“Of course you’re going to run. And campaigns are expensive. Even local ones. You’ll burn through your cash before you know it. But I’m going to be strong-arming every deep pocket on my donors’ lists to make sure you’re well financed. Good God, look at him. Preening like a smug little baronet,” she sneers, gesturing toward Kettleman, who’s holding the exhausted but gracious Humanitarian of the Year hostage. “If he can be a congressman we can get you elected senator.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
She stares him down, daring him to challenge her.
“One thing I can assure you, Michael, is that I never joke about politics. My husband and I don’t back losers. Look at yourself. The barber’s kid from the hardscrabble neighborhood. Football star. What did they call you at Princeton? The Godfather, wasn’t it? Phi Beta Kappa. Penn Law Review. Pugnacious prosecutor. Man of the people. Defender of our sacred way of life. With your raw material and those solid-citizen good looks, the District Attorney’s Office is just the beginning.”
“I think you’re overstating the appeal of my biography.”
“Do you? The world loves the story of a self-made man. They see you and believe they’re still living in the land of opportunity where every little boy can be President. You’re going to need a few lessons on working the room.” She laughs. “It will help that you’ll already be the incumbent by the time of the special election. You’ve got the face of an honest man. Better yet, a good-looking honest man. Perfect for television. But we’ll need to put you on a diet.”
“I’m in decent shape!” he protests, straightening his spine and sucking in his once trim but now softening gut.
“The camera puts on ten pounds.”
“You sound like you’re going to run my campaign.”
“No, I’m going to hire someone to run your campaign. A professional. I’ve already approached him. He’s balking at taking on a candidate for a local office, but he’ll listen to reason. My husband and I can be a very persuasive.”
He hopes Kit is out of eyesight as she fusses with his tie.
“There’s just something about you that brings out the maternal instincts. I should have grabbed you for myself in law school. You’ll always be my knight in shining armor, Michael. Those two animals would have killed me after they’d finished having their fun. Now come on. There are quite a few people here I want to introduce you to.”
APRIL 13, 2008
Michael has been assigned a place of honor at the table of senior-class athletes and their beaming fathers. Young Scalzo is the reigning alpha male of the season, the recipient of the Father Theodore Sullivan Award for outstanding scholar athlete, a worthy successor to Michael, Class of ’83, and every other alumnus of Matteo Ricci Preparatory Academy who once held the distinction of being honored as the year’s most accomplished graduate. Various cliques huddle together, stratified by age and the status assigned to them in the rigid hierarchy of an all-boys prep school. Michael fondly remembers the deference he was awarded during his final years at the Academy. He’s always known his own son won’t follow in his footsteps. Maybe some dramatic change will occur in the years before Danny is old enough to enter the freshman class. But Michael expects his son will continue to prefer the company of awkward comic book geeks and video game enthusiasts, boys who will pass through high school anonymously, waiting to distinguish themselves at some later stage of life. The best he can hope is that Danny doesn’t begin to take an unnatural interest in drama club or chorus, forcing his broken-hearted father to affirm his liberal politics by loudly proclaiming his support for the choices his son makes.
Faces he hasn’t seen for years seek him out to offer congratulations. Michael’s astonished that Kettleman’s move to Harrisburg and his own accession to acting District Attorney of Delaware County is a matter of public knowledge, since the formal announcement won’t be made until after the presidential primary. But the alumni of the Academy, both his own contemporaries and the succeeding generations who’ve been schooled in his legend, are well connected in the city and state governments. Their effusive enthusiasm over his accepting an interim position has the unintended effect of making him feel his life so far has disappointed their expectations. It’s a foregone conclusion in their minds that he’ll run for the office in the next election.
“You remember to mention us in your victory speech,” the Dean of Students says, prompting Michael to remind him they shouldn’t be getting ahead of themselves.
“Whatever you need just let me know. All you have to do is ask,” the president-elect of the Philadelphia Bar Association promises.
