They Never Die Quietly

by D. M. Annechino

  As Sami approached the East Room, fiercely gripping Al’s left arm, she spotted Tommy DiSalvo’s name displayed above the doorway. There were several people gathered outside the room, chatting, laughing, and engaging in the camaraderie of a social ceremony. Sami recognized none of them. What would she say to people when they paid their condolences? If she graciously accepted their gestures of sympathy for a man she intensely disliked, her actions would make her a hypocrite. There would be those who would look at her with judgmental eyes. After all, she was Tommy’s ex-wife, a woman exiled from the family. Her participation in this event served neither to pay homage to her ex-husband, nor to offer her support to a family who never quite accepted her as “good enough.” She attended this wake for Angelina.

  Sami and Al walked into the East Room. The combination of flowers and women doused with cheap perfume made the air smell sickly sweet, reminiscent of Friday night bingo at Saint Michael’s. Her mother hadn’t persuaded Sami to accompany her in years, but the smell of the overperfumed elderly women was hard to forget. A narrow aisle in the center of the room led the way to the closed casket. On either side of the aisle were rows of neatly arranged chairs. There were, perhaps, twenty people in the room, mostly familiar faces. Some were standing, others seated, and several huddled near the casket. To Sami, the room seemed too brightly lit. Twin crystal chandeliers hung from thick gold chains at either end of the ivory-painted ceiling. Sconces shaped like seashells were spaced evenly on the walls. The lush, garnet-colored carpeting looked brand-new.

  Sami and her noble escort waited patiently for a middle-aged man to say a prayer while kneeling in front of Tommy DiSalvo’s casket. Sami spotted Tommy’s parents, Maria and Vincent DiSalvo, sitting in the front row. Maria glanced her way but didn’t acknowledge Sami with the slightest nod. Sami wasn’t sure if her former mother-in-law intentionally ignored her or felt so consumed with grief she didn’t recognize her. After the divorce, Tommy’s parents not only dissociated themselves from Sami, they unofficially disowned Angelina. To Sami, their behavior was a classic exhibition of Italian stubbornness, and it served no purpose except to punish an innocent child.

  Sami witnessed gestures of compassion throughout the room: handshakes and kisses and hugs, people blowing their noses and weeping: the aerobics of a mournful congregation. The man kneeling on the padded bench suddenly disappeared, so Sami and Al knelt in front of the mahogany casket. There were vases of bright-colored flowers on both sides of the casket. Roses, carnations, calla lilies, birds of paradise. Centered on the casket Sami spotted an arrangement of white and red roses. The words “beloved son” were embossed on the blue satin ribbon hanging from the bouquet. To the left of the flowers, propped on the coffin, stood an eight-by-ten picture of Tommy, a photograph Sami had never seen. From his youthful look, Sami guessed that the photo had been taken a decade ago. She couldn’t help wondering how things might have turned out if his character had been as wholesome as his looks.

  Kneeling in front of the coffin, Sami faced the same dilemma she’d encountered in the past: What could she say to God? What words could she compose worthy of God’s ear? It seemed so paltry and ordinary to simply ask the Creator to have mercy on Tommy’s less-than-pure soul. Surely, a more compelling, less mainstream plea for his salvation might capture God’s attention.

  Sami believed in a higher authority, a supreme power greater than humankind, and that life on Earth served as a stepping stone to an existence more substantial and more permanent. She also felt certain that in the next life, mortals were rewarded for their goodwill and punished for their misdeeds.

  Today, kneeling in front of Tommy’s coffin, certain that Maria and Vincent DiSalvo were staring at her back, cursing the day she’d been born, Samantha Rizzo could not evoke appropriate words. She could not compose a prayer for the man who was once her husband and lover, the father of her child. She said a Hail Mary and an Our Father, made the sign of the cross, and choked back the tears.

  Al stood and waited by her side, but Sami remained kneeling in front of the coffin.

  He touched her arm. “You okay?”

  She took a deep breath and stood. “Been better.”

