The Reform Artists: A Legal Suspense, Spy Thriller (The Reform Artists Series Book 1) (14 page)

“When he renounced his U.S. citizenship, I felt that was the last straw. My parents, who considered your grandad to be an affront to everything they held dear, finally convinced your grandmother to leave him and return to the states with your dad.

“It was the culmination of years of behind-the-scenes pressure they had been applying to destroy their oldest son’s marriage. It finally worked.

“I drove up to Montreal to see him and to try and talk some sense into him. I wasn’t prepared for what I found. Your grandad, Gary, had, after several years of struggling, secured an engineering degree and a decent job. He was also a well-respected member of the U.S. expatriate community up there. He had devoted a great deal of his spare time to volunteering to help other conscientious objectors resettle in Canada.”

“We went out to dinner and I said, ‘Gary, what the hell were you thinking? Why renounce your U.S. citizenship? Was that really necessary?’”

“‘Rog,’ he said, (I’ll never forget it.) ‘The war in Vietnam isn’t about fighting communism or making the world ‘safe’ for democracy. It’s about making money. Big money.’

“‘The fact that tens of thousands of Americans of our generation must die so the money can keep rolling in is just an unpleasant ‘cost of doing business’ to these people. But it’s a cost they don’t have to pay with
their
lives.
We
do.’”

“‘Come on, Gary. Who do you think you’re talking to?’ I said. I remember getting really angry. ‘I’m not one of your draft-dodging buddies. Don’t feed me that liberal crap.’”

“‘Really?’ he said. ‘Let me tell you something, little brother. We got visits and correspondence, every day during the war, from troops who had served on the front lines. You know what they told us? They said that while they were risking their lives to keep South Vietnam free, the U.S. government was paying civilian contractors
many times
more
than it payed its soldiers, just to provide non-combat support services.’”

“‘Bullshit,’ I said. ‘That’s just commie talk.’ So, Gary took me back to where he did his volunteer work and showed me the letters.”

Dale leaned forward. “What letters?”

Hannah took a drink. “Hundreds of them. Letters telling them how smart they had been to avoid the draft, even if it meant moving to Canada. Letters saying how they wished they had had the courage to stand by their convictions. Letters complaining about how many of their buddies had died, needlessly, for stupid shit and letters telling them to keep up the pressure and the message that the war was wrong.”

“After showing them to me, Gary said, ‘America doesn’t have my back, Rog. And it doesn’t have yours, either. They’re using all of us, and Mom and Dad and most of the rest of their generation just don’t get it. Fuck America!’ he shouted. ‘Good riddance!’”

Hannah shook his head and tossed down the rest of his drink. Dale had stopped eating and was studying his great uncle closely.

“Thirty years later, Dale, and it isn’t your late grandfather who’s bringing you the sad news that your country doesn’t really love you, or care one iota about you; it’s me, your great uncle: former Navy SEAL, career soldier, and Deputy Administrator of the NSA.”

He put his elbows on the table and joined his hands at their fingertips. “How do you think it makes me feel, son, to have to admit that I’ve been a dupe all my life—and a dupe who had the military intel available to know better?”

Dale shook his head slowly from side-to-side, eyes fixed on his great uncle. “Wow,” was all he could say.

“It sucks,” Hannah said.

“You see, going against the tide, speaking truth to power, no matter what the cost—like your grandad did: That takes real courage. Because when you go down that road, they take everything you hold dear: your family, your children, your reputation and your self-respect—and not just for a day or for a year, but forever.”

“But my dad—.”

“I love your dad, Dale, but he has spent his whole life trying to remove the shame and disgrace he thinks your grandad brought upon him. I don’t blame him. He was raised to believe that. But he’s wrong.

“There’s something else you should know about your grandad that your father may not even know.”

“What’s that?”

“The reason your grandad wound up dead, at 33, from a heroin overdose.”

Dale nodded for Hannah to continue.