A Madison Avenue advertising executive with a national profile wants to kick around a few ideas for a campaign slogan. Gratis, of course.
The prizewinning journalist with a twice-weekly editorial column in the Inquirer is ready to go with an early endorsement as soon as Michael makes the formal announcement.
“I never understood why you retreated to the wilderness,” a two-term city councilman comments. “Never made any sense. I should have known you were thinking three steps ahead. It looks like it’s all paying off in spades.”
Michael just smiles, allowing the councilman, rumored to be the target of an ongoing grand jury investigation, to assume his life’s been scripted to a clever master plan. The truth is he’d decamped to the suburbs and a House with a Name after growing restless and frustrated with the endless vicious politicking and backstabbing among the would-be heirs to the throne of the District Attorney, a woman who clings to her office like a barnacle, promising that each successive campaign for election is her last, only to announce her intention to run yet again as the current term is coming to its end.
He’d seized an opportunity when she’d agreed to loan him to Kettleman to serve as a special prosecutor to avoid any question of a conflict of interest in the trial of a Delaware county commissioner on charges of bribery and influence peddling. He hadn’t needed much persuasion to accept Kettleman’s offer to be his Chief Deputy after winning the conviction. Kit was enthusiastic, grateful to be released from the bonds of the Philadelphia residency requirement and free to pursue her dream of finding a home like Sleepy Peter’s Quiet Nook. The work has been challenging and it’s deeply gratifying when justice is served. He’s convicted the spurned lover who’d murdered a popular high school guidance counselor, a sexual pervert who panicked and strangled a seven-year-old girl who resisted his attempts to molest her, and the gang leader who disposed of the bodies of his enemies with chain saws and gasoline. And, of course, his ultimate achievement was securing the death penalty for one of the killers of Carmine Torino. His experience in Philadelphia had soured him on the political maneuvers necessary to advance his career as a prosecutor, and he’s become complacent, too comfortable as an adjutant. Kettleman’s decision to decamp for Harrisburg has awakened the competitive beast that’s been in hibernation too many years.
The tinkle of flatware on water glasses summons the last malingerers to their tables. Men and their sons persevere through the blessing—heads bowed, hands clasped, stomachs rumbling—then grab their plates and storm the buffet table. Michael runs through his remarks one final time, tweaking here, tinkering there, while alumni and the current student body stuff their faces with scrambled eggs and breakfast meats. There’s a short list of minor recognitions before the main event on the printed program, the presentation of the Father Theodore Sullivan Award to the member of the class who best embodies the character and piety of Father Ted, that tough Irish street kid from the Philadelphia river wards, a champion middleweight pugilist who’d dedicated his fists to the service of Saint Ignatius Loyola.
Michael suspects Father Ted would have approved of the man he has become, believed him a worthy recipient of his eponymous award. He would have admired Michael’s commitment to public service, earning less than newly minted law school graduates at the major law firms. He would have applauded Michael’s refusal to cash in on his years of experience in the criminal jus
tice system by representing drug lords and insider traders. He would have encouraged Michael to stay the course while watching his peers on the Law Review rocket past him on their career trajectories, compiling biographies that will earn them an obituary in the New York Times or, at least, the Philadelphia Inquirer.
Fuck Father Ted and modest ambitions. Of course he’s going to run in the next election. The Hamlet act is getting a little shopworn. His wife, who has always sworn she wouldn’t care if he chucked it all to pull espressos at Starbucks, can’t conceal her excitement (and, likely, relief) her husband is seeking his destiny after a long hiatus from the fast track. He and Kit will accept the Grossmans’ invitation to dinner after the primary to discuss the platform of his campaign. The days of needing to defer to Kettleman are about to end. His first decision after being sworn in as the interim will be to announce the Commonwealth has reconsidered its earlier decision to not request a new trial and will seek a capital conviction and the death penalty for Tommy Corcoran. Michael Rocco Gagliano receives a loud and enthusiastic round of applause as he approaches the mike, ready to shed the cloak of anonymity and fulfill the world’s expectations for the former Father Theodore Sullivan Award recipient, All-Catholic and All-Ivy, Penn Law Review Note Editor and Order of the Coif.
