It was the usual junk: all kinds of bad things had happened all over. There was a photograph of the business with the blown-out windows and the police tape that he and Tommy had seen on their way to the dry cleaner.
“Police Suspect Arson, Murder in Fire,” the headline said. The story explained that the cops were filing arson and murder charges in the disappearances of two men whose place of business had been burned down. Forensic investigators had determined that the two men, whose identities were not being released, had been robbed and perhaps kidnapped. Police said it was the third such fire and robbery of a small business in the past three months. They suspected that the killings were drug related, or the result of a turf war between rival Mafia gangs battling for control over territory.
The story was continued on page A-14. But there was no page A-14. The pages went from A-12 to A-15 with nothing in between. Nicky could see that someone had torn the page out of the paper.
He was puzzling over that when the phone rang. Grandma Tutti was peeling the roasted peppers. She said, “Answer that, Nicky. It could be Frankie.”
It was Nicky's mother. She sounded far away. “We're in Jamaica,” she said. “It's beautiful here. But we're leaving. Guess why! Your father's been asked to become senior partner! That means he's got to get back to the firm now. We're flying home tonight. Since we're going home early, so are you. Clarence will be there for you Sunday morning. You can be at Camp Wannameka first thing Monday!”
“Does it have to be Sunday?” Nicky asked. “There's this big festival this weekend. The feast of Santo Pietro. I'd really like to stay for that. Can't I come home next week instead?”
He heard his mother put her hand over the phone. There was a long pause. Then she said, “Let me talk to your grandmother.”
Tutti wiped her hands and took the phone. She said, “Hello?” and then listened. She scowled. She looked at Nicky and raised her eyebrows. Finally she said, “Of course he can stay. It's nice, Santo Pietro. His friends will be there. His new girlfriend, even. What difference does a week make, anyway?”
Tutti listened some more, then said, “Your father wants to talk to you.”
Nicky took the phone. “Hello?”
“It's your father.”
“Yeah. Hi, Dad.”
“Your grandmother says you've been having a good time. Is that true?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And she says you want to stay for the weekend, for Santo Pietro.”
“Yes, sir. It's this big carnival thing, with rides and—”
“Please. I went to Santo Pietro every year. I was an altar boy. We had to build all the booths, and then we had to tear them all down. I know about Santo Pietro. Now, tell me about your uncle. Are you spending time with him?”
“We've been out to dinner,” Nicky said. “Sometimes I go up to the Bath Avenue Social Club with him for a sandwich or something. He took me shopping for clothes. He—”
“He introduced you to the guys at the social club?”
“Sure,” Nicky said, and then regretted it at once. Did his father know about Charlie Cement, and Sallie the Butcher?
“That's no place for a kid to hang around,” his father said. “I don't want you going there anymore. And I don't want you listening to Frankie too much. He means well, but the people he knows, and what he does for a living … you understand?”
“I understand.”
“Okay. Now let me talk to your grandmother.”
It was settled. Clarence would drive down Monday morning. Nicky could have the weekend, and Santo Pietro. When the negotiating was all done, Nicky went up to his room and lay on his bed. Monday was better than Sunday, but Monday seemed way too soon. And summer camp seemed so … lame. Noah and Chad and Jordan were nice guys and all, but he could hang out with them for fifteen years and not have as much fun as he'd had with Tommy in a couple of weeks.
On the other hand, there were the packages.
When dinner was almost ready, Grandma Tutti said, “Nicky, take the garbage down like a good boy.”
Nicky carried the bucket downstairs and upended it into the trash can. A newspaper page was at the bottom. Nicky checked the page number: A-14. It was greasy and wet from being in the trash. Chunks of the paper tore away when he tried to unfold and read it. But he could see the words “Frank Borelli” and “police investigators” and “suspects kidnapped, dead or in hiding.”
Kidnapped, dead or in hiding? It was incredible. He and Tommy had stumbled onto the crime scene less than twenty-four hours, maybe, after his uncle had robbed the place. And killed or kidnapped the owners?
Nicky threw out the soiled newspaper and brought the trash bucket back upstairs.
