Then a white Rolls-Royce with maroon fenders came rolling in, the nicest dadgum car I’d ever seen. It had Florida plates too. It parked, the driver got out and opened up the back door, and an older fella wearing a white suit got out and came into the diner. I couldn’t help but stare at him, with his thinning gray hair and his tinted glasses that brought out the dark moles that was scattered along his cheeks and neck. He spoke to a couple of them big fellas, they nodded, and then he came to our table.
“I thought we were going to meet alone,” he said to Mr. Thomassen. His voice sounded like somebody that had smoked one too many cigars. He smelled like it too.
Mr. Thomassen put down the menu.
“I couldn’t find a babysitter,” he said. “But he’s my understudy. There’s nothing you could say to me that he can’t hear, or that he won’t hear later. So let’s talk.”
He motioned for me to move around next to him, so I did, and then the old fella took my seat. I hurried and grabbed my Coke to make sure he didn’t get no ideas.
“What’s his name?” he asked Mr. Thomassen.
“This is Johnny, and that’s all you need to know.”
The fella nodded at me.
“I hope you’re as honest as he says, Johnny,” he said. “For your own sake.”
Now, I ain’t so sure how they do things in Florida where that fella was from, but in Alabama you don’t get a name from somebody without giving one back. I reckoned he forgot.
“I didn’t catch your name, mister,” I said.
He chuckled.
“Cute kid,” he said.
“This is Santo. Santo Trafficante, Jr.,” Mr. Thomassen said.
“And me and your boss here go way back,” Mr. Trafficante said. “How long has it been, Chuck?”
I looked at Mr. Thomassen.
“Chuck?” I asked.
“That’s my name,” he said. “Charles Thomassen. You know that.”
Nope, I sure didn’t. I didn’t reckon I was going to take part in calling him Chuck, either. Just didn’t sit right with me.
“Anyway,” Mr. Thomassen said, “it’s been a long time. Since my first year in Havana, if I remember correctly.”
I looked at Mr. Trafficante.
“You was in Havana?”
That set him to laughing.
“Kid, I practically ran Havana back in the good old days.”
I had a bad feeling I knew what that meant. Back before Castro ousted Batista as the leader of Cuba, Havana was like a compost pile for the mob and gangs. Which meant, if Trafficante ran it all, then he was definitely bad news. I decided to keep my trap shut.
“And what are you up to now?” Mr. Thomassen said.
“Cigars,” Mr. Trafficante said, real fast. “And other side businesses. But cigars is what I pay taxes on. Anyway, this isn’t meant to be a social visit. Let’s get down to—”
“And your family?” Mr. Thomassen acted like he hadn’t heard that last part. “How’s your son? And Nell? Why, I haven’t heard from her in years.”
Mr. Trafficante gritted his teeth.
“My son is gone and Nell is dead. I thought you knew that.”
“I did,” Mr. Thomassen said before he took a sip of his coffee. “I just wanted Johnny to be caught up to speed.”
Mr. Trafficante stared at him and his eye twitched a little, which was really weird and made me stare, which made him stare back, which made me feel like I was going to pee my pants.
“Can we start talking business now?” he asked.
I raised my hand. Him and Mr. Thomassen both looked at me like I was crazy.
“Can I go to the bathroom?” I asked.
Mr. Thomassen glanced at Mr. Trafficante.
“The kid’s got to take a leak,” Mr. Trafficante said. “So let him.”
I got up and headed to where the restrooms was and one of them big fellas followed me, even came inside with me.
I went over and unzipped, then realized he was standing right behind me.
“You don’t got to watch me. I won’t make no messes,” I said.
“I’m just making sure there’s no funny business.”
“I try to avoid being funny when I’m peeing. Otherwise the walls get all messed up.”
He laughed but didn’t move an inch.
I got done with my business and flushed. I started toward the door but he stopped me.
“Wash your hands, you animal,” he said.
“Why? I didn’t pee on them.”
