Most Precious Blood

by Vince Sgambati

  It was 8:47 pm when Lenny stepped from the train onto the empty platform of the Lefferts Blvd. Station and took a seat on the nearest bench. He pulled his collar up around his neck. It was colder than it had been when he left Manhattan. There was the sound of footsteps on the metal steps below the platform, and Lenny shivered and focused on his trembling hands. Someone sat next to him.

  “Mr. Lasante?” Lenny didn’t answer or look up. If it was a plain-clothes detective, he wouldn’t know by looking at him, and if it was Big Vinny’s bagman, he didn’t want to see him.

  “Mr. Lasante?” It was a young unfamiliar male voice, someone who should go home, do his homework, and change his life while he still had the chance. Lenny reached into his jacket pocket, removed the envelope and placed it between them on the bench. There was the crinkle of paper, and then the sound of footsteps descending the metal steps. In the distance a train approached the station, its single headlight dilated in the dark like an accusing eye, and the blurred letter A above the light sharpened as the station trembled to the deafening pitch of steel grating against steel.

  Lenny struggled against the undertow of another panic attack. The train screeched to a stop, and a wall of double doors swished open. A woman stepped from the train. Lenny squinted into the blinding light that framed her and thought she looked familiar, but the setting was wrong — no ornate murals and chandeliers, gold leaf and a curving staircase, a fountain with enormous gold fish, and a black sky framed by silhouettes of Moroccan turrets, towers and arches and speckled with thousands of stars. And she was younger than Lenny, which was impossible. He was only a boy when they had first met. She danced on the screen at the Valencia Movie Theater. Saraghina the beach whore in Fellini’s 8 1/2 who seduced horny pubescent boys. But this train-station Saraghina appeared more angelic than diabolic. The train left the station, and, through graffitied windows, Leonardo, Lucia, Vincenzo, and Filomena waved to Lenny.

  “Are you alright?” Her voice was light and genial.

  “Yes,” Lenny mumbled.

  “You’re Hard Luck Lenny,” she said.

  Lenny nodded and examined her face more closely. A customer, he thought. Someone I haven’t seen in a while.

  “You don’t remember me.” She pouted and sounded disappointed. “I used to work at Panisi’s Bakery. Margherita Cartoloni, but everyone calls me Tootsie. I know your son — although I haven’t seen him in church for a while. You look like you can use a cup of coffee or maybe something stronger.”

  Yes, the girl from the bakery, Lenny thought, an infectious laugh and big personality.

  “Coffee sounds good,” Lenny said. “Guess I got a little woozy.”

  Tootsie helped him stand and took his arm, but immediately Lenny regretted that he accepted her invitation. He wanted to be home, in his own bed, and asleep. The stilettos on her backless, open toed shoes tapped down the iron steps and across the few feet of sidewalk to the diner at the corner of Lefferts Boulevard and Liberty Avenue, where a police officer sipping coffee from a steaming Styrofoam cup held the door open for them and smiled at Tootsie. Lenny worried that the officer had been Big Vinny’s bagman and that somehow Tootsie was also involved — a backup, in case Lenny hadn’t turned over the money.

  The diner was crowded, bright, and noisy.

  “Wherever you find a clean table,” a waitress said to Tootsie. She balanced a tray piled high with plates of breakfast foods.

  “Is this okay?” Tootsie said as she slid into the booth. Lenny sat on the bench seat across from her, still wishing he were home in bed.

  “Are you feeling better?” she said.

  “Yes. Thank you. I’m fine now.” Tootsie’s expression suggested that she wasn’t convinced, so Lenny offered more of an explanation. “I had spent the day in the city, and I did a lot of walking. I must have dozed on the train ride home and missed my stop. I was going to walk home from Lefferts Boulevard, but I felt dizzy. Maybe something I ate in the city, but I’m fine now.”

  “I bet you got a touch of food poisoning. Did you feel like you were gonna throw up?” Tootsie said this as she pressed her fist up under her ample breasts, rubbing her stomach, which exaggerated the swell of her bosom above her low cut sweater and deepened her cleavage.

