by April Lurie
“What? Are you kidding?”
“My mother talked to Walter's mother. She gave his friend your number.”
“Oh, that's just great.” With one final stroke, I finished her last toenail and shoved her foot off my lap. “So, what's this guy's name? Horace?”
Brandi hesitated a moment. “Actually, Umberto.”
My eyes widened. “Umberto? Does he speak English?”
“Yes, of course he speaks English. How else could he call you?”
Just when I was contemplating which method I was going to use to strangle Brandi, the garbage truck turned the corner and came roaring up our street. Immediately we craned our necks looking for Larry. We'd been his guardian angels ever since kindergarten and his mother paid us for this service with boxes of cannolis and pinches on the cheek. He was in front of Mr. Crispi's house now, whaling on a rusty old vacuum cleaner. “Aw, shoot,” I said, “we're gonna have to go get him.” Larry had grown a lot this year—he stood almost six feet tall—and was no lightweight, either. He didn't particularly like it when people asked him to stop drumming.
“Count me out,” Brandi said, wiggling her toes. “Don't want to ruin my new pedicure.”
“Of course. How convenient.”
The garbage truck was getting closer, and Larry was hovering over Mr. Crispi's prehistoric vacuum like a dog guarding a T-bone steak. I was just about to get up and intervene, when Mr. Luciano walked out his front door. He was a homely guy, but from a distance he looked fairly sharp in his three piece suit, his head freshly shaved and gleaming in the sun. He reminded me a little of Kojak, the cop from that TV show, except Mr. Luciano was on the other side of the law. “Larry!” He shook his head, chuckling to himself, and plodded down the stairs. When he saw Brandi and me, he smiled and waved. “Hey, girls, how ya doin'?”
I waved hello, but Brandi didn't. She just snorted and turned the other way. Brandi liked Larry and Mrs. Luciano well enough—helpless victims was what she called them— but not Soft Sal. She said the Mafia gave Italians a bad name, which I supposed was true, but since I didn't have a drop of Sicilian blood running through my Nordic veins, I just thought they were interesting.
We watched as Mr. Luciano gently placed one hand on Larry's shoulder and pried the drumsticks from his fingers with the other. “They have to take the trash now, Larry,” we heard him say above the noise. “You can play your drums in the basement.”
Larry shook his head violently, but Mr. Luciano calmed him by rubbing his back and whispering something into his ear. After a while Larry surrendered; his shoulders slumped and he let out a huge moan. As they walked home, arm in arm, Larry glanced at us. He never said much, but over the years I'd learned to read his facial expressions, and right now it was as if he was saying, “Jeez, can you believe I had to stop right in the middle of “Squeeze Box”?
“Hey, girls!” Mr. Luciano had stopped in front of his house and was now calling us. Brandi and I looked at each other. “Listen, I, uh, need to talk to you for a minute, okay? Stay there, I'll be right back.”
Brandi gulped and started pinching my elbow as he walked Larry up the stairs. “Oh my gosh,” she said, “what do you think he wants?”
“I don't know.” I had to admit, my heart was beating a little faster than usual. Mr. Luciano had always been friendly—he waved hello, occasionally asked how my mom was doing, and sometimes he'd even tease me by singing a few bars of that old Frank Sinatra song, “April in Paris”—but he'd never asked to “talk” to me or Brandi before.
Brandi was still pinching my elbow when Mr. Luciano returned. This time he was carrying Princess, his teacup poodle. After crossing the street, he set her down and she trotted to the fire hydrant. “So …” Mr. Luciano flashed us a quick grin and rubbed his palms together. Strangely, he seemed a little nervous. “How've you girls been?”
He'd already asked us that question, but I wasn't about to remind him of it. Brandi didn't answer; she just turned to me wide-eyed. “Um, pretty well, thanks,” I said.
He nodded. “Good, good. And how's your mom?”
“She's … fine.” My mother and Mr. Luciano both had vegetable gardens, and sometimes they'd compare notes on stuff like peat moss and fertilizers.
He cleared his throat and narrowed his eyes. “How about your brother?”
“Sammy? He's okay.”
Mr. Luciano shook his head. “No, I meant the other one.”
