The Russos 1

by D. J. Manly

  "For Christ's sake," Frank growled, "give them a few minutes, will you? That's his brother."

  * * * * * *

  Marisa Carlyle glanced over at the woman sitting on the aisle seat in first class and shook her head. She leaned over to Sonia Descartes, who was busy taking out the plastic cups, and shook her head. "Poor woman, she hasn't stopped crying since we left Kennedy. I wonder if she's afraid to fly."

  Sonia took one look at the woman in question and whispered, "Don't you know who that is?"

  Marisa studied the woman. She was probably in her mid-fifties to early sixties. She looked European, Italian or Greek. She had beautiful jet-black hair with natural streaks of white coiled up into a bun on top of her head. Her skin was smooth with an olive tint. If she hadn't been dressed so simply in a cheap blue cotton dress with a plain black trench coat, she might have looked like a movie star, with her huge brown eyes.

  "No, who is she?" Marisa enquired.

  "She's the mother of the Russo brothers."

  Marisa gasped. "Really, how do you know?"

  "Saw her on the news a few hours ago," Sonia replied. "She was surrounded by press the minute she stepped out of the taxi in front of the airport. Poor woman, I felt sorry for her, really. I don't think she's used to it, you know?"

  Marisa shook her head and began to help Sonia with the refreshments.

  Sophia Russo clutched her purse on her lap and thought about moving over into the window seat, but she changed her mind as soon as she felt the plane dip a little and sway. The captain's voice came over the loud speaker explaining that they were flying at an altitude of thirty-seven hundred feet and experiencing a little turbulence. The seat belt light came on over her head, which didn't affect her. She had never taken hers off.

  She wasn't really afraid to fly, she just didn't care for it. When Pepi had called her at seven in the morning New York time to tell her what had happened, she never thought about the flight at all.

  He told her what time to be at the airport and that her paid ticket would be waiting for her. He had reserved three in a row so that she could be alone. He would have sent the private jet for her, but he told her that he wanted to keep it on standby just in case. In case of what, he never said.

  She clutched her purse again, the used tissue in her hand. Maybe the plane would crash. Maybe that would be her punishment. Drake, her beautiful, wonderful Drake, in jail. She couldn't stand it. She couldn't bear the thought of it, and each time she pictured him there, she began to cry. It wasn't his fault. He might have held the gun that had shot Johnny, but she had loaded it and if he died, she was responsible for killing her own son.

  She closed her eyes. Those reporters who had surrounded her at the airport earlier were like vultures. When her boys were on top, how kind they were. Now, all they wanted was dirt. They were there, ready to condemn her Drake without really knowing him, without really understanding anything about her boys. Hell, how could the press understand, when the boys themselves didn't even know?

  Poor Joe, her dear husband whom she lost only two years before, went to his grave never knowing.

  How could she tell them? She had always told herself that there were more reasons to keep silent than to tell them. She had seen the destruction, the pain that her lie had caused, and still she remained quiet. Drake's divorce, then Johnny's...Johnny's coke addiction, Drake's drinking. The broken lives. And her grandsons...one lost to her forever and the other, oh her precious Angel, who would certainly end up being affected by it some way or another.

  Perhaps it had been her own prejudices, her own Catholic brainwashing, which...no, that was no excuse. There had been a night over thirty-five years ago when being a Catholic had no meaning at all to her. In fact, she would have sold her soul to the devil in order to have him...but that was long ago. It was funny how religious belief could be tossed out or held near, depending on the circumstances. She had witnessed the strength of that love for years, and yet she still foolishly believed that she could fight forces that were much stronger than her lies.

  Sophia opened her eyes. The turbulence had passed for now. The seat belt light was off. One of those nice young stewards came by and offered her a beverage. She took a Diet Coke and began to sip it.

