“She was a call girl.”
“That’s even worse!” he howls. “You had guaranteed action and you blew it.”
“I didn’t blow it. I walked away. I don’t take anything from my father’s business.”
“But can’t you make an exception for this?”
“This goes double. When I think back to my first time, it’s going to be something real, not something bought and paid for.”
That gives Alex an idea. “If she’s getting paid anyway, maybe I could head over there and go in your place.”
“Don’t give me that,” I scoff. “You couldn’t do it either.”
He looks pained. “I know. I just can’t stand to see it go to waste. It’s like you’re starving, but there’s this beautiful twelve-course dinner prepared by the top chefs of Europe, and you have to say, ‘No, thanks.’”
I award him a friendly slap on the back. “We’re not starving. We just haven’t been invited to the table yet. Come on, let’s go to college.”
It’s called Fraternity Row, but it’s really more like a column—six frat houses in lofts, one on top of the other. The building is a hundred and fifty years old, and looks twice that, with an elevator from the Jurassic period. As we rattle and shake toward Gamma Kappa on the fourth floor, I become aware of a new vibration—the pounding beat of dance music, steadily increasing in volume.
The doors shudder open and the blasting sound washes over us. I don’t know what I expected a frat house to look like, but this is basically a large, unfinished space, empty of everything except people. There are hundreds of those, crammed in shoulder to shoulder. The smell of beer, smoke, and sweat is all pervading. And hot—imagine Death Valley, only a lot louder. You can’t hear yourself think.
Alex looks around reverently. “This is it, Vince!” He has to shout it directly into my ear. “The promised land!”
Leave it to Alex to look at a riot and see perfection. If my old-fashioned Catholic mother caught a glimpse of this, she’d lock me in the house and fill me full of so much gnocchi I couldn’t get up off the couch, let alone visit a den of iniquity. It’s fine for sin to pay the bills, so long as I’m squeaky clean. No wonder Tommy hit the bricks.
I count at least seven or eight kegs around the room, and the floor is covered with a thin beery slime. The drinking is unreal—some of these kids are so smashed that it takes two or three friends to drag them to the nearest tap for a refill. The dancing is pretty crazy too, although motion is limited by the crush of people. A few try to throw their arms and legs around a little, but after kicking and punching their neighbors, they make so many enemies so fast that they’re quick to mellow out. The smart guys grab their dates and hang on—and not just to avoid getting decked with a flying elbow. There’s so much sexual tension in the air that you could lose your girlfriend between the hallway and the bathroom.
“Do you see anybody from Jefferson?” I call to Alex.
I’m not sure he hears. “This makes those football parties look like quilting bees!” he raves.
How would we know? I want to ask. But I’m saving my voice just in case I need it later to, let’s say, communicate with the 911 operator.
We decide to split up to “check out the scene,” as Alex puts it.
So I take a little tour, squeezing myself in between partygoers, lubricated by beer and perspiration. I see a few kids from school, but not as many as I expected. Suburban wimps! They talk a good game, but when it comes time to go into the big bad city, where are they? I feel a surge of pride for Alex, who I’m so rarely proud of. Even when his ride dropped out, he had the guts to get on that commuter train. Then again, Alex wouldn’t miss this if he had to travel via the South Pole by dogsled.
As I pass a keg, a plastic cup of beer is forced into my hand. I try to say no, but the kid at the tap won’t take it back. “No, man! You gotta drink it! You gotta!”
Even though he’s standing in one place, he’s wobbling. His eyes are little more than slits. To him it’s perfectly logical: he’s trashed, therefore everybody else has to be too. I love college. It’s so much more mature than high school.
“Thanks,” I mumble. As I’m searching for a place to set it down, a high-pitched voice cries out my name. Before I know it, some girl yanks me through the crowd and puts her arm around me!
I’m amazed. Who knows me in college—especially a cute girl? But then I recognize her. It’s Kendra Bightly, that reporter from the Jefferson Journal. I’m kind of amazed she’s even talking to me after I kicked her out of the locker room last weekend.
