“Yeah!” Nancy said when she found a song she liked.
She sang along to Three Dog Night’s “Shambala.”
Louis said, “You wanna explain the difference between this shit and what I was listening to?”
“I like this,” she said. “What’s wrong with it?”
“The fuck does it mean?”
“I don’t know. Shine the light, I think.”
“Shine the light, what?”
“I don’t know, Louis. What’s the difference, I like it.”
Louis rubbed his face with his free hand.
“At least it’s white music,” Nancy said. Then she was dancing in her seat, waving her arms, snapping her fingers and singing the next verse.
Louis saw the temperature gauge had touched the red spot. Then there was steam coming from under the long hood. He let off the gas pedal and coasted the Cadillac off the road.
“What’s the matter?” Nancy asked.
Louis pointed to the steam.
“Oh,” she said. “That again. Where’d you get this piece of shit anyway?”
Louis turned the engine off and rubbed his face again, this time using both hands.
“Whadda we do?” Nancy said.
“Wait.”
“For what?”
“Until it cools again, same as we did last time.”
“Then what? Won’t it heat up again?”
Louis felt his teeth clench.
Nancy said, “Now what are you mad for?”
“Nothing,” Louis said. “Just leave it alone.”
“I’m sorry, baby,” Nancy said. She rubbed his right leg with her left hand. “Want a blow job until the engine cools?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“What? You don’t want a blow job?”
“That mouth,” Louis said. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“Since when?”
Louis glared at his ex-wife.
Nancy drew her hand back. “Excuse me,” she said. “Let’s just sit here and do nothing. That’ll be fun.”
Eddie Vento was buried at the Greenwood Cemetery in Brooklyn on Friday, August 31. Angela had gone to the two-day wake but had skipped the burial. Nick had used the opportunity to skip both the wake and the funeral as a sign he was retired from the life.
The afternoon of the burial the Santorras took a ten-thousand-dollar home equity loan. One thousand would cover the legal fees for an illegal gun possession charge, but leaving the life would also mean losing his no-show union truck driving job.
For the first time in five years Nick was forced to consider his employment options. Walking home from the bank, his heavily bandaged face a road map of bruises, Nick argued against working for his brother-in-law in the used car business.
“The fuck do I know about cars?” he said. “I can drive one, that’s it.”
“Neither did Larry know anything,” Angela said. “He was a shoe salesman, for God’s sake. He learned on the job. That’s what you’d do.”
“I’m not standing around a used car lot like some jerkoff needs to sell somebody a lemon, okay? Forgetaboutit.”
Angela knew better than to get into it with him now. It was his pride getting in the way. It had been hard for him to accept losing his dream of being a gangster, but after Eddie Vento was killed, Nick had said his chances had been flushed down the toilet along with all the other bullshit he’d been taking the last few years, that it was a blessing in disguise. Angela agreed.
She was grateful he was finished with that life and anxious for him to find work doing something more normal. She had never really bought into it anyway, the Mafia. All those wiseguys and goodfellas or whatever it was they called themselves. All she knew was her husband had been abused and for not much more money than he might make selling used cars and probably with a lot less aggravation, not to mention the risk.
“There’s plenty things I can do besides that,” Nick said after a while.
“Such as?”
“Business. I can go into my own, for one thing. Not work for somebody like some schmuck.”
“What kind of business?”
“I don’t know… something. Maybe we’ll open a store or something. A bagel joint or a pizza parlor. Something the kids can get into, they can help out they get older. We can leave them a store they can leave to their kids.”
Angela knew Nick was trying to be optimistic. It was one of the good things about him and she loved him for it now more than ever.
Melinda had learned about her best friend’s murder at the hospital where John had been taken after the shootout in Eddie Vento’s bar. Grief-stricken and overwhelmed with guilt, she spent the night at the local police precinct, where she stayed until Jill’s body was removed. The next day Melinda listed her house for sale with a local realtor.
John had tried to contact her after he was released from the hospital, but the police relayed her message that she needed time. When he finally tracked her down at a motel five days later, he was told she had just checked out and hadn’t left a forwarding phone number.
It was the Labor Day weekend and John’s mother had planned a Saturday barbecue. Last night he had taken his son to the Yankees game against the Orioles. Although the boy was still questioning where his mother had gone, he’d enjoyed himself at the game, especially after securing a few autographs on a baseball one of the players had tossed into the stands. The fact the Yankees had won was an added bonus. Today Little Jack was still excited as he played running bases in the driveway with a couple of other boys that lived on the same block as his grandmother.
Old man Elias, Nathan, John and his mother sat on beach chairs spread around Marie Albano’s yard. A cooler half filled with beer and soda was set against the house in the shade. A large serving tray with sandwiches, potato salad and coleslaw was centered on a portable folding table. Plastic Tupperware bowls filled with potato chips, pretzels and popcorn were spread across a small wooden picnic table.
The grown-ups could hear the boys laughing in the driveway. It was close to game time for the Yankees, but Little Jack was having too much fun to remind him.
“I never seen him so happy,” Marie said. “He’s got Jim Palmer and Brooks Robinson’s autographs, whoever they are. He must’ve told me two dozen times.”
“Who they are?” Elias asked. His mouth was still sore from the stitches along his gums and a slight fracture of the jawbone. Although he could speak, it was painful to do so.
“Orioles,” John said.
“It’s baseball, Mr. Elias,” Nathan Ackerman said. “They’re baseball players.”
He had returned to orchestral practice with the Philharmonic upon their return from Boston. He had come to visit Little Jack, but was waiting for a private moment to speak with John.
“He mention Boog Powell?” John asked his mother.
“Probably. Who’s he?”
“First base,” Nathan said.
“He got three hits but the Yankees still won,” John said. “Robinson didn’t play. I don’t know why.”
“He was so happy,” Marie said. “Thank God they won.”
“You hear anything from Nancy?” John asked Nathan.
“Me? Not a word.”
“Unbelievable, that woman,” Marie said. “Good riddance.”
Elias stood up, took Marie’s right hand and helped her up. “Come,” he said. “We prepare coffee I brought. I show you.” He stopped and turned to Nathan. “Greek coffee. The best.”
“I know it’s very strong,” Nathan said.
“Puts hairs on your chest.”
“Just what I need,” Marie said.
“On you they look beautiful, I’m sure.”
“Hey, hey, hey,” John said. “Watch yourself, old man.”
Elias waved him off as he followed Marie up the back steps to the kitchen.