Glory Days

by Irene Peterson

  “Let’s get out of here,” he suggested.

  “I can’t have a beer before mass,” Mike reminded him softly, “no matter how badly I’m going to need one.”

  The men went into the rectory kitchen at John’s request. Today the air smelled of cabbage.

  “Want anything?” Mike asked.

  “Just need to remind you of your promise.”

  “I saw the obituary. I was asked to participate in the funeral mass over at Sacred Blood, but I had to decline. They already roped in four other priests for the old lady. Besides, I made arrangements to be over at Mary Immaculate Monday morning. That way, I can take Carly away . . . Jesus, John! Think what you’re doing to that kid! She just gets a father and she’s going to lose him? How can you do this to her? To yourself? Think, man. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

  John leveled his gaze of Mike’s flushed face. He knew how much he was hurting his friend, and Carly, but he had to keep his word.

  Rising, he answered the priest, “Yeah, I do, but Dutch doesn’t.”

  “Where are we going?”

  John adjusted the rearview mirror. “I thought maybe we could do something together. Get to know each other. Since you can’t do any of my favorite things, I thought maybe we could do some of your favorite things.”

  “Huh?” Carly flashed him a look of pure skepticism.

  “I mean, we could actually do something together. Not me taking you someplace where you could do something and I wait for you to finish and then I take you back. Something where we walk together, sit together, laugh together.”

  “Key word being ‘together,’ right?”

  John gave an exaggerated nod. “Right.”

  She sat with her lips pursed, her eyebrows joined in deep thought mode. “I think maybe it’s time we went to the mall.”

  His groan lost emphasis after he sighed. “I thought you reserved that pleasure for Liz or Bridget.”

  Carly shot him a look so intense it made John’s neck prickle. “I told you I got asked to the prom and that I’m earning the money to buy a dress, but as yet I haven’t actually looked for one. Bridgey and I looked in some fashion magazines, but all those dresses were skanky looking. I do not want to look like a skank.”

  Ah. Skank. Now what does that mean?

  John rotated his shoulders. The leather of his jacket squeaked pleasantly and he relaxed.

  “Okay. We’ll go to the big mall in Woodbridge. There ought to be enough places there for you to find a dress. I thought girls wore gowns to the prom. My sisters did. Are you going to look for a dress or a gown?”

  She laughed out loud, making no attempt to make him think she didn’t think that was a stupid question. “Oh, man!” she murmured over and over.

  Pretending to be affronted, John turned the Jeep onto Route 9 and stepped on the brake while waiting for an opening in the heavy line of cars. “Okay, laugh at the old guy.”

  Sobering, Carly stifled a giggle. “I will know what I want when I see it. Depends.”

  “Depends? On what?”

  She turned in her seat. “Depends on if it is the right color. Right length. Right size—they don’t always have the dress you want in your size, but I guess you wouldn’t know about that. Guys’ clothes are always the right size. And they’re either black or blue, so what does it matter?”

  “You have a low opinion of men for one so young.”

  She giggled and the sound lightened John’s heart. “Not really. I don’t know many men. I just know that clothes are something very particular for women while for men they don’t mean too much. Any guy who really cares about fashion—well, let’s just say I served lunch to a bunch of them yesterday and I doubt they’ll be going to the prom. But I bet they know what I should wear to it.”

  They both laughed. John weaved the Jeep in and out of traffic, swearing and gesturing to less intelligent drivers. Carly grabbed the door handle once or twice to keep upright. He slowed the vehicle, turned into the mall drive and began looking for a parking space.

  “There’s one!” Carly shouted, pointing to a space near the main entrance. John slid the Jeep into it and put it in park.

  He tried hard to be a good sport. The kid went into every boutique on the ground floor and tried on at least a hundred dresses and/or gowns. They blurred into a rainbow. Carly preferred vivid colors and John noticed that her hair color tended to wash out. At the first shop on the second level, he went through the rack himself while she was in the dressing room and found a gown that caught his eye.

