by April Lurie
Bright and early the following morning, while Larry was getting ready for school and Mrs. Luciano was brewing a pot of espresso in the kitchen, I came face to face with Soft Sal. He sat on his papal throne and motioned for me to take a seat on the sofa. Hands shaking, I slid the money across the coffee table—four Ben Franklins plus the whopping William McKinley. “Mr. Luciano,” I said. “I'm terribly sorry, but I can't accept this.”
He glanced briefly at the cash, then paused to light a cigar. After a few puffs he picked up the five hundred and held it to the light. “Well, it's definitely legit. It's not a fugazi, if that's what you were thinking.”
“Um, a what?”
“A fugazi. You know, a fake. Counterfeit.”
“Oh, no, that's not what I meant.”
“Coffee's ready!” The kitchen door swung open and Mrs. Luciano appeared, carrying a tray with two steaming cups of espresso and a plate of her famous cannolis. She set the dishes on the coffee table and didn't even seem to notice that almost a grand in cash was lying there. “Mangia, mangia—eat, eat. Now, I have some things to do, so you must excuse me.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Luciano.”
“Yes, thank you, Marianne.” Soft Sal gazed lovingly at his wife, took a sip of espresso, and motioned for me to do the same. However, when I did, my hands were shaking so badly I spilled most of it on my jeans. “Well, sweetheart, now that we've established the fact that the bills are not fugazis, what's the problem?”
I looked at the five hundred. McKinley seemed to be saying I wouldn't do this if I were you. “I … I can't accept this money. You see, I like walking Larry back and forth to school, and, well, it's just way too much.”
He pursed his lips, nodded a few times, and gazed at the ceiling. Finally, he said, “Sweetheart, I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“But … it had to be you, putting money into my books. Brandi's, too. I mean, who else would do it?”
He shrugged. “Honestly, I have no idea.”
This conversation was going nowhere fast. “Um, Mr. Luciano, can I ask you a question?”
“Of course, sweetheart.” He took a puff on his cigar and blew a smoke ring. “Tell me, what would you like to know?”
“Well …” Actually, there were a lot of things I wanted to know, like how could he, Gorgeous Vinny, and Frankie the Crunch murder people and still sleep at night, but I figured it wouldn't be wise to ask. “You see, it's about Matt.”
“Ah, yes, Sunshine Boy. Nice kid, your brother. What about him?”
I swallowed. “Well, you see, that's just the thing. Like, for instance, why do you call him Sunshine Boy? Is it a code name or something?”
“Code name?” He started to laugh. “Sweetheart, where do you come up with these things?” He pointed to his shiny bald skull. “It's the blond hair, of course. What else?”
This was not going to be easy—getting a hit man to break his vow of Omerta. “I guess what I'm really trying to say is, well, is Matt in trouble, you know, for seeing Bettina?”
“Ohhhh, Bettina. Yes, she's quite a girl, isn't she? Hmmm.” He tapped his chin. “What kind of trouble do you mean?”
I felt like telling Mr. Luciano that I was the one who was supposed to be asking the questions, but I figured I was in enough hot water as it was. “Well, Matt came home with a black eye last week, and I was wondering if—”
“You know,” he said, pointing his finger at me, “I'm glad you mentioned that. I saw him looking a little, shall we say, under the weather. How's he doing now?”
“Um, he's okay, but I was wondering if you knew anything? Like, how it happened?”
“Me? No, I've got no clue.”
I looked into his eyes. “Matt told me he got elbowed in basketball practice.”
“I see. And you don't believe him?”
“I'm—not sure.”
“Hmmm.” He rubbed his chin. “In my opinion, sisters should always believe their brothers.”
At this point I was slowly getting over my fear and beginning to get angry. “Mr. Luciano, look, I'm just going to say this plainly. There's a guy—Matt says he's Bettina's cousin—who drives a black Jaguar convertible. Larry calls him Nicky Jag. I'm wondering if he's following Matt.”
“Nicky Jag, huh?” He rubbed his chin some more. “So, let me get this straight, you think he may have done the damage?”
“Yes, that's what I'm saying.”
