by J. J. Murray
“What are you saying, Tiana?”
“It’s Christiana from now on, and I’m saying that I don’t want to interview another celebrity as long as I live. I only want to interview real people from now on.”
“Like who?”
I sigh. Shelley probably doesn’t know any real people, besides me, that is. I begin ironing. “Like doctors and researchers on the cutting edge of a cure for a disease.”
“You want to interview nerds?”
I sigh. “Nerds are people, too, Shelley. You don’t complain when Jerry fixes your computer, do you?”
“You’d write about computer geeks, too?”
She’s never going to get it. “I want to write about heroes like firefighters and cops. Like soldiers, nurses, and EMTs. I want to write about unlikely heroes. Hometown heroes, ordinary people. You know, people our readers can actually identify with. And I wouldn’t have to go far. There are plenty of real people around here, over seven million the last time I checked.”
“You’re going back to the Times, aren’t you?” she asks.
“You’re missing the point, Shelley. I thrive on reality. At times when I was doing the ‘where are they now?’ stories, I was swimming in reality. I love reality. I guess I didn’t know it until I left the Times and started hanging out with the beautiful people.”
“You don’t like the beautiful people?”
“No.” I put the blouse on a hanger and hang it on the doorknob to the bathroom.
“Why not? They seem to like you.”
Not all of them. “They aren’t real, Shelley. They might have been once, but…” I start ironing the slacks. “I want to do stories about that kid who grew up with nothing and is somehow making it despite the odds.” I think about Granddaddy and the sacrifices he made to raise me. “I want to write about the kid who grew up without parents, the kid who was raised by her granddaddy, the kid who worked two jobs to get through Columbia and become a relative success. That kid.”
“You know anyone like that?”
I nearly scorch my slacks. “That person is me, Shelley.”
“You want to write your autobiography?”
I don’t respond.
“Why didn’t you say so? You have a few weeks of vacation coming up, right? You could knock it out then.”
“Once again, you’re missing the point.” I slide the slacks onto a hanger, hooking the hanger inside the hanging bag. “I was speaking hypothetically. Not rags to riches. Rags to respectability, that kind of story.” I think of Dante. “Like the kid who grows up without his daddy, learns to box, loses his mama at eighteen, wins the world title, loses the world title…You see where I’m going with this?”
“You’re talking about Dante Lattanza, aren’t you?”
I start gathering my tools of destruction—my curling iron, brush, and hair gel—and shove them into my laptop case. “I’m talking about anyone in America who had a tough start and is kicking ass now. Folks. We still write about folks at Personality, don’t we? Aren’t folks the very people we’re trying to reach? Aren’t folks in our demographic? There’s only so much unreality regular folks can take. Witness the explosion of reality shows on TV.”
“Oh, those are so fake.”
Only a fake person would think a reality show was rigged. Some of them are cheesy, don’t get me wrong, but there’s something warm and human about them that’s missing from so much else on TV or on the silver screen. “We’ll talk about this on Monday, okay? I’m getting ready to go in to the office.”
“What for?”
Time for a little lie. “I wasn’t sick yesterday and I feel guilty.” Not. I just want to push my office computer to the limit and work some phones. It’ll be hard to reach anyone on a Saturday, but that’s half the fun of the grind I miss so much.
“So you’re not thinking about quitting?”
“Monday, Shelley,” I say, stripping and turning on the shower. “We’ll talk Monday. I’m getting in the shower now. Bye.” I drop my cell phone into the sink. It seems to belong there. I may leave it there forever.
But I won’t. I still have ten months left on my two-year contract.
Freshly showered and wearing jeans and a white fisherman’s sweater under the pericoloso leather jacket Dante bought me, I take the New York Water Taxi to Pier 11, splurging and catching a taxi from there to Rockefeller Center as the December skies gray up with snow clouds. My building is almost empty, a few folks scurrying here and there, none of whom I recognize—or want to. When I get to my office, which I have barely used in the last year, I shut the door and go to work.
