The Lonely Witness

by William Boyle

  Amy looks straight ahead, ignoring Tony.

  “Sweetheart, you hear me?” To Lou: “She deaf?”

  “She’s not deaf. She’s just a tough nut. She likes me, Mr. M.”

  Dom comes charging out of Homestretch, one of those white Priority Mail envelopes from the post office folded under his arm, Bernie fast on his heels. “Jesus Christ, Bernie, I thought I could trust you here,” Dom says.

  “What do you need five large for?” Tony says to Dom.

  “I’m sorry, Dom,” Bernie says. “I figured you were in trouble.”

  Dom’s headed for the car. Tony gets in front of him and puts a hand on his shoulder. Dom swats it away. “Get out of here, Pop,” Dom says.

  “Out of here?” Tony says. “What’s going on? You’re in trouble? Bernie says he thinks you’re in trouble.”

  “I’m not in trouble.”

  “What then? Tell me. You got this broad knocked up?”

  “Fuck off, Pop.”

  “Oh, that’s no way to talk to your old man,” Lou says. “That’s Mr. M right there. The majestic Mr. M. Made my mother’s favorite ring.”

  “I tell your mother you talked to me like that, she’ll break down,” Tony says. “You want to kill your mother, that’s what you want?”

  “Yeah, my mother’s got other things on her mind,” Dom says, and he runs around to the driver’s side and gets in under the wheel. He looks at Amy and shakes his head, makes a face like he’s disgusted. He hands her the envelope. She unfolds it and opens it and looks inside. A big stack of crumpled twenties. “There’s your money,” he says.

  Bernie and Tony conspire together by the front of the car. Amy can’t hear what they’re talking about. Lou winks at her. She stuffs the envelope full of money in her backpack.

  Dom puts the car in gear, and they lurch away from the curb. He pulls a quick U-turn on Kings Highway, just missing a beer truck that’s grinding to a stop outside 3 Stars. A couple of cars beep at him. He pounds the wheel. “Fuck Bernie,” he says. “Calling my old man like that.”

  “Your father didn’t seem like the guy you described,” Amy says.

  “Never mind,” Dom says. “Tell me where I’m going.”

  Now it’s Amy’s turn to tell Dom to wait in the car. They’re parked outside Mrs. Epifanio’s. She hasn’t pointed out the house or told him who lives here yet. Guiding him here, she started to feel a creeping sense that this was definitely the wrong road to go down. Beyond the pale. Epic as fuck, in terms of how stupid she’s being.

  “No way,” Dom says, throwing the car into park and yanking the key from the ignition. “I’m coming with you. I’m gonna be there when we find where this fucker hid my shit.”

  “Your father’s not a bad guy at all, is he?” Amy asks.

  “Forget about my father.”

  “What else are you lying about?”

  “You got your money, right?”

  “The house where we’re going, the woman who lives there is very fragile.”

  “I’m smooth. I’ll be smooth.”

  “You know what? Forget this. I can’t.”

  “Which house? This one right here?” He points at Mrs. Epifanio’s.

  “This is so fucking stupid. What am I doing?” She pulls her backpack up into her lap. She takes out the Priority Mail envelope and shoves it at him. “Keep the money. I don’t want it.”

  “It’s too late, Amy. You’re close. This is almost over. Don’t make a mistake. You don’t want to regret anything.” He takes the envelope and sets it on the dashboard.

  “You’re threatening me?”

  “It’s not a threat. I’m talking smart. You and me, we’re a team here.”

  “We’re no team.”

  “Do me a favor and open that glove compartment.”

  She ignores him.

  He reaches across and unlatches the glove compartment. It falls open. He points to the gun. “You see that? You want me to use that? I can force you to do this, or we can walk in there as a team. What do you say?” He doesn’t pick up the gun. He just lets it sit there as an object of possible doom.

  Amy knows the score. Once a gun enters the picture, it doesn’t just go away. What she’s more worried about now is that he’ll notice the knife she planted— though thinking about it that way makes it sound like she’s the murderer, like she’s got something to hide. Whatever happened between them, however it really went down, he stabbed Vincent in the throat with that knife.

  “What the fuck is that?” Dom says, leaning across her, realizing her worst fear. He pushes the gun aside and grabs the knife. He holds it up in front of her. “Where’d this come from?”

  “I don’t know,” she says.

