The Good Kind of Bad

by Rita Brassington

  I wouldn’t say they’d been in awe after hearing the story of Joe and me, but they couldn’t, make that wouldn’t, believe a guy would get married after three weeks, and without a gun to his head. Lauren had spent years trying to get her on/off boyfriend, Colby, to propose. They’d said I was lucky to have found the One. I didn’t tell them everything. Who does? It’s nice to believe in a happily ever after.

  We ate lobster rolls, corn crème brûlées and drank overpriced Margaritas, but it mostly left me pining for Nina. Nice was, well, nice, but my life had been so full to the brim with drama recently, nice didn’t cut it anymore. I’d become a drama junkie, waiting for the next hit (metaphorically speaking). Life couldn’t be easy. Where was the fun in that?

  Back at Bemo’s, and as the orders chimed like Hector’s bell, my lungs savoured the raucous kitchen’s offerings; the little parcels of deliciousness served up under my nose from the steamy kitchen.

  Five minutes later and like Sybil just out of the bath, a drenched Nina launched through the front door, her tan trench dripping rainwater everywhere. Even when she looked like she’d washed fully clothed, it came across as a carefully selected style choice. She still looked gorgeous.

  ‘Look at me!’ Nina shouted as she headed for the booth.

  I laughed, and with considerable volume. Witnessing Nina in disarray was the best thing since last week’s drunken guy outside the Toy Palace swearing at the kindergarteners. ‘Sit down. You’re dripping water everywhere. This is why you’re late, because you were scared to go out in the rain?’

  Removing her sopping trench and sliding into the booth, dressed in a summery Florida-orange shift dress, Nina appeared far from amused. Even when she succumbed to laughter over her half-straightened hair, the humourless expression persisted.

  Shannon, our favourite waitress who habitually looked like she’d stepped out of a Versace ad, carried over the two glasses and bottle of Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio I’d ordered. Nina was still restless as her slender hand struggled through the frizz.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing. I’m all about the good tonight.’

  Nina did drama by the bucket load. This was far from nothing. It wouldn’t be long before I got the low-down on her latest fracas-filled episode, and at least she’d stopped apologising.

  I gave an appreciative smile as Shannon placed down the glasses, Nina still scowling until she snatched a glass and wildly overfilled it.

  ‘What the hell is up?’ I snapped, stealing back the bottle and splashing wine on my white shirt dress in the process.

  ‘Oh, my perfect life is all; the one where criminals stake out my lounge.’ She necked a good portion of her wine before pouting like she was sucking a lemon. ‘Jesus, girl. You want to order something better next time?’

  ‘It’s the best they have. What do you expect? This is Bemo’s, not K2. Wait, what do you mean, criminals?’

  She turned to the window. ‘Mickey got another phone call.’

  I bit at my lip for effect. ‘Why does this not sound like a good thing?’ Pained to admit it, I was hooked on Nina’s enthralling adventures of Mickey Delacro ‒ I couldn’t wait for the box set to come out. Though, with an arched eyebrow, Nina had noticed my unwarranted excitement.

  ‘You know what? Forget it,’ she muttered.

  If I wasn’t intrigued before, I was now. ‘Come on, bottling it up isn’t working for you. You look like you need to unload.’

  She skimmed the rim of her glass with a glossy scarlet talon. ‘I shouldn’t say anything. I’ve already said too much. If Mickey knew . . .’

  ‘Nina, come on. I won’t tell anyone. I don’t have anyone to tell!’

  ‘You drank Margaritas at Carter’s with Cherry, didn’t you?’

  ‘Because you hit me in the face, girl!’

  Thank god we both smiled. I don’t think I could’ve handled a split lip too.

  ‘Mickey got one of his phone calls tonight,’ Nina hesitantly began. ‘I tried to listen by the door but couldn’t make out a word, then after five minutes he came storming into the bedroom and ordered me out of the apartment. It was awful. I hadn’t finished my hair, not that it matters now. But there was no way in hell I was leaving. Don’t I have a right to know what’s going on in my own home?’

  ‘Of course.’ It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway.

  ‘All right, technically it’s Mickey’s apartment, but I live there, don’t I? I organise the cleaner, the chef on weekends, that little Columbian woman who irons his shirts . . . does he think I pull them out of my ass or something? Then there’re the golf lessons, not to mention the masseuse I’m seriously thinking of firing. She’s been over twice this week already. But when I refused to leave, that’s when he told me Victor was coming over.’