“I’m going to find you today, Mr. Lattanza,” I say.
There isn’t much to distract me in this room. Pictures of Red Hook I had planned to hang last February lie propped against walls. A brand-new mini stereo with the tiniest little speakers still sits in its original box in front of the green tinted window looking out on the Avenue of the Americas. Except for a coffee mug that—ew—still contains something hockey-puck-like, there’s nothing on this desk but a computer. I type in my password—“RedHooker”—and I’m on.
I begin my search from what I know. Detectives usually follow the money, right? The last money job I know Dante’s father had was in the military. He went to Vietnam. Many of these records are now in the public domain. He should be easy to find.
I first make sure Dante’s daddy isn’t already dead. It’s a lot easier telling a child that daddy isn’t coming home than telling a child, “Your daddy’s dead.” I sometimes wish Granddaddy had told me exactly that about my parents. There is no one named “Lattanza” listed on the Vietnam Wall, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he came back from Vietnam. I then research the database for the DPMO (Defense Prisoner of War/Missing Personnel Office) and find there isn’t a Lattanza who either had been a prisoner of war or was still missing in action in Vietnam. Man, that war ended over thirty years ago. You’d think we could account for every one of our soldiers by now.
I jot that possible story on a notepad. Why is it taking so long? Are there any unlikely heroes out there still searching for our boys? Why haven’t we accounted for every single soldier who served in Vietnam?
I know calling the Department of Defense is a waste of time. I’m not next of kin or any kind of kin to Dante’s daddy, and it will most likely take a series of Kafkaesque forms to fill out over several months to get any kind of decent information. Besides, it’s Saturday. I’m sure they’re working with a skeleton crew there. I hate hearing, “Call back on Monday.” I don’t want the runaround today, so I Google “military records,” and Military.com pops up first and promises a database of twenty million names.
Hmm. In order to use this database, I have to join. I could lie and say I am military, but luckily, I can join with no service affiliation. I can’t get past a second screen unless I type in my employer. I smile and type, “Personality.” That ought to confuse someone at Military.com.
I’m in.
I explore every branch of the service for anyone named Lattanza. I scroll through the army. Nothing. The navy. Nothing. The air force. Nothing. Therefore—
A Daniel Lattanza, E–4, is listed under the marines, unfortunately with no home address other than the state of New York. Though it doesn’t narrow down my search much, that makes sense. He enlisted in or was drafted out of Brooklyn. What’s an E–4? I do a side search and find Daniel Lattanza was a corporal.
I pop “Daniel Lattanza” into Google and get nothing.
Merda.
On a whim, I put “Danny Lattanza” into Google, and a Vietnam Web site for the Second Battalion, Ninth Marines appears first on the screen. Yes! “Hell in a Helmet” tops the welcome page, but I don’t see any immediate reference to Danny. On the navigation bar I see “2/9 Members.” Clicking that, I’m taken to a page of names with city, state, year, and some e-mail addresses.
I scroll through the command page. Nothing. Oh, yeah. He was a corporal. He wouldn’t be on this page.
I scroll through Echo Company. Nothing.
I scroll through Golf Company…
There he is!
I’m good at this merda.
Lattanza, Danny “Boy” Langley, BC 68–69
There’s no e-mail address listed after his name, but that’s okay. There are other ways, and I know them all. Danny “Boy” Lattanza is in Langley, British Columbia, Canada, or at least he was when this list was updated in…June of this year.
I’m close. This list was updated only six months ago.
Before checking where Langley is, I go to the 2/9 picture gallery and scrutinize four years of pictures from reunions, all held down in Arlington, Virginia. There are plenty of group shots in front of the Iwo Jima statue, the Vietnam Wall, and the Smithsonian. Many of the pictures aren’t captioned—
There he is.
Though seriously graying, I’d recognize that hairy man anywhere. The caption reads, “Danny Boy and wife, Li.” The woman next to him is half his size and has long gray hair and…Asian features. They sure seem happy.