He curled up his lip and grabbed my wrists. He pulled me over to the sink and squirted some soap into my palms. He rubbed my hands together and whistled through the ABCs, then he turned on the water and rinsed them off. He picked up the towel, dried my hands, and used the towel to turn the doorknob.
I went on ahead of him back to the table. Things had gotten more heated since I left.
“Don’t try to tell me you don’t know anything about the Three Caballeros,” Mr. Trafficante said. “It has your fingerprints all over it.”
Mr. Thomassen wasn’t drinking his coffee anymore. Instead he had both hands on the table, more tense than I’d ever seen him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “And more than that, I don’t know why you’re concerned. Based off what you’ve told me, they’re only targeting the Cosa Nostra. Which, last time I checked, didn’t include the Trafficante family.”
Mr. Trafficante popped his knuckles as I took my seat back next to Mr. Thomassen.
“No,” he said, and shot me a look. “But it does include the Bonannos and the Giancanas, and they’ve started to complain.”
“To you?” Mr. Thomassen said. “Why would they come to you?”
“Because, you idiot, they recognize a Cuban operation when they see one.” He leaned in over the table. “And I recognize one of yours when I see it, too.”
I looked at Mr. Thomassen to see if he was scared. I’d be scared, that was for darn sure. But he didn’t look an ounce nervous at all. Instead he reached for his coffee cup.
“Would one of your goons mind topping me off with some decaf?” he asked.
Mr. Trafficante almost spit fire out as he nodded to one of his fellas.
“Now,” Mr. Thomassen said, “you’ve had your chance to talk to me. Let me talk to you.”
Mr. Trafficante sat back in his seat and quieted down a bit. As soon as they brought Mr. Thomassen his coffee, he added a little cream and sugar and took a sip.
“I already knew about the Three Caballeros,” he said. “I’m not saying that I’m one of them, or that I’m affiliated with them, but I know about them. And I can tell you right now that they aren’t interested in you.”
“I wasn’t concerned about—” Mr. Trafficante started.
“Let me finish.” Mr. Thomassen put his cup down and his face changed and even I got a little scared of him all of a sudden. “They aren’t interested in the Trafficantes at the moment. From what I hear, these days you are as much a patriot as I am.”
Mr. Trafficante studied his face for a second and nodded.
“So this is about patriotism for you?”
“For the Three Caballeros, from what I understand, yes,” Mr. Thomassen said. “It’s about keeping this nation from becoming the cesspool Havana was. Keeping the hands of the Cosa Nostra from holding power in the government. Because we saw what happened in Havana once people got sick of you and your family. They brought in the Commies to clip your wings.”
Mr. Trafficante reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar. He lit it and took a couple of puffs while Mr. Thomassen sipped his coffee. I didn’t much know what to do, so I started using the spoons as drumsticks and played a beat on the table. Mr. Thomassen snatched them out of my hand real quick.
“So you’re saying I should stay out of it?” Mr. Trafficante finally said.
“No, I’m saying you should get out of it.”
“But I’m not in it. Like you said, my wings are clipped. The Three Caballer
os haven’t got any beef with me, remember?”
“Not yet,” Mr. Thomassen said. “But there’s a matter of a price tag I’ve been hearing about.”
Mr. Trafficante’s eye started twitching again. He slammed his hand on the table.
“That doesn’t have anything to do with you. Or with the Three Caballeros.”
“Oh, but it does. Because it stinks of the old days in Havana, of exactly what they’re trying to prevent.”
“That’s because it came out of the old days in Havana.”
“Then get rid of it,” Mr. Thomassen said. “Leave it back there.”
“I can’t,” Mr. Trafficante said. “I won’t. Some things you can’t leave in the past.”
“Come on, Santo.”
“He killed the woman I loved, Chuck,” Mr. Trafficante said, and I thought I almost saw a tear come out of his twitching eye. “Dr. Morris killed Nell. I’ll never let that go.”
I felt like somebody done slapped me across the face. Dr. Morris, Captain Morris, my actual father, killed his girl? I started to slip down in my chair, but Mr. Thomassen grabbed my leg and squeezed it real hard, so I didn’t.
