Jorge became a celebrity on the evening news shows with his vivid description of finding Jack taking the long nap in his breakfast, a narrative that provided comic relief against the stark images of Candy arriving at the airport a widow, shielded from the media hordes by her grim bodyguard.
By that time, Polly Paget had risen once again, transformed from vengeful psycho female to heroic Madonna even though she remained in seclusion. Rumors that she had signed to make a porno film, or was going to be a centerfold, or had been involved in a bizarre shoot-out in a Las Vegas hotel were dismissed as idiotic and tasteless. Hollywood producers cheerfully slashed one another’s throats to see who would make Polly, the movie or Polly, the miniseries. Several name actresses were said to be already signed to do the role.
Candy Landis, too, experienced a public metamorphosis-from hopelessly out-of-it suburban recipe queen to hip practical neofeminist. Scores of women ex-cons appeared on dozens of shows to tell how Candy’s wisdom helped them to start a new life, and herds of sociologists went on to explain that Mrs. Landis’s rural roots, keen business savvy, and courageous integrity made her a role model for thousands of women across the country.
By the time the network anchors gave their signature sign-offs, Overtime had recited his litany of complaints against Joey Foglio to Carmine Bascaglia, Joey had cleansed his soul again, and the Las Vegas police were investigating the homicide of a down-and-out New York P.I. who’d spent his last day in Pompeii.
And by the time the late news came on, a new deal was in the works.
“So everything’s okay now, right?” Polly asked the group assembled in Candy Landis’s living room.
“No,” Neal answered coldly. “Everything is not okay, America’s Sweetheart. A man is dead.”
“Two men,” Candy corrected.
“Right,” Graham said. “One man died and another man was murdered.”
“The mob is still entrenched in our business,” Whiting added.
“And it’s business as usual,” Karen said.
“I’m sorry,” Polly said. “I never meant for any of this to happen.”
Neal looked at her to see whether she was using the sincerity he had taught her or whether it was real.
Damned if it didn’t look real.
“Bascaglia wins; Hathaway wins; Joey Beans wins…” Karen mused.
Candy said, “It doesn’t seem fair.”
“Well,” Neal said, “at the end of the day, you do what you can do.”
“So do you want to do it?” Graham asked.
Neal thought about it. He could walk away now, go back to Nevada with Karen, forget about the whole stupid thing, or…
“Yeah, I do,” he said.
“I think we’ve taken a lot of shit from these people and it’s time to give some back,” Karen said.
Chuck nodded.
Culver grinned.
“At the end of the day,” Candy said, “I guess I just can’t accept being a partner with criminals.”
Everyone looked at Polly.
“I’ll ask St. Anthony,” she said, “to help us turn the tables on these… these… these dirty… penises.”
“She needs work,” Graham said to Neal.
“I know.”
But don’t we all.
At the offices of AAA Trucking and Hauling, Harold held the phone away from his mouth as he said, “Joey, you ain’t gonna believe who’s on the phone.”
Harold had developed a small tic under his left eye. It had started shortly after Carmine called to warn them that they’d better not be thinking about whacking Polly Paget, had gotten a little worse after the news that Jack was on his way to that big fish fry in the sky, and was now quivering away with every fresh turn and dip on the roller-coaster ride that was life with Joey Foglio.
“I dunno,” Joey answered, looking like none of this even bothered him. “Who?”
“Jack’s wife. Uhhh, widow.”
Joey smiled and held up his hands as an “I told you so” gesture and boasted, “See? What did I tell you? Jack ain’t even cold and his old lady is scrambling to make a deal. I hope the bitch don’t think it’s going to be easy. This should be funny-put it on speaker.”
This was his legitimate business number, so it didn’t matter as long as he discussed legitimate business.
“Hello, Mrs. Landis,” Joey said. “Sorry to hear about Jack. So young, so vital.”
So stupid.
“Mr. Foglio?” Candy asked in a tone that gave credence to her nickname, Canned-Ice.
“The g is silent,” Joey corrected her.
“I see,” Candice said. “Well, however you pronounce your name, I’m just calling to let you know that you’re fired. I’m canceling all contracts as of today. Please be so kind as to have all your equipment off of Candyland within the next forty-eight hours. Thank you.”
That wiped the smile off Joey’s face. He had an audience to play for, so he replaced the smile with a smirk and said, “You can’t just cancel contracts, Mrs. Landis. I’d have to sue you.”
“While I can picture you in a courtroom, Mr. Foglio,” Candy answered, “it’s easier to imagine you in handcuffs.”
Say what?
“Are you threatening me?” Joey asked. He couldn’t believe it. This cracker twat was threatening to drop a dime on him!
“I’m giving you a break,” Candy answered. “I’m not going to press charges against you for fraud, theft, extortion, and blackmail, but I do want you out of my hair. It’s my final offer, Mr. Foglio. I suggest you accept it.”
“Oh, is that what you suggest, you-”
“Careful, Joey,” Harold warned. Joey’s face was the color of an overripe tomato and his own eye was quivering like crazy.
“Shut up,” Joey answered. “Hey, lady! You don’t know who you’re messing with!”
“Joey…” Harold moaned.
“I know precisely with whom I am messing,” Candy answered, “and I don’t care. Forty-eight hours, Mr. Beans.”
The loud hum of the dial tone filled the room as she hung up.
“You killed Jack, you know!” Joey screamed. “Murdered your own husband like you stuck a knife in his back, you witch! Forty-eight hours! I’ll give you forty-eight hours hanging upside down on a meat hook, you tight-ass Texas-”
“Joey, she hung up,” Harold said.
“Goddamn it!” Joey yelled. He slammed his fist on his desk.
“This is troublesome,” Peter Hathaway said.
He had come to San Antonio for Jack’s funeral and to make new arrangements with Joey Foglio. Now Candy’s unexpected fortitude seemed to threaten those arrangements. And without the rake-off money coming in from Foglio, he’d be nothing more than Marc Merolla’s beard for the rest of his pathetic life.
Something had to be done.
“Something has to be done,” Hathaway said.
Harold warned, “Joey, we can’t be involved in any-”. “You got any suggestions?” Joey asked Hathaway.
“Joey…” Harold moaned.
“Yes,” Hathaway answered. “Actually, I do.”
Joey smiled at Harold and said, “Actually, he does.”
“I have an old friend,” Hathaway said, “who handles just this sort of thing.”
Harold thought his eye might just rattle out of his head.
Joe Graham held the phone away from his ear as Carmine Bascaglia yelled dire threats about killing him, Neal Carey, Polly Paget, Candy Landis, all of their families, friends, and pets.
Then Graham said, “You’re not going to do shit, Mr. Bascaglia. Let me tell you why.”
After he told him, Carmine Bascaglia swept all the paper off his desk, smashed the window with his chair, and had his boys go fetch Overtime.
Overtime left Bascaglia’s office a happy man.
Work found for work lost, he thought. Fair enough. One last hit and a long retirement overseas.
There was a message for him when he got back to his room. He dialed the San Antonio number and was surprised to hear the voice from the past.
“It’s been a long time,” he said.
“Last time I saw you was in a boat under a bridge,” Hathaway said.