Dina Santorelli

by Baby Grand

  It's a common misconception that last meals are something of a lavish endowment for condemned inmates. The truth was that the federal government only allowed an expenditure of twenty dollars on a last meal, not quite enough for the lobster tails Gino had been counting on. And no tobacco or alcohol products were allowed. Gino could have had his food purchased at a local restaurant—it was rumored that the last guy to be put to death at Stanton ordered from the McDonald's Dollar Menu—or had it prepared by the Institution Food Services Supervisor at the prison.

  Gino, whose expensive tastes had been humbled in recent years, went with the latter. He looked at his plate: tuna fish on white toast with lettuce and extra mayo, a one-liter plastic bottle of Coke with a tall plastic cup of ice, a side order of Tater Tots, and a Bavarian cream donut. Simple. His only extravagant demand had been ten packets of ketchup, since the prison tended to be stingy with those. The whole thing probably cost five bucks, if that.

  No one seemed to question why Gino had asked for his last meal a day early. They probably figured he was being his usual batty self, but it had been a long time since Gino had had a Bavarian cream donut, and nothing, not even a stay of execution, was going to stop him from having one. He put the tray on his knees and was taking a bite of his sandwich when Hank returned to his cell.

  "Got a visitor, Gino."

  "Now?" he asked, a glob of mayonnaise in the corner of his mouth. "You fuckin' with me?"

  "Nope, let's go. You know the drill."

  Gino put the tray on his cot and stuck his hands through the opening in the cell door. Hank cuffed them. As the cell door opened, Gino turned around, and Hank shackled his ankles as well. The two slowly made their way toward the visitors' room. Phillip Grand broke rank with the other governors when it came to death-row visitation. In addition to legal visits—and media interviews, of course—Grand allowed family members to visit condemned inmates up until twenty-four hours before an execution. What a guy.

  "What time is it, Hank?" Gino asked.

  "Time to get a new watch," Hank said with a chuckle.

  Gino rolled his eyes.

  "All right, all right, it's..." Hank looked at his watch. "6:03 p.m."

  "Thanks."

  Whoever was visiting got in just under the wire.

  As Gino shuffled into the visitors' room, he let out a groan. Sitting across the wired glass was Leo, his right leg shaking up and down. The fact that his son was here to see him when he was explicitly told not to was a) not a good sign and b) immediately validated Gino's decision to let Bailino take the lead on this little operation. Gino shot a glance at the video cameras and sat down.

  "Hi, Pop," Leo said.

  Gino stared through the glass.

  "I know you're not happy to see me. But I had to come and see you and talk to you about somethin'."

  Talk, oh great, Gino thought. Leo had never really mastered the code.

  Gino arched his eyebrows. "Boss?"

  Leo nodded.

  It was about Bailino. "What's... the... matter?" Gino said, like a child, in an attempt to remind Leo to speak wisely.

  Leo hesitated and appeared to be thinking hard, but it didn't last long. "The fuckin' guy is playing house," Leo said. "With the girl and the kid."

  "Are you out of your fuckin' mind?" Gino yelled into the glass, the outburst reverberating in the small room. He glanced at Hank who was standing behind him, but the guard wasn't the least bit rattled. Gino looked back at Leo. "Shut. The. Fuck. Up." He thought quickly. "What he does with ToniAnne and Joey doesn't concern you."

  Confused, Leo looked as though he wanted to make himself clearer. "I'm just sayin'..."

  "No, you say nothing. I'm going to talk, and you're going to say nothing." Gino felt a fluttering in his chest and thought how damn ironic it would be if he keeled over right there. Even though he was looking at his son through a thick piece of glass, there was no denying the red glassiness of his eyes. He had been drinking again.

  "Good, now first of all, you don't think I have enough shit on my mind that you have to come to me with this garbage? Think, Leo. Think."

  "I don't know, Pop. Now that you mention Joey, he's putting crazy ideas in that kid's head."

  "Yeah, I know," Gino said. "I'm not so crazy about the college thing either."

  "Pop, but that's not what I'm talking about. It's Joey... and Don. Since Mikey died, it's like Don thinks he's running the show, acting like... It's bad enough the kid goes upstate every summer to intern in that stupid factory."

