I had never been his kid. I had been a major inconvenience. And the picture was getting clearer. Franco had probably told him about the fifteen-million-dollar insurance policy, too, and Vito, who was obviously broke, had decided he might be able to cash in—for old times’ sake, since we were related and shared the same DNA. “Look, you can’t just barge into my life after forty-five years. And you can’t stay here. I’ll get you a motel room for the night.”
“I got no money, Samantha.”
“I’ll buy your plane ticket back to New York.”
“But—”
“I have to get my car and keys.”
“Can you open the gate so I don’t have to stand out here?”
I was certain that if I opened the gate, if he walked onto this property and back into my life, he would never leave. “I frankly don’t give a shit if you stand out there all night. But because I’m a good person, I’ll drive you to a motel. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I stumbled back from the gate, horror clawing through me, then spun around and tore uphill toward the house.
Fortunately, Marvin was inside the guesthouse, probably fixing himself a bite to eat, and Isabella and her friend were still in the family room; I didn’t have to explain anything to either of them. Vito Bonti wasn’t going to be part of this story. It had taken me years to write myself out of Brooklyn and into the story I craved, and this man I had never known and could barely remember wasn’t going to derail my dream and infect my daughter’s life. I couldn’t allow that to happen.
I ducked into the hallway to grab my purse and a pair of sandals and called out to Sam that I had to run to the market. I made sure I had plenty of cash and my credit cards. The closest motel was probably the Malibu Motel, just several miles up the Pacific Coast Highway.
Tomorrow, I would buy him a plane ticket back to New York, give him some money so he wouldn’t land with an empty wallet, and that would be that. He was a grown man—broke and broken, yes, but he’d made it for forty-five years without help from me and could make it another forty-five without me. Vito undoubtedly had old cronies in Brooklyn who would take him in. Or he could return to the homeless shelter and maybe run into Franco again and they could share tales about what a terrible person I was. Bitch wouldn’t even take in her ol’ man.
It suddenly occurred to me, though, that maybe it was all a scam. Maybe Vito had a fourth wife and the two of them had figured he should come out here, playing a broke and broken man, and that I, bleeding heart that I was, would take pity on him and give him a couple of million. Or maybe the plan was that once I took him in, he would worm his way into our lives, then knock me off. As Isabella’s closest relative, he would claim custody of her—and everything she would inherit.
All the possible scenarios flashed through my head as I drove down toward the gate. That was the problem with being a writer and a girl who used to know mafia guys. Once your imagination seized hold of even a tiny morsel of an idea, every possibility unfolded in your head.
By the time I reached the gate, I was actually afraid to let him in the car. I pressed the remote for the gate, it slid open, and I drove through it, stopped, and made sure the gate shut behind me. He tried to open the passenger door, but it was locked. I got out, locked my door, and walked over to him.
In the backwash from the headlights, he was scarecrow thin, his ragged clothes just hanging on him. His gray hair was too long and hadn’t been washed in a while. He looked at me with his huge, haunted eyes. “I wanna meet my granddaughter. I know you have a kid, Franco tol’ me.”
Thanks, Franco.
“Yeah, right,” I laughed. “Here’s the deal, Vito. I’ll pay for a motel room for tonight, give you some money for food and a change of clothes. Tomorrow, I’ll buy you a ticket back to New York and give you enough cash so that when you get off the plane, you won’t be flat broke. But that’s it. After what you did to my mother and to me, I don’t owe you shit. We clear on the rules?”
Was that me talking?
He stole a longing glance toward the house, then looked down at his shoes, a pair of ratty old loafers with soles that were undoubtedly wearing away. I suddenly felt awful about what I had said, the way I was treating him. But then I thought of what he had done to my mother, and I didn’t feel awful at all. I knew I couldn’t let him touch my daughter’s life. I also thought about what kind of a person I am. After all, I do light three candles religiously to my besties every morning, and they surely wouldn’t treat me like this. I just couldn’t help myself.
“If you don’t agree with the ground rules, Vito, then start walking. It’s a long way to town.”
“Not givin’ me no choice.”
“Choice? What have you ever done to deserve a choice? You didn’t give my mother or me a choice. And I’m giving you the only choice I can live with.”
He nodded reluctantly. “Okay.”
His acquiescence seemed too easy. I hesitated. Until I unlocked the car and he was inside, I still had the chance to drive back up the hill to my house, go inside, and shut the door—on him, on everything he represented. But that might cause an even greater problem. He might decide to camp outside the gate all night.
I pressed the remote on my key chain, and the car doors clicked open. Moments later, we headed along the highway, the air tight, tense, and filling with the stink of his body. My phone rang. I turned it off and lowered the windows. I felt like screaming. I felt like calling Marvin or Paul and asking them to deal with my father. Either of them would do it, I knew. If this were happening five years ago, I would have turned everything over to one or both of them. But those days were long gone.
“You wanna know where I’ve been livin’, Samantha?”
“You just told me. A homeless shelter in Brooklyn. Who paid for your fare out here?”
“Franco and his mother. They felt bad for me, said you could help me out.”
This struck me as a lie. “Really. Well, I’ll just give Filomena a call and find out what really happened.”
