“I didn’t apply to either of those colleges,” Frankie said.
“There’s still time.”
“We’ll see.”
“Give L.A. a chance, Frankie. And Vi. We all make mistakes.”
“I will. I promise.”
Frankie hugged Lenny and Angie.
Before he disappeared into the crowd at Kennedy Airport, his eyes locked with Lenny’s and he mouthed: “I love you, Dad.” Lenny was too choked up to respond. He was also concerned that Frankie’s black curly hair would invite suspicion, since he had heard about darker Italians having trouble with security in airports, but those were international flights. If nothing else, what had happened Christmas Eve reminded Lenny how little control he had over protecting Frankie, a lesson he should have learned the day Vi left. He’ll be okay, he told himself, with security, with Vi and Ina, and in time with having lost Gennaro. Catching another glimpse of Frankie’s hair and backpack set on the shoulders of the leather jacket Lena had given him just before they left for the airport — another gift from Big Vinny, Lenny felt incredibly grateful. He’ll be okay. I’ll miss him like crazy, but, thank God, he’s going to be okay. Angie squeezed Lenny’s hand. “It’s only a little vacation, Lenny.”
“I hope not,” Lenny said.
As they left the airport they argued about how Angie would get home. She insisted that she should take the air train from Kennedy to the subway, and the subway back into the city. “I always do this when I travel for work,” she said, but Lenny argued that he wasn’t going to open the store anyway, so he may as well drive her into the city.
They compromised. Lenny drove Angie to the nearest subway station. Once in the car, Lenny again tried to convince her to let him drive her all the way into Manhattan, but she changed the subject.
“Tootsie looked different last night,” she said. “Less garish. Oh, and in case you haven’t noticed, she has a crush on you. But I’ve already told you that.”
“Yes, you have, and Tootsie was never garish.”
“Oops. Guess I struck a nerve. You better watch out, Lenny, unless you also have a thing for her.”
“And how’s your love life going?” Lenny asked. “Or have you already met all three of the sensitive guys in Manhattan?”
“Very funny ... Frankie’s going to be okay, you know.”
“I hope so.”
“I think Vi’s changed for the better. Although that’s not difficult considering she couldn’t get any worse.” Angie laughed. “Only kidding.”
Lenny shook his head and parked at the curb next to the subway entrance. “Next time, I’ll let you walk.”
Angie leaned over and gave Lenny a kiss on the cheek. “You doing okay?”
“I’m fine, really.”
Angie opened the door and stepped out of the car. Before she closed it, she ducked her head back down. “I’ll see you Friday or Saturday.”
“Unless a new Mr. Right, or should I say Mr. Left, sweeps you off your feet.”
“Asshole!” She shut the car door.
Next, Lenny drove to the cemetery. He hadn’t been there since before Christmas, and he was yet to visit Gennaro’s grave. He stopped at the usual florist on Metropolitan Avenue, near one of the entrances to Saint John’s Cemetery and bought sprays for the DiCico and Lasante graves. Inside the cemetery, he meandered through the curving roads, past gravestones and monuments softened by tree canopies and shrubs that showed a faint promise of spring. Maple trees were tinged red with tiny buds.
Scungilli’s Buick was in the spot where Lenny usually parked. He sat in the car. Smoke billowed from the open windows. Lenny parked behind him, walked to the driver’s side of the Buick, and found Scungilli ogling a girlie magazine with a De Nobili hanging from a corner of his bulldog lips.
“Good place to look at porn,” Lenny said.
“Hey, if you gotta go, what better way? You know what I mean?”
“What else are you doing here aside from catching up on your reading?”
He nodded towards the gravestones. “Waiting for Big Vinny. I’ve been driving him here every day since Gennaro’s funeral. He don’t want nobody to know that he comes here, so we go in my car. He’s hurting bad, Lenny. He don’t let on none, but I never seen Big Vinny like this. It’s a terrible thing.”
Lenny looked over the top of Scungilli’s Buick and saw Big Vinny sitting in one of those stadium-folding chairs. His back was to the road and he was facing the DiCico gravestone. There was an empty folding chair next to him.