  “I really feel much better now,” Lenny said. And he did feel better and no longer suspicious. It might have been her breasts that persuaded him. She wasn’t a stooge for Big Vinny, just a flirty Good Samaritan.

  Lenny found Tootsie comical but seductive. He had long been impressed by full-figured women, from his boyhood days when Captain Beltrani sat outside his then-vacant cigar store a few doors down from Lasante’s and showed the neighborhood boys photos of nude Rubenesque models stretched out on fancy davenports. Victorian looking photos — some on lacey fans. Lenny didn’t know where Beltrani got them. Probably the same place the old man bought his white suits and captain’s caps. His outfits were the reason folks called him Captain. Tootsie could have easily passed for one of the Captain’s sirens.

  “Well that’s good. Food poisoning can be lousy.”

  “So you know my son from church?” Lenny said.

  “Yeah, but I haven’t seen him in a while.”

  “That’s good. Not that you haven’t seen him. Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I just don’t share his feelings about church. That was his grandmother’s doing.”

  “Well, I’m not exactly the Pope’s sister,” Tootsie said laughing. “But Frankie’s a good boy. You did a good job. It ain’t easy raising a kid by yourself.”

  “I had a lot of help.”

  “Yeah, but most guys wouldn’t have done what you done. At least most straight guys. I remember when you and Vi got married, that’s when I worked in Panisi’s. She was crazy to leave. A lot of us girls thought that.”

  A blush crept up from Lenny’s collar until he felt his ears turn warm.

  Tootsie shrugged her shoulders and continued. “True, she was pretty and smart. Not too smart though. Right? She left you. But college can do that. Sometimes I think too much education can make people stupid about the important things.”

  “Now you sound like Frankie,” Lenny said.

  “About Vi?”

  “No, about college.”

  They ordered coffee and pie and talked about Frankie and college and even a little about Vi with the ease of old friends reminiscing. Lenny thought: There’s a pretty woman under the makeup, and Tootsie displayed a candor among her more obvious attributes, which Lenny appreciated, especially that evening.

  The waitress refilled their coffee cups and Tootsie spoke of her son, her mother, a cosmetology class she was interested in, even a little about her rotten luck with men, and then Lenny remembered that Frankie had told him about a woman he had met in church the morning after Gennaro’s accident and about her little boy with pink nail polish. Lenny realized that it was probably Tootsie, but Frankie had also mentioned that she was very pregnant. Tootsie was no longer pregnant, and with all that she said, she never mentioned a baby. Of course Lenny didn’t ask. He didn’t even mention that Frankie had told him about her.

  The hour passed quickly, and Lenny offered to walk Tootsie home. After several blocks, Tootsie pointed to a two-family house with blue vinyl siding and first floor window grates decorated with white wrought iron balusters.

  “This is where I live,” she said.

  “Do you know Doug Turner?” Lenny recognized the block from occasionally driving Doug home.

  “Sure. Just to say hello. Seems like a nice guy. He a friend of yours?”

  “Yes, he works in the garage across from my store.”

  “Well, birds of a feather. You know ... you’re both nice guys.

  Lenny smiled. “Your son must be sleeping,” he said.

  “He better be, but he ain’t here. He’s at his grandma’s house.”

  “That’s nice ... I mean that your mom helps out.”

  Tootsie fished through her purse for her keys, and Lenny ogled the jiggle of her br
easts under the streetlight.

  “Look, honey, as I said before, I ain’t the Pope’s sister, and I still think that Vi was nuts to leave you.” Tootsie removed the key from her purse. “No strings, really, but you’re welcome to come in if you’d like.”

  “Yes, I would like that,” Lenny said.

