by S. W. Frank
“Nicole’s parents will arrive tonight. They want to see their daughter.” Giuseppe mumbled.
“Hm.”
Giuseppe smelled the roasted beans. With effort, he righted himself, took hold of the handle, and sipped the hot brew, hoping it might alleviate his splitting headache. There were loud slurping noises and then he sat the empty cup aside. “I am not ready to face her parents.”
“Humph,” Alfonzo scoffed with complete detachment before laying out the course of action. “I sent a crew to redecorate your bedroom. I have another construction team at Tony’s place laying the foundation for a two-story villa. I have my plate full Geo with my own shit. But, I know you’re taking this hard, so I’m being patient at the moment.”
Cold…cold…cold…his fratellino seemed.
Giuseppe’s bloodshot eyes settled on Alfonzo. “You did not like her.”
“It doesn’t matter; what matters is you loved her.”
“I did not love her enough and that is the guilt I will carry every day.”
“Fucking nut tried to blow my head off. The fact she put Carlo at risk should negate your guilt.”
The awful churning in Giuseppe's stomach quieted, but the need to vomit surfaced when he relived the fear of the loaded gun near his son. He went to chuck out the poison in the privacy of the bathroom, retching loudly, grumbling miserably at the tragic conclusion of his marriage.
When Giuseppe returned, Alfonzo had not moved. The coffee cup remained in his fratellino’s hand as he stared into nothingness.
Alfonzo’s lips moved. He talked as if in a trance. “We were downstairs and rushed up at the sound of gunfire. That’s what you say if they ask what happened. You will invite them to your house, but they’ll likely recline, but you have shown good manners. The funeral will take place quick to avoid bullshit over where your wife should repose or they try to pull some slick shit and request a second autopsy. You can offer to fly in any family, but you stand firm on wanting to adhere to your religious customs. Let them see that you mourn –but you had better not touch one fucking drink in their presence. Sophie and Amelda are handling the funeral arrangements. By the way, when you’re sober, visit the police station, an officer found Nicole’s suicide note in a drawer at your home this morning.”
“Cosa?”
“Yup, your wife rambled a lot apparently.” Alfonzo didn’t want to tell Giuseppe what she really wrote. He had to rewrite the letter, put a new twist on the shit and dispose of the original late last night before Giuseppe woke up. He knew the cops would go in to investigate their story. Not everybody is on the mob payroll, contrary to Giuseppe’s belief.
"Where is Carlo?" Giuseppe asked in a semi-stupor.
"I'm taking him for a while until you clean up your act."
"You cannot steal my son cazzo!"
"I'm not stealing him. I'm his Godfather and I'm protecting him from your crazy ass."
"He is fine."
"No he isn't." Slowly, Alfonzo stood, in his leisure attire as stylish as if he’d worn a suit. He put the cup on the edge of the desk. “Get yourself together Geo. The coroner’s report will corroborate suicide. There’s nothing more we can do, Nicole divorced you –don’t let this be the reason you start neglecting my nephew."
"Carlo is my business. I am his Papa, not you!"
"He's a frightened boy in mourning." The veins in Alfonzo's face protruded. The veins were a bluish hue against his golden skin. "I should beat the shit out of you for what I just witnessed in my nephew's eyes!” He kicked over a chair, enraged at Giuseppe's lack of sensitivity to the child. "Selfish bastardo! I'd want you to rescue my kids if something happened to my wife and I behaved like you. Better still, take them maricón, keep 'em safe...love them Geo if I'm abusive and can't see their fear past my pain!"
Giuseppe jumped to his feet at Alfonzo's sudden explosive response. "What is wrong with you?"
Alfonzo's eyes were glassy. He didn't want to mistreat his kids. They were born of a great love. He wanted a drink, too, but he refused to let liquor in his body, especially seeing what Giuseppe went through. "You're my older brother. Act like it sometime!"
"Vaffanculo fratellino!"
Alfonzo sneered derisively at the figure in the rumpled suit, reeking of alcohol and then he exited without bothering to reply to the drunken fool.
Cold –cold –cold that one, Giuseppe opined.