Then I see there’s someone with her, hanging all over her, in fact—a college guy in khaki shorts and a beer-soaked Gamma Kappa T-shirt.
“Randy,” she shouts over the din, “meet my boyfriend, Vince.”
Boyfriend? Then I clue in. No wonder Kendra is so glad to see me. She’d be glad to see Jack the Ripper—anybody who could save her from this frat glork.
Randy holds out his hand, and I shake it. He’s suspicious. “So, how long have you guys been going out?”
I can’t resist. “Oh, years. Since middle school.”
Skepticism. “Yeah?”
“Sixth-grade sweethearts,” I assure him.
Frat boy’s not suspicious anymore. He’s just mad. For a second I’m afraid he’s going to take a swing at me. But no, he’s just a sleazy college kid who thought he could impress a high-school girl with his mighty Gamma Kappa–ness. He’s not going to fight. In fact, he’s already scouting around for his next victim.
I hold Kendra’s hand. She’s looking at me as if I’ve just escaped from a mental institution. But she’s got no choice; she has to take what I’m giving.
“I’ll never forget the night we met,” I continue romantically. “It was the science fair. There was perfume in the air—or was it formaldehyde?”
“Morons!” Randy snorts, and melts away into the crowd.
Kendra pulls free and belts me. It doesn’t hurt, but the top third of my beer spills on my shoes.
“Hey!” I protest. “I helped you!”
“You didn’t have to be such a jerk about it!”
“There was only one thing that would get rid of that frat boy,” I argue. “And he’s gone. You’re welcome.”
She’s pretty upset. “College!” she snorts. “I can’t wait!”
Suddenly, I want my beer. I take a sip and it tastes good in a gassy, bitter way. I don’t know much about Kendra Bightly, but I can tell that this is not her element. It’s not mine, either, but compared with her, I’m an honorary Gamma Kappa. She’s lost in this smoky, pulsing sardine can.
“You didn’t come alone, did you?” I ask.
“I took the train with a couple of friends. They’re—” She gestures at the crush all around us. “They love this. Is it just me?”
I catch sight of Alex, stalking around the crowd, examining the goods like a kid in a candy store. “It’s not just you,” I say kindly.
“Seriously, are these the choices for a social life? Be a hermit or this?”
“My brother Tommy suggested a third way,” I put in sardonically. “I won’t bore you with the details.”
Strange as it may seem, I feel an oblique connection with Kendra. She’s as out of place at this party as I am in the Luca family. Take tonight. In a million years, you could never explain to Tommy that setting up a seventeen-year-old with a hooker isn’t the world’s most thoughtful present.
That’s part and parcel of the Mob. Lawyers go home at night and stop being lawyers. But the vending-machine business is twenty-four/seven. They even call it The Life. Dad and Tommy don’t work at their jobs; they live them. No wonder they can’t keep me out of it.
And it doesn’t help that they don’t even see what they’re doing to me. Once, just once, I’d like to hand it back to them in spades.
Yeah, right. I sigh and have another swig. Kendra stares at me with open distaste. My first thought is, Who cares what she thinks? But there’s another part of me�
�the part trained by Mom about not being rude.
“Can I get you something? There’s beer and”—I glance around—“beer.”
She looks twice as uncomfortable as before. “That would be perfect. I can just see the headline: FBI Agent’s Daughter Snagged in Underage-Drinking Sting Operation.”
There’s an attention getter. “Your dad works for the FBI?”
She nods, and I realize that it’s hanging right out there in front of me. The only way I could ever give my family the equivalent of a vending-machine moment.
It’s as if an unseen force takes over, and I have absolutely no say in the matter. I grab Kendra by the shoulders and kiss her.
I don’t know—I still can’t explain it. But I’m really not expecting what happens next. She’s rigid for a second, and then she relaxes and kisses me back. I reflect that the history of my love life is pretty pathetic. I wasted my first make-out worrying about the body in my trunk, and here’s number two coming off a near miss with a call girl, when the only thought in my head is “In your face, Dad, I’m kissing the FBI!” Dancers jostle us, full-to-overflowing beers whiz by our heads, but we don’t come up for air for a long time.
