away.
Cil made a U-turn at the end of the block and headed back toward the church. There was a nice big space not too far from the side door. Sal didn’t say a word. She pulled up alongside the car in front of the space and started fighting with the wheel to parallel park this piece of crap. Sal kept his mouth shut. Cil liked to complain, but she always ended up doing what he told her to.
St. Anthony’s loomed outside the windshield, the toast-colored bricks of the steeple reaching into a drizzly gray sky. It always seemed to rain for funerals. God must like to see people getting their feet all muddy at the cemetery when they put the stiff in the ground. Sal had always thought God had a weird sense of humor.
Emerick started shivering again. He was sobbing, his eyes squeezed shut. His mouth was open and downturned, kidney-shaped. Sal hugged him closer and rubbed his arm. “It’s okay, Donnie. Believe me. It’s okay.”
“Where’s Charles? I haven’t see him in so long. I want him to take me back to the hospital. I don’t like it here. I want Charles.”
“Don’t worry, Donnie. He’s coming. Soon. He told me to take care of you until he gets back. Okay?”
Emerick crumpled his face, nodded, then put his head on Sal’s shoulder.
Sal caught Cil staring at them in the rearview mirror. It was a mean nun stare. She knew Charles wasn’t gonna be coming around to see anybody. It had been in all the papers and on TV.
Sal waited for Cil to nose the car up to the curb and cut the engine. “Look, Cil, why don’t you go ’head in? I’ll meet you inside.”
She turned around and glared at him. “And what about…?” Her lips were tight. She gestured with her eyes at Emerick.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of everything. It’ll be okay. Trust me.”
“Don’t tell me to trust you.”
“Why not?”
“Just don’t.”
She opened her door and got out, slamming it shut.
Sal wrinkled his brow. What the hell was her problem now?
“This is so bad.”
“Easy, Donnie. Take it easy.”
Sal hugged Emerick and rocked him a little as he looked out the window at the cars assembled in front of the church. The hearse and the limos for the family were parked there. Mistretta’s wife and kids and their families were just starting to go up the steps now. The back door of the hearse was open, but they hadn’t taken the casket out yet. The old man would be the last one in and the first one out.
The little parking lot behind the church was filling up with Caddies, Lincolns, and Mercedeses. Everybody was here, it looked like. Sal bent his head to get a better look out the rear window. He spotted some of the guys from his old crew, the guys he could count on. They were all standing together in one group, their wives all together in another group. Loopy Lou, Jimmy T., Angie, Phil, Gyp.
Jesus, was that Phil’s wife? Madonn’, has she gained weight. Actually, except for Gyp’s wife, they all looked pretty bad. They looked like … like wives. No wonder these guys all had girlfriends.
About a half-dozen cars away from this group, another group of guys were standing together, smoking, fixing their ties and their collars, all big eyes and pouty mouths. They looked like a bunch of Rodney Dangerfield impersonators. Zito, Nicky, Tom-Tom, Richie Provolone, Bobby Cigars—all Juicy’s guys. Joey D’Amico was over there, too. He used to be in Sal’s crew, the fucking little traitor.
Sal wondered how many of them were packing. Tom-Tom was. He never went anywhere without a gun, even though you weren’t supposed to take one into church. It was disrespectful. Bobby Cigars might be carrying. He was another friggin’ gun nut. Maybe even D’Amico—he was such a nervous bastard. Assholes like him need guns ’cause they make a lot of enemies. Sal nodded to himself, thinking. Two, maybe three guns. That was all right, but he wished he knew for sure there were gonna be more.
Unless one of those guns belonged to the shooter who was after him. He sighed again. The butterflies were back.
A long black Lincoln pulled into the parking lot then. Sal squinted to see who it was. As soon as he saw the driver—Tony Nig with that kinky Afro haircut of his—Sal knew who was inside. Juicy Vacarini, the man of the hour. But when Tony Nig went around to open the back door, Sal was very surprised to see who stepped out with the slimy son of a bitch: Frank Bartolo, Jr., with his mother Rose balling her eyes, hanging on the kid’s arm.
A grin wrapped around Sal’s face. Beautiful. He never expected to see the Bartolos here. Frank’s funeral was gonna be on Wednesday, so he just figured they wouldn’t show up to Mistretta’s. But here they were, mourning with the rest of the family. Poor Rose was pathetic. She looked like she didn’t know where the hell she was. Junior looked like a friggin’ mountain gorilla stuffed into that suit. He was almost Sal’s size, but beefier. The roll of fat on the back of his neck bulged out of his shirt, and his arms were putting a strain on the jacket. He could barely button the thing in front. But Sal was happy to see Junior. Junior had a real bad temper, lots of assault-and-battery charges on his yellow sheet. And Junior always carried something. Always.
Sal bit his bottom lip. But what if Junior decided Sal Immordino was the guy who had
his old man whacked? It made sense, and Juicy was probably telling people Sal was the one behind these hits just to turn them against him. Then there was the fuckin’ FBI. That’s what these goddamn feds do. They go around telling stories about guys, trying to make bad blood. Bartolo’s kid wasn’t that smart, he was easily led. What if he started shooting at him in church? Sal hadn’t thought of that. All of a sudden he had stomach cramps.
As the big gorilla led his poor inconsolable mother into church, Juicy hung back and lit a cigarette, scanning the parking lot with one eyebrow cocked, like a fox checking out the chickens. The Rodney Dangerfields shuffled right over to shake hands with their captain. D’Amico went with them.
The other group—Loopy Lou and those guys—waved and nodded to Juicy, but they followed Junior and Rose Bartolo, which was only proper. They were still Bartolo’s crew, even if it was in name only, so they were supposed to stick with their captain’s widow. Sal was actually happy that they were following the Bartolos. It showed they weren’t ready to accept Juicy as capo di capi yet. Sal had called Loopy Lou earlier that morning and asked him to fill the guys in, tell them to stay cool for a while until after the funeral. Loopy Lou must’ve convinced them because usually in a situation like this, everybody’d go suck up to Juicy, treat him like the big boss before the old boss was even in the ground. But these guys weren’t doing that. They were treating Juicy like he was just another captain, which is what he still was officially. Juicy stood there with his boys, smoke sifting out of his nose as he watched Loopy, Angie, Phil, Gyp, and Jimmy T. walking away with their wives trailing behind. Joey D’Amico was whispering in Juicy’s ear. Juicy knew he was gonna have trouble with these guys.
Sal smiled with his teeth. “Don’t worry about it, Juice. It’ll all work out fine.”
“It’s not good. Not good at all.” Emerick was staring out the rear window, sobbing, twisting his head around like a retard. He started breathing hard all of a sudden, squirming in his seat. “Look! She’s crying! Sister Cil is crying! Why is she crying? What’s wrong?”
5 Bad Moon Page 24