When Lenny’s shadow stretched across the grave, Big Vinny looked up and nodded as if he were expecting him. The sun reflected off the pink DiCico gravestone and Big Vinny’s sunglasses, and he pointed to the empty chair. “I figured you’d show up today.”
“Why’s that?” Lenny said.
“It’s the anniversary of your old man’s death.”
“Shit, I forgot all about it.” He sat next to Big Vinny.
“You’ve had a lot on your mind, so I remembered for both of us.” Big Vinny pointed to the spray he had placed on the Lasante grave — large enough to cover the names on the stone. “How could I forget? My mother had just left your store. Ten minutes later your father is dead. She hadn’t even put the groceries away when my old man yells in the door that there’s an ambulance in front of Lasante’s store.” Big Vinny extended his hands, one towards the Lasante stone and one towards the DiCico stone. “Shit happens that we never in a fuckin million years thought would happen.”
Lenny placed both of the sprays he bought on the DiCico grave, sat back in the folding chair, and read the newest addition to the DiCico stone: Gennaro DiCico 1988-2008 — the dash between the dates much too scant to represent a life, no matter how short the life was. “I’m so sorry, Vinny. There are no words.”
Big Vinny took two sandwiches out of a paper bag and handed Lenny one. “Marie made these. At least she still cooks for me. I guess that’s something.”
“Give her time, Vinny.”
“Time. I got a lot of that. Too much.” Big Vinny unwrapped his sandwich and handed Lenny a soda. “Looks like peppers and eggs. Remember when your father used to take us to Tucci’s and your mother would pack enough food for a feast. Those were the days. Early on, my old man would also go, and all us kids piled on each other’s laps in your old man’s Buick. That was before they came up with those fucking seatbelts. Now you can’t fit nobody in a car without the cops stopping you.”
“Yes. I remember.”
Big Vinny took a bite of his sandwich. A few sparrows perched on the pink tombstone. He broke small pieces of Italian bread and tossed them on the ground. The birds flew to Big Vinny’s feet and pecked at the bread as if they were accustomed to him feeding them. “So what do you think, Lenny? Is Filomena cooking for my Gennaro now?”
Lenny chewed a mouthful of sandwich.
“I know you don’t believe in that heaven nonsense,” Big Vinny said. “Neither do I, but the women believe in it. Who knows, maybe they’re right.” Big Vinny looked at his watch. “I wonder if Frankie’s plane took off yet? With all his black curly hair, they’ll probably take him for a goddamn terrorist.”
“Funny, I was thinking the same thing at the airport.”
“Speaking of terrorists, you’re okay with him living with Vi?”
“I’m okay with him getting as far away from 91st Avenue and 104th Street as possible. I wouldn’t care if he were living with bin Laden.”
“I hear you. I should have done that with my boys.” Big Vinny nodded towards the pink gravestone. “Especially Gennaro. I should have made him a singer. I should have sent him to L.A. like you did with Frankie. I know people there. Instead I gave him to the fuckin worms. Maybe he’s singing to Filomena. Who knows? Maybe the women know something we don’t. Won’t be the first time.”
Lenny remained silent. Chewing his sandwich provided him with a good excuse to not respond to Big Vinny’s comments.
More birds gathered around Big Vinny’s fe
et. “You make a creepy Saint Francis,” Lenny said. He thought of Frankie’s medal. Big Vinny laughed, broke up the rest of his bread, and threw it for the birds.
“Remember old Mr. Bucci with the bum leg? He used to always throw food for the birds. Not just bread. He even threw pasta fagoli in his yard. My mother used to scold him over the fence. ‘You’re bringing rats,’ she’d say. He’d answer: ‘But, Rosa, they gotta eat too.’ Crazy old bastard.” Big Vinny laughed and stuffed the foil from the sandwiches back into the paper bag.
They sat quietly drinking their sodas. Lenny thought it strange to sit with Big Vinny in silence. Silence and Big Vinny were an incongruous mix.
“Tell Marie thank you for the sandwich,” Lenny said.
“You tell her yourself. She won’t hear it from me. So how long have you been shtupping Margherita Cartoloni?”
“Who?”
“Tootsie! You know the girl with the big tits who used to work in Panisi’s.”