Danny Boy and Li.
Okay, um, I’m not one to jump to conclusions—much—but this looks like…I don’t know what this looks like. He brought her home with him? He gets out in ’69 and brings her…
Think, Christiana.
Okay, he’s married to Connie, but he brings Li home, and Connie finds out?
Dante said he never came home. He made that clear. Maybe Danny Boy hit the States and took off for Canada with Li, where they shacked up until Connie died sixteen years later? That doesn’t make sense.
Maybe Danny Boy married Li in Vietnam or Canada, and no one checked to see if he was already married to someone somewhere else.
Or he lied and said he wasn’t married.
I surf off to WhitePages.ca where I find a D Lattanza residing at 19967 96th Avenue in Langley, a far eastern suburb of Vancouver. Though I plan to call Danny Boy’s phone number, I want to make sure I have all my ducks in a row. I plug his address into Google and see “Li’s Convenience Store” listed as a business about 13.2 kilometers north of Langley.
Danny Boy has a business named after his Vietnamese wife, and I’m about to get deeply into his business. I dial the number.
“Li’s, Danny speaking.”
He certainly has the same timbre to his voice that Dante has. “Mr. Lattanza, my name is Christiana Artis from Personality magazine, and I’m doing a follow-up article on middleweight boxer Dante Lattanza.”
Danny Boy doesn’t respond right away. “What’s that got to do with me?”
Everything, DB. The key to getting people to say something they don’t want to say is to beat around it steadily until they get tired of the suspense. “Weren’t you married to Connie Tucci of Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn?”
“What’s this about?”
Evasive, are we? I had better hit him with what I already know. “You served in Vietnam from 1968 to 1969 in Company G of the Second Battalion, Ninth Marines.”
I hear a heavy sigh. “That was forty years ago. Look, I’ve got work to do, so if you don’t—”
“I’ve just talked to Red,” I interrupt. I had noticed that “Red” (no last name) was the 2/9’s Web site administrator. It’s only a partial lie. I have been reading his site. “You attended a reunion in 2003 in Arlington with your wife, Li.”
“Red certainly has been running his mouth.”
Not exactly confirmation, but pretty darn close. “So all of this is true.”
“Look, like I said, that was a long time ago.”
My fingers are getting sweaty. It is now time to swing dat hammer! “Are you Dante Lattanza’s father?”
“No.”
Withdraw hammer. Either he’s in denial, or…“No?”
“No. I am not Dante Lattanza’s father.”
Either he’s in deep denial, or…“Was Connie pregnant when you married her?”
“No.”
If I had the marriage record, I could make absolutely sure. “Then how do you know—”
“I know, all right?”
This seems to be a touchy subject for Danny Boy. “Well, do you know who Dante Lattanza’s father is?”
No answer.
“Any suspicions?”
“Why is this important?”
There are so many good reasons why this is important. A boy needs his father, right? A child needs a parent in his life. “Dante is fighting for a world title tonight. He’s a public figure. I’m planning to write his biography, and this is vital information.” Well, I can always plan to write it, right?
“Look, I don’t know what you want from me.”
So reluctant! “When and where did you marry Li?”
Silence.
“Did you marry her in Canada?”
“No.”
“Did you marry her over in Vietnam?” Duh. He had to. They wouldn’t have let her just traipse along with him on the government tab unless they were married.
“Why is that important?”
That’s not even a definite maybe! “Mr. Lattanza, I can easily get copies of both of your marriage certificates if you don’t want to cooperate with me. Then all I have to do is check the dates to see if they overlap.” Yeah, right. Getting those marriage records from Vietnam won’t be easy. Finding military records that may not even exist, even if he had a military wedding, will certainly tax me, too. The 2/9 chaplain might know, right? I’ll have to look him up, too.
After another lengthy pause, Danny Boy says, “Can you keep Li out of this? She’s been through enough hell in her life.”
Danny Boy would make a great politician. I can’t get him to confirm or deny anything. Swinging dat hammer: “You were married to two women at the same time, weren’t you, Mr. Lattanza?”
