Burning Down

by Venero Armanno

  ‘Then things changed, with girls too?’

  ‘Losing the weight, that was nothing. What had to change was up here.’ Charlie tapped his right temple. ‘I had to learn a better way.’

  ‘A better way for what?’

  ‘For talking to girls,’ he said. ‘But look, I’m no expert. Still, let’s say, for instance, with this girl you like. If you’ve got your eye on her, don’t just look. Girls get sick of that pretty fast. Sooner or later you have to tell her something she wants to hear. Either you do or the next guy will.’

  ‘What would she want to hear?’

  ‘Nature made us all different, so you have to figure out what—’

  ‘Charlotte.’

  ‘—what Charlotte likes. I mean really likes. Then maybe see if your particular interests intersect.’

  ‘I like soccer. I don’t think she does.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I like music and she plays guitar.’

  ‘There’s a start.’

  ‘I saw your records,’ Ricky said, twisting around in his seat to look into the living room. ‘How many do you have?’

  ‘Never counted.’

  ‘So you really like music?’

  ‘Sure.’ Charlie had to think about this, about the way the boy liked to turn the conversation back onto him. ‘It was my first love.’

  ‘And you play the piano?’

  ‘In my own way.’ Charlie showed Ricky his hands, which were thick, fingers stubby. ‘Wrong design, and I never learned.’

  ‘So that’s what you wanted.’ A serious frown came to Ricky’s face. ‘The piano, but your father wouldn’t let you.’

  Gesù Cristo, but this kid, with his wounded eyes, and that serious look in his face, how he makes my heart ache.

  ‘Let me get you something to eat.’ Charlie pushed himself from the hard-backed chair. ‘All this talk’s making me hungry.’ He moved to the kitchen sink, ran the tap and rinsed out his glass. Then with another thought he turned back to Ricky, still seated there. ‘I heard you didn’t like to talk too much.’

  Charlie watched the boy give a light shrug, maybe, deep down, getting a lot happier.

  When he’d left Diego’s Bistro it was in a black-and-white; now, in the post-midnight hour, here came a yellow. From a window facing the street he saw the taxi move along slowly, the driver probably checking numbers. Then the courtesy light came on and Holly’s silhouette was paying the man. Charlie met her at the door.

  ‘Where’s Ricky?’

  He put a finger to his lips and led her inside. The boy was curled up on the living-room couch with a light sheet for a cover. Holly went to her knees beside him and fat tears fell to the floor. The boy didn’t stir.

  ‘Why not let him sleep?’ Charlie spoke low. ‘Have a cup of coffee with me.’

  He went into his kitchen and poured two cups from a steaming pot on the stove. He saw Holly kiss the side of her son’s face and wait there. Then she wiped her eyes and came to the kitchen doorway.

  ‘Take a seat.’

  He put down milk and sugar and pulled out a chair for her.

  ‘It’s such a ridiculous hour,’ she said.

  ‘Doesn’t bother me.’

  Holly kept rubbing her eyes. Charlie considered her a moment then went to his refrigerator for a pitcher of water. He poured a glass, which she drank.

  ‘I’m drunk. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be.’

  ‘Mr Smoke,’ she finished the rest of the water and sat down, ‘what happened?’

  ‘Can you call me Charlie?’

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded, hair falling forward as she bent her head. Then she straightened and did her best to focus on him.

  ‘Like I said on the phone. I got home and there he was.’

  ‘Did you talk?’

  ‘Quite a bit. Then I gave him dinner. When he started yawning I told him he could go lie down.’

  ‘I can’t thank you enough.’

  ‘He liked my leftover gnocchi. Are you hungry?’

  Holly Banks shook her head. He couldn’t help thinking that more than the effects of whatever she’d had to drink, she was just plain worn out. That trouble with Ricky; the trouble with Peter Banks.

  ‘You’re thinking I’m the worst mother.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I am. Peter and me, terrible parents. I don’t blame Ricky for wanting to run away.’

  ‘He’s just started being a teenager. Got himself a new world of crazy hormones and things he doesn’t understand. You remember what it’s like.’

  ‘Maybe … not right now, anyway.’

  ‘Have the coffee, you’ll feel better.’

  Holly rubbed her eyes, hiding those irises he wouldn’t look at, then she picked up the cup without adding sugar or milk.

  ‘Ricky fights at school.’

  ‘He told me he burned some bags.’

  ‘And has he copped it. The thing is, he lets the others get under his skin. He’s picked on because he wants to be alone. And because he’s heavy. Today everything came to a head. Then instead of supporting him, Peter and I argued and … well. He probably told you.’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘And it’s my fault. I’ve made bad choices. Very bad choices.’

  It was the sort of thing that could end a conversation or make a small breach in the barrier between two strangers. Holly stopped a moment and looked at him. He saw goose bumps on her arms, then felt the same on his.

  ‘Go on,’ Charlie said. He looked straight at her.