His fratellino’s demeanor had frosted overnight –however, Giuseppe appreciated that Alfonzo had the foresight to weld closed any holes surrounding Nicole's death that a grief-stricken husband forgot.
Chapter Eight
Lorenzo examined the cache of weapons lined on the bench extending wall to wall in the basement. AK-47’s, Glocks, Berettas and concealable miniature pistols that were popular with women gun owners.
He hit the timer, and began filling empty magazines with bullets until it binged.
He had loaded five magazines in under a minute.
He insert a clip in a Glock, reset the timer and with the weak hand dropped the mag, slammed a replacement clip in, concentrating on the revolutions until another bing resounded.
Three seconds, and two reloads, equaled to one point five seconds per reload, which had improved with sobriety.
The word was out. He was back in the smuggling business. Tonight there was a shipment going out to Istanbul of cigarettes and high quality liquor skimmed from a freighter heading to the United States. This was but one of several contracts his father negotiated before his death. Buyers often stick with smugglers they’ve done business with on many occasions. The relationship between the buyer and supplier is built on trust.
A buyer doesn’t want to risk being caught in a sting because they switched suppliers that later turned out to be cops. His Pappoús had established a solid reputation and Lorenzo planned to honor his father’s obligations or refund the down payments. The latter wasn’t happening. It would wipe out his accessible cash.
“Hey, I’m back!” He heard Chocolate exclaim. He could hear her walking across the kitchen floor.
Lorenzo removed the clip, placed the unloaded weapon on the workbench and hurried upstairs, and then secured the door. He’d given her the right to remodel the bedroom, and the living space to incorporate her tastes. Changing anything else was off limits. He took comfort in being able to go into his parent’s bedroom, see remnants of their life and memories of his childhood. Besides, his mom had good taste. There wasn’t a rush to get rid of things. Eventually, he’d have to decide what to do with his Pappoús’ estate. He was unable to walk further than the driveway of his Pappoús' home after the murders. Eventually, he needed to make a decision. His initial thought was to have the home demolished, but he planned to speak with Vigo first.
He rounded the corner. Apparently, Chocolate had not heard his approach.
“Yasa, you have returned quickly.”
Chocolate jumped, dropping eggs on her shoes and the floor. She bent down, trying to scoop the slop into the carton. “You scared the piss out of me Lo.”
‘Lo’ was his new nickname. He was glad she had not called him ‘Enzo. Thalia used that pet name. He liked Lo, and added hers to the moniker. Chocolate and Lo, Lo-Chocolate, Chocolate-Lo, he considered as he grabbed a cloth and the waste bin to assist in the cleanup.
“Why are you nervous?” he asked, as he peered up her shapely legs. He liked the pattern of her minidress. The colors were vibrant and flattering to her beautiful dark skin.
“I still feel jittery, and I’m looking over my shoulder every two minutes like somebody’s gonna’ grab me.”
He swept the cloth in a semicircle and the gelatinous substance adhered to the material that he then tossed in the wastebasket. “That is normal after your ordeal.”
She reached for a paper towel and cleaned the goo from her shoes.
“How can you stay calm after everything that happened? Aren’t you the tiniest bit scared the cops might catch us?”
He asked for the roll of
paper towels, ripping several free and went to work, cleaning up the remainder of the gunk. The consistency reminded him of their sexual juices. He said nothing as he went to retrieve a mop to thoroughly clean. When he finished, he rested a shoulder against the door molding, crossing his arms over his bare chest, and fingering the gold bevels.
Chocolate’s rump rested against the sink. The fruit she purchased sat on the counter beside milk and ground coffee. “Well? Are you going to answer me?”
“The police believe they have the perps. The audio was configured to lead to a botched drug deal and the bodies repositioned.” He laughed. “Deshi’s people were made to look like rival gangs, shooting it out and the corrupt Deputy Mayor killed in the drug-war.”
“That’s ingenious.”
“The Kaposi’s idea.”
“They’re sick.”
He chuckled. “They are very sane, considering.”
“But, what if the police don’t fall for it? They’re not stupid and Deshi kept calling my number, can’t they trace it to me?”