“But what if he’s already dead?” Mr. Thomassen said. Which he was, Captain Morris had been shot by my pa and he was as dead as a doornail.
“Whoever told you about the price tag didn’t give you all the details, did they?” Mr. Trafficante said. “Morris has a kid running around out there somewhere, from back when he was still in Havana. So, even if Morris is dead, I want his blood on my hands. And I don’t care if it’s his or his kid’s. I want to hold his heart in my hands and break it like he broke mine.”
I started to reach up and cover my chest, not even thinking, but Mr. Thomassen squeezed my leg again so I didn’t.
“Well, for your sake, I hope you never find him,” Mr. Thomassen said. “Because I’d hate for the Three Caballeros to add your name to their list of enemies.”
“And, for your sake,” Mr. Trafficante said, “I hope they don’t do that. You and I are friends. And friends make the worst enemies.”
Mr. Thomassen smiled and sipped his coffee again. Mr. Trafficante looked at me.
“So, what about you? What do you do?”
My heart started beating so hard I reckoned he could hear it from where he was. I was real worried I was going to say something that would show him I was Captain Morris’s son and all that. So I decided to go in the opposite direction.
“Well, I sure don’t go around killing nobody, that’s the truth.”
He started laughing at me.
“Wow, you’re one in a million, aren’t you?” he asked.
“I reckon so,” I said.
Mr. Trafficante took a puff of his cigar.
“Where you from, kid?” he asked.
Mr. Thomassen almost dropped his cup of coffee. His hand dropped down on my leg and he started to squeeze it.
“Oh, I’m from Cull—” I sputtered for a second ’cause Mr. Thomassen had just about cut off the blood to my foot. “Clarksville, Tennessee. Same as Mr. Thomassen here.”
Mr. Thomassen let up for a bit.
“Tennessee?” Mr. Trafficante said, then he shot Mr. Thomassen a look. “You came all the way down here from Tennessee?”
“Yup,” I said. “What can I say, folks in Tennessee, I mean us folks in Tennessee, just really love this Birmingham air. Reminds me of living in Havana a little bit.”
Mr. Thomassen squeezed my leg again, so hard this time that I reckoned some leg juice was going to come out in a bit.
“You’re from Havana?” Mr. Trafficante said. “Tell me, have you ever heard of the Three Caballeros?”
I gulped about as loud as a frog gulping a horsefly.
“Nope,” I said. Which would have been fine if I’d have left it at that, but for some reason my brain figured there needed to be more said. “I mean, y’all been talking about them, so I’ve heard of them just now. And maybe before, but I don’t got no idea who they are. Or what they’re doing. Well, I reckon I have an idea, but it ain’t worth me mentioning.”
Mr. Trafficante chuckled and looked at Mr. Thomassen’s face. Mr. Thomassen was trying to not show any emotion, even though I could tell from his eyes and the fact that he just about had removed my kneecap through my jeans that he was panicking.
“I think we’re done,” Mr. Thomassen said.
“I think we are. For now.”
And with that we all got up and went our separate ways. I limped a bit, on account of needing knee replacement surgery now and all, but other than that, I was just glad to be out of there.
We got into the car and drove about a block down the road, then Mr. Thomassen pulled over, put the car in park, and just started shaking.
“Why?” he asked. “Why did you tell him you were from Havana?”
His hand trembled as he pulled his hanky out of his pocket and started wiping off his forehead. He was breathing real hard, too.
“I—I don’t really know,” I said. “It just slipped.”
He slapped his steering wheel.
“Well, it can’t!” he said, and his face looked like he might be inclined to kill me or something. I shrunk back in my seat.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and shook his head. He calmed back down and started shaking again. “It’s my fault. I should have prepared you.”
He pulled back out onto the road and headed home. We didn’t say nothing else as we went, he looked like he was thinking, and I was too busy having a panic attack.