  A man, he thought, a man would have to be very strong to be able to stop himself falling into Holly’s eyes, their all-consuming colour.

  ‘Peter worked too hard to get where he is. And he’s working harder to go further. From when he was young Ricky has needed someone to stay home for him. Just to be there properly, in the morning when he goes to school, in the afternoon when he gets home. I tried to go back to work and it didn’t go so well. He kept getting into extra trouble … so it’s been a long time now, me at home.’

  ‘Maybe it’s time well spent?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But hard too.’

  ‘I don’t know why …’ Holly put her face down again, hair falling. ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you this.’

  ‘Everyone needs a little help now and then, right?’

  ‘Then tell me something about yourself. Don’t make me keep talking to a stranger.’

  ‘Huh. Now I see where Ricky gets it from,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Gets what from?’

  ‘The turnaround of things. One minute I’m talking to him about what he’s thinking, next thing I know I’m telling him about my life and I don’t even know how I got there.’

  ‘Ricky did that?’

  ‘Just like his ma’s wanting to do.’

  ‘Then go on.’

  ‘Nah … my life was twenty-five, thirty years ago. This is it for me and it’s not so bad. I’ve got nothing to complain about.’

  ‘What did Ricky want to know?’

  ‘He was interested in the old boxing world. I was trying to explain how when you do well at something like that it can give you the wrong impression of yourself.’

  ‘You mean it made you feel strong?’

  ‘Just the opposite. You see how weak you are. How easy it is for someone to put you down like a dog. And then, well maybe you look for easy ways out.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘You start to get shaky inside and think about ways not to get beaten up so bad. Maybe you begin by taking a few short cuts, and that sort of world, it’ll offer plenty of short cuts. If you’re willing.’

  ‘That makes sense, doesn’t it?’

  ‘What I mean is it goes hand in hand with taking the easy money.’
<
br />   ‘You’re saying that’s what you did?’

  ‘I won fights I never should have won. And lost fights I had to try really hard to lose.’

  ‘Who was behind it?’

  ‘Bad men, I guess you’d say. But the worst one’s always the guy doing it.’

  ‘You really see yourself that way?’

  ‘I don’t know … I guess.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘A day came I got my big chance.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘The chance to move out of the up-and-comers and the middle-of-the-roads and the washed-up has-beens. I had a title fight against the champ, and this was someone we all thought was a real fighter. There were rumours he was another one finding easy ways but no one wanted to believe it. I didn’t. His name’s Diego Domingo. These days he’s got a restaurant in the Valley. Very popular. My daughter I mentioned once? Even she works there.’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Diego’s Bistro. Time’s been good to him, but he was always a lot smarter than me. Nice family, good business.’

  ‘That could have been you?’

  Charlie shrugged.

  ‘So back then I thought it’d be a genuine fight. The men who used to run these things ended up telling me different.’

  ‘Things like that really happened?’

  ‘Where there’s money involved. And if you let them.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘They told me it was the easy money or my legs. Nice and simple.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like a choice.’

  ‘I didn’t have to do it. I did have a choice. You always do. I could have taken my chances. I could have stood up to them. In the fifth round I had Diego. Really had him backing up. He was hurt. I never hit anyone harder, or faster, or with such a clear head on my shoulders. There was one minute where the scouts and the agents saw just what I could be. Next minute they saw what I was really made of.’

  ‘You lost?’

  ‘I let him give me a half-dozen or so then I went down.’

  He saw the way her eyes searched him, as if she didn’t know what to believe.

  ‘After that I wanted to give up but I still had bills to pay. In the long run the easy money wasn’t all that much. I sold out cheap. So while I started learning the bricklaying trade I kept taking small bouts, but it was over. No one cared any more, least of all me. My father died, then my trainer too. The injuries got worse and instead of encouraging me to do better people kept telling me to stop embarrassing myself. And it was true. Then I got married like that’d be the answer to everything.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Tracy. Cared about people, especially kids. She was a nurse when I met her. But we had problems having children and bigger problems just talking. What I carried over from the boxing world didn’t make me a good husband. And eventually it didn’t make me such a good father either. My girl blames me for a lot of things. So that’s where we are.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You’ve got your son. I want my daughter.’

  ‘You deserve her.’

  ‘She doesn’t agree.’

  He sipped his coffee, which was lukewarm by now. Holly was about to say something, but didn’t. Whatever she’d had to drink, most of its effect must have passed. The moment too, it was gone, but not in a bad way.

  So they sat together and didn’t say anything else.

  …

  ‘He said he had a nest egg, Bobby, so we can start with that. I knew there was something. My mother told me he was involved in bad things once. Maybe Papi can tell us more? Whatever he’s got won’t be enough, but if we can put my father’s money together with anything Papi’s got, then maybe the whole thing can be over, right?’

  Wrong.

  A new morning and Bobby was alone in the bistro, alone for another ten, maybe fifteen minutes. He checked his watch.