Frankie’s locked himself in the bathroom and is sitting on the toilet, trying to think. He remembers an episode of Law & Order about a murderer who’d confessed to a priest, seeking absolution. Dick Van Dyke was in it, but he can’t recall if he played the priest or the killer. No, it wasn’t Law & Order, it was Columbo and Dick Van Dyke was a murderer who pretended to be a priest, but he couldn’t fool a detective as clever as Peter Falk. Why is he thinking about old television shows when he needs to concentrate on the problem in the Jacuzzi? He knows a priest can’t turn him in if he confesses. That’s all that matters.
Jack will be here in a few hours. They have tickets for the touring production of Phantom of the Opera and the curtain is at three. Jack will be suspicious, start asking questions, if Frankie cancels at the last minute. He’d considered asking the priest to hear his confession when he arrives before realizing Jack will never let him get away with this. His penance won’t be two Our Fathers and three Hail Marys or even a rosary every day for a year. The price he’ll be asked to pay for God’s forgiveness will be a phone call to the police. A priest can absolve Frankie of his sin, that’s the job he’s paid to do, but he can’t acquit him of his crime. All Jack can do is send him to his executioner without a blemish on his immortal soul.
Frankie jumps off the commode and kneels beside the Jacuzzi. Mariano’s body is half submerged in the water. He can’t leave him here, where someone is bound to discover him. The bloating is ominous, proof that nature had begun to take its natural course of rot and decay. Frankie wants to pour a drink to bolster his courage, but he needs a clear head. He drains the cloudy water, cringing at the sight of Mariano lying in the empty tub. The boy’s face is unrecognizable, mottled with a blue-and-purple mask of livor mortis. Frankie grabs the body under the armpits and drags it from the Jacuzzi. He winces and chokes, sickened by the eerie sensation of Mariano’s skin sloughing off his torso. He looks away from the gash in Mariano’s skull and concentrates on dragging the surprisingly heavy body to the top of the staircase.
The occasion demands that Michael deliver a short speech extolling the virtues of an Academy education before bestowing the award he’d won a lifetime ago on the young football hero who will follow his path to Princeton. He scribbles a crude cross on a napkin that he places on the podium to remind himself he’s expected to bless himself at the end of his remarks. He leans into the microphone and pauses, his gaze sweeping across the room, a bit of theater to grab their attention. He begins softly, repeating the sacramentum every boy pledges when he joins the exclusive ranks of Academy scholars.
“Each man for the other and every man for Christ.”
He speaks nostalgically of his own years at the Academy and how the lessons he learned within these walls have shaped his life. He artfully balances humor and solemnity. He inspires without lecturing. He praises the accomplishments and character of young Mr. Scalzo and reminds him of his solemn obligation to honor the school by example, living his life according to the values he has been taught.
“The road ahead won’t always be smooth and easy. Difficult decisions will need to be made. But the sacred oath you swore when you entered this school as a boy four years ago and now leave as a man will help you find the strength and the faith to overcome any challenge you will encounter.
“Each man for the other and every man for Christ.”
Michael brings the room to its feet. His inspirational words have renewed the commitment of all within the sound of his voice to honor the Academy mission. One or two of them might even attempt a good deed or two before forgetting the stirring passion he feels at the moment. Michael calls the man of the hour and his father to the podium for the awarding of the trophy. According to time-honored tradition, he gives the bronzed image of a boxer standing on a stack of books to the young man’s father, who will then place it in the hands of his son. Michael can’t help but be touched by the unembarrassed tears of the grizzled cop as he embraces his boy. Officer Scalzo unexpectedly turns and wraps his thick arms around Michael, crushing him against his massive barrel chest.
“Your old man must have been as proud as I am when you were my Joey’s age,” he says when he’s finally able to speak.