Somewhere, a fight breaks out. Fists fly. I feel rather than hear the impact of knuckles on somebody’s chin. The victim hurtles through the crush, bursting right between Kendra and me. The guy hits the floor in a shower of beer slop and bounces right up again, eager for battle. Instantly, three peacemakers materialize. The kid’s so mad that, in order to keep him from charging, the three have to drive him back, plowing through the crowd. Somehow, I get caught up in this wedge, stuck between the fighter and his buddies. The string of curses he spews right into my face would make Tommy blush, and, trust me, Dad’s business isn’t exactly high tea at Buckingham Palace. There are angry shouts and screams as we bull right through a pack of dancers.
It all fizzles out soon enough, but when I make my way back to Kendra, she’s gone. Frowning, I look around, navigating by the posters on the walls. She was definitely at the intersection of the Notre Dame football pennant and Miss February 1999. What happened?
Searching for a five-foot-two girl at a packed frat party is like trying to track down a lost Chihuahua in a mature cornfield. For the next hour, I push through every square inch of that loft, becoming more desperate with each passing minute. This is worse than the Angela O’Bannon thing. At least there was a tangible reason why things didn’t work out with Angela. This makes no sense at all.
Eventually, I stake out the ladies’ bathroom. The free flowing of eight kegs has turned this narrow stretch of hallway into the most popular real estate in Gamma Kappa House. I think every coed at NYU squeezes by, tossing all manner of dirty looks in my direction, and I pick up the occasional murmured “Pervert!” I can’t even blame them. What kind of a deviant positions himself like a sentry outside the ladies’ can?
“Hey, Vince!” comes a voice. “Over here!”
It’s Alex, just a few feet—but several people—away from me. We’re the only two guys in the area.
“I’m trying to find someone!” I call back to him.
“Tell me about it!” He leans over to talk into my ear. “But it’s useless. College girls are so into themselves. This party sucks.”
So much for the Promised Land. I make an executive decision. “Let’s get out of here.”
As we push back to the main loft, who do we run into but Randy, the frat glork.
“Hey, loser!” he jeers. “I saw your girlfriend! She just walked out with two of her friends!” And he dumps a full pitcher of beer over my head and dances away, laughing.
From this entire exchange, Alex jumps on a single factoid. “Girlfriend?!”
“He’s talking about Kendra Bightly!” I say in self-defense, teeth chattering. The beer is ice cold, and I’m soaked to the skin. “That reporter!”
“But why does that guy think she’s your girlfriend?” he persists.
I’ve had it. Dripping beer, I start to plow through the crowd toward the exit. If Alex isn’t ready to leave yet, that’s his problem. He follows, spouting questions, which I ignore.
Near the door, I spy Alfie Heller, our NYU connection. He’s got a beer in each hand, a girl on each arm, and, for some reason, a bowling trophy around his neck, hanging by a bike lock. Seeing us, he transfers the cups to the ladies, and pumps first my hand and then Alex’s.
“Hey, guys, how’s it going? Glad you could make it!”
If he notices that I look and smell like I’ve just taken a swim in the mighty Budweiser, he keeps it to himself.
I do my best to appear grateful. “Awesome party, Alfie. Thanks for inviting us.”
“You’re leaving?” He’s appalled. “So soon? It’s still empty!”
“Car’s at a meter and I’m out of quarters,” I lie.
He’s all concern. “You’re not driving? Dude, you reek like a brewery!”
“Just my hair and clothes,” I sigh. Good point, though. I’ve only had a couple of sips, but if I happen to get pulled over on the way home, the cop will take a whiff and assume I’ve been drinking all night.
Back on the street, I give Alex the whole story about Kendra and me.
He’s furious. “You blew it again? Vince, you’re killing me! This is my love life we’re talking about.”
“It was a one-in-a-million thing,” I argue. “That atmosphere brings out the craziness in people. We’re lucky there weren’t any ax murderers at the party.”