  She dreaded this moment most: paying her respects to Tommy’s parents, searching their eyes for hatred. She turned and stepped toward the DiSalvos. Vincent stood several feet away, talking to a bald, hunched-over elderly man. Maria sat quietly with her hands folded on her lap, clutching a wadded tissue, staring at the coffin with a mesmerized, almost possessed look.

  Sami forced a smile and extended her hand. “I’m deeply sorry for your loss, Maria.”

  The slightly overweight, fifty-seven-year-old woman lifted her chin and blinked several times, as if trying to focus her squinting brown eyes. Then her eyes opened wide. With her right hand she grasped Sami’s extended hand. With her left, she grabbed Sami’s elbow and pulled Sami toward her. Maria’s face was inches from Sami’s ear.

  “We couldn’t help Tommy. You know how poor we are. But you could have saved my son, Sami. Instead, you let him die. God curse your soul.”

  The barely audible words assaulted Sami’s ears like a gunshot. She had no retort. This was neither the time nor place for debate or rebuttal. What could she say in her own defense? Al stood in her shadow, waiting patiently, unaware of what the bitter woman had whispered in Sami’s ear. Sami waited for Vincent to finish his conversation with the bent-forward man, so she could quickly offer her condolences. Vincent glanced at her several times but seemed uninterested in ending his talk. Sami tugged on Al’s sleeve and leaned toward him. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  She held Al’s hand and almost pulled him behind her as she marched for the exit. The crowd watched her hasty departure with searching curiosity. It seemed that everyone in the funeral home had been corrupted, convinced that Sami was responsible for Tommy’s death. She felt like she was walking a gauntlet, their glares silent weapons. If she weren’t a civilized woman, a sworn servant of society, she’d stomp back in the room and tell the DiSalvos a couple of choice stories about their beloved son. But doing so would only reduce herself to their level. Nothing she could say or do would temper the conspiracy. They believed what they believed, and no matter how poignant her defense, she could never exonerate herself. At least not in their eyes.

  During the ride back to Sami’s house, Al knew that silence was the best medicine, that only time could moderate Sami’s rage. He abhorred seeing her in so much pain, but other than offer his earnest support, what could he do? For Al, the situation had unleashed his own emotions. They’d been partners for over six years; friends from the moment they met. Al had heard all the details of Sami’s troubled marriage and was well acquainted with the likes of Tommy DiSalvo and his family of misfits. On countless evenings Al had sat by Sami’s side and consoled her. On numerous occasions, Al’s phone would ring in the middle of the night because Tommy had not been home for days, and Sami, frantic with alarm, needed to hear a friendly voice.

  Tommy DiSalvo had left an indelible scar on Sami’s heart. He had captured a woman with a profound zest for life, held her captive in his dark world, and when he finally released her, she no longer savored life with the same spirit.

  Alberto Diaz had been there when Sami gave birth to Angelina. He stood beside Sami in the labor room, holding her hands, wiping the sweat from her brow, helping with her breathing exercises. Until the moment she disappeared through the doors of the operating room, Al had coached her through seven hours of labor. He had asked to accompany Sami during delivery, but when she explained that she might never again be able to look in his eyes, he understood and respected her womanly pride without protest.

  As the quiet ride continued, and Al’s head flooded with memories, it occurred to him that there was something he could do for Sami. Al had been born just across the border from San Diego, in Tijuana, where the contrast between prosperity and poverty glared like the Mexican sun. The city served as a haven for bargain hunters. Most of the
daytime tourists patronized myriad retail stores and street vendors selling everything from handwoven wool blankets to knockoff Rolex watches. But when the sun set, Tijuana’s infamous reputation beckoned other visitors, all searching for drugs, sex, and bars that never closed. On Friday and Saturday evenings, the streets of Tijuana were littered with California teenagers, all with the same goal: to get inebriated.

  Three classes of people lived in Tijuana: those lucky enough to work for one of many businesses supported by American tourism, others with green cards who were legally employed in the United States but maintained residency in Mexico, and the less fortunate ones forced to beg for a living.