  Oh. It was Victor time. ‘The weird guy?’

  ‘Weird? Try certifiably insane. But I wasn’t going anywhere. It was time to speak to Victor myself.’ Nina smoothed down her napkin, a grin curling her plum-stained lips. ‘So five minutes later the scumbag arrives, and his muscle.’

  ‘Muscle?’

  ‘That old Mexican guy, Rafael. He stood in the corner while Victor was all long black coat and tailored suit with waistcoat. Didn’t he get the memo about it not being winter? Even his eyes were black,’ Nina whispered fervently over the table, her elbows out at right angles. ‘I was sitting on the couch when he followed Mickey into the lounge, looking me up and down like I was a piece of crap on one of his four hundred dollar shoes. Sure, first I was intimidated, but then I got angry. Mickey was sucking up to him like some puny jackass. It was pathetic, so I ordered Victor to stay away from Mickey.’

  ‘What about Rafael?’

  ‘What about Rafael? What was he going to do? Hit a girl?’

  ‘It does happen,’ I murmured.

  ‘All right, so I was reckless and dangerous, sue me later. Then after I’d said my piece he glared out from the fireplace, Victor I mean. He said nothing. I said nothing. Mickey and Rafael didn’t open their mouths. Victor just glared, like some psycho or something. I mean, who does that?’

  ‘Psychopaths?’ I offered.

  ‘Then he moved in close. In my face, he said, “Do you value your life, Nina? How much do you want to keep it?” Mickey was trying to keep me quiet and pushing me out the door the whole time. I couldn’t believe how scared he was of that dick. Anyway, that’s why I’m late, because a psycho cop threatened to kill me.’

  I shifted in my seat, the leather stiff as the boards dug into my spine. Now Nina’s exciting world of Mickey and Victor had become unsettlingly cold-blooded, I prayed she was making it all up. This wasn’t a rogue cop roughing up suspects; this was getting ugly.

  We decided to order, and were halfway through our panzanella salads before I dared mention Joe’s increasingly erratic behaviour. Dismissing her own fun-filled drama, Nina insisted on hearing what happened the night I left her apartment.

  Eager for a new perspective on our little disaster movie, I described Joe’s apology, his outburst over the phone call, the criminal past and murdered brother revelations and the revenge attempt on Anton that followed. Maybe my life wasn’t so TV movie after all.

  ‘I know you don’t want to hear this . . .’ Nina began, stabbing a piece of pepper with her fork.

  ‘What? That it’ll only happen again? Spare me the clichés.’ Maybe that was harsh, but Nina sure liked to lecture for a woman engaged to a guy who counted Victor amongst his friends.

  ‘Sure, it starts off small time, a slap in the face, but before you know it you’ll be bleeding alone on a street somewhere. I went out with this guy once, Cash Cohen. He was a model from an Elle shoot. At first he couldn’t be nicer, until he knocked my tooth out for coming home late from my friend’s birthday drinks. The next day after he went out, I packed a bag and left. This is a false tooth right here,’ she half-mouthed like a ventriloquist, tapping like a woodpecker on the acrylic canine. ‘If I’d stayed, hoping he’d gr
ow angel wings or something, who knows what would’ve happened? It’s not just guys like Joe, you know. Cash might’ve loved coke more than he loved me, but he fronted a Diesel campaign in Times Square and lived in a penthouse on 5th Avenue and East 76th, right opposite Central Park. Enough of a cliché for you?’

  I frowned. ‘People like Joe?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Nina’s stories were always so matter-of-fact. My fiancé kills people for a living, my model ex-boyfriend knocked my tooth out ‒ you know, no biggie.

  ‘And you went out with a model called Cash Cohen?’

  ‘Don’t change the subject. Joe is a coward. You stay with him and this won’t end well.’ Nina took another gulp of wine. ‘Okay, I admit he’s attractive, but apart from his looks there’s hardly the basis for a lasting relationship. Why did you even marry him? All right, the say-yes plan. I get the whole danger thing and tattoos and mystery, but it’s a mystery you’ve solved! He’s probably served more jail time than Frank DeLuca.’

