Frankie pushes him away, pleading with him to calm down. Mariano’s inflamed by rejection, furious, his eyes wild. He’s screaming in Spanish, growing more and more agitated at his inability to make himself understood. Cursing, out of control, he punches Frankie in the face, then slams his hand on the case where Frankie displays Stevie’s hat, his most treasured possession. A jagged shard of shattered glass slashes his palm. Mariano is sure he’s bleeding to death and grabs Frankie by the shirt, sobbing. Frankie pushes him toward the sink and forces his hand under running water. It’s a nasty cut, deep and painful, but nothing serious, no arteries compromised. Still, it needs to be stitched and bandaged and he can’t drive to the hospital with a hysterical boy clinging to him. He doesn’t want to attract the attention of a curious cabbie. He’s going to have to call Jack and tell him not to panic, everything’s under control, but he needs a ride to the emergency room.
MARCH 18, 2008
He’s standing on a deserted platform, waiting for the train to arrive that will deliver him and Frankie to their half sister’s faraway home. Sal Pinto gave him strict orders to not move a muscle until he returns from taking a leak. The clanking motor of the escalator to the waiting room sputters and dies. He can hear Sal Pinto upstairs arguing that someone needs to open the security gate. His godson is alone down there . . . he’s just a little boy.
He shoves his hand in his pocket and touches his ticket as the train approaches the station. It wheezes to a complete stop and the doors to the passenger cars open. Frankie is standing inside, urging him to hurry. “Come on! Come on, Mikey! The train is about to leave the station!” But the suitcase is too heavy to lift. He grabs the handle and tries to drag it across the platform. Papa will be angry if he leaves it behind. It’s filled with change—quarters, dimes, nickels—he’s sending to his daughter. He begins to cry, not understanding why Frankie won’t get off the train and help. Frankie waves as he disappears behind the closing door.
He chases the train down the tracks, but the faster he runs, the farther it recedes into the smoky distance. He hears a shrill whistle behind him and feels a charging engine speeding toward him, bearing down and . . .
And then he awakes. Just as he always does at this same, exact point of his most frequent dream.
Kit’s lying on her back, her arm thrown across her eyes, breathing through her open mouth. He lifts the quilt and crawls out of bed, careful not to disturb her. She rolls onto her side and faces the wall, a notorious light sleeper. He reaches for the boxers he’d dropped on the floor and retreats again to the family room. He flops onto the sofa and picks up the remote. Those saucy little marionettes—the Dutch girl, the French can-can dancer, the Russian tsarina—will distract him from the helpless feeling he always awakens to after the dream. It’s after two when he finally dozes off, Pinocchio’s song, I’ve got no strings to hold me down, lulling him to sleep.
A priest comes in handy in a crisis. Jack sized up the situation quickly and bundled Frankie and the boy into the backseat, warning them to not get blood on the upholstery.
“Just let me do all the talking,” he insisted.
The triage nurses and crisis workers know Jack well. They’ve got his number on speed dial and he never complains or hesitates when the hospital calls at all hours, day and night, seeking an ordained priest to give the sacraments to a gunshot wound or vehicular manslaughter or accidental overdose. The attending physicians are polite, deferential even, when Jack balks at the suggestion Mariano be admitted for observation after they stitch and bandage the laceration. The staff is reluctant to discharge the boy until he starts coming down from whatever high he’s riding, but Jack assures them Mariano is being released to capable hands. But a quick escape is impossible. The registration clerk reminds them Methodist Hospital is entitled to compensation for its services and asks if Mariano is uninsured. Jack instructs the boy to sign whatever’s thrust in front of him, knowing full well the signature’s not worth the paper it’s written on, then hustles him out the door. Jack’s speaking in Spanish so Frankie has no idea what’s being said, but Mariano is nodding his head, acquiescing to all conditions and expectations being established.
“¿Comprende?”
Jack’s voice is quiet, but the tone is stern, warning of the unpleasant consequences of anything less than an unconditional surrender.