  “It wasn’t there before.” He flicks it open and studies it. The burnt bone handle. The steel blade. “You took this from the scene? Why would you do that?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You know what this is, right?” He presses the blade against her neck.

  Amy pulls back in her seat.

  “You took it,” Dom says. “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you took it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you put it back here?”

  “I just wanted to get rid of it.”

  He takes the knife away from her neck and snaps it closed. “I didn’t want to do that, but you freaked me out. Bad.” He pauses. “Listen, things are going awry here. Bernie calling my old man threw me off. He gives me the money and calls my old man. That’s Bernie for you, a complex individual. I didn’t lie about Vincent; everything I said about him was true. Killing the homeless guy with the table leg, ripping me off—all true. I lied a little about my old man just to spruce things up, you know? Take me to where the jewelry is and then we’ll be done. I’m not mad about the knife. I’ll take care of the knife. You did the right thing giving it back to me. The more I think about it, the more I think you did the right thing. I believe you don’t know why you took it. That’s human. A lot we do as a species, we don’t understand.”

  Amy is rattled, breathing in heavy bursts.

  “Settle down, okay?” Dom says. “I’m not a bad guy. Give me a do-over.” He glances out the window. “You want to go across the street? I saw a deli. I’ll buy you an AriZona Iced Tea. I love that shit. Ever since I was a kid, my big treat to myself was to go buy an AriZona.”

  “I’m good,” Amy says.

  “Let’s get this over with then, okay? Look, I’ll put the knife back.” He tosses the knife behind the gun and punches the glove compartment shut. “Gun’s staying right where it is, too. We’ll be fast. This is an old lady, I’m guessing. You said she’s fragile. She’ll love me. Old ladies love me. I’ll turn on the charm. We’ll be in and out.”

  What choice does she have at this point? She’s come this far. Let him get what he’s after and then she’ll be free of it, of this, of everything. She’s thinking beyond Gwen now. She’s thinking she can just go to the airport and buy a ticket to L.A. and find Alessandra.

  Dom takes the envelope off the dashboard and hands it to Amy. “Here’s your money. Put it in your backpack, okay? It’s yours.”

  Mrs. Epifanio opens the door, in a different housedress than the one she was wearing the other day. “Amy?” she says.

  It takes Amy a few seconds to remember that she’s got the wig on. Dom nudges her. “It’s me, Mrs. E,” Amy says, clutching her backpack to her chest.

  “I was so worried about you,” Mrs. Epifanio says. “I tried calling. I heard about Vincent. Just terrible. I was worried I’d involved you in something.”

  “I’m okay,” Amy says.

  Mrs. Epifanio smiles and aims a thumb at Dom. “Is this why you haven’t been answering my calls? You’ve got a boyfriend? And the hair? I love it. You look like an actress. Introduce me to your boyfriend.”

  Amy’s about to correct her, but Dom puts out his hand and offers it to Mrs. Epifanio. She takes it in bot
h hands, as if testing the heft of it. “My name’s Dom, Mrs. E,” he says. “I’ve heard all about you. Amy’s pal. It’s a big honor to meet you.”

  “A real charmer. And such a sturdy handshake.”

  “Talk about actresses. You must’ve been in movies. Am I right? Were you in movies? You’re a true beauty. Tell me what movies you were in. Maybe one of those song-and-dance ones with Bing Crosby and Bob Hope?”

  “Oh, stop. Would you listen to him? I’m starting to blush over here. I wasn’t expecting company. If I was dressed nice, I’d really knock you off your feet.”

  “I’m sure. So, you gonna tell me what movies you were in?”

  “Dom, you’re so bad.” Mrs. Epifanio swats at the air, flashes a big smile. “Come on in, the both of you. You’ll get sick. It’s damp out today. Come in.”

  At the kitchen table, Mrs. Epifanio sits in her normal padded chair. Dom sits next to her, and she grips his hand. Amy sits across from them, her backpack in her lap, fidgeting with her phone, hoping Alessandra will call or text back.

  “I want to hear all about you,” Mrs. Epifanio says to Dom. “The man who’s finally good enough for my Amy.”

  “I’m just a lucky guy, that’s all,” Dom says. “Right place, right time.”

  Mrs. Epifanio leans close to him: “You know about her tattoos?”

  “Of course.”