  Your children weren't supposed to die before you, Sophia mused. It was unnatural. She didn't want to die knowing that Johnny had gone and Drake was rotting in jail, and what of her Pepi? What would he do without his brothers, whom he loved so? For a second she prayed that she would never have to step off this plane in Los Angeles. Let me die here, God and face your judgment. Let me burn in eternal hell, if that's what I must do to repent. Just let me see my love again. I have been waiting all this time to join him, my beautiful love who never loved me, my love, who I would have gladly joined at the bottom of the ocean, if it hadn't been for the baby.

  She felt a sharp pain in her heart, and withdrew the nitro pump from her purse. She knew that dying now would simply be her way out of this. It was too easy.

  She had no choice but to step off this plane, to witness firsthand what her lie had done. She had to pick the right time and then put things right, whether she approved of what happened after that or not. Please, God, please let my boys be all right. I promise I will undo the lie even if I can't make up for the pain I've caused.

  Please let it all be all right and then...then I can die.

  * * * * * *

  Tony sat across from his father at the kitchen counter playing with his spaghetti. It was quarter to eight.

  Tom Newton had arrived home at his usual five-thirty after a fairly good day at the office to find his wife absent and his son glued to the television set. He got up now to grate some more parmesan cheese, even though neither he nor Tony had touched their pasta.

  Tony watched his Dad as he stood at the counter, his back turned, hunched over the cheese grater. He hadn't said more than a few words to him since he had come through the door, and what he did say sounded forced.

  Tony pushed his plate away. He wanted to scream at him, what in hell is wrong with you? Don't you care that Mom is missing?

  He was really beginning to worry about his mother now. He had called her store at six, and there was no answer. What Tony found even more bizarre was that when he told his father about Mom not being at the store and the way in which she'd left the house, he reacted as if there was nothing to be concerned about.

  God, his father should be frantically calling around trying to find out where Mom was instead of grating cheese that neither one of them would eat. It wasn't at all like Mom to take off like that. He knew that, and so did Dad.

  Tony watched him as he brought more cheese over to the table. He sat down and lifted a fork to his mouth, avoiding Tony's eyes.

  "Dad?" Tony tried to keep his voice steady. "Did you and Mom have a fight at lunch or something, or maybe last night?"

  Tom Newton breathed in deeply. "No, of course not. Tony," he sighed, "just stop, okay?" He stuck another forkful of spaghetti in his mouth, wiping his chin several times with a napkin.

  "Dad, Mom is not at the bookstore, so where can she be? She left the television on full blast and the door unlocked. Her car is still in---"

  His father threw down his fork. He ran a hand over his light brown hair. For the first time, Tony noticed how upset he was. "What in hell is wrong with you? Is this the Inquisition or something? Maybe she walked. She told me she wasn't getting enough exercise lately. Maybe she went shopping, or to visit someone!"

  Tony fell silent. Something in his father's voice told him to stop asking questions. He got up from the table, scraped his plate in the garbage can and put it into the dishwasher. He had a queasy feeling in his stomach. He heard his dad say that he was sorry as he left the kitchen. He didn't answer. He was shocked, really, by his father's attitude, and baffled. God, he hoped they weren't getting a divorce. Half his friends came from divorced families.

  He walked down the hall to his room and shut the door, switching on the telev
ision. There were new celebrities now, born from the Russo Brothers shooting. There was Ann Garcia, Drake Russo's housekeeper, being paid to tell the public what kind of meals she cooked for Drake, and how often Johnny came to eat there, and little pieces of nonsense about things guests left behind when they stayed over. Then there was a young guy named Mark Freeman who mowed the lawn and cut the shrubs. He said that Drake Russo got angry at him once for not cutting the lawn in a particular way. Who cared? Half of it was lies anyway.

  Tony switched off the set and called Sam. He wanted to get out of the house for a while. He was tired of watching the news. They had nothing to say anymore. The real news was Johnny's condition and Drake's fate, and as hard as they tried, the media was unable to get any more details about that. So now they were creating news where none existed. With his own personal drama unfolding right in his own house, the media circus and the fantasy that surrounded the Russo Brothers thing was taking a back seat.

