The Real Thing

by J. J. Murray

  I’m not only going to butter you up, I’m going to get you to admit you’re Dante Lattanza’s father. “I talked to Danny Lattanza today.”

  Liz brings me an espresso. “You didn’t drink yours yesterday, you know,” she tells me, and she fades away.

  Vincent nods slightly. “So you talked to Danny.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Fine.” I sip my espresso, looking at him over the rim of the cup. “He had a lot to say.”

  “Yeah? I’ll bet he did. Danny Boy could talk.”

  Liz brings me a cold antipasto plate. “You hardly touched it yesterday,” she says. Vincent waves her away.

  “So, you know why I’m here,” I say. I have to get Vincent to say it. He has to say it.

  “What’d Danny Boy say?” Vincent asks.

  I savor a hunk of salami. “He said to ask at Cammareri’s. You ever work there, Vincent?”

  He blinks. “A long time ago. So what?”

  “I told him Cammareri’s was closed, and then he said to ask at Monte’s.” I smile. “Is there anyone other than you who works here now who used to work at Cammareri’s?”

  “Just me. Again, so what?”

  The indirect approach isn’t working. Since I’m in Monte’s, though, I have to swing a tiny, red-velvet-covered hammer. “He said to ask at those two places about who Dante’s real father is,” I whisper. “He said to ask you.”

  Vincent doesn’t blink. “Oh.”

  I have missed playing cat ’n mouse so much! If it weren’t such a serious subject, I could say I’m actually having fun. It is so much better to be the cat.

  “Why would he want me to ask you, Vincent? What do you know?”

  Vincent motions for Liz. “Liz, a glass of wine, please.”

  “Oh,” I say, “no thank you.”

  “Go on,” he says to Liz. “It ain’t for you. It’s for me.”

  Hmm. Stress. Drinking on the job. “What do you know, Vincent?”

  Liz brings him a glass, and he downs half of it. “I…I know a few things.”

  “Such as?” I don’t show my claws yet, but they’re ready to strike.

  “I know that Danny isn’t Dante’s papino.”

  Confirmation from another source. Good. “So…who is?”

  He takes another gulp. “I can explain. You see—”

  “Are you Dante Lattanza’s father?” I interrupt. My claws are now out and in shredding mode.

  He finishes the wine and slides his fingers around the base. “Well, it’s like this.” He looks up at me but doesn’t speak.

  “Yes?”

  He leaves his seat and slides next to me in the booth. “He is not to know,” he whispers. “Dante is never to know. It was his mama’s dying wish. I never asked Con why. Con was very clear. She did not want the shame to follow him.”

  Though I think I know, I have to ask, “What shame would follow him?”

  He sighs, adding a little shrug. “She was not married to the man who was the father to her child.”

  “And she knew?”

  He nods.

  “You two had an affair.”

  He nods again. “I did not plan to.” He runs his hands through his hair. “Ah, Christ, we were just kids. Danny and Con were just kids when they got married, right out of high school. They were crazy. Who does such a thing anymore?”

  He’s trying to get us off the subject. I ain’t biting. “Tell me about the affair.”

  “Why should I?”

  I shrug a little, trying to mimic him. “Better me than the Times. When Dante wins and I run with what I know, who knows who’ll be coming through that door.” I feel like the Godfather. “I’ll tell you what. You tell me everything, and I’ll keep whatever you don’t want out from getting out. Capisci quello che sto dicendo?”

  He blinks. “You speak Italian?”

  “Per certi versi.” I smile. “I still have a lot to learn.”

  “You sound”—he bobs his head side to side—“authentic.”

  “Grazie.” I want to tell him that my first teacher was the best, that my first teacher was his son. “Was Danny at boot camp when your affair occurred?”

  “No. Danny was up in the city at a Yankees game with some friends of his, and we were here working late. The Yankees win, we have more people, you know? The Yanks trashed the Red Sox that night, and we were still here at three-thirty. Con was…” He shakes his head. “I always loved her, always. We were both lonely. This is a romantic place. We were just two dumb kids. You understand?”