  Al would never forget his poverty-stricken childhood. Only steps from the customs gate, where the Border Patrol carefully screened an onslaught of Americans crossing the border into Mexico, Al camped on the sidewalk seven days a week. Many tourists parked their cars in designated lots and walked over the border into Tijuana. This created a great opportunity for enterprising children like Al. With ragged clothing, his face dirty and wearing a pitiful frown, Al stood among a group of children loitering on the busy pathway to Mexico, hoping to collect enough money to help his parents get through another difficult day.

  Until his thirteenth birthday—when the competition from younger, more pathetic-looking children captured the soft hearts of Americans more effectively—Al sold Chiclets chewing gum to anyone kind enough to drop a nickel in his rusty coffee can. Al’s teenage years were riddled with delinquent activities. He had never committed a consequential crime, but the local police knew him well and were always at his heels. Finally, at the age of nineteen, after repeated pleas from his mother, his Uncle Eduardo, a naturalized citizen living in National City, agreed to sponsor Al’s immigration into the United States.

  Al was well aware that the Mexican Mafia thrived in Tijuana. And although he had not shared this with Sami, he felt certain Tommy DiSalvo had not been murdered by the hands of this particular group of hoodlums. They were criminals in every sense of the word, heavily involved in drug trafficking, prostitution, and gambling. They had no reservations about snapping a pinky or beating a freeloader to within an inch of his life. And occasionally, when they believed a “customer’s” debt was substantial and uncollectible, one of their enforcers would press the business end of a Colt .45 against the deadbeat’s temple and end his life. They were an unscrupulous, corrupt pack of pendejos, but a peculiar code of ethics existed among them. They would never torture a man before murdering him. This was gospel. And they most certainly would not have castrated Tommy and stuffed his testicles down his throat. Al felt certain that Tommy DiSalvo had not been murdered by the Mexican Mafia, and he intended to prove it.

  Al still had contacts in Tijuana, lifelong friends familiar with the dynamics of the underworld. He’d have to be careful with his covert investigation. If Captain Davison learned about his unauthorized detective work, the consequences would be grave. A few telephone calls, a trip to Tijuana, a handful of pesos to warm the palms of those connected to the action, and soon Al would solve the mystery and hopefully help quell Sami’s feeling of guilt.

  Not as her best friend, and not as her partner, Al reached across the seat and grabbed Sami’s hand. She turned her head slightly and smiled at him. He stroked her fingers and could feel that familiar flutter in his upper chest, the tightness at the back of his throat. Oh, how masterfully he had concealed the truth for so many years.

  On the Wednesday afternoon they had met, at the exact moment Alberto Diaz had looked into Samantha Rizzo’s beautiful blue eyes, he had fallen in love for the first time in his pitiful life. Al had heard the utopian stories about love at first sight, but until the day his heart had swelled with a warmth he had never known, he had always believed that all the romantic tales were food for Gothic novels. How clever he had been: playing the part of a carefree rogue, a user of women. Making Sami believe that he lived the life of a playboy served as his only shelter.

  Not a day passed without Al dreaming about making love to Sami. Now, sitting beside her in this car, Al came to the bitter realization that he could never reveal his love, that it would forever be exiled in a secret refuge in his heart. He was not good enough for Sami. She deserved more than a Mexican-born maniac with reckless ambition. Sami needed stability in her life, and Angelina needed a father figure. It was not a role to which Al could ever aspire. His love for her was a romantic tragedy, and Sami would never know.

  “Thanks for your support, partner,” Sami said.

  Drowning in his thoughts, the break in silence startled him. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m sure you could have had more fun rock climbing with your friend than babysitting for me.”

  If only she knew. “What did the old witch say to set you off?”

  “I don’t remember her exact words, only the insinuation.”

  “And?”

  “She blamed me for Tommy’s murder.”

  Al’s hands tightened around the steering wheel, committed more than ever to finding out who murdered Tommy DiSalvo. “Don’t let her or anyone else lay that horseshit on you.”

  “I keep trying to convince myself that even if I had mortgaged my soul and given Tommy the money, eventually he’d run out of resources. It seemed inevitable.”