“Good boy . . .” he says, opening the back door for Mariano to meekly crawl into the backseat.
“I really think you ought to let them take a look at you,” Jack says, making one last futile effort to persuade Frankie to allow the ED to treat the fresh bruise on his face. “Jesus Christ, Frankie. You’re going to have one hell of a black eye in the morning. And your nose is starting to swell. It could be broken. Give me one good reason to not call the feds to haul this tripped-out little shit’s ass back to Mexico,” he sighs, completely exasperated as he settles behind the wheel. “I need a cigarette. There’s a pack in the glove compartment.”
“But you promised you’d quit!”
“You hungry?” Jack asks, taking a long drag on a Marlboro Light as he turns the key in the ignition. “I’m starved.”
“What about him? Shouldn’t we get him home?”
“Why? You think you’re going to tuck him in and he’s going to fall asleep? You’ll be lucky if he’s ready to crash by sundown tonight.”
There are plenty of available booths at the diner. A few all-night stragglers linger at the counter, staring into their coffee cups. The waitress is doing double duty as the cashier. The morning shift won’t arrive for another hour when the earliest of risers, delivery truck drivers and the loading-dock workers at the food distribution center, wander in for coffee and breakfast. Jack grabs Mariano by the wrist when he tries to get up from the table.
“Don’t even think about it. Sit down and wait for your food,” he snaps. “What am I missing here? What is the attraction of this kid?” he asks, turning his attention to Frankie. “Can’t you find someone more suitable to satisfy your needs? Go back to paying for it, if you have to. I’ll absolve you at confession.”
“It’s not what you think,” Frankie protests weakly.
The waitress sets a Western omelet in front of him. He’s got no appetite. Why did he order it? But Jack rips into a heaping plate of scrambled eggs, sausage, and hash browns, and Mariano attacks a grilled cheese like he’s been deprived of nutrition for a month.
“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” Jack challenges him.
“I know it’s nothing good.”
“You need to throw him out and change the locks. Today.”
Mariano seems almost cheerful, chomping on his greasy sandwich, his cheeks stuffed with bread and melted American cheese.
“You don’t know him. He’s a nice boy. Very gentle, most of the time,” Frankie says, suppressing the urge to reach across the table and caress Mariano’s bandaged hand.
“Yeah, he seems like a real sweetheart,” Jack says sarcastically.
Frankie feels like being defiant and declaring that Mariano is, in fact, a sweetheart, his sweetheart, but he knows it’s wise to be conciliatory under the circumstances.
“He must be sick. A virus or something.”
“Is that what they’re calling methamphetamine these days? A virus?”
Mariano’s English must be returning quickly, as he thinks this last remark is terribly funny. His snaggle-toothed smile still breaks Frankie’s heart. It’s costing a king’s ransom for multiple oral surgeries and orthodontia to repair the damage a childhood cursed by poverty has done to his mouth. Jack, though, is unsympathetic and snaps at the boy, his tone harsh and commanding, the angry voice of the priest reducing Mariano to tears. The boy nods his head, chastened and humble, struggling to find the English words to express his contrition.
“I am very sorry, Frankie, to hurt you and promise to not be bad again.”
“I know you are,” Frankie says, forgiving him once more.
But the instinct for self-pre
servation is strong. He excuses himself, saying he needs to pee, and, alone in the men’s room, dials the immigration lawyer’s office and leaves a message with the answering service canceling the appointment Michael had scheduled for eleven this morning.
MARCH 19, 2008
He wants to grab a New York Post for the flight, but there’s a Tumi roller carry-on blocking the narrow path between the newspaper stacks and the rack of bagged candies and travel-size personal items.
“Pardon me, I’d like to get a paper,” Michael says to the fellow flipping through a copy of Muscle & Fitness.
The man looks up from his magazine and stares him down.
“That way,” he says, refusing to step aside, flipping his finger to wave Michael around the Twizzlers and root-beer barrels and FDA-approved three-ounce bottles of Scope.
