by Shay Savage
I don’t know what to think about the encounter. There is something else going on besides a simple affair. Maybe it’s just that; it isn’t a simple affair. It’s a complicated one. Maybe he’s in love with this Felisa woman. Maybe she returns his feelings.
I decide I’m going to have to do a little more investigating.
Jonathan is waiting outside, but instead of beer, he insists on taking me car shopping. I start to argue that the Volvo would be just fine as soon as I replace the battery, but he’s not interested in my arguments. He also hates Volvos and has been giving me shit about it since I got back to Chicago.
Jonathan pulls into a little place that’s known in the community to have a lot of hot cars. It’s one of Rinaldo’s businesses, though a small one, and a lot of his people shop here. There’s a collection of sports cars and high-end sedans out front. Most of them are pretty new, and all purchases include a VIN that can’t be traced. The paperwork is just enough to make your registration look legal if you get pulled over, and all transactions are done in cash.
“I don’t really need another car.” I get out of Jonathan’s pickup and drop to the ground. The snow has been plowed off to the side, but it’s still a little icy in places.
“That piece of crap you scrounged up has to go,” Jonathan tells me. “I don’t know why you even let yourself be seen in it.”
“I try not to let myself be seen at all.”
“Well, that shit only works from rooftops.”
We walk around a bit, but nothing really catches my eye. Jonathan keeps going on about cars not built in America, but I’m only half listening. I walk over to a deep black Beemer near the side of the building, but as soon as I get near it, my eyes are drawn to the parking lot behind the office.
In the back lot, there’s a line of old muscle cars. Most of them are pretty beat up, but there’s one that looks like it’s in good shape. Forgetting the Beemer completely, I walk around the office and to the vehicle that has captured my attention.
It’s a 1969 Camaro Z28. The finish is satin black with grey racing stripes down the center, and it has blacked-out windows. It’s decked out with fat back tires and gunmetal grey wheels. Like many boys, I’d fantasized about such cars as a kid.
“I thought you were all about German engineering,” Jonathan says as he walks up beside me.
“I like this one.”
Jonathan walks around the back and laughs.
“It’s definitely you!” He beams as he points to the back bumper. There’s a little bumper sticker on the back that says Soccer Mom on it.
I grip my hands into fists.
“What motherfucker would put a fucking bumper sticker on this beauty?”
“It came in that way.” A voice from behind me provides the answer.
I turn around and eye a short, tubby dude with greasy overalls and a baseball cap pulled down too low over his eyes.
“Whoever did it needs to be shot.” I’m actually seeing red. Putting any kind of bumper sticker on a car like this is grounds for dismemberment.
“It’ll come off with a little work,” Tubby says with a shrug. “If not, you can always get ‘er a new bumper—have it sanded and repainted to match.”
His nonchalance is pissing me off. He’s a car guy, obviously—doesn’t he even care that someone did this to a classic? How long has it been sitting here with that thing on it?
“I’m taking it.” I fold my arms across my chest and stare at the guy.
“I haven’t put it up for sale yet.”
“Well, get your fucking paperwork in order,” I tell him, “because I’m taking it home today.”
I refuse to even leave the lot to obtain the amount of cash the guy wants for the car. Jonathan pisses and moans about it but eventually agrees to go get the cash for me while the car dude mocks up some paperwork. I’ll pay Jonathan back later. By midafternoon, I’m driving my new baby off the lot.
I have the feeling I’m going to enjoy my spontaneous purchase.
Chapter 3—Family Ties
I’m in love.
With the Camaro.
I’m really not much of a car guy. I have always seen cars as a means of getting from one place to the other and not much more. I do admit to having been fascinated with old muscle cars in my youth, and apparently I never quite lost that attraction.
There’s really only one cliché way to describe my new baby—the engine roars when I step on the gas. It fucking roars like a lion that has just noticed his cage is open, and there is a pack of lionesses in heat just outside the door. I’ve scared the shit out of a couple of pedestrians, and I really don’t care.
