(His name is Bernardo Velasco and he's a model/actor in Brazil.)
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Duh...uh...um...okay, whatevah!
(His name is Bernardo Velasco and he's a model/actor in Brazil.)
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Writer's cramp of the brain
I'm just posting some of the book, tonight. Too lost in wordage to think, so here's Vinnie's first job, when he's thirteen, working for Mickey Maggioli.
----------------
Now, Mickey was hardly a boy; no, he was close to social security age, and looking every year of it, from the lines around his sleepy eyes to the hook in his nose to how he sort of shuffled along, like he couldn’t pick his feet up all the way off the ground. He ran the parking scam in the market and had since the thirties, they tell me. You know the kind -- park here? Pay me to watch your car. If you don’t, who knows what might happen to it? Most of the drivers at Fulton knew how it worked and always had a twenty ready for when Mickey’d glide up and say bullshit-something like, “Hey, Frankie, how ya doin’?”
Of course, the guy’d always smile at him and say, “Good, Mickey, how’s things?”
“The same ol’ same ol’,” Micke’d say. “You know how it goes.” Then he’d put out his hand to shake and they’d shift the note into his palm like nothing, and he’d add, “See ya later.”
And the guy’d know his load would get protected while he was doing his order. Because Mickey, he was under the protection of a made guy. Who, I never found out, but for sure he was on record, and this was all just a cost of doing business, know what I mean?
Me, all I had to do was keep an eye out for non-precinct patrol cars and give him a nod when things were clear. Every now and then a local patrol’d glide by, giving the idea that the cops were keeping a watch on the place and weren’t on the pad, but that was just crap. The real muscle of the area was Mickey. And I was one of a dozen kids who floated in and out as his backup. For that, I’d get twenty five a night and a weekly bonus, where Union guys got thirty-two a night to hand-truck heavy boxes of fish around. It was easy to figure out which was better for me.
Of course, one of my plans was to take over for him when he got ready to hit it down to Florida. Even then I was dreaming big...well, for a thirteen year-old.
Now most of the drivers were regulars and knew the drill -- but there was always somebody who don’t give a shit how things work. First time I saw it was when I’d been working with Mickey for a week, with this truck that parked in the center of the street. The driver got out and headed straight for the market. I whistled at Mickey; he saw the guy and shuffled over, calling out, “Hey, bud, that’s twenty to park here.”
The driver was one of those big burly bastards who think because they got fists like hams they got control of the world. So he snapped, “This ain’t no parking garage; take a hike.” Then he headed on.
Mickey watched him go then motioned for me to keep watch for unknown cops. Then he nodded to a guy we called Tommy Hooks. He was this monster Sicilian kid made of total beef, but only half a forehead, standing over by a shed at the base of Peck Slip and South Street, a hook hanging from his shoulder (how else would you think he got his name? A lousy golf swing?). He lived in the projects up the road and was way more brawn than brain, but that kind’s good to have around.
He followed the driver around a corner and waved back with that big-assed hook, then started swinging it back and forth like he was just waiting for some reason to slip it into somebody’s neck. One of the other kids -- this older guy named Cisco -- told me he’d actually done that, once, to where you could see the point of it sticking out the guy’s throat. I was swallowing it and could just see Tommy flicking his wrist to flip the guy to the ground, like I’d seen butchers do with sides of beef they were about to carve up, then dragging him off, like Cisco said. But then he went too far and told me he’d hung the guy on a conveyor belt and they’d ground him up into hamburger, and I knew he was just messing with me.
I got even by asking the other guys if Cisco “ever patted their asses like he did mine.” When he found out, he wanted to beat the crap out of me, but Mickey slapped him and said it’s his own damn fault and to, as he put it, “Shut the fuck up.” Then he took me aside and said, “You’re a good kid. You don’t let nobody give you crap.” I felt like a million.
----------------
Now, Mickey was hardly a boy; no, he was close to social security age, and looking every year of it, from the lines around his sleepy eyes to the hook in his nose to how he sort of shuffled along, like he couldn’t pick his feet up all the way off the ground. He ran the parking scam in the market and had since the thirties, they tell me. You know the kind -- park here? Pay me to watch your car. If you don’t, who knows what might happen to it? Most of the drivers at Fulton knew how it worked and always had a twenty ready for when Mickey’d glide up and say bullshit-something like, “Hey, Frankie, how ya doin’?”