  “This day and age, I guess, it’s no big deal.”

  “She’s the best woman I’ve ever met. Inside and out.” Dom winks at her.

  “Listen to the way he talks. A gentleman, Amy. You’ve got a good eye.”

  “I’m a lucky gal,” Amy says, going along with it. There’s no plan. She’s not sure how they’ll get in the bedroom without upsetting Mrs. Epifanio. She’s lit up with anxiety, a crawling feeling under her skin. She’s nervous that doing the wrong thing will wreck Mrs. Epifanio. Her plan, since she’s leading the way, is to hang out and wait until Mrs. Epifanio needs to take a nap. She hopes that Dom can hold on until then.

  “What’s your line of work?” Mrs. Epifanio says to Dom.

  “Construction,” Dom says, without any hesitation.

  Mrs. Epifanio cups her hand over her mouth and turns to Amy. “Very nice, dear. Construction’s good.”

  Amy nods.

  “And what’s your line of work?” Dom asks Mrs. Epifanio. “If you’re not an actress, what is it? Beauty consultant?”

  “Job? This guy, I’ll tell you. I’m ninety, Dom.”

  “Ninety?” Dom rubs his eyes with the heels of hands. “Pardon my language, but you’ve gotta be shitting me, Mrs. E. You don’t look a day over sixty-five.”

  Mrs. Epifanio laughs. “I was born in 1927, you believe that? A lot of life I’ve seen.”

  “I’m sure,” Dom says. “Incredible. God bless. You give me hope.”

  “Such a sweetheart you are. What can I get you two? Coffee? I’ve got Entenmann’s. Elaine brought it yesterday.”

  “Elaine came to visit?” Amy says. “That’s nice.”

  Mrs. Epifanio waves it off. “It’d kill her to come here more often? My daughter, Dom, she’s caught up in her own life. She’s already got me dead and buried. I bet you take care of your mother.”

  “I do love my mother very much,” Dom says. “I can’t imagine going a day without seeing her.”

  “You see your mother every day? That’s wonderful. She’s a lucky woman, your mother. And, Amy, let me tell you, good sons make good husbands. The ones who walk away from their parents, they’re trouble.” Mrs. Epifanio gets up and trudges over to the fridge. She takes out a box of Entenmann’s crumb cake and puts it on the table between Dom and Amy. She opens the box. A little red plastic knife is lodged in the cake. Next she goes over to the stove and fiddles with the percolator, scooping Folgers into the basket, running cold water from the sink into the pot. “I’m making coffee. You’ll have coffee, right?”

  “Sure we will,” Dom says, keeping his eyes away from Amy.

  Amy finds herself thankful for his patience. He’s clearly not the same as Vincent. He’s able to control himself. “Can I help you, Mrs. E?” she asks.

  “Not at all,” Mrs. Epifanio says. “Sit, sit. Have some crumb cake. Okay?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Dom says. He pulls the cake box close to him and cuts off a jagged little corner, scarfing it down over his palm, wiping the crumbs he’s made on the table into a neat little pile afterward.

  Mrs. Epifanio turns on the gas under the percolator and comes back to her chair. “Can I tell you what I heard about Vincent?” she says. “I take it Amy’s told you, Dom, about my issue with Vincent Marchetti, who was just murdered on West Tenth Street. His mother, Diane, she sat with me four days a week. Helped a little here, a little there, whatever I needed. I feel so bad for her. Anyhow, her son comes in her place a couple of days in a row. Says she’s sick. I’m thinking he killed her. Amy, did you tell Dom all of this?”

  “A little,” Amy says.

  “A little? This is the most drama the neighborhood’s had since Eugene Calabrese. This Vincent, he was no good, you could just tell. Shifty. Right, Amy?”

  “Right,” Amy agrees.

  “He came here,” Mrs. Epifanio continues, “he did nothing to help. He disappeared into my bedroom. God knows what he was doing in there. Probably trying to rob me blind. Joke was on him. I don’t have much.”

  Now Dom looks at Amy, as if he finally gets why they’re there.

  “You’ve heard about the murder, at least?” Mrs. Epifanio asks Dom.

  “I read something about it,” Dom says.

  “God knows what Vincent was mixed up in. Immacula came over to check up on me, which was nice of her, considering I haven’t had many good things to say about her in the past. She told me Vincent was caught up in this Mexican kidnapping scheme.”

