Wiseguys In Love (22 page)

“We have to stop him,” she said quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Talk to him,” she said, pulling back again.

“Look, he's not going to stop just because we say so. This is revenge for Rosa. Fuckin' Rosa,” he muttered. “Tony's not going to stop until she calls him off.”

“Well, let's talk to her, then.”

Michael looked at her and chuckled.

“You know anything about Rosa Morelli? She once tried to have Solly kill her grocer because the onions he sent over weren't big enough.”

“Well, what do we do?”

Rosa Morelli and her blood lust. Everytime she was upset, guns were supposed to come out to make it all right. Rosa and guns, guns and Rosa! He stood still and caught sight of his mother at the top of the stairs, staring down at them. He looked back at Lisa and took her by the arm.

“I don't know. Maybe we can throw him off the track, you know?” His mother had disappeared.

They both stood in silence, and suddenly a big grin crossed Lisa's face.

“We'll go sit in front of Henry Foster Morgan's apartment! Just like Tony wants to,” she said.

“What, are you kidding?” he said as a blast from the car horn outside rang through the house. He opened the door and gave Tony a nod. Tony leaned on the horn again and looked annoyed.

“No. He won't be there,” she said, and continued walking past Michael and down the front steps.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, there's a big society wedding out in the Hamptons this weekend and I know he's going to it.”

“So?” he asked, and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her back as Tony blasted them with the horn again.

“He's going out there early. At ten. I know because he had me book the limo. So you see, he's already gone. He'll be gone the whole week,” she said, smiling at him.

He felt a smile run along his face from ear to ear and he walked with her over to the car.

It was going to be a real bore sitting there in front of some loft in SoHo, but it would give him time to think about getting to Rosa.

He opened the back door and Lisa began to slide inside.

“Why don't youse sit up front here with me. Mikey can sit in the back. You don't mind, do you, Mikey?”

Cool air from the AC floated out, down around his legs, and the annoying
bong, bong, bong
of the door went off. He looked at her and shrugged. “No.”

She reluctantly got out and slid in next to Tony Mac, giving Michael a look.

He stood at the car door and gave one last glance at the house. The curtain in his mother's room moved. His eyes stuck there for a moment until the strange electrical buzz of locust in one of the trees shook him out of it.

He looked around the yard. The air smelled of damp earth and fresh-cut grass. It was going to be hot again. The rain last night obviously hadn't done much. He lowered himself into the backseat and closed the door quickly.

He sat back, glancing at Lisa in the mirror for a moment as Tony started the car.

They went to the corner and turned right, then drove straight ahead. They got to the ramp and Tony suddenly turned onto the Shore Parkway going east.

“What are you doing? You're going the wrong way.”

“No I ain't.”

“City's back in the other direction.”

“We ain't going to the city,” Tony said, and pressed down on the accelerator, picking up speed.

“What do you mean? We have to stake out his apartment. That's where he'll be, right, Michigan?”

“Yes,” she answered quickly.

Tony smirked and looked at him.

“There ain't nobody in his apartment. I stopped there on the way to pick youse up.”

“Maybe he was asleep.”

“He wasn't asleep, 'cause he wasn't there. I know where he is.”

“Where?”

“East Hampton. Says so right in the appointment book you give me yesterday.”

*   *   *

Sophia watched the car until it was out of sight. She shook her head. Too fast, they drive too fast. She turned from the window. Well, she'd said something. There was some relief in that, that and the fact that Michael didn't want to be in the situation, either. She felt a huge weight off her now just knowing that. The frightening thought that he actually might like being a hoodlum had hit her at about three o'clock that morning. She'd paced and paced, and found herself pacing into his room. She'd sat there in the dark, empty place until almost dawn, going over in her mind what she would do when … or if … he ever came home.

The previous morning came into Sophia's mind. She relived again walking down the church steps with Gina the way she had for the last two years.