“Well, anything's possible. It could be, but I don't know.”
I closed my eyes. “Mr. Luciano. Please understand. Matt is my brother and I love him. I don't want to see anything bad happen to him. Please, I'm afraid, and I'm asking if you can help.”
Mr. Luciano didn't say anything for a long time. He took a bite of his cannoli and chewed thoughtfully. Finally, he leaned over the table and looked me square in the eye. “Okay, sweetheart, now listen carefully, and what I say doesn't leave this room, is that clear?”
I nodded. “Yes, that's clear.”
“Which means you cannot breathe a word of this to your friend Brandi, or to your brother, either. I have a fine reputation in this community, and I intend to keep it that way.”
I nodded again. With the way Mr. Luciano was looking at me, you could be sure I'd keep my mouth zipped from here to eternity.
“All right,” he went on. “Now, I don't usually do this, but the thing is, I like you. You've been good to my Larry and that means a lot. And, don't get me wrong, I like your brother, too, he's a nice boy. Actually, I like your whole family. And believe it or not, I've been in love before. I know what it's like to be crazy about a girl. Anyway, I'll talk to some people I know, see what I can do.”
“Okay, but—does that mean Matt's protected? He won't get hurt?”
Mr. Luciano sighed. “I'm only one man, and there's only so much I can do. I can't promise anything. Some people are set in their ways. As for me, I have a beautiful son, and I thank God for him every day. If I had a daughter like Bettina I'd like to think that she could make some important decisions on her own. But that's just me. Not everyone I know is so open-minded. Anyway”—he picked up the stack of bills and handed them to me—”let's leave it at this: your brother would be much better off keeping to himself, but if he won't, well, then, maybe there's a reason why someone gave you this money. Nine hundred dollars could buy a lot of things, like a bus ticket, or even a plane ticket if you needed to disappear for a while.”
“Disappear? Are you saying that Matt might need to disappear?”
“I'm not saying anything, sweetheart. All I know is that it never hurts to be prepared. So do yourself a favor, take the money.”
Now that I had almost a grand of Soft Sal Luciano's illicitly earned cash, and had also sworn to keep the vow of Omerta, I began to feel a strange kinship with Frankie the Crunch. As Larry, Brandi, and I passed his house that morning on the way to school, I gazed at the statue of St. Christopher carrying the enormous burden of the Christ child, and figured that if I'd been Catholic he'd probably have been my patron saint too.
As promised, I didn't breathe a word of this to Brandi, and when she pressed me on how things had gone that morning, I said, “Oh, well, you know how Mr. Luciano is. He told me he knew nothing about the money. So, for now, I'm just going to keep it.”
“Wow, really? That's a ton of cash. Almost a thousand, right?”
“Um, yeah. But, who knows, I might need it one day.”
As it turned out I really didn't have to worry too much about Matt—at least for the time being. His eye started to heal and over the next several days there were no more sightings of Nicky Jag. Also, Monday had marked the beginning of basketball season, so now Matt had longer practices after school, plus games twice a week. Add this to play rehearsal and there was very little time for him to see Bettina on the sly and endanger his life.
However, I had a new problem. Ever since my mother and I'd had our little heart-to-heart talk, she'd been hounding me to invite Dominick over for din
ner. The thing was, every time I thought about him joining our family for spinach-lentil casserole I had a panic attack. I mean, what would we all talk about? Pink Floyd's latest psychedelic release? And with my luck Sammy would probably tell them the story of Dominick mooning Frankie Ferraro on the baseball field. That would go over big.
Anyway, it couldn't be avoided any longer, and on Friday afternoon I'd finally mustered the courage to ask him. But when I showed up for lunch in the band room, Pee Wee, Ronnie, and Larry were alone. “Hi, guys,” I said, looking around. “What's going on? Where's Dominick?”
The three of them were sitting by their instruments, looking dejected. Larry lifted his drumstick and smashed a cymbal. “Dom's not here. He skipped town.”
“What? Skipped town? What are you talking about?”
“It's true,” Pee Wee said. “The bum bagged on us at the worst time possible. Our band's got a gig comin' up and we're nowhere near ready.”