I open it up, driving north on I-94, heading for the suburb of Wilmette. Rinaldo’s house is on the far north side of the area and is the epitome of extravagance. The place backs up to a golf course, part of an exclusive club that if I cared to try, I probably wouldn’t be allowed to join because I can’t come up with my lineage.
I slow down and park in the circular drive and head to the front door. The doorbell chimes around the porch in an elaborate melody.
“Evan! I haven’t seen you in ages!”
“Hello, Lele,” I say with a smile. She takes me into her ample arms and gives me a big hug.
Lele was once a dancer in one of Rinaldo’s clubs, and she turned more than a few heads while she was there. As soon as Rinaldo spotted her, he knew exactly what he wanted. She’s from “the old country,” as they say, speaks fluent Italian, and cooks like she was weaned on marinara sauce.
I can smell it as soon as I walk into the house.
“I hope you’re hungry,” she says as she leads me into the kitchen.
“If I had just finished a nine-course meal,” I tell her, “I would still be hungry for whatever you’re making.”
“Flatterer!” she says with a chuckle.
“Just telling the truth, ma’am.”
Lele doesn’t have the dancer’s body she once did, but she’s still a looker. Long, black hair and bright blue eyes give the impression she can see right through you. I would never be caught at it, but I’d be a liar if I were to say I have never checked out her ass.
“Don’t you ma’am me.” She wags her finger in my direction as she heads over to the stove to stir the sauce. “I’m not that old!”
That is certainly true. Rinaldo has about fifteen years on Lele.
“Is Naldo coming home as well?” Lele asks.
“He’s pretty tied up,” I tell her. “I honestly don’t know if he’ll make it or not.”
It’s a lie. I know he’s not coming.
We sit down to dinner. By the time it’s over, I’ve eaten four pieces of garlic bread along with her savory pasta, and I’m ready to burst. It doesn’t stop me from tearing into the homemade cannoli, though.
“I can’t begin to express how much I’ve missed this,” I tell her.
“Aw, dear!” Lele gushes. “I miss your company!”
“Now, who is the flatterer?” I laugh.
“Well, you must be getting a few home-cooked meals,” she says. “How is that pretty girl of yours?”
I’m not often caught off guard, but for the second time today, I’m at a loss for words. Eventually, I manage to smile at Lele.
“Wiser now,” I say with a shrug.
She understands the implication of my words and reaches over to pat my hand.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Lele says. “Esperienza, madre di scienza.”
“Experience is the only mother I’ve had,” I counter. I may not speak Italian, but I know enough to understand the phrase.
Lele smiles sadly for a moment, pats my hand once more, and stands to clear the table. I help without being asked, rinsing the plates and placing them in the dishwasher.
“Naldo will have to make do with leftovers again,” Lele remarks.
“Has he been away a lot lately?”
“Business,” Lele says with a dismissive wave. “I don’t want the details; I know this much.�
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“Has Felisa been helping with the business?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
Lele eyes me.
“Oh, is that why you’ve graced my doorstep?”
Again, I’m taken aback. I must be losing my touch because I can’t even manage to stammer out a reply. Lele laughs and shakes her head.
“Naldo needs his distractions,” she says. “Despite what time he returns, he always awakens in my bed.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I wasn’t trying to…” I’m not sure how to end the sentence.
“Oh, my Evan,” Lele says as she takes my hand in hers, “my heart warms to know you have concerns and would bring them to me. Not many men employed by Rinaldo would do such a thing, but you have nothing to worry about.”
“Where did she come from?” I pull at Lele’s arm until we are sitting next to each other on the couch. “I know she was in New York before Chicago.”
“She’s from Sicily, of course,” Lele tells me. “She’s my sister’s niece on her husband’s side. Her family goes back many generations. She finished her degree in psychology last spring, and my sister asked if I could find her some work here in the city.”
