"Gimme the fucking phone," Joey said.
Mazara handed it to him.
Joey put it up to his ear. "You have any idea, my friend, who you've got there?"
The voice on the other end said, "Who're you?"
"Guy who's going to cut your nuts off," Joey said, "you don't let Angela go right fucking now."
"You want her back," he said, "get five hundred thousand euros, put the money in a white Adidas soccer bag. Think you can remember that?"
Joey said, "I wish you luck 'cause you're going to need it." The phone went dead, asshole hung up on him. He glanced at Mazara. "Where's the money at?"
"It was cut up like a pizza. Everyone they take a piece and now it is gone."
"That's what I'm going to do — cut you up, you don't get the money back, including what you owe my uncle, and bring it to me. I don't want to hear any fucking excuses."
Joey was thinking, with these modern-day dumbass Italians, he'd get a piece of the action, maybe even get it all. He had Mauro drive him to the Excelsior on Via Veneto, this famous hotel on this famous street. He went to the reception desk and got a room with the passport that said he was Salvatore Bitonte, a hairdresser from Detroit, but not a fag.
He had to get out of the villa for a while, be on his own. He looked at his watch, a gold Rolex President. It was 1:55. No wonder he was starving. He went to the restaurant next door, place called Doney, had bombolitti with artichokes, bread and two glasses of Batar, a nice Tuscan white, and for dessert, coffee and strawberries with limoncello mousse, kept Mauro waiting in the car, Joey didn't care. He paid cash for the meal, put the receipt in his shirt pocket and went outside.
When Joey got back to the villa his uncle was acting strange — like what else was new? He wasn't listening to opera or studying one of his paintings. He was sitting behind his big wooden desk he said once belonged to Mussolini, his hands folded like he was praying.
Joey said, "Yo, Unk, what's up?"
His uncle got up and came across the room, taking tiny steps, an odd look on his face. "I do not know how to tell you this…"
Joey was thinking the old boy was upset 'cause he blew his woofers listening to Rigoletto.
"Your father is gone," his uncle said in a soft voice.
"What?" Joey didn't understand him.
"Giuseppe is dead."
It was strange. His father had died and he didn't feel anything at all. "What happened?"
"Was his heart," Unk said, still holding his hands together.
No surprise there. His old man had had angioplasty twice and was taking a blood thinner. Unk put his arms around Joey, hugging him. Joey didn't like this old guy, who smelled like mothballs and BO, touching him. That was another thing about the modern Italians, they could shower a little more often, Jesus Christ. He looked down at the top of his Unk's balding silver hair, the skin on his head tan like his arms and face.
Joey's first impulse was to go home. Sneak back in the country the way he'd snuck out — go to the funeral, see his mother. It was risky, but he had to do it. The family would respect him for coming out of hiding to honor his father, wouldn't they? Respect him, or think he was an idiot for coming back?
Then he thought, maybe his old man got what he deserved. Instead of helping Joey, he'd sent him away, banished him to cover his own ass. Now with Joe P. out of the picture, Joey was on his own. No one would help him. No one would go near him.
His uncle finally let go of him and called Mauro. The little guy came in the room, and his uncle said something to him in Italian. Mauro hurried out and came back a few minutes later with a small-stemmed glass that had clear liquid in it.
"Drink this."
Joey took the glass and sipped it — sambuca. The warm licorice liquid going down slowly like motor oil, taking his breath away, his uncle staring at him, and Mauro standing there like a statue. Joey said, "I'm going to Rome, spend a few days in a hotel. I need to think."
"This is no time to be foolish."
He wanted to say, Oh, okay, Unk, thanks for the great fucking advice. Joey went upstairs, changed his clothes, hung his shirt and pants in the closet, packed a suitcase, a small bag with enough stuff for a few days. Joey poked his head back in his Unk's room and said, "Yo, Unk, backo shortolo."
Joey was happy to get out of the villa. He felt free for the first time in weeks. Mauro drove him back to Rome and dropped him off at the Excelsior. He felt good walking in the lobby, checking out the thirty-foot ceiling with giant chandeliers and expensive-looking furniture. The room was big and expensive-looking too. It ought to be for $750 a night, the euro still kicking the dollar's ass.
He went to his room, laid on the bed, relaxed and looked at the Herald Tribune, checked the NFL scores, the Lions had lost another one, now o and 7, Jesus. Worst team in football. He turned on CNN and watched for a few minutes, wondering what the hell was going on in the world. He felt out of touch, hadn't seen a newspaper or TV for six days.
There was a knock on the door. He opened it and saw a good-looking blonde reminded him of Sharon, standing there, same hairstyle, same height and build. He smelled perfume. Jesus, like she took a bath in it.
She said, "Signor Bitonte?"
"Call me Sal," Joey said.
She came in and moved past him and sat on the queen-size bed and he closed the door and said, "What's your name?"
"Lia."
"Lia, huh? Okay, Lia, let's see what you got." Joey's rule: when he was alone with a babe, she had to be naked. He liked to look at her body. At first girls would resist and pretend to be shy, but the truth was they couldn't wait to show him the goods. He dated one chick with huge bozos liked to stand in front of the window and shock people driving by. At first she was like — no way. You think I'm going to prance around in my birthday suit?
Another one liked to walk out to the end of the driveway and get the newspaper in a robe with nothing under it. When the wind blew it open she'd pretend to be embarrassed. Oh, don't look. I'm naked under here.
It was Joey's belief that all women were whores. Some like Lia were up front, straightforward about it. They came to your room and you paid for their services. Girlfriends got paid in other ways: gifts and dinners and trips. But they all took your money, one way or the other.
Lia got up and took her clothes off and Joey looked at her and grinned and said, " Succhiami il cazzo."
She got on her knees, knelt before him. See, his command of Italian was coming in handy again. As it turned out, Lia was nothing special, going through the motions, giving him a C- blowjob and a C+ fuck. When they were finished he paid her?250 and booted her out. He needed to be alone for a while. He went to the mini bar and took out a bottle of Grey Goose and made himself a Martini.
He sat on the bed, leaned back against the headboard, more relaxed now, the edge taken off, and thought about Sharon, Sharona his nickname for her. She'd been the exception to the all-women-are-whores rule. She refused to parade around in the nude, and when he gave her a present, she told him it wasn't necessary and meant it. She was a keeper. That's why he asked her to marry him. He'd dated dozens of girls and realized that meeting the one was like luck roulette.
He pictured Sharon with the blonde hair and the black beaver that was like a mohair sweater he couldn't keep his hands off of. She wasn't the best-looking girl he'd ever dated, but she was the sexiest. She was also girlish and feminine and funny. Only one he'd ever gone out with made him laugh. He saw himself showing her the sights of Rome, and then taking her to Positano on the Amalfi Coast, this beautiful picturesque town, and he got horny again just thinking about it.
It was his father who’d arranged for his passport that was the real thing, and snuck him into Canada — through the Detroit-Windsor Tunnel in the back of a panel truck so there’d be no record with Canadian customs. He was driven to Toronto where he got on a plane with his new identity, headed for Frankfurt, Germany, biggest goddamn airport he’d ever seen in his life. From there he flew to Milan and was picked up by Mauro who took the Autostrada del Sole 350 kilometers to Rome in a little less than four hours.