Writing
about subject matter you’re not familiar with doesn’t always require a lot of
research. Sometimes, all it takes is the art of being vague.
For
example…
Despite
my Scottish mother’s conjecture about why her Italian husband’s father doesn’t speak to
a single member of his family, I don’t have any Mafia connections. At least none
that I can use if I want to off someone. Which is probably a good thing
considering how many people might otherwise end up taking long walks off of
short piers wearing dried cement around their feet.
If
you’ve read “The Politician’s Pawn,” then you know that Lord Acton once said, “Power
corrupts and ultimate power corrupts absolutely.” I imagine that’s true, ‘cause
boy, if I had that kind of power, I can’t tell you how fast I’d be misusing it.
But
I digress.
I
don’t know anything about the Mafia outside of what I’ve seen on TV shows and
read about in “WITSEC: Inside the Federal Witness Protection Program,” a book I
bought to research a completely different story (though it came in handy for
this one in a completely different way). Yet that criminal enterprise is
mentioned more than once throughout “Amateurs Play Elsewhere,” since Rod’s
grandfather is a mob boss.
At
least he’s pretty sure he is. Despite his own shady background, Rod has never
seen any proof of his grandfather’s criminal activities. He only has his well-founded
suspicions.
Thing
is, because the story is told through Rod’s eyes and not his grandfather’s, I
didn’t have to do any real research on the Mafia. Readers only have to know
what he knows and not a shred of information more.
2 – Jersey Boy
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T
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he next call he made was to a
friend of his, a mechanic, who would be able to help him jack up his car and
fit it with new tires in the least amount of time possible. Jacob wasn’t
exactly thrilled with the request and demanded some serious payment for the
favor, but he agreed in the end, grousing that he’d be over in half an hour.
Half an hour was more
than enough time to complete the rest of his checklist, starting with texting
Kayla her destination address. Then he reached for his low-tech and less
traceable phone to dial his grandfather.
“Hello?” The Jersey
accent down the line was strong, the voice itself stronger.
It commanded a
respect Rod had no problem giving. “Nonno, it’s me.”
“Rodney? Why you
callin’ with this number?” The older man demanded.
“I’m in some trouble
and got a new phone. This is the one to reach me at now.”
“What happened?”
It was good to hear
his voice; to speak with someone who genuinely cared about him no matter what
stupid things he’d done. “It’s a long story.”
“So make it short.”
Despite everything,
he had to smile. It was so like his grandfather. “I got mixed up with some
dirty politicians, then welched on our deal. It’s gone pretty sour since.”
“You down in D.C.?”
“Baltimore.”
“Get on up here.”
Rod already knew that
was going to be the answer. Technically, he knew what to expect of his next
question too, but he asked it anyway. “I’d have to bring some guests with me.
Is that okay?”
“How many?”
“Three. Two women.
One guy. All around my age.”
He was packing his
clothes now, grabbing items out of his drawer and throwing them into his sports
bag with the Pittsburgh Steelers logo.
“We got room. I’ll
tell your nonna to put on some pasta for you and your friends.”
The thought of
sitting around a table, eating baked ziti with his grandparents and three
people who practically had a patent on loathing him wasn’t the most optimal
picture he could envision. “Don’t bother. We’re not going to get there until
like two in the morning. Maybe later.”
“You think that’s
going to stop her?”
It was a valid point,
and Rod sighed in resignation. “These people aren’t exactly my friends, Nonno.”
“Who are they?”
It was such a simple
thing to ask, yet it stopped him in his tracks, one hand closed around a pair
of blue boxers. “They’re collateral damage, I suppose.” There was the Jersey
accent again. “They got mixed up in this mess through no fault of their own,
and they’re working with me out of necessity, not ‘cause they like me or what
I’ve done.”
The understatement of
the century.
“You’re a good man
for helping them out anyway.”
And that made for the
least accurate statement of the century. Rod forced his arm to resume its route
from drawer to bag.
“Bring them on up,”
his grandfather went on. “We’ll keep ‘em safe.”
“Thanks, Nonno. I
appreciate it.”
He hung up, knowing
life was about to get a lot more interesting in ways he didn’t care to
contemplate.