  15

  On the Wednesday after Lenny handed over an envelope stuffed with cash to a stranger at the Lefferts Boulevard Station, Big Vinny and Scungilli were released on bail. One neighbor washing windows, another sweeping the sidewalk, and two others just leaning against a wrought-iron gate and talking about nothing in particular spotted Big Vinny’s Lincoln. Scungilli was driving, and Big Vinny sat next to him. In the back seat were Marie, Lena, and Gennaro. The Lincoln turned into the DiCicos’ driveway and, without a wave or smile, they got out of the car and disappeared into the house. At least that’s how the general story went, though each version had its own enhancement. By evening everyone on 104th Street knew that Big Vinny was home and that something was very wrong.

  After school Frankie went right to the DiCicos’ house. He stayed for supper. Lenny had just closed the store and was in the kitchen reheating leftovers when Frankie came home.

  “I assume you already ate,” Lenny said, and spooned greens, browned with bread crumbs, sausage, and diced cherry peppers from a frying pan into a bowl.

  Frankie nodded. Lenny brought his food to the table, sat, and poured himself a glass of wine.

  “Aren’t you even going to ask about Big Vinny?” Frankie said.

  Lenny scooped up some greens with a chunk of Italian bread. “You’ll tell me when you want to.”

  Frankie paced around the kitchen. He snatched a chair away from the kitchen table and sat down.

  “Big Vinny’s a mess.”

  “You won’t get an argument from me.” Lenny tore off another chunk of bread.

  “Never mind,” Frankie grumbled. He jumped up and pushed his chair back under the table.

  Lenny ignored him, dunked the chunk of bread in his wine and popped it into his mouth. “Body and blood of Christ,” Lenny said. He knew he was acting like an ass, but the last thing he wanted was to commiserate with Frankie about Big Vinny’s problems. Big Vinny was the problem as far as Lenny was concerned.

  Frankie stormed out of the kitchen, but within seconds he returned, took a half-gallon of milk from the refrigerator, opened it, and sniffed.

  “It’s fresh. I brought it in from the store last night,” Lenny said, and finished his wine while Frankie drank milk from the opened container.

  “Better not let Grandma catch you doing that.” Lenny realized his error as soon as the words left his mouth. Frankie’s eyes widened and filled with tears.

  “Alright, Frankie. I’m ready to listen. No more wisecracks. Tell me what happened. All day, neighbors have been in and out of the store gossiping about what this one or that one saw. One said Marie was crying when she got out of the car. Another said that Big Vinny looked as if he had just returned from a funeral. So what’s going on?”

  Frankie chewed his lower lip, and his eyes darted from left to right. He joined his father at the table. “I guess Big Vinny didn’t want to get out. I mean of course he did, but ... well I guess the judge released Big Vinny and Scungilli on bail, but not Michael and Jimmy. You know with them being accused of murdering that cabdriver.”

  Big Vinny would never make a deal that didn’t include his sons, Lenny thought. The con man was conned. The backroom bribes had backfired and bought Big Vinny less than he had anticipated.

  “I didn’t even see Big Vinny. Lena brought his supper upstairs. All Mrs. DiCico did was cry. After she made supper, she went in the living room and sat in front of the television. She didn’t eat anything. Even Gennaro was kind of quiet. Lena was the only one talking — mostly swearing. So it’s all kind of a mess. But Lena said that the important thing is that her father can do more for her brothers now that he’s out of jail.”

  It was hard for Lenny not to make a snide comment, but he had promised to listen. Frankie paused, stood up, shoved his hands deep into his jean pockets, and leaned against the sink. “You don’t think that the DiCicos had anything to do with that cab driver being murdered, do you?” Frankie said.

  Lenny’s jaw clinched and his stomach knotted. Frankie knew better than to ask such questions, even in the privacy of their own kitchen. “We don’t know anything about what happened, so I don’t think anything about it and neither should you ... you don’t know anything either, do you?”

  Frankie took too long to answer, and Lenny felt his heart begin to race.

  “Do you!” Lenny repeated, sounding more like a command than a question.

  “No, I don’t know anything,” Frankie said.

  “Then there’s nothing to think about. We don’t know what happened. And should anyone ask, that’s our answer. If you are questioned by anyone, keep your answers short and simple. The day of the arrest, a detective asked Mr. Turner and me if we knew anything about a fight with a cabdriver.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That I was working.”