  “You have excellent taste, sir. That cerulean shade can’t be worn by just anyone. With her coloring, it’s perfect. Your daughter will make heads turn at the prom, that’s for sure.”

  The saleswoman, a chic young thing with achingly high stiletto heels and a skin tight black outfit that barely covered her private parts seemed impressed at his choice and delivered it to Carly in the dressing room.

  “Try this one, kiddo,” he called back to her.

  “Why?” Carly bit out the word. He pictured her wrinkling her nose, just because it was not her choice.

  “Do me a favor, will ya?”

  Her “okay” was muffled.

  Five minutes later, Carly stepped from the dressing room, a vision in the shiny blue dress. John felt a lump form in his throat and to his surprise, his eyes misted.

  “Wow.”

  Carly turned, catching her reflection in the three way mirror. “It’s so. . . .”

  John’s heart swelled in his chest. This was his daughter. She was a knockout.

  “Beautiful. It’s absolutely beautiful,” he said, his voice hushed, almost reverent. “You are magnificent, k . . . Carly.”

  She spun on her heel, catching every angle she could in the mirror. The saleswoman beamed. John figured she was on commission.

  “Wrap it up,” he said.

  Carly protested. “I don’t have enough money for this.”

  Nothing in the world could have prevented him from buying her that dress. Nothing. If this was what being a father had going for it, he knew he was hooked.

  They went to a movie together. The ticket seller looked at them askance, but at his age, he’d have looked askance at some old dude with a young chick, too. If anybody thought there was something wrong with the two of them being together, he’d proudly proclaim Carly as his daughter. No one asked, no one suggested. The kid in the ticket window was probably wondering why two sane people would want to watch Johnny Depp suffer in yet another movie.

  She liked nachos, without the jalapenos, and devoured half a tub of popcorn, a hot dog with yellow mustard, half a box of chocolate covered peanuts and downed a mega soda.

  “We could go to a restaurant for supper,” he whispered during the final scene of the movie, but she didn’t hear him. Before leaving the theater, she ran to the ladies room and came out some time later, looking a bit green.

  “I’m not hungry,” she croaked. “Remind me never to do this again.”

  He paused to look at her. “What, go with me to the movies?”

  “No. Eat junk and puke my guts out.”

  “Ah. Lesson learned, then.”

  Still slightly green, Carly groaned, “Oh, yeah.”

  He’d learned one too. He couldn’t spoil her in one day, even though he’d tried.

  Chapter 33

  Why did Catholic funerals take place first thing in the morning? Who would it hurt to start at eleven? Nobody. John watched the mourners pile out of the three limos outside Sacred Blood RC Church. There were two flower cars. He’d seen more black Mercedes and Cadillacs parked in the lot than he’d seen in his entire life. Someone had thoughtfully provided a long black limo for the five priests who’d no doubt sing the praises of Guiseppina Montebroccochetti, deceased.

  From his vantage point directly outside the front of the church, John waited. He’d seen Alfonso “Dumb Al” Montebroccochetti enter the church surrounded by his five older and somewhat larger sisters instead of bodyguards
. After the disgrazia, Alfonso had become persona non grata with the mob, so he probably didn’t deserve a personal bodyguard any more. Setting up agents and not killing them both evidently was shameful to the family. The fact that John lived to tell the whole story, in which he was positive Alfonso was going to turn states’ evidence, should have gotten Dumb Al cement flippers. That it did not meant something else was going on. Something bigger?

  Maybe his mama had something on the capo.

  Who knew?

  All those black cars were full of wise guys with their wives, however. It was thought erroneously by them that the feds wouldn’t bother them with their families. John knew this to be true, but mostly the feds stayed away from funerals, or remained only within telephoto lens distance.

  Dumb Al had put on weight. All that good living in Sicily, he figured. All that excellent pasta. He’d tried to grow a moustache, too, but John had to admit the sisters all had Al beat in that department.

  The center doors swung out. Members of the family lined the steps, heads down, hankies in hand, as the gurney bearing the tiny coffin with Guiseppina hopefully inside was placed in the back of the hearse. One of the sisters collapsed. The drama passed quickly as someone lifted her back upright and fussed over her. The other sisters stoically made their way to the limo followed by Alfonso. They allowed him to ride up front.