“But—where did he go?”
Pee Wee shrugged. “His dad had some shows lined up on Long Island, so I guess Dom decided to go with him. It pisses me off ‘cause he left without saying a word, and we have no idea when he's coming back.”
“Oh.” I was about to say that Dominick's father probably wouldn't let him miss more than a day or two of school, but then I realized who I was talking to. Pee Wee and Ronnie weren't exactly the kind of guys who cared about attendance. “Well, I'm sure he'll be back in time for the gig. He wouldn't just leave you guys hanging.”
Ronnie laughed. “Oh, yeah? Then I guess you don't really know Dom, do you?”
After my piano lesson with Mr. Ruffalo, I roamed the halls for a while and wound up outside Mr. Cornelius's class much earlier than usual. When the bell rang, he stepped out the door, and with a surprised look said, “Miss Lundquist, what good fortune, you're alone today.”
I wasn't in the mood for any of his lame comments, so without answering I slipped inside and took a seat. To get my mind off my recent troubles I opened my latest library loan—The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka—while the rest of the class filed in. The story was easy to relate to since it was about a guy who woke up one day, flat on his back, realizing he'd turned into a cockroach. But just when I was trying to decide whether Kafka had surpassed Huxley in weirdness, Mr. Cornelius's voice came booming across the room. “Today, class,” he announced, “I will be handing back your short stories.”
I looked up and saw that he was holding a stack of papers, staring right at me. Little hairs prickled up the back of my neck. After reading my dark comedy, I was certain Mr. Cornelius was going to send me to the school counselor for a psychiatric evaluation. Worse than that, he might even call my parents.
I closed my book and sat there with a feeling of impending doom. “I've read each story thoroughly,” he went on, “and I must say, at times it was a trial. Nonetheless, I've given each of you a grade and have marked your papers with suggestions for revision. If you're unhappy with what you've received and would like to improve your grade, you may rewrite.”
I shifted in my seat while several people in the class moaned.
“However, before I hand these back, I would like to read you a story written by one of your peers that stands out above the rest. Not only is it well written, but it shows creativity, wit, and an uncanny sense of humor.” He pulled one from the stack. “I am not going to state the author's name, but I'm wondering if you'll be able to guess, after I'm finished, whose it is. The title is: ‘Babysitting Games.’”
I almost fell off my chair.
“Is there a problem, Miss Lundquist?”
“Oh, no. No problem.”
“Well, then I suggest you listen carefully and take notes. Maybe you'll learn something.”
As Mr. Cornelius began to read my paper, I inconspicuously peered around the room. At first kids were yawning and whispering to each other, but about two paragraphs into the story, I noticed several who actually seemed interested. Halfway through, there were some grins and snickers, and when it came to the grand finale, where the babysitter ties the kid to the stake and douses the rug with make-believe lighter fluid, everyone was laughing.
When Mr. Cornelius finished, the whole class began to applaud. He looked up. “Can anyone guess whose story that was?”
“It's pretty obvious,” John Gillespie said. “It's April's. Look how red her face is.”
There was more laughter, and I wasn't sure whether I wanted to hide under my desk or stand up and take a bow.
Mr. Cornelius smiled and handed me the paper. There was a huge A+ at the top. Very quietly he said, “It's un fortunate that you didn't hand in a rough draft, Miss Lundquist. If you had, you would have received an A for this marking period instead of a C. But there's always room for improvement, isn't there?”
I ran my finger over the A+. Next to it were the words “Excellent Work” in bold letters. “Yes,” I said. “I'm planning to bring up my grade.”
He smiled again, and strangely didn't seem to resemble Count Dracula or Lord Licorice. “That's good news, Miss Lundquist. And please see me after class. I'd like to speak with you about something.”
When the bell rang I waited for everyone to leave, then walked slowly to Mr. Cornelius's desk. Without a word he opened a drawer, pulled out a sheet of paper, and handed it to me. “Every year there is a citywide high school short story competition. If you're interested, fill out this application and bring it back to me by next Friday. In order to qualify, the form must be signed by a parent or guardian and submitted by the student's teacher. In other words, me. I must say, Miss Lundquist, I've been teaching English for twenty-five years and this is some of the best work I've seen. I think your story has a good chance of winning.”