I pulled out my phone, turned it on, started to punch in my former mother-in-law’s number. “No, don’t call her,” Vito said quickly. “Franco lent me the money. He said you’re a greedy bitch who coulda given the family some of that insurance money. Instead, you took it all and left New York.”
That sounded closer to the truth, except that Franco made plenty as a plastic surgeon, and if he’d actually said something to Vito, he’d omitted an important detail. Alec had had a smaller insurance policy—for two million dollars—for his mother and siblings. I didn’t tell that to Vito. He didn’t need to know any more than he already knew. And if he’d had any idea who the hell I was, he would know I would never abandon Alec’s family financially. It simply wasn’t in me. I’d been through enough. As it was, I did not owe this man who stood in front of me, or anyone else, any explanation in regard to my actions.
I headed straight for the Malibu Motel, a boutique place where each of the eighteen rooms boasted a view of the ocean. He would be comfortable there for the night. He could walk to a restaurant tomorrow morning for breakfast, buy a change of clothes, then take a cab to the airport. I would buy his plane ticket this evening and use the computer in the lobby to print it out. This would work; it had to work. It was the only plan I had. I didn’t want him anywhere near us.
“So Franco, he said I’m in your novel. That true?”
“You’re a footnote.”
“Ya owe me, Sam,” he said. “If it hadn’t been for me, you never woulda written it.”
That much was probably true. If he hadn’t abandoned my mother and me, though, I hated to think of what kind of hell we would have lived.
I ignored him and, a few minutes later, turned into the parking lot in front of the motel. “I already told you the rules, Vito. If you continue to piss me off, I’ll just leave you here and you can hitch back to New York.”
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Vito knew he was a pathetic loser who had abandoned his wife and child forty-five years ago, had done it without a second thought, and had never looked back. He knew I meant what I said. So he pinned me with those eyes the color of grease, eyes that screamed, Bitch, ya bitch! Then he got out of the car, pack slung over his shoulder, and slammed the door so hard it rattled the windows.
I sat there a moment, gripping the steering wheel, struggling not to scream, cry, or—worse—run after him and throw my arms around his legs. That little kid each of us once was probably still existed somewhere inside of us, huddled in a corner, sucking his or her thumb, grinding teeth, fighting off real and illusory demons.
Again, I thought of the candles I had lit only this morning to my three protectors and couldn’t understand why they would allow Vito Bonti to appear at the gates of my life. Was this some final test or challenge? Was my mettle being tested, again? Hadn’t I been through enough shit already?
I watched him through the windshield, moving purposefully toward the front door of the motel, his arms swinging at his sides. Then he paused, as though he sensed my watching him, and spun around, glaring back at me, everything about his body language screaming, Well?
You don’t control me, Vito. So I sat there a few moments longer, no longer staring after him. I’ll get out of the car when I’m ready to get out. Not a second before. I’m not following your schedule.
I said a silent prayer, asking the Blessed Mother for strength to get through the next thirty minutes, then got out of the car. I reached the front door of the motel before he did and opened the door for him, and he walked in without looking at me.
I was relieved to see Kelly behind the desk. She was an aspiring actress who worked at the motel part-time. When she’d found out I’d written a novel that had been optioned, she’d read the book, loved it, and asked me to keep her in the loop about everything. I’d alerted her when casting started, and she’d tried out for the part of one of the Brooklyn girls and had gotten the role.
“Sam,” she gushed, and hurried out from behind the desk to hug me hello. “It’s great to see you. I heard . . .” She stopped, looked at Vito, frowned, glanced back at me. “Is he, uh, with you?” she asked quietly.
“Kelly, this is Vito Bonti.”
Her eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets. She recognized the name. She realized that the man who had shaped the texture of my life was standing in front of her. Never mind that he looked like he was coming off a three-day drunk. Kelly was scrupulously polite.
“Nice to meet you, Vito.”
She extended her hand, but he didn’t reciprocate. He just stood there, immobile and pissed off. Her arm swung back to her side. She looked over at me, her eyes radiating alarm, questions, and she mouthed, Should I call the cops?
I shook my head. No cops. I could handle Vito as long as he didn’t become violent.
“So how can I help you, Sam?” she asked.
“Vito needs a room for the night.”
“Not a problem. We’ve got a couple of vacancies.”
“Something with a view,” he said.
“All our rooms have views, Vito,” Kelly said. “I’m going to give you the best view we’ve got.”
“Perfect.” I pulled out my credit card, handed it to her.
Vito walked off like he couldn’t care less, and paused in front of the huge window and gazed out.
Kelly mouthed, What the hell?
Long story, I mouthed back.
As she processed my card, she whispered, “Is it true? That Jenean Conte is playing you?”
I nodded. “That’s what the producer tells me. And production starts next month.”
“Fantastic. I can quit this stupid job.”
“Are they paying you enough to do that?”
“More than I make here, that’s for sure.”
“What time do you get off tomorrow?” I asked.
“I’m pulling a double shift tonight, so I’m not outta here till noon. Why? You want me to, uh, keep an eye on him, Sam?”