Of course, the guy’d always smile at him and say, “Good, Mickey, how’s things?”
“The same ol’ same ol’,” Micke’d say. “You know how it goes.” Then he’d put out his hand to shake and they’d shift the note into his palm like nothing, and he’d add, “See ya later.”
And the guy’d know his load would get protected while he was doing his order. Because Mickey, he was under the protection of a made guy. Who, I never found out, but for sure he was on record, and this was all just a cost of doing business, know what I mean?
Me, all I had to do was keep an eye out for non-precinct patrol cars and give him a nod when things were clear. Every now and then a local patrol’d glide by, giving the idea that the cops were keeping a watch on the place and weren’t on the pad, but that was just crap. The real muscle of the area was Mickey. And I was one of a dozen kids who floated in and out as his backup. For that, I’d get twenty five a night and a weekly bonus, where Union guys got thirty-two a night to hand-truck heavy boxes of fish around. It was easy to figure out which was better for me.
Of course, one of my plans was to take over for him when he got ready to hit it down to Florida. Even then I was dreaming big...well, for a thirteen year-old.
Now most of the drivers were regulars and knew the drill -- but there was always somebody who don’t give a shit how things work. First time I saw it was when I’d been working with Mickey for a week, with this truck that parked in the center of the street. The driver got out and headed straight for the market. I whistled at Mickey; he saw the guy and shuffled over, calling out, “Hey, bud, that’s twenty to park here.”
The driver was one of those big burly bastards who think because they got fists like hams they got control of the world. So he snapped, “This ain’t no parking garage; take a hike.” Then he headed on.
Mickey watched him go then motioned for me to keep watch for unknown cops. Then he nodded to a guy we called Tommy Hooks. He was this monster Sicilian kid made of total beef, but only half a forehead, standing over by a shed at the base of Peck Slip and South Street, a hook hanging from his shoulder (how else would you think he got his name? A lousy golf swing?). He lived in the projects up the road and was way more brawn than brain, but that kind’s good to have around.
He followed the driver around a corner and waved back with that big-assed hook, then started swinging it back and forth like he was just waiting for some reason to slip it into somebody’s neck. One of the other kids -- this older guy named Cisco -- told me he’d actually done that, once, to where you could see the point of it sticking out the guy’s throat. I was swallowing it and could just see Tommy flicking his wrist to flip the guy to the ground, like I’d seen butchers do with sides of beef they were about to carve up, then dragging him off, like Cisco said. But then he went too far and told me he’d hung the guy on a conveyor belt and they’d ground him up into hamburger, and I knew he was just messing with me.
I got even by asking the other guys if Cisco “ever patted their asses like he did mine.” When he found out, he wanted to beat the crap out of me, but Mickey slapped him and said it’s his own damn fault and to, as he put it, “Shut the fuck up.” Then he took me aside and said, “You’re a good kid. You don’t let nobody give you crap.” I felt like a million.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Breaking 30,000
I have to be done by Sunday. Or at least to 50K by then. I'm headed for Hong Kong on Tuesday, next week, and Monday will be prep time for that, so I'm pushing. God only knows if any of this will make sense...and I know I won't.
I'm brain dead, right now. Good night.
I'm brain dead, right now. Good night.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Back to it
I went through IF and cut out some crap then added more, so I'm up to over 27K in wordage. But I'm WAY behind schedule and will need to bust butt to get to the 50K before I head for Hong Kong, because the truth is, once I leave on the 29th I arrive on the 30th and will be wanting nothing to do with anybody till the next day. So...be done with it. this weekend or be nothing. Too bad I didn't get a full 6 days off to work on it, like would have happened had I done the full packing job.
Thing is, the story will not even begin to be finished at 50K. Lately I've been thinking it's more like 65-70K overall...and maybe even longer. My inner gab-fest is taking over. The hook I found in the story is Vinnie's massive imagination and how sometimes it gets carried away. I actually do have a moment in the book, so far, where Vinnie imagines watching a hood cutting up a dead body as he sings "Mack The Knife" then looks at Vinnie and asks him if he's going to be good about this. Why? It's important to the moment. Really.