  ‘Who’s Frank DeLuca?’

  ‘Honey, just remember you’re living with a guy who shot someone,’ she warned.

  I gave her a poignant grin. She didn’t get it.

  ‘All I’m saying is, shouldn’t our conversations be more like: isn’t Joe the sweetest? He took me out to dinner and paid for it. We shouldn’t be talking about how he hit you or threatened you. Besides, you think this garbage about a shooting is his biggest secret? It’s got to be a cover for something bigger . . . for something else.’

  ‘Not too different from Mickey, then?’

  ‘Touché. Don’t you love that word? Touché?’

  Uncomfortable conversation navigated, I noticed George waving at us from behind the counter, like he was heading out to sea. He embarked on a slow limp over, cheerfully oblivious to our tête-à-tête.

  ‘My English Rose! We’re honoured with your presence tonight.’ Dressed in another crisp white shirt and with a hand on the small of his back, he placed down the bill in a black leather wallet.

  ‘George, this is my friend Nina,’ I announced with an outstretched palm. I was more than grateful to George for the distraction, Nina’s preaching becoming uncomfortable to say the least.

  ‘Lovely to meet you,’ George said, receiving Nina’s hand before planting a kiss that caused a giggle. She, too, appeared relieved at the old man’s presence.

  ‘George, you were telling me about Joe’s father last time, remember?’ I’d been waiting to discover a real truth about Joe, one evading his own questionable censorship.

  The elderly gentlemen thought for a moment, his brittle nails tapping the table top. ‘Of course, about Joe. Such a loyal son, not like most of the boys around here and I include my own in that; Anton never shows me enough respect.’ He shook his head towards the kitchen. ‘They don’t know where their loyalties lie, but Joe, he’s a good boy. Tal padre, tal figlio. Anton said Joe still visits his father every week. Every Sunday.’

  I felt hurt Joe had never taken me to the grave or even bothered to mention he went. All those secret errands. Had some of them been to visit his father? What about his mother? Was she buried there too? And Joe revelations aside, George had a son called Anton?

  ‘It’s a real shame,’ George continued. ‘Nico’s memory isn’t so good no more and he’s in a wheelchair now. I told him all that drinking and smoking was bad for him. You know he’s only sixty-three? But he gets back to the quartiere, the old neighbourhood, whenever he can. Not too often now. I guess you’ve been to see him in that hospital place in Skokie? I won’t go, the silly old man won’t let me. Too proud.’

  I shot Nina a sideways glance, and a nervous one. ‘George, we are talking about Joe’s father?’ I didn’t want his answer. Joe’s censorship did have its upsides. At least that way the truth lay buried beneath his layers of lies.

  ‘Yeah, Joe’s father, Nico Petrozzi. The nurses keep him under lock and key but I know Joe sneaks him out and takes him to the horses!’ After my dumbfounded silence, George looked at his watch, if only to excuse himself. ‘Well, I’d better get back. Take care now, and lovely meeting you, Nina.’

  The old man with fake shrapnel in his leg limped back to the kitchen, shouting to his son about Genoa Salami while my open-mouthed stare mirrored Nina’s. Joe’s father hadn’t drowned in a lake. He’d never lain macerated in a mortuary, waiting for a fourteen-year-old Joe to identify what remained. He was alive, breathing; asleep in a nursing home chair somewhere across town.

  ‘Oh my god,’ Nina muttered.

  I said nothing.

  A sickness travelled my throat. If his father was alive then maybe so was his mother. And then there was Frankie. What became of the child pushed to find comfort in a gang after his own family perished, a life that ended his own? The story was so convenient now I thought about it, so perfect and neat. Parents die, kids mess up, younger brother gets shot and Joe’s sent off the rails too. Nothing’s his fault again. There’s always the tragedy to blame it on.

  It also bore an uncanny resemblance to an episode of Law and Order Joe had been watching after he’d tired of the game repeats. Come to think of it, he did have the whole series stashed away beside the porn.

  I’d been so stupid.

  Nina left after an uncomfortable quarter of an hour. Now Victor had vacated their apartment, Mickey was pleading for her return. She refused to leave me in such a state, but after twenty missed calls and a police escort waiting across the street, Nina couldn’t say no to him, not if she wanted those Prada peep-toes anyway. I, on the other hand, could only muster a whimper of a goodbye.

