by Gina LaManna
We both opened our mouths to start again, but neither did.
Clay crossed his arms. “I’m not saying anything until you tell me what you were doing with Anthony. And why you look like that.”
“Like what?” I gestured to my body. “Sexy and refreshed?”
Clay scrunched up his nose. “I was thinking sunburned and matted. You look like a lost and abused puppy.”
I sighed, suddenly not wanting to be in my apartment anymore. My door was cracked, the stove vomited excessive quantities of smoke whenever it turned on, and a La-Z-Boy was currently serving as our coffee table in the living room. “I’m sick of this apartment. Let’s go out for a drink.”
Clay looked taken aback. “What’s wrong with it?”
My leg jittered, and I wasn’t sure what had come over me. Maybe it was the trail of ants I’d noticed earlier today marching proudly around the edge of the sink. Or maybe it was the fact that I hated having company like Anthony for multiple reasons: partly because there was a slight chance his car would be stolen, and partly because the artistic graffiti populating the front of the place didn’t exactly spell out Date Lacey Luzzi! Or there was the small issue of alarms. If there was ever a fire here, I’d probably die, since Clay had alarms for everything in the world except the usual, necessary things, like fires.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m just cranky. I think a scoop of gelato will do me well.”
Clay stood and pushed the metal folding chair under the scratched up kitchen table. “It’ll take a shovel and an army of Italians to get enough gelato in your system to crack you out of this funk.”
“Well, then a shovel we shall bring.”
** **
A short time later we’d driven the short distance downtown to Marinello’s, the best Italian deli in town by day, a secure place to grab a drink by night. I say secure because technically the place closes at ten p.m. after the dinner rush. But for the Marinello family and the Luzzi Family, the building never closes. Carlos had been known to hold meetings here frequently, a mixture of business and poker that often lasted until the sun rose.
The familiarity of the place never let me down. Though the building wasn’t exactly nice, it felt like home. There were pictures lining the wall of the Family from years ago. Even my mother made an appearance in a few of them with her scabby knees, bowl haircut, and all.
It was obvious I was related to her – in most pictures she held some sort of food, whether it was a Panini, a mountain of gelato, or a meatball the size of my fist. I had also been a kid that could eat anything and maintain a body that resembled a broom. Now I felt a bit of regret looking at the pictures, wishing I could still eat junk like that and stay skinny. Oh, well. I had to admit that a thicker frame fit my nose a bit better. The drudgery of having a honkin’ Italian schnoz.
“Lorenzo.” I double-cheek-kissed the man guarding the door.
The short, stocky man kissed me back. He nodded to the illegal parking spaces out front. “That vehicle yours?”
“Yep, it’s new.” I looked out at the Lumina resting proudly in the illegal space. It was silver and clunky and steered about as good as a yacht. But it’d been a cheap buy after my last car exploded in Carlos’s driveway.
Lorenzo raised an eyebrow.
“New-ish. It was the best I could do, okay?” I turned to the counter. “I need a gelato.”
“Tesora, you sound like you need about fifty gelati,” Dominic said from behind the counter. “Comin’ right up.”
“Thanks. Just one of those days, you know?” I looked around, but the place was a little quieter than normal. The dinner rush had cleared out, but it didn’t look like the night owls had arrived yet. “Carlos coming tonight?”
Dom shook his head. “Don’t think so. Nora complained he was out too late the last three nights in a row. He’s on a curfew.”
I raised an eyebrow.
Dom winked. “You know Nora.”
Nora, I knew. If there was one person in the world who could crack the whip on Carlos it was his wife. Despite their fifty plus years together, they still loved each other as fiercely as two teenagers, and bickered as such. I’d never have imagined that the Don of the Italian Mafia would have to report to his wife for bedtime. Or to watch his cholesterol.
