“Hm?”
“What I think would be really good is if you and Carlo would sit down together and talk all this stuff over.”
He gave a weary smile. “Isn’t going to happen.”
“Maybe you should reach out—”
“Maybe I should. But I won’t. It’s been too long. Something I’ve been noticing lately is that time is sort of like water. You don’t notice how heavy it is until there’s a hell of a lot of it pushing you around. I think it’s too much weight for me and Carlo.”
Rita raised her coffee cup, realized it was empty, hid behind it for a moment while deciding if she should say what she ended up blurting anyway. “Albin, would you hate it if your brother went to jail again?”
The question seemed to come from nowhere, and it took him an extra beat to respond. “Hate it? I guess I haven’t really thought about it. I figure he’s done his time, it’s over.”
“Maybe it’s over. Look, I wasn’t going to bother you with this, but now I think maybe I should. The assholes who hassled me last night, they were from the IRS.”
“Shit,” said Albin, who rarely cursed, not as a matter of prudery but aesthetics.
“Hang on a sec,” said Rita, and she dashed into the yellow cottage to retrieve the agent’s business card from the bottom of her purse. She read from it before handing it over to her breakfast companion. “Ernest L. Johnson, Field Investigator. The other one,” she went on, “was named Godusky, Godowsky, something like that. Seem to be the same guys who got him last time, and they’re awfully damn pleased with themselves about it.”
Albin shook his big square head. “Bastards are making a career of him.”
“So you would hate to see him put away again. You’re on his side even if it kills you to admit it.”
“I didn’t say I’m picking sides. What if I’m not a big fan of either side? All I’m saying is that it would be a shame to have him go through that again.”
“Well, if these agents get their way, he will. They’re snooping around, trying to scare up an informer. If there’s even anything to inform about. Who knows? But don’tcha think someone should let your brother know it’s going on, at least?”
16
W ell, guess who gets recruited to tell Costanza that the Feds are on his trail again? Master, of course. Everybody’s favorite ambassador to the seamy underbelly of the world of crime. Which is weird to me, because I’ve never seen the man himself commit a crime in all the years I’ve known him. Not a real crime, I mean. I’ve seen him do things like put a dollar in the newspaper box and take out two papers when he’s only paid for one. I’ve seen him take a paper out without paying at all if the guy before has held the door open and thereby put temptation in his path. We jaywalk every single day when we go to the beach. I guess with so many laws around, no one gets through life without breaking at least a few of them.
Still, I find it strange that Master remains the go-to guy for anyone who needs to get a message to a felon. Actually, I guess it’s pretty flattering. That so many people trust him, I mean. That he seems comfortable talking to anybody. I think this is because he doesn’t talk up, he doesn’t talk down, he treats everyone the same. And he doesn’t scold. Take it from a dog: this is big. Have you ever looked really closely at a dog who’s just been scolded? It’s a pathetic sight, excruciating. His eyeballs are throbbing with shame. His tongue hangs down like he’s trying to spit it out in self-disgust. Humiliation makes his smell go sour. Dog or person, why make someone feel that way? Master doesn’t. Or hardly ever does.
Anyway, getting in touch with Costanza turns out not to be a walk in the park. Albin, of course, hasn’t had a number for him in many years. Rita’s boss at the tasting room says he doesn’t have his number either and suggests trying the distillery. Whoever answers the phone at the distillery says they have a number but are not allowed to give it out. If the gentleman would like to leave a message, they’d be happy to pass it along. But since it would be indiscreet to leave a detailed message about maybe being in hot water with the Feds, and, more important, since leaving a message might deprive Master of the opportunity of actually speaking with Costanza, which, let’s face it, he is dying to do because of his busybody personality, he just leaves his name and number.
