Zia.
I tapped my phone a few times and came up with a restaurant in Rancho Palos Verdes. A thirty-minute drive if the freeways had cleared from the spate of violence that had something or nothing at all to do with Antonio.
twenty-six.
Zia’s didn’t look authentic. It looked like what authentic was supposed to look like. If you went to Italy, you’d expect every café and restaurant to have a supply of red checked tablecloths, containers of parmesan, and baskets of bread with saucers of butter. Considering the quality of the neighborhood and the sophistication of the residents, the cheesy décor was bound to be a turnoff.
I parked in the little lot and went around to the front, where two tables sat on the sidewalk. At one sat two men in their sixties, hunched over a game of dominoes. The one farthest, with the white moustache and huge belly, glanced at me, nodded, and rolled the dice. The other, in a fedora and open-necked shirt, didn’t acknowledge me. A sense of apprehension came over me. I was stepping into Antonio’s territory. Wasn’t that exactly what he didn’t want?
A wood bar stretched over one side of the restaurant, and the rest of the floor was taken up by small round tables and booths decorated with gingham and little oil and vinegar carts. A mural of Mount Vesuvius took up all available wall space.
Half of the four booths had little “reserved” tags on them, and at the other two sat clusters of men. One of them, a short guy with a brown shirt and goatee, stood between the two tables, speaking Italian as if he was regaling them with a story. He checked me out when I entered then went back to waving his arms and making everyone laugh.
“Can I help you?”
I turned and saw Zia, doughy fingers clasped in front of her.
“Hi,” I said. “How are you?”
She pointed at me. “I recognize you.”
“Yeah. I remember you.”
Her expression went from warm to suspicious, as if she saw right through me. “You’re here to eat?”
The jocularity of the booths went dead. Some signal must have been given, because I felt their eyes on me.
“No.”
“Something else?”
Best to just get to it. “I’m looking for Antonio.”
“He’s not here.”
“I…” What did I want to say? This was my last ditch effort, wasn’t it? After this, I had nowhere else to look. “I mean him no harm. I’m here on my own.”
She smiled. In that smile, I didn’t see delight or kindness, but an emotion I’d inspired many times before. Pity.
I stood up straight. “I’m going to find him now or later, Zia. So, best now.”
A man’s voice came from behind me. “You want me to walk her out?”
I turned and saw the potbellied dominoes player. But I didn’t move or offer to leave.
“It’s woman stuff,” Zia said, waving as if my appearance was just an inconvenience, not something heavy. She indicated the doors to the kitchen. “Come.”
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I knew I needed to get back to the set. I would have to go in the kitchen, tell Antonio what I wanted and that I wasn’t taking no for an answer, then hustle back. Zia walked me through the tiny commercial kitchen, past stock pots simmering on the stove and a man in a white baseball cap scrubbing a pan. I thought she was taking me to Antonio, but she opened a door to the parking lot.
“Zia,” I said, “I don’t understand.”
“He’s not here.”
“Can I leave him a message?” I asked as I walked into the parking lot.
“If you think I’ll deliver it.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
She looked into the bright sun then back into the kitchen. “I have to go.”
She tried to close the door, but I held it open. “Why?” I demanded. “Just tell me why. Is it a trust thing? You all think I’m running back to my ex with details?”
Zia took the doorknob so firmly that I knew I didn’t have the strength to hold her back if she decided to close it for once and for all.
“Please,” I said, taking my hand off the door, “I mean no harm. I swear.”
“I believe you,” she said. “What you mean, I know. But meaning harm and doing it? Not always the same.”
“Is he okay?”
“Is he okay? Si. Until I kill him. Until I shake him out with my hands.” She opened them and hooked her sausage fingers, shiny with years in the kitchen. “Quel figlio di buona donna asks me to cater a movie set. Doesn’t tell me he’s seducing you.” She moved her hand up and down, tracing the vertical line of my body as if I was a monument to every girl he shouldn’t be with. “Stronzo. That’s what he is.”
Her insults were affectionate, but she was very angry. I could pretend I didn’t know what about me was so offensive, but I knew damn well it was my relationships, my culture, everything I was.
“Can you just tell him I was here?”
She shook her head as if I was an idiot. “No. If you chase him into our world, we will chase you out.” She closed the door.
I thought of every worst-case scenario on the way to the set. Antonio was dead, in trouble, shipped back to Naples. He was responsible for the violence that had taken over the news channels, or he was the as-yet-undiscovered victim of it.
And I had nowhere else to look. I had no proof that anything was anything, and if I chased him, his world would chase me out.
On set that night, as I pondered the worst, I wasn’t much more optimistic about Katrina. By the wide radius she kept around me, I could tell she sensed my discomfort. I kept my eyes on who was where, what buttons were unbuttoned, where arms and legs were placed, what lines dropped. It was the last day in the café. They were tearing it down. Nothing could be missed.
Then it broke like a fever. Katrina practically whispered “cut,” and everyone cheered. It was over. We packed up for the umpteenth time, put everything back in the trucks. The affairs that had started during shooting would either amount to something or not. The friendships would be tested. If the movie would get to theaters depended on the next few weeks, and no one but me, Katrina, Michael, and the deepest Hollywood insiders knew how unlikely that was.
I got in the car, thinking I’d just take a midnight drive up Alameda and crawl into bed. I texted Antonio, even though it felt more and more like screaming down an empty alley.
—I know I’m harassing you and I don’t care. If everything’s okay just text me anything back. A fuck you would be sufficient—
I waited ten minutes, watching the last of the PAs pack up. I was distracted by the silence of my phone. Tired of waiting for something that wasn’t going to happen, I left.
twenty-seven.
Our final shoot had been in the West Valley, a straight shot down the 101. The freeway was relatively empty, and I went into auto pilot, listening to the news that the shootings and violence were unrelated, random. A southside gang shooting had hit the wrong man. A shooting during a robbery attempt. A beating in Griffith Park.
“The lady doth protest too much,” I mumbled.
A Lexus cut me off as I was complaining to myself. I slammed the brakes, screeching and swerving as adrenaline dumped into my bloodstream. The Club slid out from under the passenger seat.
“Fuck!”
The Lexus picked up speed, and I did too. I was filled with a blinding hot anger. The Lexus swerved around, and I saw the man in driver seat. Young. Goatee. Flashing me his middle finger. He sped ahead, and I had no choice whatsoever.