“They will not find a cellular. I took it,” he said in his best English.
“Oh.” She sighed, shaking her head. “In the states when somebody white dies, they like to flash black mugs on TV to scare viewers. You’re blonde and white. Your kind's mug shots aren't put on the news all day and on every channel. However, when they do, he’s a serial killer and the expert shrinks come on to talk about how they’re intelligent and fit profiles. But people like me, we're all considered thieves, Mama's a prostitute, daddy's a thug or deadbeat. There isn't a mention about our education, achievements, aspirations, and heck how charming we are. The media has programmed every non-black to believe my people are Menaces to Society, Public Enemy Number One.”
“Hmm,” he replied to her frustration at the state of race relations. However, she had a valid point about the greatest threats might be the person someone least expects. In the cellar, he had a stockade of weapons, stolen and smuggled contraband. He evaded taxes and defied almost every law.
“Bad cops where I come from can mistreat black women, slam us on the ground, knee us in the back and punch us as if they’re fighting men. Let something like that happen to a white woman. Humph!”
“Those who act in such a way are unable to exercise authority without a uniform or a gun. They are not real police but frightened boys that are powerless at home.”
“Yeah, well that’s why I’m hesitant about our situation. I have enough problems without adding in more.”
“And you believe I am a problem for you?”
She released an exasperated breath. “I guess I’m saying this because I’m black and you’re white. We’ll stick out and that’s the last thing we need in case the cops track us down.”
“Butterscotch is a closer description of my pigmentation and you have a chocolate-toffee coloring,” he chided to get her to see how foolish and inaccurate labels were.
“You know what I’m saying.”
“What I hear is a beautiful woman proclaims fear has dictated her destiny.”
“I’m not afraid, just realistic. Trying to start over in a foreign country is hard enough, but having people wondering if I’m your black fetish is humiliating.”
“Did you encounter a problem at the market?” He inquired, suspecting she had experienced a curiosity from friendly locals she misconstrued as bias.
“Some nosy old lady at the store asked if I were your filenáda. I had to check the translation.”
Lorenzo shrugged, wiggled his toes and rubbed his bare chest. The thick gold chain swayed from the vigorous caress. “What was your answer?”
“No.” Chocolate answered vehemently. Her slanted eyes creased into thin lines. “This arrangement is platonic, right?”
“It is –for now.” He squinted, waiting for her reply. He wondered whether she would admit to fearing the unknown. If she ventured bravely, she’d find nothing was guaranteed except death. However, there are some, which might consider that the ultimate liberation.
She spun around to the sink to talk to the washbowl. “Look Lo, we have to cut this before it starts. We both know it isn’t going to lead anywhere. I’m a hooker!”
He frowned. “It cannot work if you believe less of yourself.”
She turned to face him. “Just why the hell am I here? I mean, like what is your deal? You lost your family and fiancé. I lost my mom. What are we, roommates with benefits? Am I the bed warmer that you discard after you used it –what?”
Lorenzo supposed she wanted a label on their relationship instead of relaxing in the moment. Likely, when she hurried to the market earlier her intention was to impress him with a fancy American breakfast. Chocolate was unfamiliar with Greek customs. Typically, Greeks do not eat breakfast. Some drank lots of coffee, raki and afterward several cigarettes sufficed. His morning ritual consisted of a slice of spinach pie or a hardboiled egg. Oftentimes, dinner was the festive event that he shared with his family whenever he could.
Lorenzo scratched his head. “No, you are more than a blanket,” he answered. He was unaccustomed to weighing a stranger’s opinion about his life. He had very little structure to begin with. Unless, of course, his immediate family took issue with his lack of conformity, but then again, he often disregarded their views, too. The family believed he was stubborn and rebellious. Maybe, he was, they had raised him to be an independent thinker.
“The last thing I want is to become a white guy’s plaything.”
“But, you were the toy of many in Sicily.”
She tossed a towel at his shaved head. He caught it and put over his shoulder, which drew her eyes to the tribal tattoo on his neck.
“That’s fucked up!” She hissed.
“It is the truth.”
