by James Lepore
Chris studied Matt for a second before heading over to him, trying to read his body language. His slouching posture was more subdued than relaxed, and the disdainful curl usually to be seen on his beautiful lips was for once missing. Chris knew his son. Before he turned into a sneering princeling, he had been an unpretentious, happy boy, but one who took pains, like many boys – sometimes successfully, sometimes not – to conceal his emotions. What Matt was feeling, he did his best to prevent the world from seeing. Watching him, it struck Chris that the cool facade his son had affected of late served more than one purpose. In the last two years, their relationship had been a one-way affair, with Chris doing all of the reaching out. Now here they were at Matt’s request. Whatever the reason – and Chris was fairly certain that the boy would not have gone to all this trouble unless something important was on his mind – it was good to see his mask down and some of the raw stuff of the old Matt on display.
“Hello,” Chris said, sitting in a folding chair across from and at a slight angle to Matt, who had sat up straight and taken his hands out of his pockets when he saw his father approaching. “Those are nice glasses.”
“Thanks.”
“Can I see them?”
Matt slid the sunglasses off of his face and handed them to Chris, who studied them for a second before slipping them into the front pocket of his shirt.
“Are they too cool or something?” Matt asked.
“We’re in the shade here,” Chris replied. “What’s up?”
“What’s up? What’s up with you?” said Matt. “We haven’t seen you in a month.”
“I’ve been working. I told your mother that, and Tess.”
“Working on what?”
“Research, private investigating.”
“Did you move from Vinnie’s?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why?”
“It’s the case I’m working on. The client doesn’t want anyone to be able to find me.”
“Do you have a new cell phone number?”
“Yes, but I can’t give it to you.”
“When were you planning on seeing us?”
“When the case is over. In a few weeks.”
In the more than ten years since his divorce, Chris had not gone more than two weeks without seeing Tess and Matt. In the last two years, his record had been spotty, but Matt, preoccupied with his illusions of gangster grandeur, seemed hardly to notice. Suddenly he was asking questions, demanding, in effect, Chris’ attention. What the genesis of this change was Chris could not fathom, but he was sure it wasn’t because he missed his father. Why would he miss the one adult in his life who derided his Mafia conceit?
“Do you like it? The stuff you’re doing?” the boy asked.
“No, I don’t,” Chris answered, “I’ve got one last thing to do, then I’m done with it.”
“Then what will you do?”
“I don’t know. Something will come to me.”
“Ed Dolan died.”
“I know. I saw it in the paper.”
Chris looked into his son’s eyes as he said this. In them, he saw not just the boy’s simple satisfaction that the man who had tried to ruin his father’s life was dead, but something else as well, something that spoke of calculation, of counting up a series of facts.
“I’m taking the exam for LaSalle next week,” Matt said.
“Good.”
“You’re not surprised?”
“No.”
“Do you still want me to?”
“Of course.”
“Mommy took me to see LaSalle.”
“What did you think?”
“It’s okay.”
“Real kids go there. It’s not Upper Montclair.”
“No, but that’s okay.”
“How is your mother taking this?”
“Not well. How are you taking it?”
“Is that what this is about?” Chris said. “I’ve been busy. You guys were supposed to be going to the shore. I’m getting the apartment back soon. I fully expect you to go to LaSalle in September and live with me there.”
Matt looked down at the ground, then up at Chris, who knew that some kind of moment of truth had arrived, but he could not guess what it might be.
“What is it, Matt?”
“Where’s Uncle Joseph?”
“Uncle Joseph?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know.”
“He was at my party.”
“I know.”
“He said he’d call me to go to a Yankee game.”
“You know the story with him, Matt.”
“I saw him leave the party. I was having a smoke in the back room of the garage. There’s a small window there. He came down the stairs from Grandpa’s study with Uncle Aldo and Nicky Spags. Nicky had Uncle Joseph’s arm behind his back and a gun to his head.”
Chris took this in, gazing as he did, into Matt’s fine, dark eyes.
“Did anyone else see this?” he asked.
“No. I was alone.”
In Matt’s eyes, there was both fear and determination, neither a facade, both starkly real, the same mix of emotions Chris remembered feeling on the day he said to Joe Black, what happened with Ed’s father? The message that Chris’ eyes conveyed to his father was the same as the one Matt’s were conveying to him today: Tell me the truth. Don’t lie to me. I can cross this threshold and survive, but I need to know the truth. It was this sudden willingness to accept the hard things of life that had set Chris on the road to manhood, and now the same thing was happening to – and inside of – his son.
“He was wearing a hidden tape recorder,” Chris said, “a wire. They found it on him. He’s dead.”
“So grandpa...?”
“Yes. He ordered it.”
“Uncle Joseph?”
“Yes.”