“It was a day he remembered the rest of his life,” Michael assures him, ending the story there, not wanting to spoil the cop’s perfect afternoon.
He’d never had any intention of inviting Papa to the ceremony. But Matteo Ricci custom demanded the presence of the father of the honoree at the ceremony, and Sal Pinto, without telling Michael, confided in Frannie Merlino that Luigi’s son was going to receive the coveted award. When Michael descended the staircase the morning of the breakfast, Papa was waiting in the barbershop, dressed in his finest navy-blue suit and a starched white shirt, la bella figura, as dignified as one would expect of the father of such an exceptional young man. Frankie, who’d double-parked the car, blocking the traffic on Eighth Street, stood in the doorway, unsure of the next move.
“Your father is very hurt and disappointed,” Frannie Merlino announced haughtily. “But he’s willing to forgive you so you can both enjoy this special day.”
“Forgive me for what?” Michael snapped, intending the cutting edge of his voice.
“How can you be so cruel and disrespectful? This is how you show respect to the man who raised you?” she challenged, refusing to back down.
“You want to see the man who raised me? Look over there,” he spit, pointing at Frankie. “So shut your fucking mouth and stay out of it, you fucking cunt.”
Papa wasn’t a tall man and his arms were too short to deliver a stinging slap to his son’s face. The blow landed harmlessly on his chest. It wasn’t pain or even humiliation that enraged Michael, but the arrogance of a scrawny old man who believed he still had the power to make his youngest boy cower and yield. He grabbed his father by the collar and, lifting him off his feet, slammed him against the wall.
“Michael,” Frankie said, his voice calm and steady. “Michael, put him down. I left the car in the middle of the street and we’re going to be late.”
Frankie placed the trophy in his brother’s hands at the ceremony, just as Michael had wanted. Afterward, they went directly to the Giorgini household and Frankie huddled with Barbie’s father, the men speaking in low tones. He returned an hour later with a suitcase of Michael’s clothes, promising he and Jack Centafore would move the rest of his things later in the week. The Giorginis had offered a refuge, a place at their table and the bed of their son who had married and moved to a home of his own. Frankie sensed Michael was anxious and he lingered, sitting on the stoop beside his younger brother. There was a full moon and the street was awash with the dusty light of streetlamps. Michael finally s
tood and turned his back, facing the Giorginis’ door, not wanting Frankie to see the fear and uncertainty in his eyes. He would be a man soon and had never spent more than a handful of nights in his short life alone, without his brother sleeping in a bed an arm’s length away.
“I’m sorry, Frankie.”
“I love you, Mikey.”
“I love you too, Boo,” he said quietly, words he hadn’t spoken since he was a little boy, afraid of monsters in the dark, and disappeared into the house.
Frankie brokered a tentative peace between his father and brother. Michael finally crossed the threshold of Papa’s door on Christmas Day. They never spoke of his behavior the morning of the award ceremony. He returned occasionally, always at Frankie’s insistence. But he never slept again under the roof of the house at Eighth and Carpenter until his father was dead and in the ground.
BOOK THREE
sepoltura in mare
April 15–22, 2008
APRIL 15, 2008
“He was in here. This is where I found him.”
“What happened to him?”
Michael stares into the dry Jacuzzi. The idea of his gentle, harmless brother killing someone is preposterous. The poor kid must have overdosed. Or passed out in the tub and drowned. Or lost his footing on the slippery surface, falling on his head. But the ceramic lid doesn’t have magic powers and didn’t jump from the tank to the floor by itself. He suspects the coroner will find a fracture in the victim’s skull and bathwater in Mariano’s lungs.
“Why is there an open suitcase on the floor?” Michael asks.
“I was going to throw him out.”
“And he beat the crap out of you when you told him, right? You need to tell me now. Don’t give me some bullshit about tripping on the curb or your cab running a red light.”
The Boys from Eighth and Carpenter Page 28
