Accidental Mobster (5 page)

He pauses, and a moment of uncomfortable silence hangs in the muggy air. “You didn't bring anyone with you, did you?”

I can't hear Vince respond, but I figure that Vince must have said no, because Gino says nothing more than “Get outta here!” before tramping angrily back into the restaurant. I remain motionless next to the SUV until Vince comes around the side. He seems relieved to see me. “Good move,” Vince says. “If he had known you were here with me, he would have killed me!”

Vince lumbers back to the other side of the Lexus and climbs into the driver's seat. I get in on my side and wait silently as long as I can help it. Then, when I realize that we aren't going anywhere, I ask, “What is this place?”

Vince turns his head toward me, but his eyes are looking through me, glazed. Vince seems stunned, as though he hadn't expected his dad to react as he did.

“Has your dad ever been like that? You know, before?”

Vince finally seems to come out of his trance, his eyes narrowing as they focus on my face. “Look, Danny. I should never have come here. Let's go.”

He puts the Lexus in reverse and backs out quickly, the dirt of the parking lot swirling up and covering the hood of the SUV. The vehicle jerks back and then forward as Vince switches gears and roars away from the restaurant. However, if I thought we were headed back to the house, I was wrong. A few blocks down, Vince pulls up in front of another shabby building with the words “Mike's Movies” on the sign. He says nothing to me this time; he just exits the vehicle and hustles into the store. I stay put for a moment, but I already know I won't last long in this heat. I can only imagine what kind of movie Vince has gone into the store to get, but I think it's probably not something Ronnie would approve of. Two minutes later, just as I am about to get out of the SUV again, Vince exits the store, a DVD case in his left hand and a Snickers bar in his right. He climbs back into the SUV without a word and tosses the movie to me.

“
Goodfellas
?” I ask.

“It's the best movie ever made.”

I shake my head doubtfully. “Yeah—I don't agree. In fact, I actually think it's kind of dumb.”

Vince glares at me. “Are you kidding me?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Then you're stupid. This movie is an absolute classic. As far as Mafia movies go, there's nothing like it.”

“Okay, if you're into the
Mafia
,” I agree. “Is that why you like it? Organized crime and all that nonsense?”

“Nonsense!” Vince yells, speeding up and allowing the SUV to swerve a little out of control. I grip the leather of my seat, my palms layered in sweat.

“No, not nonsense! I just meant, you know, some people are really into mob stuff!” I say quickly, keeping my voice calm.

Vince slows the SUV, but I can see that he is steamed.

“Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disrespect your movie,” I say.

“It's just that it, well—it always motivates me,” he answers, his body language telling me I have quickly made his bad mood worse.

I lean back in the seat, not sure what to say after Vince's blowup. I am ready to get back to the house and shower away all this sweat. I search for a new topic. “Hey, Vince, you play sports?”

Vince shakes his head, and his eyes take on that strange vacancy I saw at the diner. “No. I'm just not very good at anything. My dad hates that I don't.”

I definitely don't know what to say now, so I say nothing. I'm sure we are headed back to the house, but a few minutes later, my hopes are crushed again. Vince is pulling into a used-car lot that sits at the entrance to the highway. At least, I assume it is a used-car lot, because bright green price stickers have been placed on the windshields of the army of shiny cars covering the large dirt lot. However, no sign indicates any dealership name. Perhaps the classic Corvettes or the sleek silver Porsche should have caught my eyes first, but it is actually a girl that grabs my attention as Vince parks the SUV. She looks to be in her mid-teens, and she is stretched out on her stomach on a blanket she has placed on the hood of a gleaming Cadillac. She is wearing a red and white striped bikini and has large bulky sunglasses sitting atop her head of straight blond hair. As she concentrates on a glossy magazine, her legs swing back and forth casually behind her.

I am still staring at her as Vince puts the SUV in park and hops out, slamming the door without a single word to me. Curious about the sunbathing girl, I clamber after Vince. Vince goes right up to her, and she lazily lifts her eyes when he gives an abrupt cough. Her eyes are brown, big, and expressive, and at the moment, those eyes are expressing that she is not happy to see Vince.