Matt’s hands were resting on his thighs. He lifted one toward his face, but abruptly brought it down. He was crying. Chris let him cry for a few seconds, then took the sunglasses out of his pocket and handed them to his son. Matt wiped his eyes with his knuckles, then put them on.
“He loved you, Matt.”
At this Matt broke down, and Chris moved his chair next to him and put his arm around his shoulder.
“Cry,” he said, feeling the boyness in Matt’s bony arm as he pulled him closer. He sat there and held his son, listening to his crying, until it slowed and stopped.
“I hate grandpa. I hate his fucking guts.”
“In his world, he did what was right.”
“How could that be?”
“Nicky Spags found the wire. He was doing his job. It was either kill him or kill Joseph.”
“Kill Nicky?”
“If he let Joseph live, then he would have exposed a weakness to an underling. He could not let Nick live under those circumstances. But if he killed Nick, it would be for no good reason, it would violate your grandfather’s rule against senseless violence. There was a good reason for killing Joseph. I would have done the same thing.”
“You don’t want me to hate grandpa, yet he killed your brother.”
“I don’t want you to let your emotions rule you.”
“Why not? I do hate him.”
“Think about the danger. If you let him know how you feel, he’d want to know why. You don’t want him to know what you know.”
“He wouldn’t hurt me.”
“What if Aldo found out? Can you trust him? He wants one of his sons to be the don.”
“I won’t let them know.”
“I think that’s a good idea.”
“How do you know about Uncle Joseph?” Matt asked. “Were you in on it together?”
“No, he left me a letter.”
“Why did he do it?”
“He thought he was helping me.”
“How?”
“You don’t need to know that now. Someday, maybe, but not now.”
Matt took the sunglasses off and again wiped his eyes with his hands. There would be no challenge to this last answer, no desire to see and hear more of the new and intense world his father had so bluntly and graphically put on display. The opportunity had arisen to show the boy the true face of the Mafia and Chris had taken it. That face, Matt, is hard and remorseless. It will kill your beloved uncle, your best friend’s father, it will kill you if you break the rules. Once you commit to it, you either live by those rules or die by them.
“What now?” Matt said, putting the glasses into his cargo pocket, his eyes red but dry.
“What do you mean what now?”
“I don’t know. It just seems like...like it can’t be left at this.”
Matt’s reaction thus far to Joseph’s execution had been typical of any young boy thrust into the same position, but this answer, loaded as it was with the notions of revenge and honor, was not so typical. If Joe Black’s blood was coursing through his son’s veins, Chris needed to know it, because it was blood that was proud and strong and not afraid to kill, blood – as Chris had recently learned – that could not be denied, only disciplined.
“There’s nothing to be done,” Chris said. “Try to put it out of your mind.”
Matt shook his head and said, “That won’t be easy, Dad. The look on his face...”
The look on his face, Chris thought. I guess it was a look you were meant to see, Matt, and I wasn’t.
“Does your mother know about Joseph?” Chris asked out loud.
“No, but she’s worried.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She and Uncle Joseph are always talking on the phone. She couldn’t reach him. I think she went into the city to the apartment where he was living. When she came home, she locked herself in her bedroom. Since then, she’s been different, moody.”
“What about Tess? Does she know?”
“I didn’t tell her, but she knows something’s up. She’s worried about Mom, and you.”
“She’s not to know.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why isn’t she to know?”
“Because you say so.”
“Because she would be in danger if she did. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Matt sat up straighter in his chair, as if physically shouldering the responsibility of protecting his sister. This small gesture was both gratifying and painful for Chris to watch, so much did it signal of his son’s new state: his prior foolishness acknowledged, his childhood over, his place in a Mafia family weighted with secrets and hidden dangers.
“Yes,” the boy answered.
“Where is she now?”
“She’s home. She said she’d take the train in if you wanted her to.”
“Good. Call her. We’ll go up to Josie’s for lunch. She loves that place.”
“Where should I tell her to meet us?”
“At the fountain in front of the Plaza. When you see her, just act normal. I don’t want her to have the faintest clue as to what’s happened. If she asks about Joseph, I’ll tell her he took a trip someplace. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Good. Make the call, then we’ll take a walk. I have to see a lawyer over on Fifth Avenue. Tess won’t be here for an hour at least.”
11.
Two weeks later, Chris and Michele were in the Cherokee heading east on the Long Island Expressway. Chris had retained a lawyer, a woman named Barbara Lopez, a former colleague of his at the U.S. Attorney’s office who years before left to start what was now one of the most successful family law practices in Manhattan. Barbara had quickly learned that Grace Mathias, now six, was living in a foster home in Glen Cove on Long Island, under an emergency court order that was typical in cases of egregious parental neglect. The order, a copy of which Chris gave to Michele, was renewable every six months on application from Child Welfare Services. It did not terminate Michele’s parental rights and specifically permitted her to petition the court at any time “for good cause” for the return of custody of Grace to her.