It took Jacob less
time to make it to Rod’s than either of them expected, but it was still plenty
of time to finish throwing stuff together and stand around moping some more. Just
for something to do, he broke another bottle of beer in the kitchen.
He was still cleaning
up the glass when Jacob called from the parking lot.
Rod locked everything
up, certain it wouldn’t make any difference. If Wisset wanted to get inside,
the man would most definitely find a way. But just to be on the safe and
pointless side, he left his regular phone behind. Wisset had tapped into Evans’
before, and he could have done the same to his other captive’s last night.
Jacob took him down
Route 295 to pick up tires first. The purchase wasn’t precisely cheap, but Rod
still had enough money left over from his shady employment history to cover the
expense. And it was well worth it to be back in his car again an hour later,
speeding like a madman away from the warehouse and its horrific memories. He
barely had enough space to compose himself before his phone rang.
Considering the
number showing on his screen, Rod already knew the conversation wasn’t going to
go well.
“Everything okay?”
Rod did try to sound moderately non-offensive. He really did. Even though the
guy seriously bothered him.
“No. They’re not
okay.” Kayla’s boyfriend sounded aggressive, not scared. Which meant he wasn’t
in any danger. “Where the hell are you sending us?”
He choked back his
own antagonistic attitude. “New Jersey. I gave Kayla the address. Didn’t she
tell you?”
Maybe he could have
tried harder. That last line hadn’t been necessary.
“Yes.” The single
word was something very close to a snarl. “She told me the details you did
give, which were so little they were practically useless.”
Rod supposed that was
true, but he didn’t admit it. “You’re going to my grandparents’ house in
Newark.”
The other end was
quiet for the space of several breaths that were rife with scorn. “Your
grandparents? For real? We have the U.S. government on our tails, and you have
us visiting an old folks’ home?”
Cory’s skepticism
rang out across the distance, though not as much as his continuing hostility.
Rod gripped the
steering wheel harder. “They have connections.” He deliberately accentuated the
statement.
“Connections?”
Cory wasn’t stupid.
He was sure of it. From what Evans had explained, the dude was a computer
expert with some serious security clearance, indicating that he was about as
far from stupid as possible.
That left Rod to
assume he was being dense for the simple purpose of being obnoxious.
“They’re a special
order of Italian. Capisce?” He snapped. “So yeah, they have connections.”
At least, he was
fairly sure that was true. Right then, he really hoped it was.
“You mean you’re
sending us to the mob?”
Under the onslaught
of that intentional and repeated disrespect, Rod lost his temper, snapping back
with an insolence of his own. “Which way do you want it? You want safe or you
want legal? Because you can’t have both right now.”
He refrained from
adding the more colorful language he wanted to use. It took a lot of effort to
curb his tongue.
If mere silence could
be sullen, Cory managed it quite well.
With a concerted
effort, Rod took a deep breath and moderated his tone. “You want to keep Kayla
safe?”
“Yeah, from people
like you.” No profanity was flat-out stated, but it was heavily implied.
In the background,
Rod could hear a female – Kayla herself, he guessed – say something indistinct.
His own voice faded like he was covering the mouthpiece, Cory replied that he
could handle it.
Never very good at
keeping his cool without some major incentives in play, Rod focused on a mental
image of Evans glowering at him. Even then, his knuckles were white around the
steering wheel.
“You wanna go there?”
He didn’t wait for a reply. “Let’s go there. I tried to hurt her. I was wrong,
and I’m sorry. Feel free to punch me in the face when this is all over. But for
now, with Evans behind bars for all we know, I’m the best ticket you got to
keeping her alive.”
Cory didn’t say a
single word, quite possibly choking on the facts.
Rod rather wished he
would.
“So do you want my
help or not?” He pressed.
“I swear, if you so
much as look at her funny.” Cory trailed off, probably not for lack of
description.
Rod wasn’t
intimidated. Not when Kayla’s boyfriend was pretty much the poster boy for
nerdhood, complete with glasses and a slender build. His darker skin was the
only thing that saved him from entirely blending in with the Dungeons and
Dragons crowd.
The dude was also
only a few inches taller than his woman, an all-around picture of someone who
could be taken out with one well-placed blow. Two at the most.