  “That’s exactly right.”

  “But suppose this would have been the last straw? What if the threat on his life had been just the dose of reality he needed? You should have seen him, Al, he was terrified.”

  “There’s never a last straw with losers like him. I don’t mean to be disrespectful—I know he was once your husband—but you gotta call a spade a spade.”

  Maybe Al was right.

  Al turned into Sami’s driveway and switched off the ignition. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

  “It’s broad daylight. I don’t think I’m in any danger.”

  More selfish than chivalrous, Al hoped for a coffee invitation; any excuse to spend more time with Sami. “Hey, you never know.”

  At the door, Sami put her arms around Al and gave him a bear hug.

  Like two puzzle pieces, the contours of Sami’s body snugly fit against Al’s. He thought his heart would leap out of his chest. “So what time tomorrow should I pick you up for the funeral services?” Her hair smelled like coconuts.

  She let go of him and searched through her purse. “I’m not going to the funeral.”

  Her words relieved Al. “You sure about that?”

  She found the ring of keys and slipped the brass-colored one in the dead bolt. “The only thing I know for sure is that I refuse to subject myself to more humiliation.”

  “Bravo. I admire your courage.”

  “Call it self-preservation.” Sami glanced at her wristwatch. “If you’re not sick of hanging around a sniveling wench, we can probably catch the second half of the Chargers game.”

  “Promise not to blow your nose on my one and only dress shirt and you’ve got a deal.”

  “Be warned: When my mother drops off Angelina, she’ll probably hang around.”

  “You haven’t scared me yet.”

  “Oh, yeah. Wait until she sits on your lap and asks you to read her a bedtime story.”

  “Angelina?”

  “No, my mother.”

  Al grinned. “Now you’re scarin’ me.”

  Sami and Al walked into the cluttered living room.

  “If you’re really lucky,” Sami said, “I might muster enough ambition to throw some leftover chili in the microwave. But no promises.”

  “And to think I could have been foolish enough to go home and grill that porterhouse steak in my fridge.”

  “When you taste my chili, you’re gonna beg me for the recipe.”

  “Or I can just read the ingredients on a can of Hormel’s.”

  “You know me so well.”

  THIRTEEN

  Not wanting to disturb Angelina, peacefully sleeping past her usual wakeup time on this cloudy Monday morning, Sami t
elephoned her mother.

  “Would you mind driving over here, Ma?”

  “Something wrong with your car?”

  “I need to get to the precinct early and Angelina’s still sleeping.” Normally, Sami would drive Angelina to her mother’s house at eight a.m. and choke down a quick cup of coffee, so Josephine would not accuse her of being too busy to spend a few minutes with “her only mother.” Then she’d fight her way through the snarled freeway traffic, and if she did not encounter gridlock, arrive at the precinct by nine.

  This morning, after a surprisingly restful night’s sleep, Sami felt remarkably energetic. Considering the recent events, her good spirits seemed like a minor miracle. She had no illusions regarding the much-needed sleep, and attributed her windfall to fatigue and mental exhaustion.

  Josephine Rizzo protested. “You know how much I hate rush-hour traffic.”

  “It’s not like you’re on the other side of the county. It’s a ten-minute ride.”

  “I haven’t had my breakfast yet.”

  “Eat breakfast here.”

  “What, Pop-Tarts?”

  Why didn’t I just wake Angelina? “Forget it, Ma. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  “Sometimes I think you take advantage of me, Sami.”

  “And sometimes I think about moving to Tahiti.”

  “You’re in a mood.”

  “Why does everything have to be a fight with you?”

  Silence.

  “Are you there, Ma?”

  “I don’t know what a mother’s supposed to do anymore. I try to help and all you do is yell at me.”

  Josephine Rizzo could make the Pope feel guilty about the way he said Mass. “I’m sorry, Ma. It’s not you. It’s me. I guess I’m having a hard time dealing with Tommy’s murder. There’s a lot of shit going on at work and I’m taking it out on you.” Sami couldn’t believe that she apologized. “I’ll drop her off in a little while.”