We ransom the car out of the garage and head home. At Alex’s house, I take a shower while we wash my shirt and jeans. It’s late, but the vending-machine business never closes, and Dad could easily be up with some of the uncles. My father has zero tolerance for drinking and driving, possibly because it’s the only vice he doesn’t get a cut of. Of course, I haven’t really been drinking, but Dad doesn’t know that, and with my hair and clothes soaked with beer, it’s not worth the hassle.
I finally roll into the driveway around one. Turns out Dad’s up, but not for business reasons. He’s waiting for me in the living room, sanding a lopsided salad bowl over a wastebasket.
“Tommy called. He told me about his little surprise for you. I want to make sure you’re all right with what happened.”
“I thought he was taking me out to dinner,” I say feelingly.
He’s patient. “He was only trying to get square. You bust somebody’s TV, it’s on you to find him a new one.”
“Nobody busted my—” It all comes together in my head. The Jimmy Rat incident cost me a chance with Angela O’Bannon, so Cece was there to supply me with what Angela hadn’t. Unbelievable. Sex is no different from a television set in my father’s business. A commodity—something to be traded, bought, sold.
“In your world, maybe,” I say sharply. “Not mine.”
Dad nods understandingly. “You’re right, Vince. Your brother—sometimes I wonder whether he’s got brains or coleslaw in there. But his heart—that’s pure gold. You should have heard him on the phone. In his mind, he gave you the greatest present in the world. A lot of kids your age would have jumped at it.”
“I was almost one of them,” I admit.
Dad laughs. “But you weren’t. You always have to do things your own way. I love that about you, Vince. A little crazy, but it’s a sure sign that you’ll succeed in business.”
I shoot him a harsh look.
“In any business.” He adds, “You’re thinking about what you want to do, right?”
“Even in my sleep,” I reply sarcastically.
He shakes his head. “You’ve got some mouth on you.” He inspects the bowl. He’s sanded a dime-sized hole in the bottom.
“Nice funnel.”
“Smart guy.” He drops bowl and sandpaper into the basket and turns to the lamp. “We’re going to bed if that’s okay with you, Agent Bite-Me.” And he kills the light.
It’s a good thing too, because I’m pretty sure I’ve just gone white to the ears.
<
br /> Bite-Me—Bightly. Kendra Bightly, whose father works for the FBI.
“Vince, you coming?”
“Yeah, Dad.” My heart is racing. Kendra’s father isn’t just an FBI agent; he’s our FBI agent.
I just made out with the daughter of the man whose goal in life is to send my father to prison.
CHAPTER SIX
“YOU’VE GOT TO ask her out.”
Alex has already said it seven times, and it isn’t even lunch yet.
“Come on,” he persists. “She’s into you.”
“It was a frat party,” I reply between clenched teeth. “People do strange things—and I include myself in that.”
We’re in the library to research our Web sites for New Media. At least that’s what we’re supposed to be doing.
“Look, you blew it with Angela. You blew it with Cece. You’ve got to make something happen with Kendra. You owe it to me!”
“Even if she liked me—which she doesn’t,” I begin, “what am I supposed to do, invite her over? Her father has the place bugged, remember? I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear his own daughter over his surveillance operation.”
Alex shrugs. “She has a house.”
“He lives there!” I explode.
“Not all day,” Alex reasons. “Those guys put in big hours. It’s a lot of work investigating a major underworld kingpin.”
I let that last comment pass. “Can we do this? We have to pick our topic today.”
“Oh, I’m done,” he informs me. “I’ve even registered my domain name.”
He swivels his monitor to face me.
I stare at it: www.misterferraridriver.com.
“Ferrari driver? A Web site about Ferraris?”
“Chicks dig sports cars.”
“But you drive a Ford Escort—when you can con your mom into lending it to you.”
He’s unfazed. “On the Internet I have a Ferrari. No, two Ferraris—a red one and a black one.”
“You’re going to flunk,” I warn him. “Guys with Ferraris have better things to do than to sit in front of a computer downloading pictures of what’s parked right outside in the driveway. If you want a successful Web site, you’ve got to appeal to the get-a-life crowd.”
Son of the Mob Page 4