  I don’t need any more details. Dante Lattanza was conceived at Monte’s, just off the Gowanus Canal. Even the most despicable journalist wouldn’t print this.

  “When did Danny find out?” I ask.

  He closes his eyes. “I think Danny always knew. One look at Dante and he didn’t see his eyes or his nose or his jaw. I saw myself. Danny didn’t say nothing about it, but he knew. He knew, all right? Dante was scrawny, like me. Danny was huge. Anybody could see it.” He opens his eyes and sighs. “And then…”

  “Then what?”

  “You are not writing anything down.”

  I tap my temple. “I have a great memory. Then what?”

  “I wrote Danny a letter while he was over there. I felt so guilty. He was my friend.”

  Whoa. “You wrote a letter and told Danny you were Dante’s father?”

  He nods. “Not the bravest thing I’ve ever done. I should have told him to his face. He would have…I like my nose the way it is, all right?”

  I like it, too. “Did Danny write back?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t blame him. That kind of thing. I don’t know what I would have done.”

  This is so sad! “How did Connie take it?”

  His eyes widen. “Con was infuriata. ‘What you tell him for?’ she says. Her English was not so good. ‘What about Dante? What if he finds out?’” Vincent rubs at his eyes. “I had no words for her. When Con was angry, there was no use trying.”

  I think I would have gotten along fine with Dante’s mama. Oh sure, we would have argued nonstop, but…I like what I hear about this woman.

  Maybe not the conceiving of her son in a restaurant part, but…

  “When Danny didn’t come back,” Vincent continues, “Con made up this story. It wasn’t really a lie. She tells Dante he’s not coming back, don’t ask about him, don’t worry, I’ll take care of you, we don’t need him.”

  “After Danny was gone for so long, did you ever, I don’t know, want to marry Connie?” I ask.

  He nods vigorously. “I wanted to marry her, but…” He flattens his hands on the table, and they’re Dante’s huge hands. “Con was still infuriata. So many times I almost told Dante, so many times I hugged him, kissed him, gave him advice about the ladies, slipped him some money for Con, for new gloves, for new shoes, for money to spend any way he wanted.”

  This is depressing. Vincent was an arm’s length or less from his son, and his son didn’t know his father was kissing and hugging him.

  “It’s good to know Danny’s alive and well,” Vincent says. “I was always worried he was, you know, dead.”

  “Danny’s married.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He owns a store in Canada.”

  “Yeah? He always talked about being his own boss. Danny never liked working for nobody. He got any kids?”

  I nod. “All grown, and he has five grandkids. He provided for them, huh?”

  Vincent’s body jerks. “So did I. You think Con could afford that place of hers without some help? I helped. All my tips went into that place or to Dante’s gear. I tried paying for his college classes, too, but Dante was already pro then and could afford them on his own. I begged him to let me help with Con’s funeral, but he said he had everything covered. He was stubborn as Con was.”

  I agree. “Did you still continue to see Connie?”

  “You think I didn’t want to? Con was beautiful. She was
…so frail, like a china figurine. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.” He tattoos the table with his fingers. “Carroll Gardens talks. All those stoops. All those women yakking day and night. I was her friend instead. I was Dante’s friend, too.”

  Unfulfilled. I know just how he feels. I’m only Dante’s friend, too. “How do you think Dante will react when he finds out?”

  “You are going to tell him?”

  I shake my head. “I won’t tell him, Mr. Baldini. In fact, I won’t write a single word about any of this.”

  “Bene.” He looks at me. “Grazie.”

  I can fully swing the hammer now. “But you will. And soon.”

  He nods. “I should. I will. The next time I see him.”

  “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

  “I should have done it a long time ago,” he says, stealing and eating one of my olives. “I wish I could be at the fight tonight.”

  “You won’t be there?”

  He shakes his head. “I have to work a double shift. We are never busier than when Dante fights. I have not missed a fight of his in New York until this day, and this could be his greatest moment. Monte’s letting us get the pay-per-view, though. I will watch.” He touches my hand. “Christiana, I am sorry for all my rudeness. I don’t want you to think I am a boia.”