“Matt?” My voice sounded shrill, and just like the poor guy under the floorboards in “The Tell-Tale Heart,” I was sure Mr. Luciano could hear the loud thumping in my chest. I wondered if he'd heard about Matt's retard jokes. If so, this was not going to be pretty.
“Yeah, that's the one. Matt. Sunshine Boy.” He laughed a little at his own joke.
“Um … Matt's … fine.” I tried to swallow, but my mouth had gone dry.
“Good, good, I'm glad to hear it.”
Brandi reached behind me and pressed her thumb into my back.
“Well, listen,” he said, “I need to ask you girls a favor. It's about Larry.”
“Oh? Larry?” I said, relieved to be off the subject of Matt.
“Yeah, you see, I got a little problem. As you know, Larry's always gone to Catholic school, but now the priests, well, they're saying he's too disruptive, so this year we're gonna send him to P.S. 201. They've got a special program for kids like him, supposed to be real good, and I was hoping you girls could walk him back and forth to school, keep an eye on him, let me know if there's any … trouble.”
Brandi blinked a few times and began to stammer. “Um … wouldn't it be better if … I don't know, someone else walked him to school? I mean …” She trailed off, realizing it was a mistake arguing with Soft Sal.
Mr. Luciano didn't take offense. He sighed deeply. “Larry don't want me or his mother taking him to school. He's getting real independent. Typical teenager, you know.”
Larry was the furthest thing from a typical teenager, but I wasn't exactly going to bring that up. Instead I nodded in agreement.
“And,” Mr. Luciano continued, “Larry asked specifically if he could walk with you girls. He likes you a lot.”
“Oh, well.” I looked at Brandi, shrugged, and smiled weakly. “We like him, too.”
“Great.” Mr. Luciano gave us a firm nod. “Then it's settled. We'll, uh, work out the details another time.” He turned his gaze toward the fire hydrant and made what I can only describe as kissing sounds. Obediently, Princess came trotting back, and he scooped her up in one hand. “We'll talk again,” he said. “Real soon.” And with that, he winked at me and crossed the street singing, “‘April in Paris, chestnuts in blossom …’”
“Oh my gosh,” Brandi said, nervously cracking the rest of her knuckles. “I don't believe this.”
Inside, Larry had lowered the stereo and was now poking his head out the window and waving to us. I waved back. “What? It's no big deal,” I said, trying to convince myself this was true. “Mr. Luciano just needs us to look after Larry.”
“Well, I don't like it,” Brandi said. “You know what they say, once you get in with the Mob, you can never get out.”
“Oh, please, that's ridiculous. We're not in with the Mob. He's just a father asking us to do a favor for his son. It's totally normal.”
Brandi looked at me like I was crazy. “Normal? Believe me, April, there's nothing normal about that guy. He's a creep. Probably broke a few kneecaps last night, maybe even killed someone.”
“Well, I guess that's a reason to stay on his good side.” I laughed a little, but Brandi didn't think it was funny. “Listen, I don't think he murdered anyone recently. You only have to kill once to be a made man.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
I shrugged. “It's something I heard Little Joe tell Matt. Mobsters only have to kill one time to prove their loyalty. Then they can get made. It's like an initiation or something.”
“Oh, so the rest of the time it's just for fun, huh?” Brandi shook her head
. “And another thing, why was he asking about Matt? What did he call him again?”
“Sunshine Boy,” I muttered. I'd been wondering the same thing but was afraid to say it out loud. Right then I decided not to tell Brandi about Matt and Little Joe's conversation, the one involving the mysterious girl Matt was supposed to meet at the park today. Knowing Brandi, she'd blow it completely out of proportion. “Hey,” I said, “why don't we forget about this? Let's go play some tennis.”
She shrugged. “All right. Promise not to keep score?”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine.” Brandi and I were both pretty good tennis players, but I was better, and she had a strong aversion to losing.
She leaned over and blew on her toes. “Is Sammy coming with us?”
Brandi loved toting Sammy wherever we went; for some reason it made her feel important. But before I had a chance to decide whether or not I wanted Sammy along, I heard him flying down our driveway wheeling his dilapidated stroller. He took a quick left and came to a halt in front of us. “Okay, guys, I'm ready!” He climbed in and sat down with a huge plop. The seams of the stroller were splitting, and the bottom sagged just a few inches above the ground. He looked like a giant Goldilocks sitting in Baby Bear's teeny-tiny chair. As he reached into his pocket and pulled out Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader, he said, “So where are we going today?”