He kept those
thoughts to himself since they wouldn’t do a single bit of good to say out
loud. Though they would be pretty fun to point out. In a sick, twisted sort of
way, but fun nonetheless.
For that reason, his
actual response wasn’t nearly as reassuring as it should have been. “Wouldn’t
dream of it.”
“Keep it that way.”
The phone changed
hands before he could throw any more sarcasm across the line. Whether it did so
by force, trickery or consent wasn’t clear.
“It’s Kayla,” the
object of contention said. She went on without giving him a chance to say
anything, rushing through her words awkwardly rather than rudely. “Your
grandparents know we’re coming, right? I mean, they’re not going to be confused
when we show up on their doorstep?”
Despite the rapid
rate she fired off the questions, she sounded more than tired. She sounded downright
weary, which made Rod lose most of his ire. It didn’t make him like Cory, but
it did give him a bigger incentive to play nice, if just for her sake.
“Yeah, they’re
expecting you. Don’t worry. And don’t bother trying to tell my grandmother
you’re not hungry. It won’t work.”
Kayla let out a
short, surprised laugh: a remarkably cute sound. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Maybe it was the way
she sounded so normal for that moment instead of scared and confused and
exhausted that made him put his foot in his mouth. Or maybe he was dumber than
he thought.
If he had to pick
one, he’d have to say the latter reason was closer to the mark.
“She’s not like me.
You’ll get along with her.” The assurance came out of his mouth before he
stopped to think about it, and he instantly wished he could take it back.
It took a moment, but
she responded with, “I’m sure I will,” politely ignoring the first part of his
statement.
Giving further proof
that he lacked a few key elements inside his stupid skull, he kept blathering.
“Look, I won’t be getting there until at least an hour after you do. I’m
assuming you’re in Delaware now? So you don’t have to worry about seeing me
tonight.” He really wished he could shut up already, yet the words kept pouring
out. “I’ll make myself scarce after that. You won’t have to see too much of me
at all. Promise.”
“I’m sorry.” Her tone
was right back to unsure.
Rod decided the
conversation needed to end. Right away, if not sooner. “I should go. Call me if
you get lost. And tell Cory I’m sorry.” He still had to force that last part
out despite the picture of Kayla looking bewildered burning into his brain.
He didn’t wait for an
actual reply from her. Hanging up, he slumped in his seat, suddenly exhausted
beyond all description.
It would have been
better if he had let her get a word in edgewise when he asked where they were.
As it was, he couldn’t be certain they’d be in bed when he pulled up to his
grandparents’ place. If they weren’t, he could far too easily see himself
getting into a huge, blowout fight with Cory. It was just a matter of who would
start it.
One way or the other,
he’d hear it from his nonna then. She didn’t condone that kind of behavior,
which had to be why she chose to ignore the non-liquor related side of her
husband’s business dealings. According to her, the mob really didn’t exist.
In her defense, Rod
himself had no actual proof that his family was a real-life, less catastrophic
version of the Sopranos. But even if they weren’t, he was still positive the
Mafia was a real and present entity. No offense to his nonna, who he loved
dearly, but it was difficult to live in North Jersey without having some basic
understanding of the local crime lords.
Especially when you
were married to one.
Probably.
Hopefully.
Except for a quick stop for some black coffee, Rod didn’t do much more than
contemplate pulling over to rest. Yes, he was fatigued in every sense of the
word; and yes, stopping would have put more distance between him and a group of
people he didn’t care to see. Yet he kept the pedal to the metal, glancing down
at his phone every so often and thinking about the various players in the game
he was in.
Greyble.
Wisset.
Evans, his wife and kids.
Kayla and her friends.
And now his grandparents.
The more he thought about everyone involved, the more he realized how his
family should be the least of his concerns. Washington D.C. didn’t seem like it
had a sporting chance against his grandfather. Not when they had been at odds
ever since Rod could remember, with no real points scored for Uncle Sam. It was
a constant stalemate, and that appeared to be just because his nonno didn’t
care about trouncing that particular opponent.
As a former soldier, Rod understood full well that he should be rooting for
his government over the criminal element plaguing the country. But considering how
his government was filled with men like Aaron Greyble, any guilt he might feel
for his associations and loyalties just didn’t feel all that pressing in the
moment.