There's also his libido and pending marriage to a girl who won't sleep with him, first, and the friends he makes who become important later in the story. If I'm 40% of the way done, I'd be surprised.
I've also been following the disgraceful conduct of the campus police at UC-Davis and posted about that on FaceBook. The chancellor of the college, who ordered the cops to clear the peaceful protesters out, is now under pressure to resign. I'd say she won't because she's one of those uncaring types who doesn't give a damn about people who disagree with her; if she'd been the least bit human, she'd never have called the cops in on kids who were doing nothing but protesting the greed and corruption on Wall Street and in Washington.
But then there was a silent protest, one she tried to turn into a hostage situation directed against her (she'd held a news conference and refused to leave the hall where it took place because so many kids were outside). What'd those kids do? They made a path for her to walk through, promised she would not be touched and she left...and had to pass by hundreds of students doing nothing more than glaring at her. In total silence. Including, I hear, a few faculty members. Even UC's Board of Regents is taking this seriously, now. Check it out --
http://digbysblog.blogspot.com/2011/11/silent-shame.html
Another disgraceful incident was Michelle Obama being booed at a NASCAR Rally. She was there to honor the troops and serve as grand marshall, along with Jill Biden, and a massive number of racist redneck assholes sent catcalls her way. This is the "new South" -- still as disgusting as ever.
Oh, and now that I know Bradley Cooper is fluent in French...well...let's just say I may finally watch one of his movies.
Thing is, the story will not even begin to be finished at 50K. Lately I've been thinking it's more like 65-70K overall...and maybe even longer. My inner gab-fest is taking over. The hook I found in the story is Vinnie's massive imagination and how sometimes it gets carried away. I actually do have a moment in the book, so far, where Vinnie imagines watching a hood cutting up a dead body as he sings "Mack The Knife" then looks at Vinnie and asks him if he's going to be good about this. Why? It's important to the moment. Really.
There's also his libido and pending marriage to a girl who won't sleep with him, first, and the friends he makes who become important later in the story. If I'm 40% of the way done, I'd be surprised.
I've also been following the disgraceful conduct of the campus police at UC-Davis and posted about that on FaceBook. The chancellor of the college, who ordered the cops to clear the peaceful protesters out, is now under pressure to resign. I'd say she won't because she's one of those uncaring types who doesn't give a damn about people who disagree with her; if she'd been the least bit human, she'd never have called the cops in on kids who were doing nothing but protesting the greed and corruption on Wall Street and in Washington.
But then there was a silent protest, one she tried to turn into a hostage situation directed against her (she'd held a news conference and refused to leave the hall where it took place because so many kids were outside). What'd those kids do? They made a path for her to walk through, promised she would not be touched and she left...and had to pass by hundreds of students doing nothing more than glaring at her. In total silence. Including, I hear, a few faculty members. Even UC's Board of Regents is taking this seriously, now. Check it out --
http://digbysblog.blogspot.com/2011/11/silent-shame.html
Another disgraceful incident was Michelle Obama being booed at a NASCAR Rally. She was there to honor the troops and serve as grand marshall, along with Jill Biden, and a massive number of racist redneck assholes sent catcalls her way. This is the "new South" -- still as disgusting as ever.
Oh, and now that I know Bradley Cooper is fluent in French...well...let's just say I may finally watch one of his movies.
NxNW Redux
I tried to get an angle like Hitchcock had in "North By Northwest" from outside the train, but it wasn't working. So instead you get a vignette.
And here's my Eva Marie...like I said, not blond, but he's wearing the same colors as her and fits them well.
He got off in Utica. Dammit.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
History travels
My job in NYC blew up so I'm headed back to Buffalo on Amtrak, following the same route as "North by Northwest". It's beautiful, heading up the Hudson River Valley, even when the tracks take you away from the shoreline and into golden woods thick with fallen leaves. It's a very civilized method of travel, despite it taking more than 8 hours to get to my destination. I have WiFi and a monster sandwich from a deli with a couple of DPs -- I'm set. And what's best? No airport security to have to deal with.
