Complete Corruption (Corruption #1-3) (31 page)

“You need a break?” I said.

“Me? Nah. We got a bunch of permits cleared for the shop. Had to do a little song and dance, but fuck, I feel like, you know, useful when I’m building shit. Or you know, when I’m telling a bunch of other guys what to build. And I want the shop up and running so that
stronzo
sees it and sees it good.”

“All right, all right. Easy.” I slapped his back. “Go take care of it.”

“You got it.” Zo gave me a thumbs-up and got out of my car. I took his place and headed for a little empty storefront on the east side.

My cold feelings toward Paulie surprised me. There wasn’t a woman alive who had meant as much to me as Paulie had. Maybe not even a human being. I had no brothers, and my father had been a shade of a man until I walked into his coffee shop at eleven years old to settle a dispute.

But Paulie, though a
camorrista
deeply connected to the Carloni family through a couple of generations of business ties, had earned my trust in the first few minutes at the airport.

I’d been photographed on the Italy side like a criminal, but once I’d arrived in Los Angeles, I was a dot in a newspaper photo. I stood a second too long under the arch of the international terminal, overwhelmed by the size, the multicolored crowd, and the expanse of space and light. The public address system went on and on about loading and unloading, lines, flight times, gates. I smiled through security, had my bag inspected at customs, and got taken aside briefly for questioning. It was easy on the Los Angeles side.

I went outside to noise and smog that wasn’t much worse than Napoli, which was urban to the teeth at the center and more and more pastoral the closer you got to Vesuvio.

Paulie stood by a chrome pillar that was stained with an old spray of blackened soda. He wore skinny jeans, white shoes, and Ray Bans, which he flipped up when he saw me.

“You Racossi?” he asked in shitty Italian.

“Spinelli,” I replied, nervous about my just-passable English. I felt vulnerable without a weapon, and he must have felt like that, too. As far as I knew, it was impossible to get a gun into the airport, even for people with connections.

“Donna Carloni wants to talk to you,” he said.

“I’m not here to get involved. I’m here to finish some business and go home.”

I dragged my bag and walked away. He caught up, crossing the street to the cabs with me.

“I don’t think you can refuse.” A bus stopped near us, beeping when it kneeled, the driver shouting over an intercom for passengers to exit through the back. The noise was enormous, and the heat was oppressive.

“I don’t take orders from Sicilians.” I didn’t know if that came off right in English. In the end, it was Paulie who helped me understand the nuances of the language. But on that day, I could only use the words I knew.

“You need her say-so to finish this business you got, or she’s going to get in your way. And let’s face it, you don’t know up from down. If she offers you help, you oughta take it.” He stepped in front of me. “She sent me because I’m
camorrista
. Like you.”

“There’s enough off-the-boot in your blood. I can see it.”

“Jesus, man.” He showed me the inside of his left wrist, where a tattoo of a volcano was drawn. The high peak was on the left. I took his wrist and pulled the skin. It wasn’t pen. It was real. I didn’t want to trust it. Anybody can get a tattoo.

“This is Vesuvio from the Pompeii side,” I said, dropping his hand. I pulled up my left sleeve and held out my wrist, where the active side was drawn on the right.

“I know, man. Dude got it from a book. What do you want me to tell you? Nobody’s actually been to fucking Naples.”

“No,” I poked his chest. “Nobody has been to Pompeii.” I walked off, heading for what looked like a taxi stand.

“What are you going to do?” he said, chasing me. “Walk up and down Sunset, showing a mug shot? You’re gonna get pegged for a narc by the gangs and for a dago criminal by the cops before your tourist visa’s even up.”

“I have leads.”

“Not as good as mine. Come on. I know what they did to your sister. And I know why.” He stepped in front of me and dropped his voice. “I’m going to be honest. They got a big chunk of the east side, and I want it. Give me a chance to do business and avenge a lady at the same time.”

Something about the guy’s straightforwardness appealed to me, and the fact that he’d known I’d be there intrigued me.

