Felix had just shrugged his shoulders at the news and said, “Some people take their olive oil very seriously.”
So that day we had gone up to Manchester, and that dinner at Fratello’s had been a good one, with lots of delicious food, wine, laughter, and memories, but I had no illusion that today’s lunch would be as much fun or as memorable.
I went into the entranceway, and there standing by the hostess stand was Felix, who was talking to a young woman with raven hair and a snug red dress, who kept on pressing menus against her impressive chest as if trying to cool them down.
Felix turned to me, smiled. His skin was darker than usual, and he was finely dressed in a dark blue suit, light blue shirt, and red necktie. The coat had been expertly tailored to hold whatever weapon he was carrying this afternoon, while I made do with my Harris tweed.
A snug handshake, a slap on the shoulder. “Good to see you,” he said. “And what’s with the facial hair? You forget to shave or something?
“Good to see you, too,” I replied, and it was true, it did feel good. For the past several days, it seemed like Felix was the only one who knew who I was and where I was coming from. I rubbed at the bristle on my face and chin. “Truth is, I’ve been running so far and so fast, shaving’s been taking a back seat.”
The hostess came up to us but reserved her gaze for Felix. “Speaking of seats, let’s go find them.”
The place was busy, with lots of laughs and conversation. It was sprawling, with a second floor, and booths and round tables. The hostess led us to a quiet corner table and, after ordering drinks and meals, Felix sat back and asked, “How are you doing?”
“Lousy.”
“Go ahead.”
“My house burned down early this morning.”
His brown eyes narrowed. “Not funny.”
“I agree.”
“Lewis… for real?”
“Just under two hours ago, I left Tyler Beach. The fire trucks were there, as well as a couple of cops and some people pretending to be my neighbors. Plus an officer from the State Fire Marshal’s office, though it’s pretty damn obvious the fire didn’t start from somebody smoking in bed.”
For what seemed to be a first for him, Felix was at a loss for words. Our wine and our meals arrived, and we took the opportunity to eat. Felix had some complicated pasta dish with tomato sauce, sautéed vegetables, and eggplant. I, on the other hand, had a fettuccine Alfredo dish with lobster meat and scallops, and we threw caution and ceremony to the wind and had a nice New Zealand Pinot Noir to go with everything. Along the way, I told Felix what I had been up to, including my trip to D.C. and back.
At one point, knife and fork in hand, he said, “Sorry about Annie Wynn. She seemed to be a grand woman.”
“She is a grand woman,” I said. “She’s a strong, capable woman who is focused on getting her man elected president. She’s not in some planning board campaign for a small town or city. Up there where she is, the air is pretty intoxicating. I can’t fault her.”
“You’re a better man than me.”
“Which I’ve told you many times,” I said.
After we both paused to have another healthy swig of wine, I asked, “How’s your Aunt Teresa?”
“Adjusting to her new condo.”
“Her new what?”
“Condo. When I got her down to Florida, I did a quiet recon of her facility. Found out some muscular clean-cut men had been hanging around, asking questions about her and her favorite nephew. So I found her another place.”
“Felix, I’m sorry to hear that.”
He shook his head. “No worries. It’s a step up from where she was, the kitchen is bigger, she has her own private Jacuzzi, and she tells me the pool boys are much more attractive than the ones at her previous place.”
“But what’s going to happen in the spring? When she wants to go back to the North End?”
His eyes hardened. “I fully expect that this mess will be settled long before spring.”
I told him I didn’t disagree with that, and when our dining finally slowed down, Felix said, “Tell you a story?”
“Sure. Cops and… well, people of your persuasion always have the best stories.”
“Hah,” he said, breaking off a chunk of bread. “I think I might have just been insulted. But knowing you… maybe not.”
He chewed reflectively for a moment or two, then said: “Story begins in Providence. A number of years ago, when I was much younger, quicker, but still as handsome.”
“Rhode Island?” I asked innocently.
“No, you knucklehead, Nebraska. Of course Rhode Island. Funny how Boston and New York make all the papers and bestseller lists about what passes for organized crime these days, but Rhode Island is the most mobbed-up state in the Union. Anyway, this was when the Patriarca family was on the ropes because the old man was in prison. So up on Federal Hill, you had two associated families who were trying to keep the peace. You had Nicky Giovanni and Tony Messina. Neither as bright as old man Patriarca, but they wanted to keep things on an even keel so business wasn’t impacted.”
“Fascinating,” I said, spearing the last piece of lobster in my bowl.
“You kids are so impatient nowadays. So, one day Nicky Giovanni and Tony Messina are having coffee at some social club, and Nicky says, hey, Tony, you know, my house, the lawn and trees and bushes don’t look so good, and my wife, Carla, she’s busting my balls, you got any ideas? And Tony says, yeah, I got this Mick, his name is Callaghan, he’ll do a good job for you, no problem.”
“Ah, the Irish have arrived. Should get very interesting.”
“Yeah, it does. So Callaghan goes over and maybe he’s having a bad day, or maybe Nicky’s wife Carla doesn’t like the Irish, but Callaghan doesn’t get paid for his work. Callaghan complains to Nicky, and maybe Nicky’s having a bad day, and he tells Callaghan to piss off. So he goes to Tony, and Tony says, what, you’re bothering me with this little crap? Go away.”
I picked up the bottle of New Zealand Pinot Noir, finished off the bottle between our glasses. “Being as intimate as I am with the Irish, I guess this doesn’t end well.”
“Nope,” Felix said. “In fact, one weekend when Nicky and his family were away, Callaghan went to the house, wanting restitution, so he stole this marble statue of the Virgin Mary, a statue that had come over from the old country and was nearly a hundred years old. So Nicky went apeshit, because he knew Callaghan had stolen it. So he went to Tony, wanting it back, and Tony said, hell, ain’t my deal. You take care of it. And Nicky said, what the hell, you recommended the guy, and Tony said, doesn’t mean he’s my cousin, you idiot, and Nicky said, who the hell are you calling an idiot?”
“Sounds like Europe, about August 1914.”
“Good comparison. Insults get worse, tempers rise up, and before you know it, you got a full-scale gang war breaking out. Guys in the streets getting shot, laundromats getting burned down, cars blowing up. Meanwhile, Callaghan, seeing what’s going on and knowing that at some point blame’s coming his way in the guise of two in the hat, tries to do the right thing and make it right. So late one night, he tries to sneak back into Nicky’s yard and return the statue. But some nervous third cousin on guard duty sees somebody trying to climb over the fence with a sack slung over his back, and opens fire.”
I took a healthy sip of the Pinot. “Not going to end well, is it.”
“That’s for sure. Poor Callaghan takes a round to his ass, falls off the fence, and drops the Virgin Mary on the sidewalk, whereupon it breaks into a zillion pieces. Seeing this as a sign from above, Callaghan gets his ass stitched up and takes the next Aer Lingus flight back to the home country. Eventually the gang war peters out, but my God, what a mess. Even though a peace was worked out, there are still old goombahs down there in Providence who are holding a grudge over that landscape guy and the broken statue.”