Besides, the suits down there in the capitol couldn’t make homemade
raviolis like his grandmother prepared, stuffed with five kinds of cheese and
garlic and lamb and basil and who knew what else. That kind of cooking trumped
American pie any day.
What he had told Kayla was true. He really did think she would get along
with his nonna. Maybe a little too well.
The idea made him fidget in his seat.
He didn’t actually think Kayla would say anything incriminating to her. But
there was the small possibility he might be met with a severe talking to and
possible disownment instead of the plate of ziti he couldn’t help but look
forward to. Going the rest of his life without that kind of cooking wasn’t a
punishment he found very palatable, despite the fairly obvious answer on
whether it was justified or not.
Pulling up to the old, three-story Victorian home was therefore a somewhat
nerve-wracking experience. It held a lot of great memories for him, and he hoped
he hadn’t seen the last of those. With its wraparound porch and single turret
stretching above the rest of the house, he had played pretend in it more than
once as a kid, certain that it was a castle with dangerous dragons to be
slayed.
Forget the fair maidens, of course. Back then, there were far more important
things to think about than girls, who everyone knew had contagious diseases.
They liked stupid colors too. His younger self could forgive his grandmother
for the pink and white azaleas she kept carefully pruned around the property,
but that was because she was Nonna. Other females didn’t get that pass.
Life could have been so much easier if he had managed to retain that
mentality.
Rod stayed inside his car for a few minutes longer, refusing to so much as
shut off Lacey’s motor. While he knew he would have to get out and go in at
some point, he liked the illusion of freedom he maintained with the engine
running. Like he could leave without a second’s thought.
It was a nice enough notion even if it was completely unattainable.
As a general rule, he wasn’t the kind of guy who spent too much time hesitating.
As a general rule, he was a go-getter. But on the possibility that Kayla and
crew hadn’t gone to bed quite yet, he remained where he was, even cranking on
the radio and listening to two and a half songs first. The last one would have
been unbearable on any other evening, since it was by some boyband he regretted
so much as knowing the name of.
Pretty-boy singers who could hit notes some girls couldn’t were not his
thing. Yet he let the tune play out from start to finish.
Finally turning his key and sliding it out of the ignition, Rod squared his
shoulders and got out. He took his time slinging his duffel bag over his
shoulder. The same went for walking up the first five brick steps to the
walkway above. By the time he hit the second set of stairs onto the porch, his
legs still felt unnaturally heavy. His stomach was even more weighted, and he
was pretty sure he was developing a tick in his left eye.
The lights were on up there, gently illuminating the light yellow paint of
the house. And the front door was open well before he reached it.
“Rodney! Caro!” His grandmother appeared, hands on her hips, somehow both
scowling and beaming at the same time. “Come. Come. Why are you dawdling when
your pasta is getting cold on the table?”
It seemed clear enough that Kayla hadn’t breathed a word. Rod smiled back,
his whole body relaxing, and bent his six-foot frame to give her a proper hug
and kiss on the cheek. She smelled like she usually did: of tomato sauce and
parmesan cheese.
She kissed him back, exclaimed over his bruised face without asking any
questions about it, then hurried him inside, insisting he go straight into the
kitchen to have a seat. He did as instructed, passing through the enormous and
stately living room into the equally austere dining room. For the most part,
the place resembled something out of an Agatha Christie play with its expensive
antique furniture, polished wooden floors and ornate oriental rugs. The walls
held more than a few pieces of priceless art, and the very high ceilings they
pointed to added to the almost intimidating aura.
But the kitchen was something else altogether, by far the most cheerful
spot inside. The granite countertops and polished cabinets were just as costly
as everything else in the house, but they managed to look welcoming and
cheerful. Maybe it was the cream-colored walls, whereas the rest of the house
was done up in browns and burgundies. Or maybe it was due to the wonderful
things that came out of the room.
Rod took a seat on one of the custom-made barstools at the counter. Sure
enough, there sat a plate heaped high with pasta that oozed with melted cheese,
tomato sauce and chunks of chicken. Just the way he liked it.