  Gino had had enough. "Leo, I don't have time for this. I'm getting up and I'm going to eat my meal. I love you, kid, but you're killing me. Literally. Go home. Be nice to your sister." Gino turned to leave the room.

  "Pop, I'm sorry," Leo called. "I shouldn't have come."

  Gino waved his hand, and, with Hank behind him, shuffled his way back toward his cell.

  "Kids, huh?" Hank said. "Can't live with them, can't die with them."

  "Yeah. Kids."

  A wave of despair filled Gino as he sat back down on his cot. He returned his tray to his lap and took another bite of his tuna sandwich. There was a scene every time ToniAnne or Leo visited him. Every time. Yelling, crying, bickering. Even in the early days, when Gino greeted them in the general visitors' room, with arms outstretched, he'd want to choke them within minutes. The other prisoners would stop their hand-holding and hugs to stare. For that reason, he had asked ToniAnne to stop visiting him three years ago—her visits depressed the shit out of him. And as the years passed, his kids had gotten older and fatter. And stupider. He much preferred contact by phone. Even Skype was too much to bear.

  Gino picked up the newspaper that he'd left on the cot and flipped through it, stopping to look at the small headline on page twenty-three: "Cataldi Death Imminent." The story placement was a slap in the face. To make matters worse, the article had called him "the last of a dying breed." The accompanying photo showed a crumpled-up old man.

  Where did I go wrong, he wondered, picking at his Tater Tots. He used to dream of a robust network of Cataldis, the linchpins of major corporate and governmental enterprises, but these kids were too damn spoiled and vain and distracted. Patsy Bailino, that son of a bitch, managed to raise a son who was competent and levelheaded and fearless. Gino's jealousy was palpable. In his early years, Donny Bailino was a bit of a weird, awkward kid, a loner type who liked to read—a lot like Joey, for sure—but he had grown into a formidable man. He had the brains and stomach for anything that Gino proposed, and he was a fountain of bold initiatives. After all, it had been Bailino's idea to contact reliable workers at his warehouses across the country and have them call in sightings of Charlotte Grand in order to throw off the local scent. Gino thought it would never work—one of those people was bound to squeal—and told him so, but so far, so good. And it was Bailino's plan to have all this take place at his log cabin, which happened to be isolated and soundproof, right under the nose of the local police. "It's not unusual for a family to come together in anticipation of the death of a patriarch," he'd told Gino. "The Feds'll have their hands full with the disappearance. This won't even be on their radar." And he was right. It wasn't. It was genius. Gino had to admit that without Don Bailino's support over the years, and savvy business sense, he would not have been able to maintain the few business ties he still had from behind bars.

  Gino scratched his ass and took another bite of his sandwich, thinking about Joey and Don and what Leo had said. Leo was starting to connect the dots, and it was only a matter of time until he knew the truth about the relationship between Joey and Don—Gino was embarrassed that it had taken even this long for his son to figure it out. The resemblance, the identical mannerisms, the brains. What a tool.

  But what Leo would never know—could never know—is that this had all been part of Gino's master plan. And for all of Don Bailino's savvy and brilliance, Gino had played him too—sending him to check in on ToniAnne all those times while Mikey was in prison, knowing full we
ll what would happen. Mikey was a putz and probably had used his one sperm cell to father his granddaughter Anna, who, as much as Gino loved her, was a putz too and ugly as a motherfucker. And when ToniAnne announced her second pregnancy, Gino kept his fingers crossed that when that kid popped out it was anything but a conjugal-visit baby. And his wish had come true. He knew it. Donny knew it. ToniAnne probably knew too, although she never let on.

  And Don Bailino's fate had been sealed. For the past seventeen years. Forever.

  Bailino wanted out, sure. He'd been saying that for as long as Gino could remember. But as long as Joey was around, Gino had the leverage he needed to make the Great Bailino his errand boy—a feeling of satisfaction filled him.

  But if Leo figured it out...

  I'm getting too old for this shit, he thought. The ice cubes in his glass were nearly melted; Gino poured in some Coke and took a bite of his Bavarian cream donut.

  Chapter 35

  Rey drove up the ramp onto the sidewalk and parked in front of the service station.

  "Aunt Ro, I just have to stop in for a moment, and then we'll go, okay?" Rosalia sat quietly in the passenger seat. "You want to come in?"