“Your grandfather never did hard drugs while your dad and your grandmother were living with him, in Montreal. They meant everything to him. I believe he would have gone to prison, if your grandmother had refused to flee with him to Canada.

“When she left and took your dad back to the states—where Gary could no longer go—it broke his heart.

“Some men are deeply attached to their immediate families, and he was one of them. When their kids are ripped out of their lives—as I’ve seen happen, more and more, in divorce cases—the effects can be devastating.

“Gary became severely depressed after your grandmother left him. I believe he started taking heroin to ease the pain. It certainly was not a courageous thing to do, but it was understandable, given the circumstances. Ultimately, it took him out.”

Just then, a tall, thin distinguished looking man with thinning gray hair came through the kitchen door. He was wearing a tailored, dark gray business suit, with a red silk handkerchief sticking out of its chest pocket.

When he saw Hannah and Dale, a look of recognition flashed across his face. He cautiously approached the table. “Roger?” he asked, smiling. “Is that you, my friend?”

Hannah stood up, put his napkin on the table and stepped forward to embrace him. “Caesar! How wonderful to see you!”

Then, he pointed to Dale. “This is my nephew, Dale.”

Dale quickly stood up and extended his hand.

“No, no,” Caesar said, stepping forward and giving him a firm hug and lightly kissing each cheek. “This is my place, and here, we do things the Italian way!”

“So,” Hannah said, “it’s like we’re really dining in a consulate, not a restaurant?”

“Yeah, something like that!” Caesar said, dismissively as he surveyed their empty plates and buckets filled with lobster shells. “So, how was the food?”

“Fantastic!” Dale said.

“Not half bad,” Hannah smirked. He looked at his nephew. “Caesar’s last name is Carrozza. We just ate his signature dish!”

“One of
many
,” Caesar corrected.

“Why don’t you pull up a chair and join us,” Hannah said. “You seem to have plenty of time on your hands.”

Caesar looked at Dale and rolled his eyes. “Well, maybe I can spare a minute or two.”

“Good,” Hannah said.

Caesar waived at Antonio, who rushed over. “Another round of drinks for my friends,” he said. “And bring me a glass of dry Chianti.”

“Yes, sir!”

“And Antonio,” he said to the departing waiter, “Follow that with Tiramisu and coffee!”

“Yes, sir!”

Hannah took a swig from his glass of water. “So, Caesar, what’s with the grilled zucchini? Please tell my nephew why yours is the only barbeque on earth that doesn’t serve baked potatoes.”

Caesar rolled his eyes again and slapped his hand on the table. “Again, with the damned potatoes, Roger? You’re always busting my balls about that!”

He turned to face Dale and pointed a thumb in Hannah’s direction. “He knows very well why we serve zucchini.” Then, looking over his shoulder at his friend, he muttered, “You wanna baked potato, Roger? Go to Roy Roger’s. No potatoes here!”

Dale was sipping water and snorted it back into his glass.

Roger couldn’t help but smile. “Hey, it’s not for me. I know about your craziness. But my nephew, he’s clueless! Tell him.”

Caesar stiffened in his seat. “Craaaziness? Craaaaziness, Roger?” he said with increasing intensity.

Hannah looked at him sheepishly. “Don’t you think your hatred of spuds is...a bit...excessive?”

Caesar rolled his eyes yet again, shrugged his shoulders and slapped his forehead once with the palm of his right hand. “OK, OK!” he announced. “For the ten-millionth time in my life – and the nine-millionth time for your great uncle, here, I will explain why we
do not
and
never will
serve potatoes.

“Then,” he added, looking at Dale, “you will decide if I am, or I am NOT, crazy. OK?”

“OK,” Dale said, giving Hannah an awkward glance.

Antonio returned with the drinks. “Ah, just in time!” Caesar said. He downed his Chianti in one gulp. “Bring me another. I’m gonna need it!”