Sophia's eyes stayed unfocused on Gina as she rattled on and on about her daughter-in-law, Val. Gina had never liked Val, and deep down Sophia really had no opinion of her, since all her knowledge of the woman was secondhand. She had met Val only briefly at the shower before the wedding, and then in that passing way you do with distant relatives you see only at funerals, weddings, or christenings. Like any good friend, she was honor-bound to commiserate with Gina over her problems with this woman, which were real, although Sophia suspected that Gina would find no woman on the planet good enough for her son, Enrico.

The car slid up in front of Café Egidio, and Paulo, the driver, got out. He helped Gina, then walked around and opened Sophia's door. She shooed away his hand as he tried to help her stand. He did this every morning, and Sophia always was tempted to yell out to him that she was not Gina's age, that she was not some ancient old thing—she was 66, not 106.

“You be back here in one hour exactly,” Gina warned him sternly, the way she did every morning, even though the man sat parked in front of the café, watching the door and the street.

The air was damp and still and comparatively cool considering what it would be in a couple of hours. The sidewalk in front of the café had been washed down, looking almost waxed and polished and reflecting the early-morning light. It made Gina's face almost appear rosy and young-looking.

The tinny bell on the door rang out as it was hit by the edge of the top of the door as they entered the café, and the smell of brewing espresso and chocolate surrounded them. Gina and Sophia nodded to Isabella, behind the counter, and they took their regular seats.

“He's making his bones,” suddenly echoed again through Sophia's head and she felt dizzy and breathless for a moment. She placed her hands on the cold marble tabletop and took a deep breath.

“Sophia, you don't look so good,” Gina's voice echoed.

“I'm just tired,” she said as she lifted the cooled palms of her hands and gently pressed them against her face.

She sat with her hands on her cheeks and her eyes fell on the painting above Gina on the wall. The hooked nose and fierce eyes of Cesare Borgia seemed to stare coldly back down at her even though it was a profile. He was dressed up in his regal best, boxy flat orange and pale yellow velvet hat, a wide fur yolk, spreading out to the tips of his shoulders, gashed split sleeves, yellow on the outside, with the same orange used to gore the inside. Around his neck, a wide blue ribbon hung, held flat against the puffed chest by something resembling a medal. In one hand was a feathered quill, in another a large book. A man of letters, the portrait seemed to say.

It didn't fool Sophia. She could still see what a coldhearted murderer the man had been. She shifted her eyes, feeling paler. She concentrated on the shiny dark green walls with the busts of Roman and Sicilian emperors as Isabella silently set down two cappuccinos.

“Sophia, you drink some water,” Gina said.

She nodded and looked up at Isabella. Her throat was dry as Gina's news echoed in her head.

“And I lost a pound this week, so I think I'll have a cannoli,” Gina ordered.

Every Thursday, Gina lost a pound so she could have a cannoli, although, as far as Sophia could see, she was the same weight she'd been since she was forty. Sophia put her hands back down on the table as Gina continued talking. It was the first morning she'd ever noticed that Gina never looked directly at her, and she supposed that she could just turn to stone in front of this woman and she would still be rattling away about the goings-on in her house. And it was exactly those bits of gossip that Sophia had originally come for, but this morning, knowing that her son was going to be “taken care of” by Solly, the gossip seemed sordid and was making her sick.

Isabella placed a glass of ice water in front of Sophia and she immediately drank it. She could feel the cool water go all the way down to her stomach. The café's bell rang out again, and Vittorio appeared, the same way he did every morning.

He was a man Sophia's age, a widower who owned a rather successful travel agency, the kind advertised on late-night television. The agency specialized in tours of Italy and Sicily.

He was impeccably dressed in a three-piece linen suit and he carried a newspaper folded under his arm. His hair was silver-gray and glinted in the sunlight coming in from the windows overlooking the street. He had a sharp pointed nose and watery ice blue eyes, which were large and kindly-looking. He was very handsome, Sophia realized.

He nodded to Sophia and sat down at his usual table. She watched him unfold the paper and hold it up as he sipped the espresso that was waiting for him.