  I was struggling to remember Joe’s face. The man I fell in lust with had already drifted away, and I wasn’t sure he was ever coming back. Joe’s dubious version of the truth was legendary, but lying about the fate of his father? Did the man have no shame? No conscience? I knew what’d be waiting for me back home, yet more lies to excuse a deception all too bewildering, though I wasn’t sure that was home anymore – Joe no longer the man he, and I, pretended he was.

  Outside, the storm still raged. As the rain lashed down behind the glass, I focused on the puddles and streams on the asphalt, of the new coastline emerging on the street, so I didn’t think of evil lies and poisoned words . . . and so I wouldn’t have to ponder the truth.

  Out in the night, I searched my bag for my umbrella while becoming ever drenched by the early summer rain. Running to the doorway of Teri’s Dry Cleaners next door, I shook myself off and patted down my hair. I was going to have to wait it out.

  In the doorway of the Corner Bakery across the street I watched a couple embrace, also praying for the downpour to pass. They laughed as the storm tried to lift them off their feet, and I threw them an envious stare as they shared a kiss.

  Then I looked closer. The girl was long-legged, in a black playsuit with tousled locks the colour of fire and stuck to the guy like he was made of treacle. The man, around six foot with a mop of dark hair and worn-leather jacket looked almost familiar, though through the blinding rain it was hard to catch a clear view of his face. Then the eyes that’d lied to me a thousand times smiled down at her.

  It was my husband. It was Joe.

  TWELVE

  ‘Well, Rhonda, Just Once Hair Lacquer makes me feel twenty-five again, and I’m fifty-two!’

  Nick from Tahoe let the Shopping Network audience graciously applaud his hairpiece. It wasn’t a bad wig, trumping the previous advert for spray-on hair. Did only balding men watch late-night infomercials?

  I’d had a sodden and sobering walk home from Bemo’s, leaving Joe outside the bakery with his redheaded slut. He hadn’t seen me, too busy to notice anything but her, though only thirty minutes after I’d arrived home, my dirty, cheating, amoeba of a husband had stumbled in reeking of drink.

  There was an upside, of sorts. At least he hadn’t gone home with the bitch.

  We’d now resorted to a lack of conversation and infomercials at high volume in the dusky loung
e. Maybe he had seen me, that after the vodka and slap and lies and infidelity, he knew time had been called on the brief story of us ‒ either that or he didn’t care.

  I was too angry to be upset. My life had broken up on the shore, rotted and ruined into something unsalvageable. Though this time, it wasn’t something I wanted to repair.

  Our story was fiction, a forgotten book on the seat of a train or torn pages on a spring breeze. It’d been a fakery, a Jekyll; constructed reality of the highest calibre. I’d been dying to show everyone how dangerous and cool and exciting Joe was, but more how I’d trained him like a monkey to be obedient, house proud and goddamn faithful. He was different from the others, he was mine, and after tiring of the rebellion Project Joe would be on hand to transform him from lazy drunk into well-groomed underwear model.

  Sure, I’d cared about Joe, lusted after him, let the butterflies dance in my stomach, but it didn’t amount to love. I’d been so busy having a good time, I hadn’t stopped to think about what the hell I was doing, about what came after, i.e., the rest of our lives. Maybe that’s how I’d wanted it. Maybe it suited me that way.

  Now it’d become an amorphous mask, the face he looked out from behind. The television screen warped the rocky contours, the cutting features, the odd shapes and half-shadows while his sunglasses remained, a taut grey T-shirt advertising the brawn.

  The guilt radiated from him like a bad smell. First had come the lies, then the casual alcoholism, but all prior betrayal was surpassed by the clandestine affair he’d expectantly deny.

  Joe picked up the remote and began flicking through the channels. He continued the remote jabbing on autopilot, the snippets of trash TV blurring into one like a zoetrope. Once bored of the channel-hopping, he bounced the zapper onto the coffee table, already wrapped in tape from last spewing its batteries.

  Bull in a china shop was no stretch of the imagination for Joe. Doors kicked rather than pushed, mugs slammed instead of placed; he fed a dash of violence into each daily action. Even feeding Sybil was a chance to expel his anger on the Joe-tamper-proof food packets. In the little things I saw it: what was beneath, who and what this man, the other half of me, was.