  I blink.

  “I don’t want you to think I am a jerk.”

  I smile. “Vincent, I think you are a good boia down deep.”

  He smiles. “You make the jokes.”

  I squeeze his hand. “You are his father. I understand how protective a father can be. Dante is just as protective of your grandson, DJ. And trust me, I am fully on Dante’s side now.”

  “Bene. He is a good boy.”

  “And he’ll make a good son.”

  Vincent nods. “What you wrote I said in the Times. I meant that when I said that.”

  I nod. “And I meant it more when I wrote it.” I point to a spot behind the bar. “You should put that on a sign, too. ‘When you don’t know what you’re talking about…’”

  “Don’t say anything,” Vincent says. “I like the way you turned it around, too.” He looks at his hands. “You’re his friend, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think you could maybe…bring him and DJ here one day?”

  I would like nothing more than to be sitting next to Dante here! “I’ll try.”

  “Bene. Molto bene.”

  “But when he wins tonight, I’m sure he’ll be very busy,” I say.

  He pats my hands. “You will bring him here. You have coglione.”

  I don’t know if that is a compliment. “What do I have?”

  He weighs something invisible in one hand. “Coglione.”

  Oh. Those. “Um, thank you.” I think.

  He shrugs and smiles. “I mean it in the nicest way. Dante is wise to have friends like you.” He looks around. “Just go easy on him with your writing from now on. Mio dio, you have a mean way with words.”

  I stand. “I mean what I write, Vincent. If it just happens to be mean, so be it.”

  He groans. “So glad you no longer write for the Times.”

  I lean down and whisper, “I’ll be going back to the Times next week.”

  He drops his head to his chest. “Coglione.” He shakes his head, rubbing his chin on his chest. “Dio santo! I hope he wins.”

  I lift his chin. “He will win, Vincent. He has to. He’s your son.”

  My driver, sated and not smelling of alcohol—I check—returns me to the office, and I pay him one hundred twenty dollars. He hands back a twenty. “Whenever you need a car, and you’re going to Monte’s, ask for Paolo Mancini. Do not ask for Paolo Olivera. He does not appreciate fine dining as I do.”

  “Grazie.”

  In my barren office, I reconsider the last year working for Personality. I’ve had every so-called “story” handed to me. I’ve been “handled” by publicists and agents. I’ve met people I wouldn’t even share a cab with on the coldest and rainiest of days. I’ve taken posed pictures of celebrities posing as people. I’ve been to surreal places with otherworldly views and have met surreal people with otherworldly views.

  I need to put my feet back on the pavement. Just talking to Vincent sealed it. I’ve been blindly going through life in so many ways, writing spoon-fed stories that didn’t challenge me or give me a real reason to work hard. Other than my interlude with Dante, this past year has had less drama, fewer surprises, and much less danger than the quietest year I spent at the Times. I’ve been leading a soft and sweet marshmallow existence, but I’ve eaten so much of it I’m feeling sick.

  I’m sick of puff pieces. I’m sick of fake people. I’m sick of the surface-ness of life. I know that’s not a word, but it should be. The world is not hunky-dory. Celebrities cannot save the planet no matter how many hybrid Hummers they own. Celebrities cannot solve the world’s hunger problems with one concert. Celebrities cannot stop terrorism with one movie. Celebrities cannot save rain forests they’ve never seen nor fully understand AIDS without seeing its many victims up close. They claim to be environmentally conscious, but are they conscious? Do they really know how 99.99% of the world really lives?

  An actress plays the part of a crackhead or a waitress. An actor plays the role of a tough cop or heroic firefighter. They only play at reality, then go home and lead extraordinary lives. And how does Personality reward them? By giving them a glossy cover for surviving their first year of marriage while millions of real couples survive many years more.