Sammy believed that my one and only purpose in life was to be his personal chauffeur and travel guide. I pulled Chewbacca out from under his behind and handed it to him. “The park,” I said. “Brandi and I are going to play tennis. You can be the ball boy.” Before he could protest, I walked a few paces and called to my dad in the garage. “Hey, Dad! I've got Sammy! I'm taking him to the park, okay?”
My father stepped into the daylight squinting like a mole, a streak of white paint decorating his left cheek. He was a history teacher at Fort Hamilton High School and usually spent summers working on his doctoral dissertation, but this year my mom had other plans. She'd dressed him in a cap and overalls, handed him a toolbox and a can of paint, and said, “Stephen, this house needs help.”
Now he smiled. “Thanks, April. And listen, next week, I don't care what Mom says, I'm taking you guys to the beach. One last hurrah before school starts, okay?”
I bit my lip. The last time my dad took me and Sammy to the beach, we'd gone to Riis Park out on Rockaway. We didn't know it, but bays four and five were nude. When Sammy saw this ninety-year-old man's saggy rear end and unmentionables, I think he was damaged for life. I know I was. After that we hightailed it to bay thirteen. “Okay, Dad,” I said. “But how about next time we go to Sandy Hook?” I figured the Jersey Shore might have a few less sickos than the sands of New York.
He nodded knowingly. “Sounds good. Now go on, have fun today.” He waved goodbye and disappeared into the garage.
When I returned, Brandi was already kneeling beside Sammy, running her fingers through his curls. I opened the pouch that hung on the stroller where Sammy's diapers and bottles used to go; now it held our tennis gear. “Look's like everything's still here,” I said, “Racquets, balls, sneakers …”
Sammy dug in his pocket again and pulled out a handful of change. “Look, April! Dad gave me money for candy. I'm gonna get a lollipop with bubble gum inside.”
It was amazing how spoiled that kid was. “That's a Blow Pop, Sammy.”
“Right.” He smiled. “A Blow Pop.”
The candy store was on the way to the park, so I figured we'd pacify Sammy before playing tennis and spying on Matt. As we strolled down the street The Who by Numbers faded into the distance and was replaced by Italian opera music and the smell of homemade tomato sauce. I closed my eyes, breathing in the sautéed onions, garlic, tomatoes, and sweet basil. The ladies in our neighborhood made their sauce in the morning, letting it simmer for hours in big iron pots. Later they'd use it to make lasagna, ziti, manicotti, or veal Parmesan. Unfortunately, the only time any of these delicacies touched my lips was when Brandi's mom invited me over for dinner. My mother worked full-time and her latest pièce de résistance was tofu burgers with a side of bulgur wheat.
As we approached the corner, Gorgeous Vinny drove up in his Coupe de Ville. “Hi, dolls,” he said, unlatching the door and catching a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror. “Nice day for a stroll, huh?”
Brandi rolled her eyes.
“Yes, Mr. Persico,” I said. He looked a little different today, younger for some reason. “So what's the latest news on John?” John meant John Travolta. For months now Gorgeous Vinny had been telling us how the star from Welcome Back, Kotter was coming to his disco to promote his new movie, Saturday Night Fever. Brandi thought he was full of crap—that he'd never get the real gorgeous Vinny Barbarino to come to his sleazy club, but for some reason I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
“Oh, we're still working on it,” he said. “John's agent is supposed to give us a call soon. Don't worry, I'll keep you dolls posted.”
As we crossed the street, Brandi took a quick peek over her shoulder and elbowed me. “I knew there was something different about him. He's wearing a toupee.”
“No way!” But when I turned around, Gorgeous Vinny was adjusting his new hairpiece in the side-view mirror.
Thirteenth Avenue was the dividing line between Dyker Heights and Bensonhurst, and as we turned the corner, the landscape changed. Colorful vegetable stands dotted the sidewalks with every variety of pepper, tomato, eggplant, and squash you could imagine. Tony's Pizzeria was already swarming with customers who ate standing at the counter, folding their slices in half and chugging down Cokes. Huge salamis and blocks of cheese hung in deli windows, and the sweet smells of amaretto and anisette wafted from the bakeries. Up ahead, a big crowd dressed in black stood outside Lozano's Funeral Parlor, and as the pallbearers hoisted the casket into a limo, Brandi leaned over and whispered, “Probably Mr. Luciano's most recent victim.”