She stared at his paper. The puffy, slightly italicized letters of the logo for
Corriere Della Sera,
the daily paper of Milan, appeared at even more of an angle because of the way he was holding the paper. Her eyes looked up at him, somewhat startled. She had never noticed the Milanese paper. A Piedmontese … and suddenly her eyes took in the whole wall, what she had always assessed as his side of the café. Above him was a painting of Leonardo da Vinci.

Somehow it seemed fitting that Gina would choose to sit under Cesare Borgia and this legitimate businessman would sit under da Vinci. Reading his Milanese paper as though he lived there, dressed impeccably in linen, the truly regal silver in his hair, the almost-Swiss blue eyes, which shone and smiled at you, delicate pinkish skin, always clean-shaven—he was the very image of the dashing Piedmontese man Sophia's mother had had in mind for her to marry and grow old with.

She had loved Vincent very deeply—but God, she would give her soul to be sitting across the room with Vittorio. How unfair it was that his sons would wind up hawking tours on late-night television and worrying about their income-tax deductions, while her Michael was going to spend the rest of his life ducking bullets in Solly's nightmare world.

Her eyes focused back on Gina. She watched her devour a cannoli, still talking through the food in her mouth.

When had she noticed all these things about Vittorio?

She took a drink of water and cupped the cold glass with her hands. She had never consciously thought about him, and the truth was, he was as oblivious to her. She darted a glance up and was taken aback.

He was staring at her, lost in thought.

For once, she kept his stare. She let go of the glass and felt her hands begin to smooth her black dress. She watched his eyes focus on her, and he watched her hands, smoothing the dress, as if she was polishing her armor. She thought she detected a sigh from him, disappointed, as if the thought
Oh well
was going through his mind, and then he looked back at his paper.

Her eyes focused back into Michael's bedroom as she realized her hands were smoothing her bathrobe. She had dressed like a Neapolitan widow. The thought did not sit well with her. She got up and slowly walked to her bedroom. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her closet door. At last, she got up and pulled the string to the light. She searched through the closet of clothes, black tops, black skirts, black sleeveless dresses, and way in the back she found what she was looking for—a dress. Carefully, holding the hanger up, she took it out and looked at it. Delicate nosegays of violets with deep green leaves and tied with blue and pink ribbons decorated a white background. It was made of a silky rayon material, with a small lace collar, a matching belt, and short sleeves. She held the dress up to herself and looked in the full-length mirror attached to the inside of the closet.

It was such a pretty dress. It had been her favorite. She placed the dress on the bed and slipped her bathrobe and nightgown off. She pulled the dress over her head. It was baggy. Very, very baggy, she thought, amazed as she buckled the belt around her waist. Almost afraid, she slowly walked back to the closet mirror, keeping her eyes on the floor. Sophia stood in front of the mirror and gave a good long look.

Cinderella, she wasn't. But she was pretty, and comparatively slender since the time she'd bought it. She walked away from the mirror and quickly pulled the dress over her head. She hung it back up, turned off the light, and lay down on the bed.

One morning, when Gina was sick or busy with holidays, she was going to put that dress on and she was going to take the train to Café Egidio and she was going to sit under the picture of Leonardo da Vinci and she was going to wait for Vittorio. She was going to sit on the normal side of the room, the place where people utterly unconnected with the Sollys of the world sat, she determined in her head. She lay there, her eyes partially closed.

Five
A.M.
came and fear hit her as she went to church, knowing Michael hadn't returned. It temporarily went away as she concentrated on the mass. She thought she saw Father D'Amico grimace at her from the altar. The fact was confirmed as she and Gina left the church.

Father D'Amico stood at the front door, shaking hands with his parishioners as they walked down the steps. Gina went first and continued on to the waiting car. Father D'Amico shook Sophia's hand, frowned, and looked her in the eyes.

“I hope, Sophia, you are planning to do something good today. Get out, maybe go on a little trip,” he said.