We just passed West Point, and it's impressive, even from across the river. And now we're passing the ruins of an old baroque house on a small island in the middle of the river. It was apparently burned down but still has the castle-like turrets at a couple of corners and arched windows, while glassless, are still intact.
I'm trying to take pictures, but I'm on the sun side of the train and the reflection in the glass is horrific. If I can smooth some out, I'll post them. Otherwise, I can sit here and dream I'm Cary Grant while this adorable guy seated on the other side of the aisle from me is Eva Marie Saint. He's not blond, but he does have a sweet face, elegant hands...and has yet to shift his face or fingers away from his iPhone. I am feeling SO fifty years behind the times, right now.
WOW! I just passed the spot where the train stops to board some cops and Eva Marie Saint tells Cary Grant he needs to hurry up, after one of their double-entendre-filled conversations.
I think I'll watch "North by Northwest", again, tonight.
We just passed West Point, and it's impressive, even from across the river. And now we're passing the ruins of an old baroque house on a small island in the middle of the river. It was apparently burned down but still has the castle-like turrets at a couple of corners and arched windows, while glassless, are still intact.
I'm trying to take pictures, but I'm on the sun side of the train and the reflection in the glass is horrific. If I can smooth some out, I'll post them. Otherwise, I can sit here and dream I'm Cary Grant while this adorable guy seated on the other side of the aisle from me is Eva Marie Saint. He's not blond, but he does have a sweet face, elegant hands...and has yet to shift his face or fingers away from his iPhone. I am feeling SO fifty years behind the times, right now.
WOW! I just passed the spot where the train stops to board some cops and Eva Marie Saint tells Cary Grant he needs to hurry up, after one of their double-entendre-filled conversations.
I think I'll watch "North by Northwest", again, tonight.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Brendan's back
And he's kicking my ass. Seems I'm having a trial run in dealing with a situation I'm not at all familiar with, and my grumpy wussiness is irritating him. "Just get the damn thing done," he's snarling, "and prove yourself worthy of my story. It'll be a hundred times harder, believe me."
And he's right. If I can't get something as basic as a corruption scandal in the NYPD down well enough to make it work, and find a way into it that's different and interesting, then POS is outside my range forever. And what's funny is, that thought actually spooked me.
There are parts of POS I'm so damn proud of, I can't imagine not finishing it. There are other parts that are as trite as anything by Sydney Sheldon or Jackie Collins, but my job is to take them out of that realm and into another. Meaning my job with "Inherent Flaws" is to do the same and see how the hell I figure out just how the hell I DO do it.
Of course, mingled into this is how my one serious book, so far -- "Bobby Carapisi" -- is not selling at all, right now. And I think I screwed it up by taking it so damned seriously. Doesn't help that most of the people who visit that publisher's site are looking for erotica...and my other three books can be fit into that, even though there's a lot more to them than just a way to get your motor revving.
Writing screenplays is a lot easier than writing novels. So damn much to do, it gets to be overwhelming.
And exhilarating and maddening and just plain pain and pleasure to do.
BTW, Gerard Brennan, a crime writer in Belfast, NI has a new book out on Kindle -- "Point". I'm seriously considering giving in and buying a Kindle so I can read it; I don't have OS 10.6 on my computers so can't read it without buying the damn thing.
I hate technology.
And he's right. If I can't get something as basic as a corruption scandal in the NYPD down well enough to make it work, and find a way into it that's different and interesting, then POS is outside my range forever. And what's funny is, that thought actually spooked me.
There are parts of POS I'm so damn proud of, I can't imagine not finishing it. There are other parts that are as trite as anything by Sydney Sheldon or Jackie Collins, but my job is to take them out of that realm and into another. Meaning my job with "Inherent Flaws" is to do the same and see how the hell I figure out just how the hell I DO do it.
Of course, mingled into this is how my one serious book, so far -- "Bobby Carapisi" -- is not selling at all, right now. And I think I screwed it up by taking it so damned seriously. Doesn't help that most of the people who visit that publisher's site are looking for erotica...and my other three books can be fit into that, even though there's a lot more to them than just a way to get your motor revving.
Writing screenplays is a lot easier than writing novels. So damn much to do, it gets to be overwhelming.
And exhilarating and maddening and just plain pain and pleasure to do.