  Come on, Javier, don’t be late.

  Last night’s conversation with Sistine, after work, about her dad Charlie Smoke and any money he might have? Well, Bobby knew he could forget that one. Just like his own papi, these old men had no money at all. No savings accounts, no superannuation. They kept their money rolled up in bills, secured wherever they thought it’d be safe. Then they spent it. On family, on their business, on themselves. The lack of money was the one topic his father kept talking about—bills, the way they kept coming, and the recurring nightmare of making ends meet.

  Yet that had never left Bobby wanting for anything. His parents gave him nice gifts, had sent him to a private school and taken him overseas four times before the age of eighteen. And if there were clothes he’d wanted, or a new stereo or records, an acoustic guitar or an electric, then he’d had those things too. In return, he’d started work at the bistro at thirteen and had learned so much about how it ran it was like second nature now. Always he’d watched his father, how he spoke to the men in the kitchen, how he handled the wait staff, fair to all of them. Then the way he extended his right hand to greet diners and put his left hand onto a shoulder, giving that small extra piece of a welcome. The squeeze of that shoulder.

  ‘Hello, friend, it makes me so happy you’re here.’

  All of this Bobby learned, and all of this Bobby admired and tried to copy, except that he couldn’t. He wasn’t the old man, he didn’t have the history, the gravitas or even the lightness of touch; he was Bobby, young Robertino still, until something happened and he had to step forward.

  Which, you couldn’t argue, was now.

  Problem was, Papi handled the money. All the money always. The ins and outs of cash flow were one hundred percent no one else’s business. So about all of that Bobby didn’t have a clue. When it came to the bistro’s accounts he remained a thirteen-year-old boy doing whatever was asked of him. Bring these plates to be washed; help so and so with the bottles; go to table number whatever and tell this old friend or that old relative their money is no good here, tonight dinner’s on the house. Papi handled the money and in his black moments Bobby wondered if Papi even understood money. Those free dinners, the complimentary bottles of imported wine, the Christmas fare for one and all. Not to mention his father’s suits, his shirts, his ties and shoes, so gorgeous the old man could have modelled them in a magazine.

  Papi held the purse strings and now that part of things had gone wrong. Bobby was convinced that the gambling had been his father’s injudicious attempt to help the business and the family. Bad thinking, and another sign that his father didn’t quite get money, or how to save it, or how to use it. And Bobby had to remember that Papi was getting on. The years were catching up fast. Maybe the old boxing rings as well.

  The old man forgot things. The old man’s hands trembled.

  Bobby moved around the shadowed bistro, nervous, checking his watch again. Other staff wouldn’t be in for hours. Papi might be the last to arrive. Even then he’d probably lock himself in his office to watch his television. He thought no one knew about that but of course Bobby did. And as he pictured it, his father watching television while the bistro motored along, the telephone at the reception desk plus its double at the bar started to ring, making Bobby jump halfway out of his skin. Fuck it, but Javier was already a quarter-hour late, and now he was probably calling to say he couldn’t come at all.

  ‘Hello, Roberto.’

  He’d never spoken to the man, had seen him once only at a distance, yet Bobby knew immediately who that voice belonged to. How could Junior have known he’d be here?

  ‘I hear you breathing, young man, and that’s all right. I prefer you don’t talk.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Oh, you’ve spoiled the mystique of silence.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You need to know several important things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Today�
�s choice, for a start. Very wise. Javier Castillo can give you a good accountant’s perspective on what your little establishment is worth—and that’s the amount we’ll subtract from your father’s debt once he signs the sale contract. There’ll be a quite substantial balance owing, but with your property in my possession I’m willing to offer several considerations. Listening carefully?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘First, you can have twenty-four months to repay the balance. We’ll work out a monthly schedule. Second, I’ll waive further interest. So what you owe as of the day the sale contract’s signed will remain what you owe.’

  ‘As long as we sell the business to you.’

  ‘Or the clock keeps ticking and interest continues to accrue.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘We will. Now—’

  Bobby glanced up at a figure moving behind the locked front door.

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘One moment.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You need to know something else. More like a piece of advice. Take more control over your father.’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘He hasn’t mended his ways.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Open your eyes and stop being a baby. Now go attend to Javier.’

  Junior cut the connection. Bobby saw that Javier Castillo was indeed there, now tapping at the glass. Thoroughly unsettled, Bobby crossed the floor and let him in. They hugged, old family friends.

  ‘Sorry, Bobby, new baby.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘So you sure about this?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  Javier made a face, not unkindly, but it was clear he didn’t understand why he was there.

  ‘I’m valuing the bistro, that’s what you said?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where’s the old man?’

  ‘Not here.’ Bobby felt Javier’s confusion as he walked around turning on every light. ‘So, you know the place. What do you think?’

  ‘Well, well, well. Just like that.’

  Bobby waited.

  ‘Okay, it’s not just a matter of throwing the bistro onto the market. There are things you need to know.’