“Who said I’m shtupping anyone?”
“These birds told me. Who the hell cares who told me? You know that kid of hers is half black.”
That was Lenny’s cue to leave, before Big Vinny and he wound up punching each other on the family graves. Fortunately, Scungilli appeared. “Hey, Big Vinny, where’s my sandwich. Marie said she made peppers and eggs.”
“I gave it to Lenny.”
“What for?”
“Because you’re getting too fat. I’m worried about your health.”
“Then when are we gonna leave? I’m hungry.”
Big Vinny stood, handed Scungilli the paper bag with the garbage in it and folded his chair. “Come on, Lenny, I gotta feed Scungilli, and I can see you’ve had enough of me.”
Lenny stood without answering and folded his chair while Big Vinny made the sign of the cross, kissed his fingertips and pressed them against Gennaro’s name on the stone. They walked back towards the cars while Big Vinny and Lenny carried the folding chairs, and Scungilli carried the bag of garbage.
“Son of a bitch,” Scungilli shouted. “I just stepped in dog crap.”
With the hand holding the garbage bag, Scungilli leaned on a gravestone. With his free hand he removed his shoe, and Big Vinny and Lenny laughed.
“That’s good luck,” Big Vinny said.
“To step in dog crap in a summertery?” Scungilli whined. “I don’t think so.”
Big Vinny scolded Scungilli for wiping his shoe on the edge of the gravestone.
“What do you want me to do, get in the car smelling like dog crap? Look, the name on the stone is an Irish name. Nobody’s gonna come visit this grave anyway, or if they do they’ll be too drunk to smell the dog crap.”
“That reminds me, I was just gonna tell Lenny about those Sicilians who were hung in New Orleans for killing a mick cop,” Big Vinny said.
“When was that, Big Vinny?” Scungilli asked. He stuffed his foot back in his shoe.
“I don’t know, a long time ago.”
“Oh. I thought you meant it just happened. Like at Mardi Gras or something.”
Lenny tried to conceal his smile. If crime hadn’t been so profitable, Big Vinny and Scungilli could have made a living doing standup.
“Did you know about that, Lenny?” Scungilli said as he unlocked the car and they put the folding chairs in the trunk.
“Sure Lenny knows about it, but he don’t like to talk about it because he only talks about bad things that happen to coloreds and Puerto Ricans and stuff. Not Italians. It was this big mass lynching. As I was saying, some mick cop got killed and of course they blamed the Sicilians even though they didn’t do it, and a bunch of punks got them out of jail and strung them up. They hung 11 of them.”
“Where did you hear this, Big Vinny?” Scungilli said. “They had it on that show about Italians on television.” “Did you know about this, Lenny?” Scungilli asked.
“Yes, a lot of Italians were lynched back then. That was before we convinced the rest of America that we were white.”
“We are white,” Big Vinny snapped.
“If you say so,” Lenny said.
“I don’t know, Big Vinny,” Scungilli said. “Have you ever seen my cousin Louisa? And there are a lot of singers today who look Italian to me, but they say they’re black. Like what’s her name. I don’t know her first name, but her last name is Keyes. And remember Lena Horne. Nice looking woman. In fact, she looked like my cousin Louisa.”
“Point well taken, Scungilli,” Lenny said. “A lot of hanky-panky went on for centuries crossing the Mediterranean.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re a fucking anthropologist, Scungilli,” Big Vinny said, and then he gave Lenny a hug. “I know you want Frankie to stay in L.A., but you’re gonna miss him. Believe me.”
“I already miss him, but, yes, I hope he stays in L.A.” Lenny returned Big Vinny’s hug.
After Lenny got in his car, Big Vinny motioned for him to lower the passenger side window. “So you still looking to sell the store?”
Lenny had no idea how Big Vinny knew about that, but he nodded. “There are these brothers, new from the old country. They were interested, but I don’t know if they can come up with the money. Not sure if they can get a bank to give them a mortgage. We’ll see.”
“Yeah, Pulumbo is their last name,” Big Vinny said. “Neapolitan. I know who you mean.”
Of course he knew. He was Big Vinny.