I swallowed hard. On the bottom of the application were the words “Parent Signature,” followed by a long black line. “Um, Mr. Cornelius?”
“Yes?”
“I was wondering, do my parents have to actually read the story? I mean is there some kind of rule?”
“Well, let's see.” He put on his reading glasses and scanned the paper. “As far as I can tell, no. All they have to do is sign.”
“Oh, okay, thanks. I—better get to class now.”
“Miss Lundquist?”
“Yes?”
He lowered his glasses and gave me a meaningful look.
“You took a risk with your story—exposed a part of who you are. That takes courage, and best of all, makes for great writing. Please, don't let anyone discourage you.”
I nodded, slipped the application into my binder, and scurried off to sixth-period class.
When I picked up the phone, I heard heavy breathing on the other end. “Hello, this is Darth Vader calling April Lundquist. My tennis instructor, Obi-Wan Kenobi, is out of town, and I desperately need a lesson. If you deny me, I will be forced to inform your mother about heavily salted popcorn.”
“Bert?”
“Yeah, it's me. Listen, my tryout's coming up soon, and I'm freaking out. Help, please!”
We agreed to meet at the park Wednesday after school. When Brandi caught wind of this, she asked if she and Walt could tag along, so of course I said yes. Sammy wasn't too keen on being the ball boy, so after we'd plopped him in the stroller I bribed him with a Raspberry Blow Pop from Moe's, and he soon quit whining.
The days were getting shorter now, so we hurried down the block, bouncing Sammy along the cracks in the sidewalk. I hadn't seen Dominick in school for several days— Pee Wee and Ronnie still didn't know where he was—and as we approached the candy store, I saw that the blinds in the upstairs apartment were drawn and not a single light was on.
Inside, Moe greeted us at the counter, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. “Why, hello there, girls. Hello, Sammy. Long time no see.”
“Hi, Moe!” Sammy jumped out of the stroller and ran to the candy section.
“So you heard about our new flavor, huh?” Moe winked at Brandi and me.
“Yep, raspberry!”<
br />
While Sammy searched among the pops and Brandi looked over the new potato chip display, I dug in my pocket for change. Moe took the cigarette out of his mouth, slid it behind his ear, and leaned on the counter. “In case you're wondering, your friend upstairs arrived home today. I had a word with his father about taking him out of school for no good reason. Sorry to say, it didn't go over too well.”
I set two quarters on the counter. “Yeah, I heard something about that.”
By now, Brandi had made her selection—a bag of Cheez Doodles—and Sammy was back in the stroller peeling the wrapper off the lollipop.
Moe swept the change off the counter and opened the cash register. “He's not home at the moment—took off with those two delinquent friends of his—but listen, next time you see him, maybe you could help him realize that playing guitar is not going to get him a high school diploma.”
“No,” I said. “I guess not.”
Moe handed me a nickel in change and looked me in the eye. “Be careful, okay? Dom's got a pretty good heart, but he's not all that reliable, if you know what I mean. And I'm not sure if he's the right guy for you, either.”
As usual, I felt like telling Moe to mind his own business, but instead I nodded and said, “Okay, Moe, I'll keep it in mind.”
When we arrived at the park, Bert and Walt were already warming up on one of the courts. It was a relief to see that they hadn't worn their little white outfits.
“Hi, girls!” Bert said, waving us over. “Look, it's perfect, we've got two courts, side by side!”
As we walked toward them, I craned my neck, peering past the redbrick wall of the bathrooms. I noticed that the words DISCO SUCKS had been redone in silver spray paint. I thought maybe Dominick had come to the park with Pee Wee and Ronnie, but the spot where the musicians usually sat was empty. In the distance, however, Big Joe, Little Joe, Tony, and Fritz were playing a game of two-on-two. Matt was the only one of their posse who'd made varsity basketball this year, and he was at practice. At least I hoped so.