  "No, no. I'll stay here."

  Reynaldo hesitated, but then he opened the front car windows an inch or two on each side, took his keys, and ran toward the station entrance. This had better be important.

  Pedro was sitting on the leather bench, panting and looking guilty. Reynaldo spotted Nada bending down by the coffee machine looking for the plug.

  "Why you leave Aunt Ro in the car, eh?" Pedro asked, looking out the window.

  "She didn't want to come in. I asked her." Reynaldo looked around the office. "So? What's the big emergency?"

  "No 'big emergency,' Rey. I told you..." Pedro walked behind the counter.

  "Pedro, you said 'a big, scary, tall man' came in asking questions. What man?"

  "I'm looking for the paper I wrote his name on, hermano. And his phone number."

  Reynaldo waited while Pedro shuffled through papers. He stopped when he got to a magazine that had come in the day's mail and flipped through it.

  "Pedro, Pedro... I don't have time. I have to take Aunt Ro to the police station."

  "What did she do?" Nada asked, pouring coffee into the filter.

  "Nothing, you twit," Pedro said. "The governor's daughter is missing, remember?"

  "Oh." Nada shot Pedro a look before taking the coffeepot and leaving the room.

  "Do you think they found the guy?" Pedro asked excitedly. "Do you think Aunt Ro has to identify him in a lineup? Can I come?"

  "Pedro, I don't know anything. But what about the man who came into the station?"

  "He was asking for you."

  "Okay..." That was not unusual since Reynaldo ran the station. "What else?"

  "He was scary looking." Pedro raised his eyebrows.

  "Yeah, you said that."

  "No, but I don't mean, like, you know, Hulk scary. He had shifty eyes. I didn't trust him. He looked kind of upset that you weren't here. Was snooping around too. Oh..." Pedro pulled a slip of paper out from under a pile. "Here's his card. Told you I had it," he said, handing it to Reynaldo proudly.

  Nada returned with the pot of water as Reynaldo read the business card:

  Philip Goldberg, Tax Advisor

  "Jesus, Pedro, you know him. What is wrong with you? He's our tax guy, Phil. He's been coming here for years."

  "Twit," Nada said with a sneer.

  "Shut up, Nada." Pedro came out from behind the counter, and Reynaldo clotheslined him and put him in a headlock.

  "Get off me, Rey."

  "You've got to pay more attention, hermano," he whispered into his ear. Reynaldo let him go, picked up the cordless phone handset on the wall, and dialed.

  "What does he want, Rey?"

  Rey held up his finger while he kept the phone by his ear. He looked through the open blinds of the front window. He could see Rosalia waiting in the car.

  "Yes, hello." Reynaldo spoke into the handset. "This is Reynaldo Rodriguez. My apologies for not being here when you came into the station today. I had completely forgotten about our appointment. We've had some family issues. Would it be possible to reschedule for Friday? Please call me on my cell phone at 323-3493. Thank you."

  "Very nice, Rey," Pedro said. "Very professional."

  "Pedro, I need you to come to Aunt Ro's tomorrow night. Rikki and Terry can't get up here from Queens until Friday morning."

  "Tomorrow? Night? Um... I don't know if I'm available." Pedro looked at Nada, who was pushing buttons on the coffee machine.

  "Basta, Pedro! You are going to Aunt Ro's. She can't be alone. And I need to be here going through tax papers or else we'll all be going to prison."

  The door from the garage opened, and Ricardo walked in. His blue overalls and his face were covered in grease.

  "Goddamn oil tank sprung a leak. What are you doing here?" he asked Reynaldo. "And why is Aunt Ro sitting in the car outside, crying?" Ricardo spotted Nada by the coffee machine. "Where have you been?"

  "She's crying? I have to go." Reynaldo looked at Pedro. "You are coming tomorrow night, yes?"

  "Coming where?" Ricardo asked.

  "Yes, yes, I will be there," Pedro said.

  "Alone…"

  "Yes, alone." Pedro looked at the floor and put his hands in his pockets.

  "Why does he have to go alone?" Ricardo grabbed a dirty washcloth that was hanging on a hook near the garage door and wiped his face, creating dark streak marks that made him look as if he had been crying giant black tears. "Why doesn't anyone ever tell me what's going on, eh?"