Then he waits. A day. Two days. Nothing happens. Master and I go about our business, but I can tell this is bothering him. Every hour or two he checks his phone to see if it’s turned on, if it’s working, and he always seems a little disappointed to realize it’s not the phone’s fault that it isn’t ringing. I sort of gather that Master used to be someone whose phone calls got returned pretty damn fast. Nowadays, not so much. Probably that’s a hard thing to get used to. I lick his fingers and wrists a lot during those two days, trying to make him feel better. I don’t know if it helps, but what else can I do? I can’t make the world return his calls.
Anyway, by the third day he gives up waiting and comes up with a different plan. He turns the phone up good and loud, and calls his frenemy Charlie Ponte, the bigshot from Miami. They spar a few quick rounds with their usual banter and subtly needling remarks, then Master gets around to admitting the real reason for the call.
“And just why the hell you need Costanza’s number?” Ponte asks in response.
“I wanna do him a favor,” Master says. “I have some information that might be helpful to him.”
“What kinda information?”
“Information of a personal or you could even say sensitive nature.”
“So tell me. I’ll tell Costanza.”
“Thank you, but I’d prefer to tell him personally. I woulda thought this was implied by the phrase personal information. As in ya tell the person personally.”
“What, you don’t trust me, Bert?”
“Of course I trust you, Cholly.”
Even I can tell this isn’t really meant to be believed.
“It’s just,” he goes on, “that I promised a friend I would deliver the message personally, and how can I wit’ a clear conscience go back to this friend and say I delivered it personally if I didn’t hear my own voice sayin’ these particular words to the recipient for whom they were intended? Put yourself in my place, Cholly. If you promised a friend to deliver a message personally to a particular recipient, could you wit’ a clear conscience say you did it if all you did was pass it downa line and ask somebody else to do it, however much you trusted that person, but never bein’ one hundred per cent positive that the message in fact was received and understood or, so to speak, grasped in its possible significance? Could you do that, Cholly?”
“You’re a real pain innee ass, Bert.”
Master smiles at that. He knows he just won. Except he doesn’t win altogether. Ponte won’t give out Costanza’s number.
“Tell ya what,” he offers instead. “I’ll give Costanza your number.”
Master stops smiling. This part must have been a little galling. “He has my number, Cholly. He hasn’t called.”
“Who’d he get it from?”
“Someone at the distillery.”
Now there’s a pause. I can almost hear Ponte shaking his head on that stumpy little neck of his as he tries to come up with one of his typical frenemy remarks that sounds almost sympathetic but is really meant to be a dig right where it hurts. “Bert, really,” he says at last. “Wha’ did y‘expect? He gets some stranger’s number from a receptionist, he’s gonna call? He gets the number from me, he’ll call. Sit tight.”
They hang up but Master doesn’t sit tight. He slowly gets up and sort of skulks around the living room, touching a candy dish or a souvenir ashtray now and then. His posture is a little bit droopy as he does this. Young or old, man or dog, I guess it sort presses down on you to be reminded that your place in the pecking order maybe isn’t quite as high as it used to be or as you’d like to think it is.
Anyway, sure enough, within about five minutes the phone rings. As luck would have it, Master is at the extreme far end of the living
room when the ringing starts, and he has to sprint, relatively speaking, back to the end table where he left the phone. He’s slightly winded by the time he says hello and drops back into his favorite chair.
A gruff hard voice comes through the speaker. “This is Carlo Costanza.” That’s all he says. Then he waits. Even the silence feels gruff and hard.
Master hasn’t quite gotten his breath back, so it sounds a little urgent when he says, “I’m callin’ from Key West on behalf a your brother Albin.”
What happens next comes as a complete surprise. I mean, based on the tough-guy opening, I’m expecting Costanza to say something along the lines of ‘Oh yeah? What the hell’s he want?’ Except that isn’t what he says. Not even close. His voice gets quite soft, the gravel and the sneer go altogether out of it, and he says, “Is he all right?”
It’s pretty clear that Master isn’t expecting this response any more than I am, and it throws him for a second. His lips form some words that don’t quite come out, and finally he says, “Well…yeah. He’s fine. He’s fine. He wanted me to get in touch. But yeah, don’t worry, he’s fine.”