The goddamn paper would be two steps from where Michael’s standing if this asshole’s precious luggage weren’t in his way. His antagonist’s red skullcap is pulled over his ears and the tinted lenses in his aviator frames are intended to intimidate. The thin line of scar tissue below his left eye is definitely menacing. He’s not a large man or a young one, but he’s a solidly built brother and his muscles are taut, coiled. He could be a former prizefighter or a military veteran injured in the line of duty. He’s well dressed, wearing a cashmere turtleneck and a Burberry scarf. But the snarl is pure street.
“This isn’t supposed to be an obstacle course,” Michael says as he grabs the handle of the carry-on and pushes it to the side, refusing to let this motherfucker emasculate him. The man challenges him, seething. He doesn’t bother to lower his voice, fully aware that the staff is consciously looking away, feigning ignorance of the confrontation.
“You shut your fucking mouth, white boy. Now get your fucking paper and get out of my fucking face.”
This brightly lit, climate-controlled airport terminal, temperatures and noise levels carefully modulated, is no different from a bus depot in the shittiest part of town. Michael’s enraged by the man’s threats and frustrated by his complete and total impotence. What could this piece of shit do to hurt him? The bastard’s been cleared by airport security. Metal detectors and X-ray cameras have confirmed there’s no risk of him pulling a blade or a gun. The asshole’s only weapons are his bare fists. But Michael’s elevated position on the feeding chain, despite its many advantages, can be a prison, too, rendering him incapable of acting. He’s restrained by the fear his life will come crashing down around him if he’s caught up in an altercation, a public disturbance, charged with assault and battery. A golden opportunity to ascend to the office of the District Attorney of Delaware County will have been squandered. The gridiron warrior he once was, all muscle and grit, adrenaline and sweat, pure aggression, would have torn that prick to pieces. What happened to the fearless kid who went face-to-face with gruesome middle guards twice his size, grinding them into the mud of the field, taunting the vanquished with savage words and scorching profanities after he’d knocked them flat on their asses, his perspiration dripping in their faces?
Success has civilized him, tamed him, turned the raging beast into a docile house pet. He can only take some small satisfaction in knowing this motherfucker would get his skull smashed in if he tried this bullshit on an Italian block in South Philadelphia. Even today. In 2008. The girl at the register looks down at the counter when Michael hands her the price of the paper. The security guard stares at some vanishing point at the far side of the newsstand. Michael slinks away, defeated, his rage defusing, his fury receding, feeling nothing but the lingering sting of humiliation. All he wants is for this fucking flight to be over, to be home at the Nook, trying to get a rare eight hours of sleep. The past few days have been especially grueling. He and Kit had stayed late at the Clinton fund-raiser Monday night, not getting back to Wayne until ten, and he had a restless night, up and down, before the alarm rang at five thirty.
This trip was supposed to be some sort of reward. In Steven Kettleman’s mind, an opportunity to represent him at the biannual meeting of the Standards Committee of the ABA Criminal Justice Section is a rare honor, an opportunity to bask in reflected glory. Michael, of course, understands Kettleman’s real purpose is to ensure a dissenting voice is present in the event one of the District Attorney’s equally narcissistic rivals attempts a power play in his absence. He’d scheduled a late-afternoon flight to Boston yesterday because he’d agreed to meet his brother and the immigration attorney in the morning, only to have Frankie cancel as Michael was about to leave for the lawyer’s office. Then his four thirty departure was delayed due to weather conditions at Logan and he didn’t check into his hotel until after eleven. He was awakened this morning by a call from Frankie. Sal Pinto had died of congestive heart failure during the night and his widow is burying him Thursday morning before the beginning of the Easter Triduum. The viewing begins at seven this evening, and Michael, his godson, is expected to be present. The first available flight doesn’t depart until three thirty.