“As a psychologist?”
“Don’t you think Rinaldo could use someone with such skills in his organization?”
It’s not her psychology skills I think he’s interested in, but I don’t say that aloud.
“You think we’re that fucked up?” I realize my mistake as her eyes narrow at me, and I quickly correct myself. “Screwed up, that is.”
She raises her eyebrows at me.
“My apologies.” Her nod tells me I’m forgiven for my language.
“The work a man does can impact other areas of his life,” Lele says. “It is not an easy life you live, and it is hard on you and those close to you. Perhaps I brought her here too late for some, but I hope she will be able to help those who cross our path in the future.”
I think about it for a moment and wonder if she’s right. If Lia had someone to talk to about what I did, would she have been able to cope with the ramifications? I’m not so sure.
“People who aren’t in this life shouldn’t try to be a part of it,” I say.
“You may be right,” Lele says softly, “but sometimes we can’t help but wish they could be.”
“Because there’s no way out of it.”
“No, Evan dear, there isn’t. You just have to make the best of what you have.”
At first, I think she’s talking about me, but as I watch her fingers twist together, I know this is self-reflection on her part, and I don’t like it. Maybe she’s willing to put up with Rinaldo’s infidelity for the sake of peace, but that doesn’t make me any less pissed off about it. Despite her words, I know Lele feels hurt.
Betrayed.
If Rinaldo is my father figure, Lele is as close to a mother as I’ll ever have. Seeing her hiding her distress doesn’t sit well with me. If this situation continues, I might have to do something about it.
*****
Three weeks.
I’ve been driving up and down certain well-known streets of Chicago and searching for the perfect hooker for three weeks straight. I’ve taken seven of them back to my apartment and fucked three of them, but none of them knew what to think about me just wanting to sleep. The whole idea seemed to freak them out, as if my plan were to wait for them to doze off so I could slit their throats. I tried finding a random hook-up at a few of the bars and nightclubs around the Loop, but those didn’t work out for the same reason.
Tonight is no different. I’ve passed up three prospects for various shortcomings—flat asses, gum chewing, and probable drug use. I don’t need that kind of annoyance. If I were to wake up to find a chick banging heroin in my bathroom, I would probably kill her.
Ralph is hanging out at every street corner. Sometimes he points out one of the girls. Mostly, he annoys me. I wish he would just sit in the back seat or something so I could at least yell at him over the Camaro’s engine.
I’m about to give up on whores altogether when I drive down one last street. There are three girls on the corner. There’s no pimp in sight, but I’m sure there’s one close by. There always is. I recognize one of the whores as Loretta, the girl I took home the previous week. Dark-skinned and tall, she wouldn’t have anything to do with just sleeping in my bed. She left without even being paid.
One of the others is small and blonde. She looks more like a prepubescent boy than a woman and does nothing for me physically. I doubt she’s even eighteen yet. The third catches my attention. She has long legs and light brown hair that reaches almost to her rounded ass. She’s wearing tights under her short skirt and a jacket open enough that I can see her cleavage. I’m somewhat impressed that she doesn’t seem as willing to freeze her ass off like the others appear to be.
Loretta walks up to the window of my car as I pull over. As soon as she looks in, she shakes her head.
“No way,” she says as she places her hands on her hips. “I ain’t playin’ your games!”
“I want to talk to her.” I point to the one with the really long hair.
“Fine with me,” Loretta says as she steps away from the window. She calls out to the other girls and motions to them. “He wants Alina.”
I take note of the long-haired girl’s name, hoping I have enough cognitive function to commit it to memory. She walks up to the edge of my car, then looks over her shoulder at her comrades before leaning over and looking through the window at me.
“What are you looking for?” she asks.
“All night,” I tell her. “I’ll bring you back here in the morning.”
Alina looks over to Loretta, who turns her head to one side and raises her hands in a gesture of surrender. Alina examines the car for a moment before looking back inside at me.