Barbara Lopez’ advice had been succinct: “She’s in a foster home with five other kids. Some people make their living that way. The law favors the natural mother, but she has to be clean and she has to act soon, otherwise, Child Welfare will argue that the kid has bonded with the foster parents, has school ties, etc. It would help if she had a job and was in a court-sanctioned treatment program, where they can monitor her urine. If she’s willing to do all this, she can get her daughter back.”
“I can get you a job,” Chris said, “but it’s more for me than for you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s at a restaurant where Junior Boy sometimes has dinner. I need to gain entry. That’s where you come in.”
Michele remained silent. They had come to the beginning of one of the major construction projects that seem to be endlessly underway on the Expressway and were now in stop-and-go traffic. Unnerved by the thought of facing Grace, of seeing fear and loathing in her daughter’s eyes, she had resisted Chris’ attempts to persuade her to act immediately regarding custody. Even though Chris had offered to pay all expenses, including lawyers’ fees and the cost of a good rehab program, she had refused to budge. Last night, torn between two fears—of losing Chris and of facing her daughter—she had agreed to go with him to Glen Cove.
“Why don’t I just bring a gun to work and kill him for you?” she said, and then added, when Chris did not answer immediately, “I’m kidding, of course.”
“I was thinking maybe you could plant a gun someplace,” Chris said, “but when he has dinner there, they close the place to the public, and I’m sure they search it thoroughly and sweep it for bugs.”
“So what can I do?”
“Vinnie knows the owner. He can get you hired. You have to make an impression of a key. I’ll show you how. Then you have to let me know when Junior Boy books the place. That’s all.”
“Will they let me have Grace back if I’m an accessory to murder?”
“You’re already an accessory to three murders.”
“They weren’t premeditated, which means I’m still a good mother.”
“Michele, will you help me or not?”
“Yes, I’ll help you. I’m good at waiting tables. And helping you kill people.”
“Are you nervous about seeing the lawyer?”
“Yes. I’m doing it for you.”
“So you’ve said.”
The traffic was beginning to un-jam, and Chris concentrated for a moment on getting into a lane that was moving better than the others. He had lowered the windows while they were stuck in traffic and turned off the air conditioner. When they were up to speed again, he did the reverse, and the noises of the busy highway were blocked out.
In the quiet of the moving car, he thought about their last exchange. Michele’s feelings for him were tangled up with her post-withdrawal anxiety and her fear of failing again as a mother. But when was love not tangled up with other feelings? If things happened for a reason, then why wouldn’t life’s biggest thing – falling in love – happen for the most important of reasons? By admitting her need for him, wasn’t Michele simply admitting she needed his love – his particular love – to heal the wounds of a lifetime? And where was the person walking the earth who did not have a lifetime worth of wounds?
“I don’t want us to end,” Michele said, breaking into these thoughts.
“We won’t.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Think about it. Think about what we’ve been through. We’re glued together by all that.”
“What about Grace?”
“What about her?”
“Why would you want her in your life?”
“Because she’s your daughter. Because she belongs to you.”
“I’m not sure if I want her in my life. Why can’t you accept that?”
Because i
f I accept that, then I’m not sure I want you, Chris thought. Out loud he said, “There’s something you should know. There’s no lawyer in Glen Cove. I’m taking you to see Grace. She’s in a summer school program. Recess is at eleven-thirty. I was going to spring this on you, force you to look at her through the fence, but now you have a choice. We can turn around if you want.”
“Fuck,” was Michele’s answer.
“I thought it would be easier for you this way.”
“What kind of summer program?”
“I’m not sure. Barbara Lopez is trying to get the records.”
“Is she slow?”
“I don’t know. It might just be a way for the foster parents to get free day care. We can turn around if you want to.”
“If we turn around, you’ll hate me.”
“I won’t hate you,” but I’ll lose respect for you, which in my world is worse, Chris thought, and, looking at Michele as she stared straight ahead, the set of her face grim, he knew she was thinking the same thing.
“Why are you doing this to me, Chris?”
“I told you, you were available to be rescued. I like to finish what I start. Of course I didn’t plan on falling on love with you.”
“Love that involves rescue doesn’t last.”
“Who said that?”
“I did.”
They were silent for a while, thinking their separate thoughts as the car passed another exit on the highway.
“I’m worried you’ll get killed,” Michele said.
“That’s a possibility.”
“Where’s the restaurant?”
“It’s on Canal Street over by the river.”
“What’s your plan?”
“The restroom is in a storeroom in the back. There’s a door in the storeroom that goes out to an alley, a small street actually, which Vinnie says is big enough for a car. It leads to the back of some tenements. I’ll go in that door and wait for Junior Boy to use the bathroom.”
“That’s the key you want.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll just walk down the alley?”
“No. The place will be guarded. I’ll have to figure something out.”