He’s stranded inside the terminal, having been forced to arrive hours in advance. Federal marshals have peered at every vial of liquid in his Ziploc bag of toiletries, making his preferred brand of toothpaste and deodorant public knowledge and forcing him to put his sweaty shoes in a basket and pad through the metal detector in his stocking feet. It’s two in the afternoon, not too early for a beer while he waits for his flight to be called. The friendly bartender, a short, wiry black guy with a happy gap between his two front teeth, a dead ringer for the reigning MVP, is keeping an eye on the television broadcast of a spring training game being played under a brilliant Florida sun. Michael flips through his Post, scanning the headlines. Rev’s Rants Shake Voters’ Obama Faith. The preacher’s inflammatory comments enrage the hysterical columnists, who accuse the candidate of being an accomplice to treason. The man sitting next to Michael abruptly stands and walks away, leaving his copy of USA Today on the bar. According to the national weather map, last night’s New England storms are moving south. But it’s just been announced Michael’s flight is boarding on time and he’s being summoned to the gate. God once parted the Red Sea for Moses to deliver His Chosen People from Egypt and now He’s thoughtfully holding severe weather conditions at bay until the landing gear of Michael’s plane safely touches the tarmac at Philadelphia International Airport.
Frankie’s arches are killing him and he’s got a headache that feels like a shiv being driven between his eyes. He’s going to scream if he has to explain his black eye and swollen nose to one more person. He’s running on empty at this point. He’d spent the entire day Tuesday racing between the salon and the bedroom, keeping Mariano under close observation, one ear tuned for any telltale signs of escape, like footsteps on the back staircase or the slamming of the door to the house’s private entrance. He’d given Mariano two Ambien in mid-afternoon and had taken one himself after a long soak in the sunken tub in the master bath at the end of his workday. He was dead to the world when his cell phone rang long after midnight. It was Jack, calling from Methodist Hospital to tell him Sal Pinto had passed, his body on its way to the Casano Funeral Home.
Frankie had intended to stay at the viewing just long enough to pay his respects—after all, Sal Pinto wasn’t his godfather and he’s sacrificing a half day of revenue to attend tomorrow’s funeral. But it’s almost eight thirty and his brother has yet to arrive. Mikey’s phone is turned off, meaning he must be stranded mid-flight, and Frankie frets that heavy thunderstorms arriving from the north are causing havoc with his brother’s travel plans, causing re-routing and delays. He can’t leave now, abandoning the widow and her daughters. It’s a disgrace, this pitiful showing, a sign of a lack of respect. Even Sal Pinto’s sons-in-law have found better things to do this evening, and his sullen grandchildren look resentful at having to sacrifice American Idol to mourn an unloved old man.
“You sure he’s gonna make it tomorrow, Frankie?” the widow asks.
“Nothing in the world could keep hi
m away, I swear,” he promises, the bitter aftertaste of a bald-faced lie lingering on his tongue. His brother has no fond feelings for his godfather. In fact, Frankie was surprised he’d agreed to cut short his trip and fly back from Boston without needing to be begged.
“Well, you can say a few words, can’t you? Just in case.”
The thought of preparing a eulogy feels like a bucket of sand being dumped over his head. All he wants to do is crawl into bed and sleep until morning. He’s nervous, not knowing what to expect when he gets home. He’d told Mariano he’d be back an hour and a half ago. Black thoughts, a sense of dread, a constant fear of the unpredictable, have begun to seep into his feelings for the boy.
Jack sweeps into the funeral home shortly before the end of viewing hours. The widow and her daughters have been waiting patiently for the priest to arrive to lead the rosary at the open casket.
“Where are you going, Frankie?” Jack asks as he drapes his stole around his neck.
“I’m exhausted, Jack. I need to get some sleep before tomorrow morning.”
“I really think your nose may be broken. What the hell was I thinking when I let you walk out of that hospital without being looked at? I’m taking you back to the ER for an X-ray as soon as we’re done here.”
“I’m all right. Just drop it for now. Please.”
The Boys from Eighth and Carpenter Page 19