Her eyes are bright blue. I stare straight into them while she contemplates. If her hair were darker, she would look a lot like Lele did in her younger years. A moment later, she nods over to the group and tosses her purse up over her shoulder. She opens the door and slides into the passenger seat. When she settles, she runs her hands over her skirt to straighten it before reaching back to find her seat belt.
“I’m Evan,” I tell her as I pull back into traffic.
“Alina,” she responds quietly.
I merge onto I-90 and then catch the Stevenson to make my way north to Lake Shore Drive, passing Soldier’s Field and all the museums. As I slow down to turn onto Wacker, she speaks.
“Would you mind if we stop at a drugstore?”
“I have condoms,” I tell her.
She licks her lips quickly and glances up at me.
“That’s good to know but not for that. I just want to grab a couple of things.”
“Okay with me.” I pull over at the next corner and park next to the sidewalk. “You need help?”
“No, that’s all right,” she says as she opens the car door. “I’ll only be a minute.”
When she returns, she’s shoving a small plastic bag into her purse. I half wonder if she’s bought a can of mace or something. I’ve dealt with far worse, and such tactics would never stop me if I were planning something more devious than sleeping and fucking. I consider asking her what she’s bought but decide against it. It doesn’t matter, and I don’t really care.
“All good?” I ask.
“Yes.” She runs her hands over her skirt again as she sits. The motion draws my gaze to her legs, and I wish she wasn’t wearing those tights, practical or not. I can tell how nicely shaped her legs are, and they’d look especially good up over my shoulders.
I shove the car into reverse and back out of the parking spot. It’s late, and there isn’t much traffic on a Tuesday night, so it doesn’t take me long to get back on the street, and I’m loving the roar of the Camaro’s engine. There’s no more conversation until we reach my apartment. Even in the elevator, she barely looks at me. She keeps her eyes on the ground just in front of her and
occasionally licks her lips or grasps the strap of her purse but says nothing.
After we enter my apartment, she slides the jacket off her arms, and I hang it along with mine in the coat closet. Her arms are long and slender, and her skin is perfect. The lack of jacket reveals more of her ass, and I appreciate it as she moves away from me.
She walks to the kitchen and looks over the counter at the open living room and the view beyond but still doesn’t speak. I can’t decide if it’s unnerving or peaceful, so maybe it’s a little of both. I open the fridge and start to reach for the beer but grab a couple of bottles of water instead. I offer her one, and she takes it with a quiet thanks.
Alina looks around the apartment, taking in the sparse furniture and lack of décor. The place came fully furnished with a smattering of wall art, and I haven’t done anything with it since I moved in.
I give her a few moments to check things out before I take a breath and open my mouth.
“Look,” I say, starting my prepared speech, “I’m really kind of tired. It’s been a long day and all. I think I’d like to start just by getting some sleep. After that, you can earn your money. Consider it a night of relaxation or something.”
I smile at her, but she only looks at me sideways. The information doesn’t surprise her, and I know she must have heard something about me from Loretta. Whatever the whore had told Alina, she hadn’t been scared away.
Well, not yet.
“The bedroom’s this way.” I direct her to the hallway and the left-hand door. She takes in the room as I remove my watch, place it on the dresser, and begin to unbutton my shirt.
“Do you want me to get undressed?” Alina asks.
“Your choice.” I shrug off my shirt and shove it into the hamper. My dog tags clink against each other. I still don’t know why I’m wearing them, and I turn away from her to take them off and coil the chain next to my watch.
“Well, I don’t exactly have any pajamas on hand.”
I look up at her and see the hint of a smile on her face. With a shake of my head, I open up one of my dresser drawers to find a T-shirt.
“Will this do?” I ask as I toss it to her.
Alina catches the shirt easily and looks it over. It’s just a plain white one, but she smiles up at me anyway.