“I see,” I said. “My father told Donna Maria I was coming.”

“I can’t say whether or not there was a phone conversation last night. I got nothing. ’Cause, you know, on the surface, he don’t even agree with you being here. On the surface, he wants it taken care of on the Naples side, by Neapolitans. By him. Not you. You’re a
consigliere
, dude. You don’t get to do vendettas.”

“But you do.”

He shrugged, confirming it with the gesture.

“And a contract gets you made,” I said.

He gave another gesture with a bobbing head that seemed affirmative.

“If I go with you,” I said, “that doesn’t mean I’m agreeing to anything.”

He smiled. “You ever had an In-’n-Out burger?”

“
Scusa?
” I didn’t know if he was propositioning me, or what.

“A burger. You hungry?”

“Yes. I am.”

“Let’s go then," he said. "You’re gonna love it here.”

I never did. But I paid my debts, and the price of allowing the vendetta to take place was two years of my life in the service of a Sicilian. It was worth it.

theresa

ventually, I did need to leave the apartment. I picked up some things from the loft—cash, valuables, toiletries, even Daniel’s engagement ring—then went shopping on Rodeo, which was a complete waste of time, even after I’d dropped a few grand. I ignored a call from Katrina and my eleventh text from Margie. I wasn’t interested in explaining myself to anyone, since I couldn’t even explain myself to myself.

Otto took me back to the
Afidnes Tower.
I stood there, waiting for an approved activity. Or a signal that I could move back home safely. Would Antonio allow tonight to pass without crawling between the sheets with me?

As Otto and I waited for the elevator, I texted Antonio.

—I’m back from lunch. I’m thinking of jumping out the window—

—Let me jump you first—

—Tonight?—

—I have something to show you first—

I was formulating a snappy retort, something along the lines of a grownup show-and-tell, with nudity, when Otto opened the door to the apartment. I was shoved back so hard the wind went out of me.

I never realized how big Otto was until I tried to see past him and couldn’t. His shoulders turned in, as if his arms were in front of him. The fact that I knew he was pointing a gun said a lot about what I’d been through.

“It’s all right,” said a man’s voice on the other side of Otto’s bulk. “We’re friends.”

“Like hell,” said Otto.

“Ask her,” came a woman’s voice. “Sometime before you crush her against the wall.”

“Margie!” I pushed past Otto to get to my sister.

“You know these people?” Otto asked as I hugged Margie. I didn’t know who the man was. He was mid to late thirties, maybe, or late twenties with a ton of extra experience that aged him ten years. He had dark hair and light-brown eyes, but he wasn’t Italian. And even though he wore a pinkie ring, he didn’t look mob. Not that it meant anything because mob or not, he and Otto had guns leveled at each other as if they meant to shoot first and deal with the handcuffs later.

Margie had her red hair up in a chignon, and she wore a snappy business suit as if she’d cancelled a meeting to break into my fake apartment.

I left Margie’s arms and stood between the two guns. “Guys, really?”

“Who are you?” Otto asked.

“Will Santon.”

“He’s with me,” Margie said. “That’s all you need to know.”

“And you?” he asked Margie.

“She’s my sister.” I put my hand on Otto’s wrist. “They’re okay.” I looked him in the eye, transmitting sincerity and seriousness, until he lowered the weapon.

“
Mi dispiace
” he said to Margie. He shot Will a dirty look before stepping out the door. I clicked it behind him, and before I could let Margie know that Antonio would likely interrupt us in a few minutes, she reached behind me and locked the door.

“What is wrong with you?” I asked.

“You should try answering your phone.”

“I was busy.”

“Doing what?”

Will interjected as he removed files from a briefcase, “Hanging around Alberto Mongelluzo, apparently.”

“His name’s Otto.”

“No it’s not. Otto’s the Italian word for eight.” He holds up his pinkies. “You should ask him how he lost these. It wasn’t a golfing accident.”

“Who are you, again?” I asked.