  Sam answered on the third ring. He was also fed up with the news. They agreed to meet on the corner.

  While Tony was walking down the hallway toward the front door, he thought he heard something. He stopped for a second. He could have sworn he heard crying. His heartbeat grew louder in his chest. He crept silently around the corner and there was his dad, still sitting at the small spot at the kitchen counter. His head was lowered, and he was sobbing as if his very heart was breaking.

  Never in his life had Tony ever seen his father cry.

  He didn't know what to do. He wanted to ask him what was wrong, but somehow he figured he wasn't meant to see this. He wanted to hold him and tell him that what ever it was, it would be all right, but instead he silently continued on down the hallway.

  He quietly opened the front door, feeling like a thief in the night, and closed it softly behind him. He felt guilty, he felt stunned, sad. He didn't know what to do and he didn't know why. Tears stung his eyes.

  What is it? What is it?

  * * * * * *

  As he walked out down the front steps and onto the sidewalk, he was only certain of one thing; something had happened to his family today, and it left a hollow, empty feeling in the pit of his stomach like someone had died. He began to run and when he finally came face to face with Sam, waiting for him at the corner of the street, he blurted out breathlessly, "God, Sam, I think my parents are getting a divorce."

  Sam laughed at him. Sandra and Tom Newton were the last people on earth that would ever get divorced. They had everything. They were the perfect couple, in the perfect house with a dual car garage and affluent, fulfilling jobs. Tom Newton didn't dominate his wife, she wasn't a slave to her house and the good-natured and handsome pediatrician was not fooling around. Why would he? Sandra was beautiful, intelligent, financially independent and really nice on top of that.

  But Sam stopped laughing when he noticed that Tony was actually crying. "Tony?" Sam went to touch his shoulder in a compassionate way, but Tony jerked away from him. "Tony? Were you serious? You can't be serious. How do you know this? Did they tell you they were...?"

  "No!" Tony looked up at his friend, wiping his eyes on the back of his sleeve. "I just know. Something's wrong, Sam. Mom hasn't come home yet and she's not at the store and Sam...Dad...he...well, he acted like he knew where she was. He wasn't at all concerned, and then I found him crying tonight. I got so embarrassed. I've never seen Dad cry...never! I mean, when I was a kid, he used to tell me that real men did cry...that it was good for you to..." Tony broke off, and started walking.

  Sam broke into stride beside him. "Do you want to go looking for your mom?"

  Tony shook his head. "Maybe she's gone for good, but she left all her clothes...didn't pack a suitcase."

  "Could you be blowing this all out of proportion, Tony?" Sam inquired carefully.

  Tony stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and considered the possibility, and then shook his head.

  "No, something terrible has happened, and it happened while I was at school today. I'm scared, Sam, really scared."

  * * * * * *

  The damned line had been busy right up until six o'clock, and then of course the place was closed. She couldn't even get the answering machine to leave a message for him to call her back at the hotel, if he would even bother calling her back.

  She was beginning to get desperate. She had gone through almost a pack of cigarettes already and a quarter of a bottle of rye. She felt as if finally the day had come when her entire world was going to fall apart. It was funny how you could float through each day, living in your happy bubble of fantasy, and then it takes only something like this to threaten everything, to bring your world crashing down around you.

  She had to reach Frank. She had to know. Damn, she didn't have his private number anymore and even if she did, he had probably changed it half a dozen times or moved. She tried the L.A. operator. The number was unlisted, but of course she already knew that before she asked. She thought about calling the hospital, but was afraid who they would put on the line. She only wanted to talk to Frank. She was desperate enough to take a flight out to L.A. and camp on his doorstep, or wait for him at the studio.

  She had to reach him soon, or she would lose her mind.

  She lay down on the bed, her mind racing with all kinds of thoughts, crazy thoughts. She had to think rationally, relax, do things right. Maybe she should call Tom. Maybe he could...no, he was probably going through his own hell now. Tom, I'm sorry. Maybe we should have told him like you said, but you don't understand how he hurt me...how he...still she felt the pain.