  "Oh, basta, Ricky, or else I will tell Rey how you made that girl in the tight skirt walk all the way through the garage, past everyone, instead of letting her exit right here."

  "Shush, hermano." Ricardo put his finger to his lips.

  "Is that right?" Nada asked.

  Reynaldo wasn't listening. "Pedro, put those papers away, so I can go through them tomorrow night, eh? Use one of the big envelopes in the drawer." Reynaldo swung the front door open. "And when you lock up, don't forget to make sure the garage door closes all the way this time. I don't need any more little visitors sneaking in during the middle of the night."

  "Yeah, yeah... go, go," Pedro said.

  "Don't you have anything for me to do?" Ricardo asked.

  "Yeah, go jump into a lake," Pedro said. "You could use the bath."

  "Ricky, you just stay out of trouble, okay?" Reynaldo said.

  Ricardo looked dejected.

  "And take out the garbage."

  He perked up instantly. "¡Aye, aye, capitán!"

  Reynaldo hurried back toward his aunt, who remained slumped in the passenger seat.

  "Tía, I'm sorry I took so long." Reynaldo started the car and pulled into the street.

  Rosalia smiled weakly. "Reyito, if the policía arrest me..."

  "Arrest you? For what?"

  "Will you water my plants for me?"

  "Yes, but... I mean, you are not going to jail. You didn't do anything."

  Rosalia looked at the road and rubbed her rosary beads, which she had cupped in her hands. "How are your brothers?"

  "Fine. The same."

  She patted his hand on the steering wheel. "They are lucky to have you."

  Some people are meant to care for others, Reyito.

  Yes, Reynaldo thought as he sped down the road, whether they want to or not.

  Chapter 36

  Charlotte cackled in the bath as Jamie poured another cup of water over her head. Bailino was right. This kid loved water. The stream slid like silk over the smoothness of Charlotte's forehead, washing away the grime of the riverbank and leaving behind glowing skin—the kind that belonged in a home with loved ones, not complete strangers.

  Jamie kept her left hand securely behind Charlotte so that she didn't flop backward as Jamie put down the cup and picked up a bar of soap and washed around the little girl's sho
ulders. Charlotte's hands were probably the dirtiest part of her, but Charlotte was taking care of those herself, splashing them down in the water, soaking Jamie's shirt and hair. Seeing the cup float, Charlotte grabbed it with both hands and shook it up and down, then held it in one hand and slapped it with the other.

  "Mo, Mo, Mo," she said, creating her own little rhythmic beat.

  The unadulterated glee in Charlotte's voice was almost enough to wash away the events of the past two days. Almost.

  "Mo, Mo, Mo?" Jamie smiled, squeezing a bit of that yucky dandruff shampoo, the only kind on hand, into Charlotte's hair and working up a lather with her free hand. "Are you trying to say Jamie?"

  "Mo, Mo, Mo," Charlotte said again.

  "Ja-mie," Jamie said, pinching her chin.

  Charlotte's sweet smile turned into a scowl. She shook her head and threw the cup into the water.

  "Hey, that's not very nice," Jamie said in a voice that was surprisingly firm.

  "Mo, Mo, Mo..." Charlotte said sternly, as stern as a little girl whose hair has been fashioned into a sudsy pyramid can look. She brought the fingertips of her hands together and touched them several times. It was the same motion she'd made during breakfast.

  Suddenly, Jamie realized that Charlotte wasn't trying to say her name at all. And she wasn't clapping. She was signing. She remembered when her nephew had had a severe speech delay as a toddler and had qualified for free therapy services provided by New York State; the therapist would bring Peter's bunched fingertips together—the sign for more—and say slowly "More. More." Before that, Peter had just been banging his fists on the table to get more of whatever it was he wanted.

  "Why teach him sign language?" Jamie had asked the therapist, a young, enthusiastic brunette with a bright smile. "It seems like the opposite direction we want to go. Isn't the idea to get him to talk?"

  "It's interesting," the therapist had answered, as she continued moving Peter's fingertips apart and then together. "You would think that teaching sign language would make the child not want to talk. I mean, why should he, if he is able to communicate in other ways, right? But what we've found is that sign language helps ease a child's frustration and actually promotes verbal language."