Frankie was at the table when Nicky went back into the kitchen. He was wearing black jeans and a black sweatshirt and eating fast. He didn't look up when Nicky walked in. Then he put down his napkin and pushed his plate away.
“Good stuff, Ma, like always. I could eat four more plates. I'm sorry I gotta go.”
“Where are you going?” Nicky asked.
“I got this thing,” Frankie said.
“What kind of thing?” Nicky asked.
“A work thing,” Frankie said. “Don't ask. I'll be back in a couple of days. Four-five days.”
“Four or five days?” Nicky asked. “You're going to miss Santo Pietro.”
“I know. I might.”
“My folks came back early,” Nicky said. “They're sending Clarence on Monday morning. You'll be back by then, right?”
Frankie frowned. “I don't know, kid. I might be. I'll try. If I'm not, hey, you're from the neighborhood now. You can come and stay anytime you want. Maybe another week, later in the summer.”
“Sure,” Nicky said.
“C'mere,” Frankie said. Nicky put his arms around his uncle's chest—and felt something. His uncle was wrapped in metal. He was wearing a bulletproof vest under his shirt.
Frankie said, “You're a good kid, Nicky Deuce. Let me get my stuff.”
Frankie went down the hall and returned carrying his heavy gym bag. Nicky knew what was in that bag. He knew what his uncle was going off to do.
The kitchen was empty when Nicky got up the following morning. He poured himself a glass of milk and wondered where his grandmother had gone so early on a Saturday. When he had finished breakfast and she had still not appeared, Nicky went down the hall to her room.
Grandma Tutti was lying in bed, breathing heavily in the dark. Nicky put his hand on her shoulder and said, “Grandma? Grandma Tutti?”
She didn't wake up.
Nicky shook her shoulder gently and said her name again.
She didn't wake up.
Nicky shook her shoulder again, this time not so gently.
She didn't wake up.
Nicky ran out of the room, down the hall, into the kitchen. He had to get … who? Frankie was gone. He didn't know any doctor. He didn't know any neighbors. He tried to remember the names of his grandmother's old-lady friends. Gianfranco? Francomezzo? He couldn't think.
Nicky threw on his shoes and hurried downstairs and into the street, jumping over Mr. Moretti, who was sitting on the stoop, then ran around the corner to the Bath Avenue Social Club. He could ask Sallie the Butcher what to do. Or Oscar the Undertaker. No! Not him, of all people!
The door was locked, and the lights were out. Of course! Frankie was on a job. The guys would be with him.
Nicky ran back to the apartment. Rounding the corner, he nearly collided with Little Johnny Vegas, who grabbed him by the shoulders and said, “Hey, kid. Where's the fire?”
“It's my grandmother!” Nicky said. “I can't wake her up. I tried to get help, but—”
Little Johnny stuck his hand in the air. “Stop,” he said. “I understand.” He pulled out a tiny cell phone, pushed a button and said, “Yeah, it's me. We need a doctor, fast. Mrs. Borelli's house—852 Sixteenth Avenue. No ambulance or cops or nothing, right? Just a doctor. A'right.”
Little Jo
hnny stuck the phone back in his pocket and said, “C'mon, kid. Let's go meet the doc.”
A black sedan was parked at the curb when they got there. A man in a black suit with a black medical bag got out. When he saw Little Johnny, he bowed and said, “Buon giorno, Don Giovanni.”
“Hiya, Doc. It's this way. Ascenderé. Up.”
Nicky led them inside to his grandmother's room. The doctor sat on the edge of the bed and clicked on one of the bedside lamps. Nicky could see that his grandmother was still breathing. But when the doctor placed his hand on her forehead and then lifted her eyelid, she still did not wake. Nicky felt a sob rise in his throat. He left the room and went into the kitchen.
Little Johnny Vegas followed him. “Don't worry, kid. That doc is the best. He doesn't speak a word of English, but he's a real doctor. He'll take care of this.”
“Okay,” Nicky said. “Thank you, for helping.”
“Forget it,” Little Johnny said. “You got anything to eat?”