Nora never took advantage of the situation, but she also wasn’t afraid to lay down the law to her husband. I once asked how it felt to be in her position, wife to the mob boss. She had smiled and leaned over, her breath smelling of sweet red wine and freshly applied lipstick. “Honey, getting what you want from a man is easy once you know how. See, the men may be the ‘head’ of the body – just let them think that. Let them think they’re making all the decisions and doing all the thinking.”
I’d nodded, wide-eyed, listening closely and hoping to discover the meaning of those foreign creatures called boys.
“But while they believe they’re in control, it’s the women who are in charge. See, if the men are the heads of the body, then the women are the necks. And, Lacey – a neck can turn a head whichever way it likes.”
It’d taken me awhile to understand what she’d meant. It was one of those things that had to sink in over time. Now that I was finally beginning to comprehend it, I was just missing one component. A man.
I looked over at Dom. “Another one, please.”
Dom’s eyebrows inched towards his hairline as he added an additional lump of nocciola gelato to the already dripping mound.
“It was a really tough day.”
“I guess so,” Dom said. He handed me the waffle bowl. “I’m cutting you off. It’s for your own good.”
I thanked Dom and walked with Clay to the far end of the joint, where a dark, cozy corner awaited our forbidden chatter. He was carrying three beers and a Panini.
“Can I have a bite?” I asked.
“No.” Clay yanked the sub back onto his side of the table. “You have enough.”
“Grmph.”
“So, spill the beans. Where were you? And why were you dressed like that?” Clay asked, taking a huge bite of his sandwich.
I’d changed into yoga pants, a little tighter than I generally liked. Then again, I hated pants in general. The best situation was loose sweats. The second best was fancy sweats, a.k.a. yoga pants. What Clay didn’t know was that I hadn’t bothered to change out of the shirt from the spa. I’d merely zipped a sweatshirt over the front.
“All right,” I said. “I was at a spa.”
Clay choked down the bite in his mouth. “I thought you weren’t into that girly crap.”
“It’s not girly crap,” I said. “It’s things like manicures and pedicures and body scrubs and buffs and stuff. It’s hygiene. Anyway, why can’t I be into girly stuff?”
“You hate girly stuff,” Clay mumbled as he swallowed a meatball. “You only fix your hair twice a year if you can help it, and the last time you looked at a healthy piece of food was…” He trailed off.
I cleared my throat.
“A long time ago,” he finished.
“Not true. I looked at a banana yesterday.”
“Did you eat it?”
“That wasn’t the question,” I argued.
“Fine, so why were you at the spa?”
I glared at him. Then I took a delicious, creamy bite of hazelnut gelato, which was absolutely amazing. It also worked as a sort of food-therapist, and succeeded in calming me down. “It’s my next assignment. From Carlos.”
“That makes more sense.”
I tried to look halfway offended. “It makes more sense to you that I was at a spa for Carlos than it did when I said I was there for girly stuff?”
Clay shrugged.
I stuck my chin out. “Well, fine then. But at least I did girly stuff there. They scrubbed my stomach and my butt. Wanna feel?”
Clay’s cheeks brightened exponentially.
“I thought so,” I smiled. “So, where was I…?”
“Carlos,” Clay coughed out the answer
before I could continue on with descriptions of the female anatomy. It made him uncomfortable to talk about feminine things with me. Well, not only me – all girls in general.
“Right. So, Carlos thinks there’s a prostitution ring being run at this spa. It’s mostly Asians that work there now – Korean to be specific. At least from what I’ve seen, which are only the parts accessible to women.”
I eyed Clay meaningfully. “I have yet to get into the male locker room or the second floor.”
“What’s on the second floor?”
“It’s for private services,” I said.
“Ahhh.”
“Yes, so I was thinking…”
Clay shook his head. “I’m not helping.”
“Please?”
“I’m the computer guy only. I told you and Carlos both that I’m not working in the field.”
Clay wasn’t lying when he said he was the computer guy. At home, cementing my point, he’d set up more screens in our living room than a busy sports bar during the World Series.