BTW, Gerard Brennan, a crime writer in Belfast, NI has a new book out on Kindle -- "Point". I'm seriously considering giving in and buying a Kindle so I can read it; I don't have OS 10.6 on my computers so can't read it without buying the damn thing.
I hate technology.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Call me Ancient Mariner
Wordage, wordage everywhere and not a sentence wrote.
Wordage, wordage everywhere to get this author's goat.
Play on "The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
I've decided the cause of my current block is food-related. I ate some Turtles, yesterday, after a heavy meal and a beer; tonight's blockage is thanks to Oreo cookies after a tuna salad. the former canceled out the goodness of the latter. Or maybe I'm just lazy and don't want to have to deal with this. It's too much like work after a long day of work.
No...it's just that I need a new hook into the story I'm working on. I need something to grab me so it won't seem like work. For all the palpitations and persnicketiness that accompanied "The Lyons' Den" and "Place of Safety", I felt a connection deep and wide with the stories and characters. It's been the same with every one of the scripts I'm proud of. I am the characters. The story is mine. Even when everything about it is totally alien to me.
I have nothing of that, here. Vinnie is not me. Not at all. But I said I'd do it and I have to find that hook. Something. Something to bring me back into the meaning of the story.
Maybe I need some Depeche Mode.
Wordage, wordage everywhere to get this author's goat.
Play on "The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
I've decided the cause of my current block is food-related. I ate some Turtles, yesterday, after a heavy meal and a beer; tonight's blockage is thanks to Oreo cookies after a tuna salad. the former canceled out the goodness of the latter. Or maybe I'm just lazy and don't want to have to deal with this. It's too much like work after a long day of work.
No...it's just that I need a new hook into the story I'm working on. I need something to grab me so it won't seem like work. For all the palpitations and persnicketiness that accompanied "The Lyons' Den" and "Place of Safety", I felt a connection deep and wide with the stories and characters. It's been the same with every one of the scripts I'm proud of. I am the characters. The story is mine. Even when everything about it is totally alien to me.
I have nothing of that, here. Vinnie is not me. Not at all. But I said I'd do it and I have to find that hook. Something. Something to bring me back into the meaning of the story.
Maybe I need some Depeche Mode.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Dead in the water
I got nuthin'. I spent all evening trying to find a way into the story and didn't get a single word done. And this weekend I'll be in NYC working a packing job so won't be able to do my usual catch-up. Only good thing is, I'll have Thanksgiving off and probably the Friday after, so a four day weekend will help me get back on track and maybe hit the full 50K in wordage.
Thing is, I don't think it'll be the end of the story. This book is going to be a minimum of 65K in wordage, and I'm still not completely vested in it. To be honest, it's not the kind of thing I'd write. I enjoy reading some police tales -- like the books of Ed McBain's 87th Precinct series -- but I honestly don't know that much about police procedures and haven't done the research I normally do to fill myself in. I wait till I'm at a point where I need to know something then Google it to see what comes up that I can use. So far I've been lucky...and the guy whose life I'm basing it on is giving me info as I go along.
It's just, I can't seem to find the hook in it to make it crazy enough, yet. It reads too much like a rehash of "Serpico". Fact is, I don't want to spend a year working on this one, like I did on "The Lyons' Den." I'm doing it out of a feeling of obligation, which means I'll turn out a piece of crap.
I dunno. I've been in a weird mood all day so that's probably why I'm such a downer-bear right now. I'm turning in early, tonight, and letting sleep wipe away the tedium.
Thing is, I don't think it'll be the end of the story. This book is going to be a minimum of 65K in wordage, and I'm still not completely vested in it. To be honest, it's not the kind of thing I'd write. I enjoy reading some police tales -- like the books of Ed McBain's 87th Precinct series -- but I honestly don't know that much about police procedures and haven't done the research I normally do to fill myself in. I wait till I'm at a point where I need to know something then Google it to see what comes up that I can use. So far I've been lucky...and the guy whose life I'm basing it on is giving me info as I go along.
It's just, I can't seem to find the hook in it to make it crazy enough, yet. It reads too much like a rehash of "Serpico". Fact is, I don't want to spend a year working on this one, like I did on "The Lyons' Den." I'm doing it out of a feeling of obligation, which means I'll turn out a piece of crap.