“If you could just steer him to a restaurant tomorrow morning and a place to buy a change of clothes, I’d really appreciate it. Then give me a call when he has headed off to the airport.”
“Not a problem. I’ll get him to the right places.”
I removed a couple hundred dollars from my wallet and handed it to Kelly. “That’s for you. I need to buy his plane ticket back to New York.”
She gestured toward the three computer stations in the lobby. “Have at it, Sam.” Her eyes darted over to Vito, and she leaned forward across the counter and whispered, “Did he show up at your house?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll go keep him busy.” She slipped out from behind the counter and went over to him while I parked myself in front of one of the computers.
I found a direct flight from L.A. to New York at three-thirty tomorrow afternoon. I figured it would give Vito plenty of time to do whatever he had to do in the morning and get to the airport by two p.m. or so. A one-way ticket was ridiculously expensive, there were only two seats left, both middle seats, at the rear of the plane, and he would probably complain bitterly to whoever would listen. Tough shit. No way was I paying for a first-class one-way ticket. I reserved the seat, bought the ticket, printed it out. I folded the rest of my cash into the ticket, then walked over to Vito and Kelly.
“Okay, Vito, your flight leaves tomorrow afternoon at—”
He glanced up and spat, “I don’t want to go back to New York. You can’t make me.” Like a petulant, spoiled child.
“Then I guess Vito will be paying for his own room, Kelly.”
“But I . . . I—” he stammered.
“Exactly,” I said.
Kelly looked uncomfortable and was saved by the peal of the desk phone. “I have to get that.”
As soon as she turned away, I handed Vito the e-ticket with the cash folded inside. “There’s enough cash for you to get what you need in the morning—clothes, breakfast, a cab to the airport—and money left over for when you get to New York. Your flight leaves at three-thirty and you should be at the airport by two, Vito.”
“Dad. I’m dad to you.”
“No, you’re not. I haven’t had a father since the man my pregnant mother was married to hit her in the stomach with a car jack. I almost died in utero. I’ll tell Kelly you’re ready to check in.”
His eyes filled with such an agonizing confluence of emotions that guilt and remorse washed through me. I didn’t realize then that Vito was a master manipulator in his own way. Where Alec had wielded that manipulation through the sheer power of his personality, Vito did it through his eyes, his facial expressions, through our genetic connection.
I turned away from him, pained by his wounded-dog look, and hurried over to the desk, where Kelly had been watching the little drama between us. “He’s ready to check in, Kelly.”
“Wow,” she said softly, shaking her head. “You’re doing the right thing, Sam.” She handed me the key.
I knew I was, but the Bonti in me made me doubt it.
“Second floor, first room on your right as you step off the elevator.”
Vito and I rode the elevator in silence. He counted the cash I’d given him, slipped it into his pocket. The e-ticket stuck up out of his shirt pocket, already crinkled and soiled, and probably by tomorrow it would be indecipherable. I just wanted to get home to my daughter, my life, and I didn’t understand why the Blessed Mother or the universe or whatever would hurl this impossible man in my direction.
Yes, I felt sorry for him . . . who wouldn’t? He was a lost soul, eaten up by bitterness. But I didn’t feel so sorry for him that I would back down. You’re a period at the end of a sentence, Vito, nothing more.
As the elevator doors whispered open, he looked at me with those haunted eyes. And in a sharp
, cruel voice, he said, “Nine hundred bucks? You’re worth millions.”
“My childhood was priceless, and you left, Vito. Be grateful you’ve got enough to get your ass back to New York.”
“I wish that car jack had killed you ’fore you was born.”
He stomped off the elevator, and I stood there, unable to wrap my head around his words, around the vitriol and hatred behind them. I hit the hold button and stuck my head out the door. “Hey, Vito, it’s room twenty. Here’s the key.” I hurled it down the hall, and it clattered against the floor beside him.
He paused, looked down at the key, then up at me. “Ya bitch!” he hollered.
I stepped back into the elevator, slammed my fist against the button for the first floor, and struggled not to cry as the elevator clattered downward. He hated me, and it hurt in a visceral way, bringing back all those terrible feelings I’d had as a kid, that I was a kind of orphan, a refugee. Even though he had never been a father to me, he was the only biological family I had besides Isabella.
When I walked out into the lobby, Kelly saw that I was upset and hurried over and put her arms around me. “Don’t waste your energy, Sam. He’s your past, and he’ll be gone by tomorrow. You’ve been incredibly generous. I’ll call you when I get off work and give you an update.”
“Thanks, Kelly. For everything.”
It was a relief to reach my car. The stink of his body still lingered, and as I drove back along the highway, I lowered all the windows and let the cool salt air wash away the odor. And I started crying. I couldn’t help myself. The man who had been responsible for the terrible void that had been my constant companion since I was a kid still hated me. Would always hate me.
And I would never know why.
I would never know why about any of it—why he was my father, why my mother had married him, why she’d stayed with him through years of abuse. And why had I stayed with a gangster? Why had I stayed married to Alec when it was so obvious that the marriage was over?
Maybe it all came back to that weird adage: Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t. Or, translated according to Sam, Stick with what’s familiar, even if it sucks. . . .
Hello Hollywood Page 3