“Good, because the first thing I need help with is on the computer.” I smiled. “At least, I think so. I have this number, and I was just curious…”
I slid the piece of paper out from my pocket and dangled the number in front of him, not letting him see the full thing. The one thing Clay couldn’t stand was a mystery he wasn’t a part of. I knew it was mean to play to his weakness, but I really needed to get onto that second floor.
“Could I just see it for one second?” Clay asked with an innocent lilt to his voice.
“On one condition.”
“What’s that?” Clay’s elbows were pressed forward onto the dining table in full negotiation mode.
I matched him, elbow for elbow, eye to eye.
“You take this number, look it up, and get whatever info you can. Then, you call it and you set up an appointment. Show up for that appointment. That’s it.”
“Not a chance. I’m not going anywhere.” Clay shook his head firmly.
“You don’t have to do anything,” I said. “I’ll tell you what, I have a proposition for you. The only reason I’m asking you is because we’ll need some technical equipment, and I can’t think of anyone with more know-how than you.”
I could tell my logical approach was working by the curious glint in his eye. Clay hated to miss any opportunity where he could use his technological toys. They were his babies – his van being the largest and most expensive.
“What sort of technology?”
I had him hooked. I just had to play things moderately carefully from here on out. “Okay, we need some sort of camera for video. When you show up at this place you have to be wearing a wire—”
Clay rolled his eyes, as if this wouldn’t be challenging in the slightest, so why should I waste his talents?
“Uh, uh, uh,” I raised a finger. “But here’s the catch. You’d get a massage out of the deal. We’ll sign you up for a basic Swedish massage, nothing funky. I just want to get a layout of the place, get some photos of the girl that’s doing the massaging. Which means we’ll need a special wire; the camera can’t have any strings coming out of it since you’ll have to take your shirt off for the massage…” I paused, gauging Clay’s engagement. From the way he was still silent and not straining to interrupt me, I could tell I had him interested.
“Audio would be great, but visual is most important. Then, that’s not all. After the massage, a quick jaunt around the second floor so we can get visuals of the layout. After that, you just come home. Simple. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.”
I brushed my hands to show him how little effort this would take. “The next fun part comes from the videos you’ll capture on your state of the art camera. I’ll need you to do some research using only the visual. The name your masseuse gives could be a fake one.”
I peeked at him, hoping the challenge would pique his interest. Nothing set him off like an impossible task. “I’m not sure it’s feasible to get some sort of facial recognition thing going…I know usually that only happens in really fancy labs.”
“Not possible?” Clay pushed his chair back and reclined with a cocky grin. “Actually, I have a facial coding recognition program I’ve been developing – haven’t really had an occasion to test it out, but I think it might work faster than the FBI’s, the one they have going in airports and stuff…”
He trailed off. “If that program works, I could find a buyer, give them this example as a case study and I’d be a rich, rich man.” Clay blinked and looked at me, as if he’d forgotten I was listening.
“So you’ll help?” I held my breath.
“Let’s see those digits.”
Chapter 5
“I’m thinking of moving out,” I blurted to Clay on the short drive back.
“Really? Why?” He didn’t seem nervous. Or sad, or anxious, or anything.
“I just think I want a step up. I should be getting a decent advance for this assignment, and the payoff will hold me off for a bit. I just want to feel more like an adult, you know?”
Clay glanced over from the passenger seat. “You mean you want to be able to have boys over without feeling like you’re inviting them to a dorm?”
“Yeah, that too.”
“Well if you want to find a place, go ahead. I can help you look.”
“Won’t you be sad? Are you going to find another roommate?”
“It’s not like we won’t see each other,” Clay said practically. “We work for the same man. I’ll see you at the Laundromat. I’ll be at the estate for Sunday dinners, unless Carlos pisses me off.”
We exchanged a smile.
“You can handle rent on your own?” I asked. “I wouldn’t be leaving you high and dry?”
“Cuz, I pay most of the rent already.”
“I paid my full half last month,” I retorted.
“For the first time in how long?”
“Never mind,” I said. “Forget it. I’m moving out.”