I dunno. I've been in a weird mood all day so that's probably why I'm such a downer-bear right now. I'm turning in early, tonight, and letting sleep wipe away the tedium.
Monday, November 14, 2011
I write, therefore I scam
Another section to share because I'm just not up to thinking. Vinnie's married with a kid and has been a cop for six years. He still uses his mother's Manhattan apartment as a pit stop since he now lives on Long Island. Ronnie's a childhood friend who almost got him on record with the mob.
-------------------
I saw the pastry box on mom’s kitchen table the second I walked in the door. Just like the one from Patty’s, not all that long ago. Jesus, not even ten years?
Mom was chattering on about something; what, I got idea because I didn’t hear a word. I was focused on that box as I made myself grab a glass of milk. Then I casually strolled over to it and helped myself to a Venetian layered cookie.
Shit.
“Hey, Mom,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady, “you walk over for these today?”
“Oh, sorry, baby, I forgot,” she said, all unaware. “Ronnie came by. Asked you to call. There’s a phone number written on the box. I said you’d be here about eight.”
No shit there’s a phone number on the box.
Fuckin’ shit. Ronnie? Me and him -- shit, he hardly said anything to me at the wedding. We hadn’t really talked in years. Not since I got the silver shield. But now he wants to talk? Now? The first day I’m downtown he makes contact? The day I find out IAD’s after me, too? Now I had a clue as to how deep in the shit I was.
“Back in a second, mom,” I said. “I forgot something in the car.”
I headed down to the street to a public phone and dialed Ronnie’s number. Like I didn’t have it burned into my brain from all those years ago. It rang once and he picked but said nothing, so I popped off with, “Hey, Ronnie, what’s what?”
Sure enough, he was at the same old phone booth; I could tell from the crackle and the background traffic. His voice was cool and controlled as he asked, “What’s what with you?”
“Good. It’s good.”
“How’s Louisa and the baby?”
“Good.”
“Good. A guy’d like to see you. Can you come by the club?”
Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.
“The club?” And I was damn proud my voice didn’t shake when I said it. “I don’t think that’s good. Tell you what, let’s meet at -- at the Lime House. At eight.” The joint'd be hopping, then.
“Hold on.”
I heard him dial another phone. He must be at a bank of them. He talked, softly, then came back to me.
“Make it Patty’s Pastry shop at nine.”
“Ronnie, I want to meet in a public place. No offense, but that’s the way it’s gonna be.”
Ronnie talked into the other phone then said, “Vincent’s at nine.”
Vincent’s Clam House. Not all that public, but it was the best I was gonna get, so I just said, “See you then.”
He hung up. Not even a “Later” to me. Yeah, things were beginning to make sense. Like hell they were.
Mom made me a snack of her killer Gnocchi. Washed down by that cheap Chianti she liked, it tasted perfect. Like a last meal, maybe. Then at a quarter to the hour, I kissed her and headed over.
The positive thing about being a cop is you can park anywhere, even by a fire hydrant. You just pop an NYPD ID on your dashboard, and so long as you’re not all night, you got no problems. And since Vincent’s was only a few blocks from mom’s, I was there early. This is one of those quick food joints you find in the middle of the block, a little cheesy but with damn good food. I checked the place out, didn’t see anything that looked off...not even a Caddy parked nearby. Not even many people, it being pretty chilly out. I smelled some fireplaces working, watched leaves blow by from trees up the block. All nice and normal.
I took my service revolver out of its holster and slipped it under the front seat -- can’t go into this packing -- then I rubbed my face to make sure I wasn’t sweating and -- .
Ronnie appeared by the passenger door. It took everything I had in me to keep from jumping at seeing him, and I still couldn’t keep from crossing myself. Then I got out, locked the car and followed him inside.
It wasn’t till we were inside that he shook my hand and kissed me on the cheek with a hug. I did the same back, even as I knew what he was really doing was feeling for a wire or gun.
Once he was happy I was clean, he stepped back and said, “What’s what?”
“What’s what yourself?”
“Gotta check.”
“I understand.”
“You look good.”
“Not as good as you. Never did.”
“I got no responsibilities.”