Margie sat in my chair. “Mr. Santon freelances for my firm, and today, he’s doing me a favor.”

“That’s a fucking answer?” I said.

“Correct use of the word fuck. Well done.”

“Don’t be a bitch. And no clever quips. Just answer.”

She sighed. “I think I liked you better when you acted like a lady. But all right; before you tear my face off, Will works for me. He finds things out, does research, and kidnaps my sisters when necessary. He’s a good guy. You should be nice to him.”

“Antonio’s going to show up about five minutes after he finds out you’re here.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

“I’m making tea. Do you want any? Or is it just bust in and run?”

“Coffee,” Margie said.

“Dark and bitter, I presume?” I stormed into the kitchen before she had a chance to answer.

Why did she make me feel like a prepubescent? Was it because she was more of a mother to me than my actual mother, who popped designer pills between emotional outbursts? Margie had earned the mother role by giving me affection and gaining my trust where no one else had, but her methods were drastic and overbearing, and apparently included breaking and entering.

“You broke into this apartment because you don’t like who I’m sleeping with?”

“‘Don’t like’ is mild. Very Old Theresa. New Theresa would say something more colorful. So I’ll tell you this. The guy you’re fucking terrifies me, and I’m just going to spoon-feed you some sense before Daddy gets wind of it.”

A phone rang in the other room. I peeked in, wondering if it was Antonio. Santon placed piles of files on the coffee table and answered his phone. Margie dialed hers. I heard everything while I slapped the pieces of the coffee maker together.

“Good evening to you too, little brother.” She turned to look into the kitchen. I ducked away. “You have Will Santon’s team flying to Vancouver to watch Kevin Wainwright?”

Margie, single at forty-seven, had never been in love as far as I knew. She’d been a model of sharp, dirty, cut-and-dried sense; even her tone over the phone to our brother was tidy and utilitarian. As if love made sense. Love didn’t stay on budget or check to see if the ledger balanced. Love didn’t care if all things were equal. Love bathed the books in red, shredded documents, spent more than it brought in one month and paid too much income tax the next.

When I came in with cream and sugar, I heard Jonathan’s voice, made tinny though the phone as he shouted, “Physically and irrevocably hurt.”

“You know, Jonny,” Margie said, “I don’t mind you getting paranoid and crazy, but you’re doing it on my dime.”

Jonathan growled something, and I went back into the kitchen.

“Now you’re getting nasty,” said Margie pointedly, yet without an ounce of upset in her voice. “I gotta pull him, Jonny. I’m sorry.”

She hung up just as I came back with the coffee. “I just lied for you.”

“You want a medal?”

“I’d like some appreciation.”

“For coming into my apartment uninvited? Because I didn’t answer your texts in the right amount of time? Because you don’t approve of the man I love?”

“Oh, it’s love now. Great.” She tossed her phone on the coffee table and grabbed a cup. “I’ve never seen anyone make a good decision for love.”

“Love is its own decision,” Will cut in. “It chooses you.”

“Thanks, Delta,” Margie said. “You can engrave that on your headstone.” She turned back to me. “You already made it clear you wanted nothing to do with what I had to say. I stopped caring what you wanted when Dad asked if you were really with that guy from the Catholic Charities thing.”

“What did you tell him?” I said.

“I laughed. But he knew I was evading.” She snapped open a briefcase and swung it over to Will. It was his, and she was hurrying him.

“He can’t control who we’re with,” I said.

“He does like to try.”

“And you?” I glanced at Will, then back to Margie. “What is it you’re trying to do?”

Will cut in. “We’re educating you.” He removed a file and opened it on the coffee table.

Antonio. Even his mug shot made me tingle, the curl of his smirk, the jaw set in anger, the tousled black hair. He was younger in the photo and had a reckless edge. His mouth was shaped for a different language, and the lines around his eyes were somehow unset, reversible. He watched me from a wallet-sized rectangle stapled to a document that told me what had been implied but never stated.