Since it was Friday, we slowed down as we approached St. Bernadette's Catholic Church. I parked the stroller, Sammy climbed out, and Brandi pushed open the ornately carved wooden doors. She was a devout Catholic and every Friday dropped fifty cents into the offering box and lit a votive candle for her twin sister, who'd died at birth.
As I gazed at the vaulted ceilings and stained-glass windows, Sammy tugged on my T-shirt. “April, can I light a candle for Uncle Jimmy? Please?”
Uncle Jimmy was my dad's younger brother, who'd died in Viet Nam before Sammy was born. Every year, on Jimmy's birthday, my dad would take out pictures and tell us about how brave he'd been. I shrugged, pulled two quarters from my pocket, and handed them to Sammy. “Sure, why not? But be quiet and don't make a fuss.”
Sammy dropped his coins into the box and joined Brandi at the marble basin filled with holy water. Together they dipped their fingers in and made the sign of the cross. I had to admit, for a Lutheran, Sammy made a pretty convincing Catholic.
After that Brandi took his hand and led him to a statue of the Virgin Mary, where they each lit a candle and bowed their heads. While I waited near the entrance, the doors opened and, like a big ominous shadow, Frankie the Crunch walked in. I hoped he wouldn't notice me standing there, but as he passed by, heading toward the confessional, he took off his hat and said, “Oh, hi, babe.”
“Hi, Mr. Consiglione.” He looked tired, like he hadn't slept all night, and seemed to be favoring his right leg.
He scratched his five o'clock shadow and with a wry smile said, “Jeez, you got such an innocent face. Say a prayer for me, okay, babe? God knows I need one.”
“Oh, right, sure thing.”
But today Frankie the Crunch was not the only one who needed a prayer. I did too. Our final stop before the park was Moe's Candy Store, and as we drew near I got a bad case of butterflies. Dominick lived in the apartment right above Moe's, and sometimes we'd see him sitting outside on a rusty lawn chair strumming his guitar.
I'd had a crush on Dominick ever since he won third place in the eighth-gr
ade fall talent show for performing “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd. At the same time, our English class had been reading The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton, and even though I'd never actually spoken to Dominick, I imagined him to be just like Ponyboy—the sensitive, artistic, brooding type, whose parents had probably been killed in a car wreck. I figured this would explain why he cut school, got into fistfights, occasionally smoked pot in the boys' bathroom, and wrote explicit, yet poetic, lyrics on the cafeteria tables. Anyway, besides being misunderstood, Dominick was also pretty cute, which didn't hurt.
Sadly, today there was no trace of him in front of Moe's, so I took a deep breath and opened the candy store door. “Hello, ladies, hello, Sammy.” Moe stood behind the counter, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “What can I do for you today?”
Sammy hopped out of the stroller and showed Moe his fistful of change. “Hi, Moe! Guess what? Dad gave me money for a Blow Pop.”
Moe took a long drag on his cigarette and chuckled as he blew out the smoke. “Well, well, what do you know? Lucky you.” He pointed to the candy display. “Blow Pops are on the bottom shelf. We've got five different flavors.”
As Sammy ran eagerly to the display, I picked out a pack of Black Jack gum on the counter and handed Moe a quarter. He was grinning at me in a very strange way. “You just missed him,” he said.
I blinked a few times. “Missed who?”
He arched an eyebrow. “You know, the kid who lives upstairs.”
My jaw fell open and Brandi elbowed me in the ribs.
“I know, I know,” Moe said with a wave of his hand, “you thought it was a big secret. But hey, I've got loads of experience with this sort of thing. Been watching kids for years.”
My cheeks flamed and I had no idea what to say.
“But if you want my opinion,” Moe continued, “you could do way better than him. A nice girl like you.” He flicked a cigarette ash to the floor.
What I wanted to do was tell Moe that he should mind his own business if he planned on keeping his regular customers, but instead I just stood there like an idiot. Finally Sammy came back and placed his change on the counter.