Caesar turned to his right to face Dale, acting as if Hannah was no longer in the discussion. “Dale,” he began. “Does it seem odd to you that we do not serve baked potatoes here, at Campie Flegrei de Napoli?”

“Just a little.”

Caesar raised his eyebrows, causing rows of furrowed lines to instantly appear across the length of his brow. “OK,” he said. “Fair enough.

“Let me start by saying I have nothing against the potato, as such. It’s a fine vegetable, a member of the Nightshade family, as are eggplants and tomatoes, two hallowed mainstays in the panoply of Italian cuisine.”

“Wow,” Hannah said. “Your English vocabulary has certainly improved.”

“What?” Caesar bristled, without looking in his direction. “Do you think I’m still the bumbling, tongue-tied immigrant you first met forty years ago? Don’t insult me!” He winked at Dale.

“Ouch,” Hannah said. “Sorry.”

“Where was I?” Caesar continued. “Oh yes, it’s a fine vegetable. But my beloved, sainted father was served far too many potatoes during the war—raw, rotten, putrid, maggot-infested ones—for me to ever allow even
one
of them into my kitchen today,
capisce
?”

The blank look on Dale’s face told Caesar more explanation was needed.

“In his late teens, my father had been drafted into the Italian Army. Our Presidenté, Mussolini,
il Ducce
, (the chief), allied himself with Hitler—just one of the many reasons why we eventually hanged the man. In July of 1943, the Allies invaded Italy and our government collapsed. Mussolini was arrested and Italy sued for peace.

“We signed an armistice with the allies on September 8th, if I remember my history correctly. Four days later, German paratroopers broke il Ducce out of his Italian prison. They immediately declared the Italian people and its military traitors to the cause.

“The entire Italian military, more than two million of them, received invitations, from Hitler, to come fight alongside his troops—or else. My father sent his regrets, and, like most of his fellow soldiers, spent the rest of the war as Hitler’s personal guest in a concentration camp.

“The status the Germans assigned him, that of an Italian Military Internee, rather than a Prisoner of War, made him eligible for hard labor, slave labor, all types of physical abuse, and a meager daily ration of the shittiest raw potato pieces you can imagine. No, you probably cannot imagine them! And that’s a good thing.

“When the war finally ended, he was a skeleton and tens of thousands of his comrades-in-arms were dead. My father told me that he would have eaten raw shit, if someone had offered it to him then, but that by that point he had forever had his fill of spoiled German potatoes. He couldn’t eat another one, and he didn’t up until the day he died.”

He smiled. “So, in honor of my father, they are not welcome in
my
kitchen either, and without a key to the kitchen, spuds cannot find their way onto our plates.
Finito!
”

He dismissively wiped his right palm across his left and then his left palm across his right, closed his eyes and nodded his head slowly before opening them again. “Well, Dale, what’s the verdict? Am I crazy or not?”

“Not completely,” Dale said, with a smile.

“That’s all right. I’ll take it!”

“I guess your father fought on the wrong side?” Dale asked.

“‘In war,’ my father often told me, ‘there is no right or wrong side, just
their
side...and
your
side.’

“It wasn’t really our side, either,” he added, thoughtfully. “It was Mussolini’s and Hitler’s sides of
their
war. My father and the other soldiers were just pawns on their chessboard.”

“I’m beginning to detect a theme to this lunch,” Dale said, looking at his uncle.

“Or,” Hannah said, “maybe your eyes are finally open.”

Hannah and Dale ate the Tiramisu and coffee before Caesar finally took his leave. “I’ve got to make sure everything’s in sync for dinner.
Ciao
, my friends!”

“Ciao,” they said.

“He’s a character,” Dale said.

“Caesar? You bet. He loves this country, by the way. We took in his entire family: father, mother and siblings, after the war. His father founded this restaurant and Caesar’s taken it to another level. He’s built a good life, here, for himself and his sons. Plus, his insane potato boycott is protected under the First Amendment.”