Clay laughed. “Of course I’ll miss you. But just a little bit. Are you taking Tupac?”
I hadn’t even thought of that. Clay and I had lived together ever since I’d found the Family. We’d raised Tupac together. That is, if you can call shoving a litterbox and food towards him “raising” a cat.
“Nah,” I said. “You can keep him.”
“No, take him. Go ahead.” Clay said.
“Really, it’s fine. He likes you better,” I said.
“No, please. Be my guest.”
“We’ll discuss this later,” I said. “It’s not like I’ve started looking yet. What are you gonna do with my room?”
Clay’s eyes lit up. “Ooooh.”
He rubbed his hands together. “I hadn’t thought of that. I could put my electrodextromic meter in there, hook six monitors up around the circumference, and insert a projector from the ceiling…”
I zoned out as Clay described the NASA station that would arise from my converted room.
“Jeez, don’t sound so excited,” I said. “I feel like you want me to leave tomorrow.”
“Well, if there’s a place available, why wait?”
I looked at Clay, and he quickly shut his mouth and stared straight ahead. “Or, take your time. That’d work, too.”
I parked behind the creep van, just out of range of the fire hydrant for once.
“I’m getting a parking space with my new place,” I declared. “It’s required.”
Clay nodded, but he was distracted. Still probably thinking of ways to update my room as we headed upstairs.
“I’m tired.” I pushed open the door to apartment 7, and to my pleasant surprise, no alarms blared. Clay had been known to set an obnoxious number of alarms and gadgets and lookout materials – mostly testing them out on me.
“Don’t you want me to research this number?” Clay looked up, pulling his mind back from outer space.
“Do what you want. I’ve been poked and prodded, scrubbed and buffed, heated and frozen today. I�
�m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I plodded heavily into my room and collapsed face first on the bed: yoga pants, spa shirt, zipper sweater and all, still on. I reached into my pocket and groaned as I heard the crinkle of paper.
The last thought that entered my mind before I dozed off to dreamland was: Crap. I forgot to put money in Yoo’s tip envelope.
** **
The next morning I tried very hard to wake up at the sound of my alarm. I failed gloriously.
Cracking my first eyelid open, I couldn’t believe the numbers blinking back at me. One-thirty-eight p.m.? Yeesh! That spa had relaxed me to the point of being comatose.
Then – crap!
I was supposed to be at the Laundromat by one. In a moment of panic, I hoped my absence wouldn’t be noticed. Maybe Nicky was working and distracted by the twins. Or Clay was caught up in a hot game of internet poker. Though I still wasn’t sure what he found fascinating about the game, he’d beaten the system, cheated the other players, and even developed his own tournaments.
I threw on clothes, muttering not-super-nice words under my breath. To Clay, life was like a game of Monopoly. The money wasn’t real, and if he ran low in funds, he just filled up at the bank by taking however much he wanted. Rules were meant to be broken, and when the game got long and tiring, he’d go to bed and resume in the morning. He seemed able to obtain whatever his heart desired – and it was no secret I was envious of his skills. To make matters worse, Clay never seemed to want much. He was a simple man, fueled only by meat and the internet.
Poking my head out to see if Clay was putzing in his makeshift computer lab (aka the living room), my gaze was met with nothing but silence. He was nowhere to be seen. Even the monitors were suspiciously quiet with their blinks and blips. I grabbed a box of frozen toaster strudels and a huge vat of frosting, flung a handful of kibble to Tupac, and rushed out the door.
Despite my tardiness, when I parked in the combination Laundromat and 7-11 lot, I entered the convenience store first. I filled up on my favorite type of beverage: half a cup of mini marshmallows, a large portion of steamed milk, three creamers, two sugar packs, and a splash of blueberry coffee.
Clay called this concoction my diabetes drink. I lovingly referred to it as a sugar bomb. It infused the perfect mixture of caffeine and sucrose into my system to start the day right. I threw a donut hole (or three) in with the purchase, and carried my treasures over to the Laundromat.