  Deferring to the male. Made John want to retch.

  Assorted elderly persons entered the other limo, probably brothers of the deceased or brothers in law. The Montebroccochettis were pretty small potatoes in the family; nevertheless, if the agency hadn’t been alerted to the funeral, John doubted anyone would be there taking pictures.

  He’d spotted a white laundry delivery van outside Wong’s Pizzeria and thought it might be full of FBI, but things could have changed in seven years. Maybe they didn’t give a rat’s butt about Alfonso Montebroccochetti any longer.

  He did.

  His shoulder ached. The weight of the harness pulled against the scar. He gritted his teeth and bore the pain. It was his crown of thorns, but would soon be relieved.

  As the procession began to move, John pulled the Jeep into the line and went along for the ride, past the old family home on the beachfront in Belmar. He wondered why funeral directors still practiced this. It wasn’t as if the old lady could say good-bye or anything. The limos paused in front of a sweet little stucco with tiled roof, probably built in the ’20s. It would have been nice growing up so close to the ocean, but he knew Alfonso used dirty money to buy this place for his mother only five years ago. Blood money.

  Shit.

  The procession speeded up on the way to the cemetery. With this crew, probably thoughts of the repast made the drivers use some lead on the accelerator. It would be at Luigi’s in Neptune and the food would be incredible.

  Too bad Alfonso wouldn’t get to eat any of it.

  Parking far away from the cortège of black cars, John got out of the Jeep into the weak spring morning light. Rain clouds hovered overhead, pushed by a strong salt breeze from the ocean. Already a fine mist dampened his face. He shoved his right hand into the pocket of his jacket to keep it dry.

  There they stood. Out in the open, some of the biggest Mafia names in Jersey, surrounded by their bodyguards and their well-kept wives. Oddly enough, there were no children present. John knew Guiseppina had fifteen grandchildren.

  Somebody had some smarts, after all. Somebody suspected something might happen and had wisely kept the kids at home.

  As he approached the mourners, he noted that the sisters had their faces veiled now. Dressed in unrelieved black, the women wore mourning veils to cover their tear-swollen faces. Most of the Montebroccochetti family were large women, linebacker large. One smaller female, maybe placekicker size, turned back from the open grave as he looked in their direction.

  Lots of movement, people shifting for better position. Suits and skirts, even the priests moved about. Perhaps there was a specific plan like stage blocking, who got to stand where, who deserved the best view of the box. Without a word to anyone he moved behind Alfonso and waited, head reverently bowed, hands clasped at his waist.

  He said an Act of Contrition, more out of habit than hope of forgiveness.

  The priest spoke Italian as if everyone gathered at the graveside understood. Maybe they did, but most probably only knew enough of the language to read a menu at Luigi’s.

  John’s shoulder ached in the damp, pinched by the holster and heavy gun. Once again, he wore no vest.

  The priest made the sign of the cross and tossed a bit of dirt onto the coffin. Family members clustered around the funeral director who handed long stemmed red roses to them. One by one they turned to the coffin, crossed themselves and placed their roses on the box. John’s hand moved to his holster.

  From the recesses of his brain, his daughter’s face flashed before him followed by a soft voice that sounded in his ear, sweet and sultry, full of heat and promise . . . Liz urging him to do the right thing.

  He hesitated.

  “Alfonso!”

  The shout came from the other side of the coffin. His eyes now riveted on the sisters, John saw a woman rip off her hat and veil, exposing her face. Jesus!

  Barbara Van Horne stood with a gun in her hand!

  As Alfonso looked up, she fired.

  John pushed at Dumb Al, knocking him to the side, but the ugly sound of the bullet exploding into flesh rent the air, followed by a chorus of screams.

  Alfonso’s sisters encircled Barbara with clawed hands and shrieks. The suits reached into their jackets but were stopped by the inpouring of men and women dressed in the dark utilitarian suits favored by Feds.