Vince glares back at her. “Where's your dad?”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, I don't know. Earning a living. Selling cars, maybe?” she answers sarcastically. She glances at me, her expression annoyed. She appraises me quickly, and her eyes narrow on my stitches. “Who's this? One of your bullies-in-training? Does he help you beat up the other little kids on the playground? Or do you send him off to buy your Snickers for you?”

Vince grunts in irritation and stuffs his half-empty candy wrapper in his pocket. “You're such a snot, Portia. I'm not a bully. And I barely know this kid. My dad took him in for a few days. Family crap or something.”

I'm surprised by the way Vince has quickly shrugged off any connection with me after being somewhat friendly through the morning. I don't care to be called a “kid,” and more importantly, I don't want to discuss my family problems with a beautiful girl I've just met.

“Hi,” I say, stepping forward and extending my hand. “I'm Danny. I'm just staying with the Vigliottis for a few days.” I'm pleasantly surprised to see Portia's scowl quickly turn to a smile.

“Hi, Danny. It's nice to meet you. I'm sorry you have to stay with Vince. I try to have as little contact with him as possible.” She shoots another annoyed look at Vince, whose face flushes in irritation.

“You only wish you could have
contact
with me, Portia,” Vince snaps. “Too bad you're a dorky freshman. As a junior, I shouldn't even be seen talking to you!” And with that, Vince stalks away.

Portia smiles as he marches toward the little brick building sitting in the middle of the lot, and then she turns her attention back to me. “He is such a jerk. I've got no time for his sulkiness. And the insults—he is
such
a charmer.”

I can't help but smile. Portia is being nice to me
and
she is pretty. This is going down as a very good day for me. “I don't know him very well, but I'd say he
is
a little moody,” I add helpfully.

She laughs—not a high-pitched teenage girl giggle, but a full, hearty laugh. “Moody?” she gasps. “Oh, that's an understatement! You definitely haven't spent much time with him. Lucky
you
! My family has known his family my whole life. And it has been such torture to put up with him.” She finally settles down, and her face turns serious. Her large brown eyes search my face. “What happened to your head?”

I instinctively cover my stitches with my hand. “Nothing. Just an accident.”

She nods, almost as though she has connected the pieces in her head. “I'm sorry about your family stuff.”

I shake my head quickly. “It's not a big deal. Vince shouldn't have said anything.”

Portia doesn't look away, and I feel she is reading me. I'm suddenly uncomfortable, as though she were invading my privacy. “I can tell you're hurting, Danny,” she says softly.

“You don't have to act tough. I'm
surrounded
by tough.”

I stare back at her, wanting to say more, but knowing I cannot confide in someone who is still a stranger, striped bikini or not. “Thanks, but it's okay. I'm fine.”

She nods again, slipping off the Cadillac and stepping into rhinestone-covered flip-flops. She is standing extremely close to me, and I inhale deeply to keep my breathing steady. My mind is screaming at me—
don't say or do anything stupid!

Portia steps in front of me, her eyes a few inches below mine. She grins. “You're cute, Danny. Don't hang out with Vince too much. You seem nice, and he might be a bad influence.”

I have the urge to hug her. Her no-nonsense personality is so attractive. Most of the girls I know have only about half the confidence of the blonde standing in front of me. I want to say something smooth, something that will match her confidence. I clear my throat, then say,

“Portia? What a great name. It's like the car?”

I immediately turn red, knowing how completely stupid that comment sounded. Portia begins to laugh so hard she has to hug her arms to her stomach. “Oh, Danny, you
are
cute. Like the car? I must be making you nervous! I'm sorry!”

She can't stop laughing, and I rake my mind for a quick response, something to save my shredded dignity. But the moment is lost to the sound of yelling coming from the far corner of the lot.

Vince obviously has not found what or whom he was looking for inside the brick building, because he is now facing off with two teenage boys. Portia sucks in a deep breath and takes off running toward the group, and I run after her, the words “It's like the car” still ringing shamefully in my ears.