Nicky made the fat man a sandwich. The doctor came down the hallway a few minutes later, snapping his black bag shut, and took Little Johnny aside. They conferred quietly. The doctor glanced sideways at Nicky a few times and then went back into Tutti's bedroom. Nicky felt another sob rising in his throat. His grandmother was dying—he knew it.
Little Johnny Vegas sat down next to Nicky. “The doc says she's going to be okay,” he said. “But she needs to get some tests. Something about her blood pressure—I think. My Italian is a little rusty on the medical stuff. We're going to use the doc's car to take her to Mary Mother of Mercy Hospital.”
“I'm coming with you,” Nicky said as Grandma Tutti emerged from her bedroom, leaning unsteadily on the Italian doctor's arm. He escorted her outside to his car.
Nicky grabbed his sketch pad and followed Tutti, Little Johnny Vegas and the doctor into the waiting car.
Nicky sat in the waiting room while his grandmother was examined, making sketches in his pad—the dark Italian doctor, Little Johnny Vegas, Tutti sleeping, the yellow man, the dry cleaner man, Tommy …
A hand on his shoulder woke him. A doctor with a name tag that read “Dr. A. Tannen” said, “Nicholas? Your grandmother is almost ready to go home.”
“Is she going to be okay?” Nicky asked. “What's wrong with her?”
“Well, she has low blood pressure, and low blood sugar,” the doctor said, “and she might have had a small stroke. But she's going to be fine, because you got her a doctor so quick. You saved her life, Nicholas.”
Nicky nodded and felt tears coming into his eyes.
At the apartment they had to step around Mr. Moretti's sleeping, snoring body on the stoop. Grandma Tutti cursed under her breath—“Ubriacone!”—as they went inside.
“I'm going to lie down for a while,” she said. “The doctor said I'm supposed to take three more pills at two o'clock. What time is it now?”
Nicky checked his watch. “It's one o'clock, almost.”
“So come and get me in an hour, and we'll have some lunch,” she said.
Nicky went through the kitchen, gathering lunch. There was a little prosciutto, and plenty of cheese. There was a melon. There was no bread. Should he run around the corner to the bakery? He was afraid to leave his grandmother. He wished Frankie was there. What if Tutti had died? How could he have found Frankie? His grandmother had a telephone-address book by the phone. Nicky went to it now and read the names listed under B. There were no Borellis except Nicky's family in Carrington. There was nothing for Frankie, or Frankie Borelli. Nicky closed the book.
Then he realized he had to tell his father what had happened. It was Saturday. His parents were supposed to have arrived home Friday. Nicky dialed his own house and waited.
The answering machine picked up and he heard his mother's cheerful voice. “You've reached the Borellis. Leave a message!”
After the beep, Nicky said, “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. Listen, uh, Grandma Tutti got sick. She was in the hospital for a few hours. It was a little scary. I was all alone here, and I didn't know who to call, and Uncle Frankie's not around, so … Well, anyway, she's okay. The doctor says she has to take it easy, and take some pills. I thought you guys would want to know. So that's it. Um, bye.”
Nicky hung up. He opened his grandmother's telephone-address book again, to the first page. Inside the cover of the book was one telephone number, written in pencil, with no name beside it. Nicky thought, bet that's Uncle Frankie's cellphone number.
He looked in on his grandmother. She was sleeping soundly. Nicky left the house, went around the corner to Capaldi's and bought a fresh loaf.
Tutti was up when he got back. She was drinking a coffee and arranging things on the kitchen table. She looked better.
“You made a nice lunch,” she said. “And you're a nice boy, Nicky. I'm glad you were here this morning. With Frankie not being around, who knows what would have happened? Oh, and your father called. He got your message. I told him the whole story. He thinks you're a big hero. And so do I. Come here.” Nicky gave his grandmother a big hug. “Now cut up a little bread and we'll eat.”
That night, at his grandmother's urging, Nicky went out after dinner, walked to Tommy's house and knocked on the door.
“Whassup?” Tommy whispered when he opened the door.
“Nothing,” Nicky said. “Can you come out?”
“Maybe,” Tommy said, and glanced over his shoulder. “Give me fifteen minutes. Wait for me at the end of the block.”
Fifteen minutes later, Tommy came strolling along, hands in his pockets, whistling.
