“You tell me,” Vinnie replied. “It wasn’t just a mugging, was it?” He kept his eyes on Marlene’s face and then smirked. “I knew it! It was a hit!” He looked at his wife. “What I tell ya, baby? The shit has hit the fan on this one!”
Lydia kept her eyes on the street below but nodded. “That’s what you said, my man. That’s what you said for sure.”
Stupenagel looked at Marlene and raised her eyebrows. “You holding out on me, girlfriend?”
Marlene ignored her. “How do we know you told Brock anything of the sort?”
“Go talk to the cop who dragged my ass to jail on the drug beef,” Vinnie said. “His name was Dave Drum, or something like that. I told him I wanted to talk to Brock about the Atkins murder. Ask him. And I tell you what, Brock sure perked up when I told him about that blue silk shirt.”
“So what’s this deal you want?” Marlene asked.
Vinnie smiled triumphantly. “You tell your husband I can hand him the son of a bitch who killed them two women,” he said. “But with Brock getting whacked, the stakes have gone way up. First, I want the charges against me dropped.”
“Those are Bronx charges,” Marlene told him.
“Yeah, well, this is the same guy who did the Atkins murder, so I’d think your husband and the Bronx DA might want to cooperate,” Vinnie said. “Second, I want a safe place for me and my old lady to live until the trial is over. If word gets out that I’m snitching, somebody’s gonna stick a shiv in me just on principle. Third, I want the reward money for the killings in Manhattan and the Bronx. Me and Lydia is going to have to get the hell out of Dodge and we’re going to need a bankroll for that.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, Lydia ain’t been able to visit her elderly mom in Yonkers,” he said with a smile at his wife, “and she wants to take her a little something. But she needs a ride there and back. They won’t visit long, and I’d surely appreciate it.”
“I can do that,” Marlene said, “but I can’t promise anything else.”
“Well, neither will I,” Cassino replied. “This is all I’m saying until I got my deal.”
Marlene controlled the urge to slug the drug dealer. “I understand, and isn’t it fascinating how under certain circumstances we sometimes find the religious spirit to do the right thing,” she said with a smirk.
Vinnie laughed. “Okay, okay, you get me just fine. The right thing is what’s right for me and Lydia; ain’t nobody going to look out for us. Ain’t that right, sugar lips?”
“Damn straight, beautiful boy,” Lydia said in agreement. “Got to look out for number one. Now, let me get my care package and we can be off.”
23
The “spirit” luncheon for the baseball team was supposed to be a team-building event prior to the start of the playoffs that weekend. However, the players were buzzing with the rumor that the school’s athletic director had taken Coach Newell to task for the injury to Esteban Gonzalez’s leg. Apparently, Esteban’s parents had complained about the treatment of their son and the AD was worried about a lawsuit.
“Coach called my dad last night,” Max Weller told his cronies as they sat at their table while one of the assistant coaches spoke at the lectern about being “team players” and giving “110 percent” every game. “Newell said he’s going to have to play that fucking beaner at least some innings.” Weller made no attempt to lower his voice, nor did his pals disguise their curses and racial slurs.
Sitting at the table next to the complainers with two of the team’s black players and other members of the varsity squad, Giancarlo and Zak could overhear the angry conversation and see the hard stares directed at Esteban, who was sitting at a table otherwise occupied by the team’s two student managers, an assistant coach, and two younger players brought up from the junior varsity team to get some playoff experience. He ate quietly with his head down and spoke to no one, nor was he spoken to.
As his assistant coach droned on, Coach Newell walked over to Weller’s table, where he stood behind his senior shortstop. “How’s my main man?” he asked.
“Okay,” Weller replied sullenly.
“It’s going to work out fine, son,” the coach replied, leaning over and lowering his voice. “A lot can happen between now and the game.” He stood up and tousled Weller’s hair. “Chin up, champ.”
The coach turned and saw the boys at the next table watching him. He frowned at Giancarlo but smiled at the other players and patted Zak on the shoulder as he walked past. “Get that arm ready for game two, Karp.”
“I will, Coach,” Zak responded with a smile.
“This is bullshit,” Giancarlo said when the coach moved on.
“It’s just talk,” Zak replied. “Max is pissed that he’s going to have to sit out some of the games, but I bet he’s still going to start and this will blow over. Like I told you, Esteban’s parents handled it. We don’t have to get involved.”
Giancarlo scowled at his brother. “Did you hear anything Moishe said about waiting for someone else to speak up when other people are being bullied and attacked?”
Zak scoffed. “Max and Chase and Chris aren’t Nazis,” he said. “They’re just assholes who will be gone next year. It doesn’t matter what they say.”
“It doesn’t?” Giancarlo asked. He pushed away from the table, stood, and picked up his plate.
“Where are you going?” Zak asked.
“I’m going to sit with Esteban,” Giancarlo said. He hesitated a moment. “You coming?”
Zak bit his lip but then shook his head. “If you want to make a scene, go ahead,” he said. “I think you’re just looking for trouble.”
Giancarlo didn’t answer and turned to walk over to Esteban’s table. Esteban looked up, surprised, and smiled tentatively, but soon the two boys were laughing and talking animatedly. Zak, however, was conscious that when Giancarlo left, the boys at the table next to his had watched and reacted angrily.
“Hey, Zak, I guess your brother would rather sit with his boyfriend than his own kind,” Chase said, taunting him.
Zak didn’t respond but acted as if he found his own lunch fascinating and tried to carry on a conversation with the other players at his table. He cringed, however, when Esteban rose and headed in the direction of the hallway and the boys at the other table suddenly scooted their chairs back and got up. They headed in the same direction Esteban had gone.
When Zak glanced back at his brother, he saw that Giancarlo was looking at him. With a shake of the head, Giancarlo stood and followed the others out of the door. Zak looked over at where Newell was standing, hoping the coach was going to intervene, but while his eyes followed his senior players as they left, he remained where he was with a slight smile on his face.
Zak put his head down. Then he sighed and got up from the table.
“Where you going?” one of the black players asked.
“To save my brother from getting his ass kicked,” Zak replied, and left to find Giancarlo.
In the hallway, Giancarlo saw the senior players head into the restroom and guessed that they were following Esteban. He walked down to the restroom and, taking a deep breath, he pushed on the door, only to find that it was partly blocked. He pushed harder and was able to get past Chris, who was standing guard but more interested in what was going on.
Giancarlo saw Esteban struggling in the grip of the much larger Chase and bleeding from his nose. Max stood in front of his victim with his hand balled into a fist as he snarled, “Now are you going to quit?”
“Let him go,” Giancarlo yelled.
Max whirled around but then grinned when he saw who was speaking. “Well, if it isn’t the spic lover. You looking for your sweetheart, Karp?” he said as the other boys laughed.
Giancarlo tried to push through to Esteban but Chris grabbed him from behind as Max stepped in front. “You want some of what he’s getting?” Hatred radiated from his eyes.
At that moment, the bathroom door opened again and Zak walked in. “What the hell is going on?” he asked. He pushed Chris away from his brother and got between him and Max.