One of the boys pushes Vince as Portia and I run within earshot. Vince rushes the other teenager, but he stops when Portia screams “No!” Everyone turns to look at her. She stops running, plants her hands on her hips, and glares at the group of boys before her. “That's enough! You can't fight on my dad's lot!”

“Oh, really?” The boy who pushed Vince is sneering at Portia, looking at her in a way that makes me angry. The boy isn't quite as burly as Vince, but he definitely outsizes me by an inch or two in height and at least ten pounds. He is dark, like Vince, but where Vince has a round face, this boy's face is narrow, his eyes large and his nose sharp. His buddy is similar in looks, if not in body build; he is small, but almost as wide as he is tall, built like a torpedo. The first teenager glances at me and then quickly smirks. “Who's the Frankenstein, Portia?”

I again put my hand to my stitched forehead, and I feel my heart begin to beat with anticipation, just as it always does before a wrestling match. I can sense the conflict, and I know a fight is likely, if not unavoidable. Even the size of this other teenager and his bulky friend are not enough to make me stand down. If only Reggie were here to help me, because I have no idea how strong a fighter Vince is or whether I can trust him to back me up.

“No! All of you, stop it! I know what you're going to do! Don't make me get my dad!”

Portia's strong voice holds a note of panic. If I could stop the fight, I would be her hero (or at least she might still pay attention to me), but I am struggling with my urge to demonstrate my skills to this arrogant kid, to Vince, and, most importantly, to the pretty blonde standing next to me.

I feel my inner conscience take over (or is it the striped bikini—I don't know for sure).

“All right, let's all calm down. Nobody wants any trouble here,” I say heroically. Vince and the other teenage boys are all staring at me in disgust. Of course, they all want trouble. Heck, I want trouble too. Portia is the only one looking for a peaceful end to this face off. My arms tingle with the thought of rushing the smirking teenager. I never have a chance to make a decision. The other teenager rushes me first, closing the distance between us in seconds. I react instinctively, but late. Crouching, I duck and grab at the other teen's knees, attempting a double-leg takedown. The teen's surprise attack and momentum allows him to escape my grab. He stumbles several steps past me, but he quickly regains his balance. The fight is on.

Vince immediately begins swinging at the smaller boy, and I feel a tinge of resentment that burly Vince is taking on the smaller of our two opponents. But I don't have time to think about whether the fight is fair. The other teen is coming at me once more; I jump back from his swinging fists, ducking one punch before sending a blow to his stomach.

“Stop it!” Portia screams. But no one pays her any attention, and I am certain that I am the only one who feels even the slightest hint of guilt.

The other teen comes forward again and flings his fist with his whole body at my jaw, but this kid's haymaker gives me the advantage. As he goes off balance from the momentum of his missed swing, I dip to the side and throw my arms around his stomach, pick him up off his feet, and use my leg to sweep his legs out from underneath him. The move is perfect except for his last desperate attempt to go down fighting. He headbutts me, slamming the back of his skull into my forehead, and unfortunately, the gash on my head. I drop my opponent from high in the air and grab my forehead. My head is throbbing wildly, but until I see the blood on the back of the other kid's head, I don't realize that my stitches have been ripped open. The other teenager is sputtering, having lost his breath in the fall. I wait, debating whether I should end the fight now with a couple more punches.

“Break it up! Now!” A hand grabs my shirt collar, almost lifting me completely off my feet. I catch my balance and my breath as I am released, and I spin to look at the man who grabbed me. Large, fleshy arms extend from an equally fleshy body. But the man isn't exactly fat—he is more like a contestant in the World's Strongest Man competition. I brush myself off as Vince and the teenager he has been pummeling rise to their feet—Vince with a bloody lip and the other teenager with a much bloodier nose. Vince and I have been moderately successful, but the outcome is now a draw.

The man turns to face my opponent, who is struggling to his feet, his eyes full of rage.

“Tommy!” the man booms, his voice rough and deep, “I told you to stay away from here unless you are handing me money for a car.”