  Someone yelled for help as Alfonso’s bleeding carcass poured his life into the dead grass.

  Pushed away by strangers, John melted into the milling crowd.

  Carly’s brain went into overdrive when Father Mike offered her a ride home. She’d seen him hanging around the school all day, but never made eye contact with him. He was at Mary Immaculate for a reason and she thought she knew why. Going through her classes like a zombie, she kept waiting to be called down to the office. The day dragged on and Carly’s nerves stretched tighter than a rubber band, ready to slingshot her into hysteria.

  Once in Father Mike’s beat up Chevy Lumina, Carly bit her lip until it bled. Her hands shook as she cast furtive glances over at the priest.

  “He did it, didn’t he? He killed that man, didn’t he? Like he said to Curtis, he couldn’t just walk away. Oh, God!” She bit down harder to hold in the scream she felt growing inside.

  Mike shook his head. “I don’t know what’s happened, Carly. There hasn’t been anything on the news that I could tell. I don’t know how much you know about all this, or why he felt he had to do what he had to do. But I want you to know, I’ve prayed for God to give him the wisdom to see that it was wrong.”

  Carly wondered why he prayed rather than tie her father up and keep him away from that funeral. She wanted to rage at the priest, but what good would that do? Her own pleas had fallen on deaf ears. If his own daughter couldn’t prevent him from killing a man, what would a priest do to stop him?

  It seemed pretty obvious that John Preshin couldn’t be moved by reason or tears or fear of God.

  Father Mike interrupted her thoughts. “Do you believe in miracles, Carly?”

  She sniffled. “Not really. Not in my life, anyway. Maybe I believe more in the crapshoot approach God takes to our lives. Good or bad, right or wrong, it’s chance that decides whether things go the way we want them to or just the opposite. Then there’s the stuff that makes absolutely no sense at all . . . the kind of things that happen without logic. Like if you were shooting dice and one rolled and landed on edge, or fell in the sewer or somebody came and picked it up before you could read it.”

  “There is that. But until we know otherwise, we can hope for a miracle.” His voice sounded hollow, telling Carly that even he didn’t believe what h
e was saying.

  The Chevy turned off the main street and slowed at the side of the luncheonette.

  John’s Jeep sat at the curb.

  “Sweet Mother of Jesus!” whispered Mike.

  “Holy crap!” Carly bit out. “Holy crap, holy crap, ho-ly crap!” She was out of the car before Mike had even put it in park, running to the door and up the stairs.

  John sat at his desk, tapping two envelopes against the oak, listening to the sharp sound they made. Sort of like gunshots.

  He’d broken his promise to Dutch. Dutch was dead because of Alfonso Montebroccochetti. Now Dumb Al was dead, but not by John’s hand.

  Who would have thought Barbara?

  Thank God the people from the agency had been there.

  His hand went up to his face and rubbed, as he tried to wipe away the scene that kept unfolding in slow motion in his mind.

  He ought to wash Alfonso’s blood from his slacks and jacket. Damn, the bastard had bled like a pig before he went down.

  If she hadn’t used the hollow nose bullets, Alfonso would only be in the hospital now instead of the morgue.

  He could hear her shouting at him, too, in his mind, as she told the entire world that she knew he didn’t have the balls to avenge Dutch.

  She was wrong.

  He’d decided to avenge Dutch the right way.

  Sharp joyful shouts sounded from the stairwell. Ahh.

  Carly must be home.

  A small smile quirked his lips. He stood and walked to the door. Mike’s ponderous footsteps followed Carly’s.

  Opening the door, he was unprepared for the screech and leap that landed Carly in his arms.

  “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God!” she said. “You’re okay. You didn’t do it, did you? You’re okay and everything is okay. Oh, God.”

  Tears streamed down her face. John picked her up and carried her into the office. Mike followed.

  “I’m here, and I’m okay, kiddo,” he said softly into her hair.

  “And you’re not going anywhere, you’re not going to leave me?” She looked into his eyes, her own filled with relief and fear.