There’s a hesitation, like maybe Costanza is taking a breath or two to convince himself of the truth of this. When he speaks again, the gruffness is back like it never left. “Okay then. Talk to me.”
“Well, the reason I been reachin’ out is that I thought it might be of interest or possible advantage to you to know that certain employees of the Federal government, and I am not talking about mailmen, have been making inquiries or let’s say snooping around about your business dealings and, I presume, more specifically about certain tax-avoidance strategies you’ve used before, such as not paying any.”
Costanza slathers some suspiciousness on top of the gruffness. “And how you know about these inquiries?”
“Clichéd dodge though it is, I would have ta say a little birdy told me.”
“What’s its name, this birdy?”
“Listen, Carlo…May I call you Carlo?”
“You can call me anything you want. And tell me your name again?”
Master can’t quite stifle a wince at that. Important names don’t get forgotten so fast. It’s another twist of the knife, I guess.
“Bert. Bert d’Ambrosia.”
Thank God, I can still hear at least a dented but stubborn trace of the old pride and confidence and swagger when Master says this. I don’t know if humans notice, but there’s an incredible range of tones that people use when they say their own names. Some people introduce themselves like they’re making a historic announcement or revealing the winner of a prize. Others make it sound like they’re apologizing before they’ve even done anything wrong.
Anyway, a moment goes by and then Costanza says, “D’Ambrosia. Bert. Wait a sec. As in Bert the Shirt? Now it clicks. Consigliere to the Perettis back in the day. I heard a you. Sure I have.”
“I thought you mighta,” Master says nonchalantly, and I can see him re-inflating a little bit, filling out his clothes a little better, clawing back at least a little ground, self-esteem-wise. “So Carlo, I’m sure you’ll understand that I don’t wanna make trouble for no one, especially since the person who these Feds were asking questions has your best interests at heart, or they wouldn’ta asked me to give you a heads up. So it’s best I don’t name the little birdy heah. But one more tidbit that maybe you’d like to know is that these Feds are apparently your nemesisses, or nemeses, whatever the hell the Greek or Latin or Babylonian would be, but in any case it’s the same guys who put you inna slammer last time.”
“Those dickweeds?”
“I haven’t met the gentlemen, so I have no personal opinion. Dickweeds might be more than fair. Oh, and one other thing I’d be curious about if I was you, though it’s not a matter I’m in any way privy to, but I’d be curious about whether these purported dickweed Feds, since they’re in the neighborhood anyway prob’ly livin’ it up on taxpayer dollars, I’d be curious if by any chance they’re also makin’ inquiries about a gentleman named Mikel Shintar.”
Innocently, but a little too innocently and off the beat, Costanza says, “Who?”
“Your chemist buddy.”
“Oh, him. What the hell’s it got to do with him? And who even says we’re buddies?”
“I dunno. Maybe you’re not.”
Here Master gives me a little wink. I love it when he does that. Tells me he’s on a roll, feeling good about himself again.
“All I know,” he continues, “is that all ya gotta do is go on Google, with which I happen to be quite conversant, to find out you guys were at Cumberland together, and then to notice that booze has more to do with chemistry than fish, everything bein’ relative about those separate industries or let’s say ways that people make a living, then make a small but not too small leap of the imagination, considering the timing and the geography and so forth, and conclude or at least surmise that maybe there’s some connection there. I’m not sayin’ there is. I’m just tryin’ ta think along the lines that these dickweed Feds might be thinkin’ along, since it seems like everyone has access to the same information, not counting that the Feds probably have access to way the hell more, which is something we just have to live with while at the same time keepin’ paranoia at bay. So all I’m sayin’ is that if you happen to be in touch with Shintar, and I’m not castin’ aspersions that you are, you might be doin’ him a solid to pass along the heads-up. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
“And it took you a helluva long time to get it said,” Costanza observes.
Master lets that slide. I know his philosophy: What’s the hurry?