  Do I respect their gifts? Sure. I can’t do what they do nor would I even want to try, because I’m too busy living. Celebrities are too distant from the very people they’re trying to depict. How can they ever provide realistic portrayals of people they’ve never been or met? Sure, I identify with some of the characters they play, but again—it’s only play. Someone yells, “Cut!” when things get too intense or dangerous. Stars get to replay scenes that don’t go well. I only get to replay them in my mind or relive them in my fantasies. We the people don’t have their luxuries. No one yells, “Cut!” when someone cuts us off in traffic or butts ahead of us in line. No one gives us a do-over when the police pull us over, we miss the train, or we write or say something we shouldn’t have written or said. No one provides us a stunt double when the building we work in crashes to the ground. No one makes us look beautiful every morning or makes dresses especially for us. We the people have to work at it. We the people have to be real all the time.

  It’s time for me to be real.

  I call and leave a message with Mel. “I’ll be in your office Tuesday.” I have to use Monday to clear out of my office and turn in my keys and credentials. It might even be a Monday in New York that doesn’t suck.

  I am going to resign and go back to the Times.

  Typing a letter of resignation takes me about a minute:

  Dear Shelley:

  I quit. Sorry. I’ll clear out of my office on Monday morning.

  Thank you for all your advice.

  Christiana Artis

  PS: Yes, I have a job at the Times, and no, I won’t need a reference from you.

  I print it out and slide it under Shelley’s door. Hmm. The cleaning staff might toss it. For good measure, I paste my resignation into an e-mail and send it to Shelley. Then, I get ready for the fight, curling my hair in the bathroom.

  I start humming “My Way” and pose for the mirror.

  I’m almost myself again.

  It feels good.

  When I hit the doors to the street for what will be the second to the last time ever, I say, “Brooklyn has left the building.”

  Chapter 30

  Taxis creep past as I walk through a world lit up by rainbows down Sixth Avenue to Forty-second Street. The year’s first snow filters through those multicolored lights turning Times Square into a land of magic. I duck under some Kodak screens in front of the Marriott Marquis on Broadway and call Red’s cell phone.

&n
bsp; “Girl,” Red says, “you and your mouth show up at the worst possible times. HBO cameras are filming me taping Dante’s hands as we speak.”

  I look up at the Astrovision screen on the Reuters Building and see Red taping Dante’s left hand, a cell phone pinned to Red’s ear by his shoulder. “Red, I see you. I’m in Times Square watching you on TV.”

  “I’m kind of busy here,” he growls.

  The ten-foot-tall Red’s lips move just a tick slower.

  This is so surreal. I must be having an out-of-body experience. “Just give Dante a message for me.”

  “You tell him, but talk fast.” Red hands the phone to Dante on the screen.

  “Are you here?” Dante asks.

  Just to hear his voice after all these months…And I’m seeing him speak to me. I have to get a video phone. Oh. And so does he. Hmm.

  “Christiana?”

  He said my name! I have fully left my body and am floating over Times Square. I’m jaywalking in the air!

  “Christiana?”

  Any lip-readers in Times Square would have “heard” my name! “Um, I’m not there yet, Dante. I should be there soon. I’m watching you talking to me on the big screen in Times Square.” I notice a man leaning in toward my phone. “You’re, um, huge,” I whisper.

  The eavesdropper leans even closer, and I back away.

  “Good!” Dante says. “Thank you for sending me your picture. Did you catch anything that day?”

  “No.” I’m in Times Square talking about fishing with a boxer. Only in America. “Red Hook fish don’t attack like Canadian smallmouth. You have any luck in Virginia?”

  “Nothing like what you caught.”

  My eavesdropper is getting even closer. I step completely away from him and stand close to the Marquis. “I just wanted to say good luck.”

  “Grazie. I read the Times this morning. Saggia. Finally, I say to myself, an honest writer with heart.”

  “Grazie.” Whoo. I’m starting to sweat. “Keep jabbing, okay?”

  “I will. Ciao.” He hands the phone to Red and makes a fist with his left hand, flexing his fingers, and smiling directly…at me. Okay, he’s smiling at thousands of other people in Times Square and millions of people around the world, too, but…