He wrapped his arm over my shoulders and guided me to a large round table in the back, like old friends...and there sat Lino like a king, two nasty bastards with him, all looking like murder. It was even worse than I thought. He stood and gave me a big hug and a kiss, then motioned for me to sit. I did. What else was I gonna do?
-------------------
I saw the pastry box on mom’s kitchen table the second I walked in the door. Just like the one from Patty’s, not all that long ago. Jesus, not even ten years?
Mom was chattering on about something; what, I got idea because I didn’t hear a word. I was focused on that box as I made myself grab a glass of milk. Then I casually strolled over to it and helped myself to a Venetian layered cookie.
Shit.
“Hey, Mom,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady, “you walk over for these today?”
“Oh, sorry, baby, I forgot,” she said, all unaware. “Ronnie came by. Asked you to call. There’s a phone number written on the box. I said you’d be here about eight.”
No shit there’s a phone number on the box.
Fuckin’ shit. Ronnie? Me and him -- shit, he hardly said anything to me at the wedding. We hadn’t really talked in years. Not since I got the silver shield. But now he wants to talk? Now? The first day I’m downtown he makes contact? The day I find out IAD’s after me, too? Now I had a clue as to how deep in the shit I was.
“Back in a second, mom,” I said. “I forgot something in the car.”
I headed down to the street to a public phone and dialed Ronnie’s number. Like I didn’t have it burned into my brain from all those years ago. It rang once and he picked but said nothing, so I popped off with, “Hey, Ronnie, what’s what?”
Sure enough, he was at the same old phone booth; I could tell from the crackle and the background traffic. His voice was cool and controlled as he asked, “What’s what with you?”
“Good. It’s good.”
“How’s Louisa and the baby?”
“Good.”
“Good. A guy’d like to see you. Can you come by the club?”
Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.
“The club?” And I was damn proud my voice didn’t shake when I said it. “I don’t think that’s good. Tell you what, let’s meet at -- at the Lime House. At eight.” The joint'd be hopping, then.
“Hold on.”
I heard him dial another phone. He must be at a bank of them. He talked, softly, then came back to me.
“Make it Patty’s Pastry shop at nine.”
“Ronnie, I want to meet in a public place. No offense, but that’s the way it’s gonna be.”
Ronnie talked into the other phone then said, “Vincent’s at nine.”
Vincent’s Clam House. Not all that public, but it was the best I was gonna get, so I just said, “See you then.”
He hung up. Not even a “Later” to me. Yeah, things were beginning to make sense. Like hell they were.
Mom made me a snack of her killer Gnocchi. Washed down by that cheap Chianti she liked, it tasted perfect. Like a last meal, maybe. Then at a quarter to the hour, I kissed her and headed over.
The positive thing about being a cop is you can park anywhere, even by a fire hydrant. You just pop an NYPD ID on your dashboard, and so long as you’re not all night, you got no problems. And since Vincent’s was only a few blocks from mom’s, I was there early. This is one of those quick food joints you find in the middle of the block, a little cheesy but with damn good food. I checked the place out, didn’t see anything that looked off...not even a Caddy parked nearby. Not even many people, it being pretty chilly out. I smelled some fireplaces working, watched leaves blow by from trees up the block. All nice and normal.
I took my service revolver out of its holster and slipped it under the front seat -- can’t go into this packing -- then I rubbed my face to make sure I wasn’t sweating and -- .
Ronnie appeared by the passenger door. It took everything I had in me to keep from jumping at seeing him, and I still couldn’t keep from crossing myself. Then I got out, locked the car and followed him inside.
It wasn’t till we were inside that he shook my hand and kissed me on the cheek with a hug. I did the same back, even as I knew what he was really doing was feeling for a wire or gun.
Once he was happy I was clean, he stepped back and said, “What’s what?”
“What’s what yourself?”
“Gotta check.”
“I understand.”
“You look good.”
“Not as good as you. Never did.”
“I got no responsibilities.”
He wrapped his arm over my shoulders and guided me to a large round table in the back, like old friends...and there sat Lino like a king, two nasty bastards with him, all looking like murder. It was even worse than I thought. He stood and gave me a big hug and a kiss, then motioned for me to sit. I did. What else was I gonna do?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