Nicky said, “What was that about?”
“What was what?”
“How come you couldn't come out?”
“Grounded,” Tommy said. “My mom got a notice from school. I might have to repeat math.”
Nicky said, “It's none of my business, but you could ace that class if you just showed up. It's not like it's hard. I mean, I've seen you play BlackPlanet. That's way harder than anything we're doing in math.”
Tommy said, “I don't know. I just don't get the problems.”
“'Cause you don't study,” Nicky said. “It's easy, if you study. I'll help!”
Tommy nodded at him. “A'right,” he said. “But not tonight. You wanna sneak in the movies?”
“Or we could even buy a ticket,” Nicky said. “I've got some money. If we go in through the front door, we can see something we actually want to see.”
“Okay,” Tommy said. “Besides, we don't want anything to go wrong tonight, right before the big job tomorrow.”
Nicky had forgotten. The next day was Sunday. It was Santo Pietro, and the delivery day for the two packages. The idea made him feel sick to his stomach.
“Come on,” Tommy said. “I think there's something at the Criterion.”
Nicky sat in the darkness and tried not to think about the packages. He tried not to think about Grandma Tutti alone in the apartment. He tried not to think about Uncle Frankie having to shoot his way out of some bank robbery.
It was a lot not to think about. Nicky tried to pay attention to the movie; it was a sci-fi story about some astronauts trying to repair their spaceship before their planet collided with an asteroid. Suddenly the movie was over and the lights were coming up and Tommy was laughing at him.
“You fell asleep!” he said. “You were snoring like an old man!”
“I guess I'm tired,” Nicky said. “I'd better get home. My grandmother …”
“Come on.” Tommy punched his shoulder lightly. “Let's get outta here.”
unday came. It was hot and muggy. Nicky lay in his bed, listening to the sounds from the street and worrying about the day to come. Then he smelled coffee and realized that his grandmother was up, too, and might need some help.
She didn't. She smiled and said, “There you are, sleepyhead. Are you going to make the marinara or not? I'm cooking the veal we didn't have yesterday.”
“Sure,” Nicky said, getting out the canned tom
atoes. “I'm glad you feel well enough to cook.”
“The day I don't feel well enough to cook,” she said, “you can start making the funeral arrangements.”
“Don't say that!”
“It's only the truth. How do you want your eggs— scrambled?”
Donna had said to come to the ringtoss booth at noon. Tommy had said to meet in front of the school at eleven. Walking to early mass after breakfast, Nicky told his grandmother that he'd be home for Sunday supper at six.
“That's okay,” she said. “You'll already eat a lot at Santo Pietro. Sausage-and-pepper sandwiches. Rice balls. Zeppoli. Cannoli …”
After church, back at the apartment, Nicky put on his jeans and tennis shoes. He took the two packages out from under his clothes, then put them in his backpack. On top of that he threw a sweater, his math book, a MAD Magazine and his iPod, in case anyone looked inside.
Then he stopped. He pulled one of the packages out of his bag and put it on the bed. He thought, What if it's drugs, or guns, or something that will hurt somebody?
He thought hard. What would Tommy do? What would Uncle Frankie do? What would a goomba do?
Then he untied the string and opened the package.
It was a computer chip, small, the size of a half stick of gum. It had tiny writing on it. Nicky brought it up close to his eyes. It said BP Two. Master.
BlackPlanet Two! It was a bootlegged master copy of the new BlackPlanet game—the biggest computer game of all time. These chips were worth millions. Worth stealing. Worth killing for.
Nicky wrapped the package up, tied it with the string and shoved it down into his bag. He went downstairs and kissed his grandmother goodbye.
Tommy was waiting in front of the school. He caught Nicky's eye from across the street, and raised a finger to his lips—“Shhh!”
Nicky crossed the street. “What's going on?” Tommy said, “Good morning.” Then, under his breath, he said, “There's a cop right behind you. Don't look!”
Nicky didn't look. Tommy said, too loudly, “Come and see the ringtoss,” and led him to the corner. Then Nicky turned. A uniformed policeman, walking his beat, headed for the church and Santo Pietro.
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