  Whenever she looked at Tony's face, his eyes, something hurt deep inside. Damn you, damn them all. They were cursed, the whole damned bunch of them.

  She sat up and took a drink. Had to reach Frank.

  She had to reach him tonight. She paced the floor and laughed to herself, thinking of the stupid things people were saying about the Russo brothers on the television. Cooks talking about food, and gardeners going on about Drake's temper. Ha! She could tell some stories, she thought bitterly. She could tell those gossip papers and the American News Network some things that would make every other headline before it look like a children's tale. She'd be a millionaire, and she'd expose those people for what they really are.

  No. Never! Never would she allow her son to know those people, never.

  She knew what she had to do. She took out the phone directory and looked up the number for the airport. When someone answered, she told them, "I'd like to be booked on your first available flight out to L.A., doesn't matter which class."

  When she hung up, she dialed home. Tom answered on the second ring. "Sandy?" His voice sounded hurt, like a small child.

  "Tom. Listen to me." She knew she sounded drunk. "I'm going to L.A. to see Frank Carr because I have to know what's going to happen if Johnny dies. I'll fix everything. Just tell Tony I..."

  "Sandra." His voice was shaking. "Tony should know the truth, especially now. We're not going to be able to hide it anymore. I'm going to tell him."

  "Do it and I'll hate you forever. I'll kill you! I'll kill you!" She was shrieking.

  Tom hung up.

  She banged her fists against the wall until they were bloody. She banged until someone came to the door and told her to stop. She flung herself on the bed and sobbed. After a few minutes, she sat up. She had to think. Her flight was not until midnight. She had to go home and talk Tom out of doing what he threatened to do...God, if he hadn't already. He loved her. He'd listen to her.

  She washed her face, lit a cigarette and went down to the lobby. Several cabs were waiting outside. She paid her bill with her credit card. The clerk gave her a curious glance but took the card, asked for her signature and gave her a receipt.

  She left the receipt on the counter and walked outside. Climbing into the cab, Sandra gave her home address. "Hurry, please," she said softly, taking a drag of her cigarette. Her mouth was dry. She felt sick to her stomach.

  "There's no smoking in the cab, Mad
ame," the cabby said politely.

  "Fuck you."

  * * * * * *

  "How is Johnny? No one here will tell me anything?"

  Drake asked anxiously, looking from Pepi to Frank.

  The two officers stood stoically at the door while Drake sat across from Frank and his younger brother.

  "He's out of surgery," Pepi replied. "I don't know any more than that, really. Mac will call as soon as he..." He broke off. He was having a difficult time seeing his brother like this, so discouraged, so defeated, handcuffs on his wrists. Drake looked so small suddenly, even though he weighed one hundred and eighty pounds and stood six-foot-three.

  There was usually a gleam in his eyes, big beautiful eyes fringed with thick black lashes and the color of liquid chocolate, but now they looked kind of dead.

  "Pep, you okay?" Drake leaned forward in his chair. He knew Pepi was taking this really hard. He was in the middle, with one brother in the hospital and the other in prison. He knew he really didn't understand what had happened and that he desperately wanted him to explain.

  Pepi met his eyes. "Tell me that you didn't shoot Johnny, Drake! I don't understand what happened. I know you wouldn't shoot Johnny, but why did you confess? Why did you say....?" Pepi jumped up and paced around the room.

  Frank stood up. "Pep, calm down. You know Drake can't say anything until I get a lawyer here. Anything these cops hear can be used in evidence, can't it?" Frank looked over at the two officers at the door.

  "Yes, sir," they both replied in unison.

  "Let me get you a lawyer, Drake," Frank pleaded, opening his palms to him. "The DA didn't charge you today, but they're sure to..."

  "Get the lawyer," Drake nodded at him. He looked up at his younger brother who now stood at the side of the room, face in his hand. "And Frank," Drake lowered his voice, "take care of him, will you? Encourage him to get some sleep, eat something. He's going to collapse if he goes on like that."