“Look,” he says, his voice quieter, “if I tell you what I know about Dante’s father, will you leave us out of this? We have a life here. We have grown kids and five grandkids. I’ve been here forty years, you understand? I have a life here. People know and respect me.”
“Mr. Lattanza, I can’t guarantee that I’ll keep you two out of anything I may write.”
“Ask at Cammareri’s.”
Che? “It’s closed down now.”
“Really? That’s a shame. Then ask at Monte’s.”
I was just there yesterday! “Who do I talk to?”
“Talk to Vincent.”
Goose bumps creep up and down my legs. Vincent, my waiter?
“Vincent Baldini?”
“Yeah. That’s him.”
Geez, Vincent was staring me in the face with Dante’s eyes the entire time! “Vincent Baldini is Dante’s father?”
“I have customers. It’s a Saturday. We’re very busy.”
Still not exactly confirmation, but is that fear I hear in his voice? Sadness? “Is there anything you’d like me to tell Dante?”
“Just that…Ah, geez. Tell the kid I’m sorry, all right?”
I need more than that. Dante will need more than that. “Aren’t you at least a little proud of him?”
“Yeah,” his voice becomes a whisper. “I’m proud of him. I have ten scrapbooks full of that kid. I gotta go.”
Click.
If I ever write Dante’s biography, I will have to go out to Langley, British Columbia, to visit Danny Boy, his wife Li, their children, and his five grandchildren. Danny Boy can’t be evasive if I’m standing in his store with a camera.
All this means I can’t just call up Vincent and expect him to cave. I need to grill him face to face, so that if he lies to me, I’ll be able to tell.
I am, after all, a giornalista. A liar can spot another liar.
I have to make sure he’s working, so I call Monte’s, hoping someone else will answer.
“Monte’s,” a female voice says. “This is Liz.”
I try to sound Italian. “Is Vince there?” I sound ridiculous.
“He won’t be in till one,” Liz says. “Wanna leave a message?”
I check
the time. Perfetto. I can get there by one-thirty, no sweat. “Nah. I want it to be a surprise. Ciao.”
This is the fun part of the grind. The chase is the adrenaline rush that fuels the grind and makes the wheels move swiftly.
Now look who’s being pretentious! The chase is, simply, a rush.
But I’m in no hurry. I don’t have to be at the Garden until nine. Since technically I’m working on a story for Personality—I mean, it could run in the magazine one day—I can have all my transportation and meal expenses paid. Instead of taking a taxi all the way to Monte’s, I call Dial 7 Car and Limousine Service, mainly because it’s the only phone number for a car service in my cell phone. I arrange for them to pick me up at one.
Then I wander the halls looking for a hammer and some nails to hang my pictures. I don’t find any, as if I thought I could. Who brings a toolbox to Personality? That would be too real.
I take this as a sign. It will be so much easier packing up my office if I leave those pictures where they are.
A black Lincoln Town Car (how nice!) picks me up, and I’m off to Monte’s in style. “To Monte’s,” I tell the driver.
“Yeah?” He turns and smiles at me. “You know you’ve got me for two hours, right?”
“Right.”
“And, well, the food at Monte’s is magnifico.”
My driver knows Monte’s. I thought he sounded Brooklyn. “What the hell. You can eat, too.”
He nods. “I’ll cut you a break on the rate.”
I smile. “Fuggedaboutit,” I say with a giggle. “It’s on the company’s tab.”
He pulls away from the curb. “It’s going to be a be-you-tiful day.”
My driver, Paolo, who I find out lives in Queens but misses Brooklyn “to death, swear on my mothah,” opens the door for me at Monte’s. I tell the hostess—Liz—to give him whatever he wants, and he zips off. She leads me to a booth, and I wave off the menu. “Just tell Vincent that Christiana’s here.”
Vincent strolls over eventually and sits across from me. “Saw the Times this morning. You trying to butter me up or what?”