  “What’s that?” Dom says.

  “Who the hell knows? She also said she heard from Mary Magliozzo that Vincent was”—she lowers her voice—“gay. And that this was maybe a jilted boyfriend who stabbed him. Backward world we live in now. When I was young, things made sense, things were easier to understand.”

  “Simpler times.”

  “Anyhow, I don’t want to be a dirty gossip. I feel terrible for Diane, but I can’t say I’m surprised about her son. My husband used to say, ‘You mess with the bull, you get the horns.’ That’s right, isn’t it, Dom?”

  “Very true. Your husband was a smart man.”

  The sound of coffee perking fills the kitchen. Dom devours another piece of cake.

  “I like a man who can eat,” Mrs. Epifanio says.

  “I love to eat,” Dom says.

  “What’s your favorite food?”

  “My mother’s meatballs.”

  “Of course. Let me ask a sensitive question.” Mrs. Epifanio tilts a thumb at Amy. “Can she cook?”

  Dom makes a so-so gesture with his hand. “Mezza mezza.”

  Mrs. Epifanio laughs again. “You want some lessons, Amy? I’ll give you cooking lessons. We can start with meatballs. They’ll never be as good as Mama’s, right, Dom? But we can try. Chopped meat, good Parmesan, Italian bread, salt, pepper, garlic powder, parsley, an egg. That’s all there is to it.”

  “You’re making me drool here, Mrs. E,” Dom says.

  “How’s that sound, Amy?” Mrs. Epifanio says.

  “Sounds good,” Amy says, and for a minute this almost feels like some alternate reality where Dom is her boyfriend and she would be absolutely fucking thrilled to take cooking lessons with Mrs. Epifanio, because she’s sick to death of takeout.

  “Just a few more minutes on that coffee,” Mrs. Epifanio says, getting up again and aiming herself at the refrigerator. “How do you take it? Sugar? Milk?”

  Dom rises. “Sit, sit, I can get anything we need.”

  Mrs. Epifanio falls back into her chair. “Such a gentleman.”

  Dom goes to the refrigerator, opens the door gently, and pulls out a half quart of Farmland sk
im milk and a full-to-the-brim sugar bowl. “Me, personally, I take lots of sugar and lots of milk. That’s the way I am. Amy?”

  “Just black,” Amy says.

  “You don’t know how she takes her coffee?” Mrs. Epifanio says.

  Dom shrugs.

  “Men.” Mrs. Epifanio shakes her head. “So unobservant. My husband was the same way. All those years married, and he couldn’t tell you how I take my coffee.”

  “Uh-oh,” Dom says, bringing the sugar and milk back to the table. “Your opinion of me is declining.”

  “Not at all. Just trying to impart some wisdom. Pay attention to what Amy likes.”

  A smirk from Dom. “Will do, Mrs. E. That’s sound advice.”

  When Mrs. Epifanio indicates that the coffee has perked long enough, Dom tends to it, taking it off the gas and setting it to the side on a battered Christmas potholder. She points him to the mugs in the cabinet over the sink, and he gets down three. He pours their coffees and puts the steaming mugs on the table. Amy takes hers, hungrily slurping some coffee. Mrs. Epifanio fixes hers with a dash of milk. Dom goes to town on his. A hefty dose of sugar, and so much milk that his coffee turns the color of the sidewalk.

  Mrs. Epifanio sips her coffee and then cuts herself off a hunk of crumb cake. After she’s done eating it, crumbs flaking her chin, she turns her attention to Amy. “I’ve gotta ask,” she says. “That’s a wig, right?”

  “It is.”

  “You like it?” Mrs. Epifanio says to Dom.

  “Of course,” he says.

  “I like it, too.”

  Amy’s phone rings in her pocket. She takes it out and looks at the screen. Alessandra. She mutters an apology to Mrs. Epifanio, then flips the phone open and says, “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” Alessandra says.

  “I know,” Amy says.

  “Who’s that?” Dom says.

  “A friend,” Amy says.

  “You’re with someone?” Alessandra says.

  Amy stands and ducks into the living room with its green shag rug, carrying her backpack with her. “I’ll tell you later.”

  Dom’s right behind her, listening to her conversation.

  She shushes him, motions that it’s got nothing to do with him, but he’s not getting that. He takes it as a threat.