His stomach growled, but he still paused to say grace before digging in. He
knew the rules when he was there.
“What can I get you to drink, cucciolo?”
He also knew better than to tell his grandmother that she didn’t need to
wait on him. She was going to do it regardless, just like she would insist he
have a second helping.
Which he wouldn’t object to.
She bustled around the kitchen, fetching him one thing one moment, wiping a
rag over an already clean counter the next and happily chatting all the while.
Did he have a girlfriend yet? Anyone special he had his eye on? He wasn’t
getting any younger, she reminded him, and he really did need to settle for a
nice young woman who could cook a decent manicotti.
Rod shoved another bite into his mouth while his grandmother went on, not
seeming to care that he didn’t have any responses. But he found himself
regretting that avoidance tactic when she went on to note how Kayla was a very
pretty girl. Even if she wasn’t Italian.
If she thought it odd how he started choking before she could finish the
thought, she didn’t say so.
“Are you alright, caro?” Was all she asked, picking up right where she’d
left off when he managed to assure her he was fine. Kayla already had a
boyfriend anyway, she noted, so how about Rachel? She seemed nice.
Rod hastily sought to divert her attention to something else before he
really did asphyxiate on pasta. If he had to go, he supposed it wouldn’t be the
worst way to die, and altogether better than death by Wisset. But he’d prefer
to live a while longer if at all possible.
“How are your hands doing,” he pressed, seizing onto the first thing that
popped into his head.
His nonna had gone to the doctor’s last month complaining about pain in her
fingers, only to find out she had arthritis. Rod had always thought that was
something tiny, frail people got. It appeared that wasn’t the case though, since
his grandmother was pleasantly plump and vivacious, even with her grey,
thinning hair and the lines around her face.
She waved a dismissive hand. “I’m fine. And we’re not talking about me.
We’re talking about you and how you need to think about settling down.”
His grandfather chose that moment to walk in, proving that God didn’t all-around
hate him.
At seventy-two, the man still came across as a rather imposing figure. It
was his side of the family that Rod got his own height from, and that still
showed on the elder Andiluigi.
He might be thicker around the middle than when he was in his prime, but there
was still some power evident in his arms, and his shoulders were unbowed.
“Maria,” he chided,
throwing his hands into the air. “Stop badgering the boy. He’ll find someone
when he finds someone.”
She snorted her
opinion of that but didn’t actually say anything in return, and not out of
wifely submission. She didn’t need to speak when her expression conveyed her
thoughts so perfectly all by itself.
Rod stood up to give
him a hug. “Nonno, it’s good to see you. Thanks for letting us come.”
Of course.” He
pronounced the second word like it had no R in it, replaced instead by some
sort of W sound. “You know you’re welcome here anytime and for any reason.”
“Still, thank you.”
He held off on discussing the details in front of his grandmother.
She was already
giving one last cleaning swipe to one last counter. “Eat your ziti, Rodney.
I’ll see you in the morning.”
Pressing a final kiss
to his cheek, she went over to exchange a peck with her husband before sweeping
out of the kitchen. That left the men alone to talk, but Rod kept waiting until
he was sure she was well out of hearing range.
“What did you tell
her?”
Taking a seat on one
of the barstools next to him, his grandfather snorted, a noise that sounded a
whole lot like the one his wife had emitted a minute ago. “That you had some
guests coming over, and she shouldn’t ask how they knew you.”
Rod nodded
gratefully. “So she knows something’s off but not exactly what?”
He waved a hand
again, reminding his grandson of the joke about how to make an Italian shut up:
by tying his hands behind his back.
“She doesn’t want to
know. It makes her happy that way.”
It made Rod happy
too, so he didn’t object.
“She asked them about
their families, and fed them and put them to bed. She likes that mothering sort
of thing, so you made her week.”
Rod felt a tired but
genuine smile creep over his face. It disappeared with his grandfather’s next
words.
“So you gave me the
short story before. What’s the long one?”
“You sure you want me
to tell you now? It’s late and all.”
“Stop stalling,
Rodney, and spit it out.”