  “But I told you what happened.”

  “Did you hear me say keep your answers simple? No hearsay. I didn’t see anything. And if asked, you say only what you saw, which wasn’t much. Now, since you went to see Gennaro right after school, I assume that you have homework to do.”

  Frankie nodded. “A little reading. Yes, some reading. If I can read. I mean if I can get my mind off of what’s going on.”

  “You stewing over Big Vinny’s problems won’t change anything.”

  “But they’re not just Big Vinny’s problems. I mean ... I don’t know what I mean, but it’s got me all mixed up.”

  Lenny stood, approached Frankie, and put his arm around him. “One step at a time, Frankie. Worrying won’t accomplish anything.”

  Lenny was amused by his own advice. His telling someone else not to worry was like a stone in water telling another stone not to sink. He tried to change the subject. “Maybe now Gennaro will go back to school.”

  Gennaro hadn’t been to school since the arrest. His excuse was that, if someone made a wisecrack, he’d get in a fight and be thrown out anyway.

  “No, he hasn’t said anything. Maybe Big Vinny will make him go back now.” Frankie kissed Lenny on the cheek. “Guess I’m kind of okay now. I’ll go up and read.”

  Lenny remained leaning against the sink. His empty glass and bowl of unfinished greens sat on the table, and he listened to the floorboards creek above him. At least Frankie is home safe, he thought and wished that there was a way he could keep Frankie away from the DiCicos — away from their drama and their poison, but he knew it was impossible.

  Better than blood, Big Vinny’s father often told Lenny when he was a boy. Your grandparents treated me like a son from the moment they came to pick me up at Ellis Island. And your father welcomed me like a brother. The unsaid expectation was that Big Vinny and Lenny should also be better than blood, but they were too different. As a boy, Big Vinny was restless and short-tempered. School was like torture for him; he was often truant until he was old enough to drop out. Regardless, Lenny kept trying to be a brother, even after Big Vinny’s father told him it wasn’t worth it, even after Big Vinny’s brother, Sal, was killed in Nam. After that, Lenny tried even harder.

  Lenny was in school when the DiCicos received the news about Sal, but he’d heard the story so many times that it felt like a memory, beginning with the neighbor who had pushed her way through the line of customers and screamed: “Filomena, there’s a soldier. He just rang Rosa’s doorbell.”

  Filomena’s eyes darted from the slicing machine to Vincenzo. “Go!” Vincenzo said. “I’m okay here.”

  Rosa DiCico’s screams were heard up and down 104th Street. By the time Filomena reached the DiCicos’ house — her apron splattered with blood from the roast beef she had been slicing — the car with military plates was already pulling away from the
curb. Rosa, surrounded by women from the block, had collapsed on a chair. Before her on the kitchen table sat a lone colander of fresh string beans atop a newspaper. The tips of the snapped string beans covered some letters of words such as casualties and Cambodia and Laos.

  Rosa wailed when she saw Filomena. “Filomena, they killed my son. Those bastards killed my son. Mother of God, they killed my son.” Filomena pressed Rosa’s head to her breast as the women swayed and their cries rose from out of the open windows as if the house itself were lamenting the tragic loss of the good son who had once played stoopball on her front steps, sprayed stenciled Santas and snowmen on her windowpanes, and dropped tiny celluloid paratroopers attached to wispy plastic parachutes from her attic windows. The good son who had never given anyone any trouble was dead.

  Big Vinny and Lenny learned of Sal’s death from Vincenzo who sat waiting for them in the principal’s office. As soon as Vincenzo spoke of Sal’s death the room reeked of Big Vinny’s vomit, and there was the sound of broken glass as Big Vinny punched his fist through the principal’s door and ran cursing from the school, leaving a trail of blood from the gash in his forearm.

  Vincenzo grabbed Lenny’s hand to keep him from following Big Vinny. The principal shook his head and sighed. His eyes met Vincenzo’s. “Please extend my condolences to Mr. and Mrs. DiCico. Sal was a good student and always a gentleman — always respectful and considerate of others.”