“I need to talk to your pa and Carlos,” he said. “I’m going to drop you off at the Parkinses’, okay?”
I nodded ’cause I didn’t feel like arguing with him at all. Besides, I hadn’t seen Willie since Sunday, so it’d be nice to visit.
There was a whole mess of cars there when he dropped me off, and I recognized most of them from going to the church services in Colony. They must have been having a function at their house or something. Which probably meant that Willie was stuck bored half to death and my visit would be real appreciated. And also meant there’d be plenty to get my mind off of Santo Trafficante.
I went up and the front door was open, so I headed on inside. All the deacons and their wives from the church was gathered in the living room, listening to the radio. I went to the kitchen, where Mrs. Parkins and Willie was making a tray of snacks for everybody. Willie did his schooling at home, which basically meant he had to do more chores than the rest of us.
“Hey, how’s it going?” I asked. Mrs. Parkins smiled at me.
“Going well,” she said, and she kissed my forehead. “Going very, very well.” She carried the little tray of sandwiches out into the living room and left me in there with Willie. He was slicing cheese.
“What was that about?” I asked.
“It’s a big day today,” he said. “It’s all over the news. Ain’t you heard?” He picked up his tray and carried it out there too. I followed him. The radio was telling the story they was all so happy about.
“And, as the day is drawing closer and closer to its conclusion, there have not yet been any reports of incidences inside Grady High. It would appear that all nine students have been able to attend their classes and even eat their lunches in peace and equality.”
I leaned over to Willie.
“Seriously, what’s going on?”
“It’s happening in Atlanta,” he said. “Nine black students went to school at an all-white high school. It’s integration. And there ain’t been nothing bad to happen with it.”
“Not like last year,” Mrs. Parkins said. “Remember poor Ruby Bridges, down in New Orleans?”
I hadn’t never heard of it, so I shook my head.
“Six years old, she enrolled in the school down there and they practically tortured her. People threw bricks at her as she went inside the schoolhouse, grown women tried to poison her food, some stood outside with black baby dolls in coffins. The marshals had to take her in, and she couldn’t even sit in a class
room with the other students.”
“Holy cow, I wouldn’t have gone back,” I said.
“But now, just a year later and we have integration happening in Georgia without none of that,” she said. “It’s a miracle is what it is.”
Reverend Parkins stood and came over to us.
“And a miracle we’ll have here soon, I believe. Alabama isn’t as far behind as people think.”
She put the tray down and went back into the kitchen, and the way she did it showed that she wanted to say something else but couldn’t ’cause she knew it wasn’t a woman’s place to say it in front of all them people.
“What’s wrong with her?” I whispered to Willie.
“It ain’t nothing,” he whispered back. “She’s been bellyaching to Pa that she’d like us to pick up stakes and move up north somewhere, ’cause folks here ain’t so happy with a black family living nearby.”
“Y’all are thinking of moving?” I asked. That hit me like a sack of bricks.
“No, we ain’t going to move. She gets on these kicks every time something hits the news about the race problems around here. We just got to ride it out. Like Pa says, Alabama ain’t that far behind.”
Mrs. Parkins came back out with a pitcher of lemonade.
“By the way, Johnny,” she said, “Willie told me you have a visitor that’s about to have a baby. How is she?”
I shrugged. How are you supposed to answer a question like that?
“Still pregnant, so I guess about as good as can be expected.”
She nodded like that was the perfect answer. Women was weird.
Willie grabbed my arm.
“That reminds me,” he said. “Come on.”
He dragged me into his bedroom and pulled the letter that was supposedly from Tommy off the wall.
“I was thinking about what you said, about Antonia and Rose being spies, and it got me to thinking, what if Tommy was being a spy when he wrote this letter?”
“That don’t make no sense,” I said. “He was a pilot, not a spy.”
“No, I don’t mean like a literal spy.” He put the letter on his desk and started looking at it more closer. “I mean, what if he was thinking like a spy. What if he wrote it in code?”
The Struggles of Johnny Cannon Page 6