So he did. Every
single unflattering bit of it, though even then he couldn’t bring himself to
use the R-word. His grandfather listened without a single syllable or even an
expression of interruption, letting him say his piece plus some. And even after
it was all out there between them, he stayed quiet for a short while, thinking
it over. Then he pulled out his phone.
“Who are you calling?”
Rod was sure it wasn’t the cops, but other than that, he had no clue.
“Joe Piccarello to
come get your car. It shouldn’t be out on the street right now. You need a new
one.”
Rod had
considered that before. And as much as he didn’t want to be a mooch, he had
also figured that his grandfather could take care of it.
“After that, I’m getting
ahold of Laurence Whittaker.” He angled his chin slightly to start speaking
into the phone. “Joe. I need you to come over here and pick something up for
me. It’s a vehicle. I need it to sit in Lonnie’s shop for a while. Tell him
I’ll pay him for the space.” A pause, then, “Yeah, right away.”
Rod stared at his
plate, wiped clean except for a few smears of pasta sauce. He knew all the men
mentioned. Joe was the son of a close family friend, the Piccarellos and
Andiluigis going way back. As far as he knew, they’d come off the same boat way
back in the nineteen twenties.
Lonnie, meanwhile,
owned a car dealership a five-minute drive away, and a chop shop several miles
further down the road. While he couldn’t prove anything, Rod had his
significant suspicions that the place did both legitimate and illegitimate
business.
Last but very far
from least, there was Laurence Whittaker, the well-paid and worthwhile attorney
who had been on his grandfather’s retainer for decades.
As soon as the elder
Andiluigi hung up with Joe, he started pressing more buttons. “You respect this
team leader of yours, right?” He asked. “This Thomas Evans character?”
Rod answered without
hesitation. “Yeah. He’s a good guy. He deserves better than this.”
“Then he’s going to
get ‘better,’” he stated. “The same for you. We’re going to make this right.”
A minute later, he
was instructing his lawyer to first figure out where Evans was being held and
then sign on as his official legal representative. That development meant the
long-term picture was starting to look a little brighter. Rod had never taken
too much interest in Whittaker’s business, but he knew enough to understand
that it was flush with cash from a string of successfully handled cases. Plus,
the firm had a very competent, very thorough, and not exactly ethical private
investigator it kept on the team.
She was kind of hot
too. A little too thin for his taste, but with a take-no-prisoners attitude
that made her appealing anyway. From all reports, the woman was a genius at digging
up dirt on the opposition.
Possibly with that
kind of thing in mind, Whittaker insisted on meeting up early in the morning.
That was fine by Rod, since it meant he could avoid certain houseguests for at
least a few more hours.
With that all taken
care of, he went to sleep in his old bedroom on the third floor. It had long
since lost its nursery décor, but he could still envision it the way it used to
be with dinosaurs painted along the walls. There hadn’t been a smidgen of
“girly” colors back then, from the dark green shag of the carpet to the bright
blankets and the white of the ceiling.
His sentimental
grandmother still insisted on calling it his room, despite how he was sure
plenty of other people stayed there when he wasn’t around, and even though it
now sported brief splotches of some shade of pink he couldn’t identify. It
wasn’t particularly intrusive or even all that noticeable mixed in with the
blues and greens and whites everywhere else, but it was still there.
Kayla would
doubtlessly know what to call the color. Girls always did, correcting men on
the differences between aqua and teal, and other pointless variances. He
supposed that, in some strange way, it was part of their charm.
Sometimes.
Sometimes it was just
annoying.
Sometimes life was
just annoying.
Rod glanced at the
bedroom across the hall, the door shut tight. Case in point.
He figured Kayla and
Rachel were sharing that one, while Cory was situated in the room directly
beside him. There was no way his grandmother and her Catholic sensibilities
would allow an unmarried couple to sleep in the same room together. For all he
knew, she still thought he was an altar boy. If so, she was entirely wrong, but
he rather liked her having such a good opinion of him, considering how she was
one of the few people out there who did.
With one last look
through the bay windows that jutted out from his circular room inside the
turret, he stripped down to his boxers and climbed into bed. Setting the alarm
beside him to zero six hundred, his lips twisted in a grimace at the
realization that he’d be waking up again in less than three hours.
Tomorrow was going to be an interesting day, and it was coming all too soon.
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