“By the way, Frankie appreciated the jacket,” Lenny said. “He wore it today.”
“He wanted Gennaro’s, but ... well you know. I bought the exact same jacket from a guy I know in Canarsie. That was the best I can do.”
“Can’t do more than that,” Lenny said.
“Give Tootsie one for me. I told you all Marie will do for me now is cook. What are you gonna do? Maybe Tootsie’s got a friend and we can go out on a double date.”
Lenny shook his head and waved as he drove away. Scungilli scraped his shoe along the curb and Big Vinny waved his hands at him. “Googootza!”
Before driving home there was one more stop Lenny wanted to make. Traffic was light. It took him about a half an hour to find the house he was looking for — a small two-family with iron grates on the first-floor windows. A statue of the Blessed Mother looked over the front patch of dirt, while a tricycle lay across the sidewalk and a naked Barbie doll lay on the front stoop.
Lenny rummaged through his glove compartment for an envelope until he found one containing his auto insurance cards. He removed the cards and placed them back in the glove compartment. Next, he took the money that Big Vinny had given to Frankie from his wallet and slipped it into the envelope, along with an extra hundred-dollar bill of his own. No one was around, so he walked up the front stoop, read the name on the mailbox to make sure it matched the cabdriver’s surname and left the envelope with the money in the mailbox. Small compensation for how the DiCicos destroyed the family.
Traffic picked up, so the drive home took a little longer. When Lenny got home, Doug Turner was just leaving the auto repair shop next to Big Vinny’s club. Doug yelled across the avenue: “Hey, Lenny how did things go?”
“Good,” Lenny said and looked at his watch. “His plane will be landing in less than an hour.”
A delivery truck briefly blocked their view of each other. Once it passed, Doug crossed the avenue. He zipped up his jacket. “California sounds awfully good to me.”
Lenny wanted to get inside before someone asked him to open the store.
“Do you want to come in?” Lenny asked.
“Okay, for a minute. I gotta pick up my kid soon.”
Inside, Lenny offered Doug a glass of Sambuca. Doug passed on that, but accepted a beer, and they sat at the kitchen table. Doug apologized for coming in the house smelling of oil and gasoline.
“Better than stinking of provolone,” Lenny said.
“I guess both our jobs give us an aroma,” Doug said.
“Yeah, we should bottle it. Call it stink of workingmen.”
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They laughed. Doug opened his bottle of beer and Lenny poured himself a drink. Usually they spoke of politics, sometimes a little of sports, but that afternoon their conversation was more personal. Doug talked about growing up in Bedford Stuyvesant until his mom sent him to live with his grandparents in South Carolina. “Best thing she could have done,” he said. “My grandparents were no-nonsense country folk. Not sure I’d be here today if not for them.”
Lenny talked about his father’s untimely death and the impact that it had on his life. Maybe it was the combination of the emotions of the day, and two shots of Sambuca, but Lenny did a lot of venting. He talked about how he wanted Frankie to have the life he missed. He talked about Vi. He even talked about selling the store.
“Well, here’s to Frankie staying in L.A. and going to college.” Doug raised his almost empty bottle of beer. Lenny poured another Sambuca and tapped Doug’s bottle with his glass.
“There is one glitch that could sabotage everything,” Lenny said.
“What’s that?”
And Lenny broke his rule about not talking about the DiCicos, especially with someone outside of his family. He told Doug his fears about what might happen if Frankie was called to testify at the trial about the cabdriver’s murder. “Who knows how a slick lawyer might twist Frankie’s words and make it appear as if he knows more than he’s saying?”
“Another beer?” Lenny asked. Doug held up his long fingers. Machine oil stained his dark brown knuckles and fingernails black. He shook his head.
Lenny continued. “From what I understand, they’re struggling to build a case. When Frankie was in the hospital, I felt as if some of the officer’s questions were efforts to connect the shooting to the cabdriver’s murder. I guess I was right about that, but they don’t have much on Michael and Jimmy except that some unknown witness overheard them talking about getting even with the cabby. With such shabby evidence a tough lawyer will drag down anyone in this neighborhood to get a conviction.”
Doug turned the empty bottle and it squeaked against the enamel-top table. He remained silent.
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