Then there’s a silence. It goes on long enough that Master looks down at his phone, like maybe he thinks Costanza has hung up or the call has gotten dropped. But then the voice comes back again, sort of midway between the gruff voice and the soft voice. “So Bert, how you know my brother?”
“We’re very old friends. He’s a great guy. A pioneer. I’m sorry you two are onnee outs.”
“Yeah…Well…Listen, thanks for the tip. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome,” says Master. “It’s nice to make your acquaintance. Hey, if you’re ever in the neighborhood—”
“I don’t get down there very often,” says Costanza, the gruffness rushing back in to nip the invitation right in the bud.
“—maybe we could have a drink sometime. The two of us. The three of us. Whatever.”
“Nice idea, Bert. Right. Maybe I’ll be in touch.”
17
“Y ou claustrophobic?” Anthony asked.
“Not that I know of,” Rita said.
“Well, I guess we’re about to find out.”
They were standing in front of one of the giant stills, dressed in matching outfits: green rubber boots, brown leather aprons, and narrow paper hats like the ones line cooks wear in diners. Rita’s hat covered pretty much all of her short straight hair; Anthony’s just floated on top of his halo of frizz and stayed well above his prominent ears. Two ladders were leaning against the gleaming, lidless copper column; they reached nearly to the ceiling. At the foot of each ladder was a yellow bucket full of vinegar and a gadget that resembled an overgrown toilet-bowl brush; balanced on top of each bucket was a tray that held a box of salt, a bag of flour, and a bottle of ketchup.
“Ketchup?” Rita said.
“Best thing going to spot-clean copper. The acidity lifts the stain and that red blob lets you know exactly where you need to rub more or sometimes scrape with a fingernail.”
“Sounds a little bit disgusting.”
“It is. You don’t have to do this, Anita.”
“It’s Rita. And I want to.”
They climbed the ladders, carrying the heavy buckets and the wobbling brushes. The vinegar sloshed and stank and stung their nostrils. As they stepped higher, the vapors seemed to be squeezed against the ceiling, seemed to curl among the ducts and pipes and be concentrated in the process, and stank even more. Then, once they’d toppe
d the brim of the idle still, the vinegar smell was joined by the reek of sour caramel and acetone left over from the last distilling. Rita was just slightly lightheaded as she swung a leg over and blindly found the foot- and hand-holds that brought her back to floor level at the bottom of the tank.
She looked up. There was a circle of daylight with dust scudding through it like blown dandelions. The circle looked small and far away. Her field of vision began to narrow down and the circle became more like a crescent. Her palm suddenly felt clammy against the handle of the bucket and she had a strange milky feeling at the backs of her knees. She swallowed; her saliva didn’t taste good just then. She said, “Whaddya know? I guess I am a little claustrophobic. Live and learn.”
“Want out?”
“No, I’ll deal with it.”
“You sure?”
She took as deep a breath as she dared with all the fumes. “Just tell me what I need to do.”
He looked at her like a ref deciding whether to stop a prizefight, and said, “Okay, it’s pretty straightforward. Get plenty of vinegar on the brush, pick an area, go over it twenty, thirty times. If there’s any dark spots left, do the ketchup thing. If that doesn’t work, make a paste with a little salt and flour, leave it on awhile, then go over it again. Got it?”
“Got it,” she said, and gradually began to relax into the task at hand. Her brush massaged the copper; the copper rang softly in reply. She liked being so close to Anthony. They had their backs to one another as they worked, but sometimes their elbows touched, occasionally their shoulders. If they bent to dip their brushes at the same moment, their hips just lightly bumped together.
She didn’t know if he would want to talk, but she did, and after a few minutes she said, “So Anthony, how’d you get started in this business?”
He didn’t seem to mind the question, though his eyes stayed on his brushing. “Accidentally, really. By way of home-brewing at the start. That’s what I was doing up in Massachusetts, where I’m from. Brewing beer in the garage. Got pretty obsessed with it.”
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