She scoffed. “I hid where nobody would think to look.” She scowled. “But I see you do think I’m a whore, despite your bullshit words to the contrary!”
Lorenzo humphed. He was right she lacked confidence. Her constant reference to their differences elicited an irritable sigh. Many people experienced cruelty and oppression.
He decided to make breakfast, talking as he reached for items in the cabinet and then set about collecting utensils and pans. “Have you heard of the word Helot?”
“You mean harlot?” she asked.
He cast a patient glance in her direction. Chocolate was very lovely when angry. Strange, that he had a bad thought to keep her may require impregnation.
His hands were busy. His former fiancé had not finished school, she’d been a stripper, and thus he surmised he found women without extensive education interesting. His schooling beyond the formal derived from traveling and interacting with locals. His ambition was to live as he chose without the input of others. “Not harlot –Helot,” he said patiently. “In Greece, Helots were considered the equivalent of a slave. Many possessed pigmentation similar to mine, and some were sunbaked like you. Pigment had not led to subjugation, lack of military and economic resources had. Helots farmed the land and performed strenuous work to provide luxuries for the lazy Spartans. The Spartans routinely slaughtered them without fear of reprisal. A person may change their skin color and name, but not their heart. The reality is abuse is not new to society. My mother’s ancestors were Helot’s from Messenia who later settled in Sicily. My hair is blonde, but as I have shared, my biological father Vincenzo Serano is Sicilian with ancestors from Africa. Am I white? I am Greek, that is my culture, and you offend me when you suggest I am only hair and skin. Whatever has happened to you, I am not to blame.”
She put water in the kettle as he used the remaining eggs in the fridge to scramble into an omelet, like a child after getting a good scolding she pouted.
“I didn’t mean to insult you.”
He put an egg, sausage and a block of cheese on each plate. She prepared the coffee and then maneuvered around his tall frame to place the cups on the table.
“Hungry?” he asked, sitting opposite his roommate.
S
he nodded. “Starving.”
Lorenzo grumbled in satisfaction between gulps of coffee. He placed his cup down, reclined and then asked, “What is your full name?”
“Diane Carroll,” she said, covering her mouth while talking.
“Pretty name.”
“My mom adored this actress named Diane, and since her last name was Carroll, she decided, I’ll pin it on my daughter. I guess she wasn’t creative enough to come up with something unique.”
“Your tone holds animosity. Your Mama gave you a loving name. That is a sign of how special you were to her. Ise ómorfi.”
“What does that mean? Never mind.” Chocolate put down her fork. “I like Chocolate better.”
“I said you are beautiful.” Lorenzo heard his cell and chose to ignore the ring to stay attentive to his company.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” she inquired when he didn’t move.
“No. I prefer to enjoy coffee with you.”
“Oh, okay then.”
He watched her eat. “What do you see for your life?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.” But, she did. She wanted a real home and a man like Lorenzo that would love her, even after discovering that she had lied. She had read the old woman’s diary. The bitch had personally requested her by name at the agency, she discovered. In the diary were many of her confessionals. She’d known her grandson had a penchant for black prostitutes. That woman knew her grandson was a sadistic pervert, even before he drugged her mother. The entire incident occurred at Mrs. Bergman’s home during a party for her grandson. Mrs. Bergman was the pimp the entertainment, except her mom wasn’t a hooker, strung out or nothing then, but a teenage girl trying to make extra money for college. Mrs. Bergman admitted to approaching the girl in the mall and paying her to attend the party, claiming her grandson didn’t have many friends and she wanted to make his day special. However, her grandson took it farther when he drugged her mom’s drink and took her into a room where he raped her. Mrs. Bergman caught the nineteen year old in the act. Her mom was so out of it, she didn’t fight or anything. Afterward, Mrs. Bergman dumped the girl off aware she wouldn’t remember the incident. Her mom got pregnant and the downward spiral after giving birth began. The drugs and prostitution had been the direct result of that bastard of a father and his equally vile grandmother. That wasn’t the worst of it. She looked at Lorenzo, desperately wanting to trust him and he must have recognized the imploration in her eyes.