“I’ll tell you what. You give me your ticket, I’ll upgrade you to first class, and we’ll talk.”
So much for sleeping.I hand him my boarding pass. “Sure. Go for it.”
Chapter Seven
Suds
It’s amazing how much energy can be gained by one whole night of uninterrupted, incredible sex.
Mikey lets me sleep late and with the cat fed, I depart for the best Sunday brunch in Brooklyn. The entry fee requires an hour’s stop at St. Thomas’s Church. As long as I’m there, I’ll ask about Sam’s second cousin, see if she left Italy. Daring to dream of a nanny, I dress my son, feed him, and run into Joey on the ground floor.
On any other male, a suit gives the aura of a businessman but on him, not so much. With his long, black wool coat, bent nose, and slicked back hair, all he needs is a violin case to complete the look.
“Jesus, does Father know you goin’ to church? You’re not even Cat’lic.”
“I got a special dispensation from the pope the time I found the Miraculous Weeping Mary.”
“No shit? He owes you one?”
I don’t bother to tell him I was kidding. The explanation would take more minutes than we have blocks to walk. At the corner, Kimmy takes command of the stroller, and we dads fall back. My part-time employee gives me the rundown on the soon-to-be-divorced in the area and by the time we reach the church steps, I’m ready for Father O’Connell. While most moan when they see he’s saying mass, I admire the man. One rambler to another, I bow to his expertise.
Inside, I slip into the back pew next to Joey. Taking my cues from him, I sit, stand, and kneel. To my right, my little niece amuses my son and soon, the priest begins to speak. My admiration for the man grows. He discusses good and evil. He introduces the topic of original sin, the sermon on the mount, Moses in the desert, and ends with Mary’s ascent into heaven. A lesser man could never have tied these diverse elements into one speech, but he does it masterfully for the better part of an hour.
Holy shit. It’s a rambling record. Others may roll their eyes and bitch, but I can’t help but applaud. The man is a genius. Luckily the choir has started singing hosannas and I’m not heard.
Not a Catholic, I sit as everyone goes down the aisle for the body of Christ. I figure if God saved me in Afghanistan, and gave me my amazing family, a little wafer don’t matter none. Maybe I’m wrong, but if so, I’ll ask our priest to argue my case to St. Peter. By the time he’s done, eternity will be mostly over.
Grinning, I take the hymnal and belt out the last song. My kid likes to sing and together, we’re by far, the most out of tune. At the final amen, we’re out the door and on our way to bacon, eggs, and the best Italian pastries this side of the Atlantic.
Once I get to my in-law’s house, I hand my boy off to his grandmother and explain how my wife is working a case. I don’t mention she’s on her way to the state of Washington. They all think she should work at home. The fact they don’t understand how stayin’ put makes her crazy surprises me. Seems to me, folks ought to have a clue about their grown children.
While Mikey basks in the adoration of his older cousins, Vincent walks into the dining room, pulls out a chair, and eases on down. “Someone said you had a little run-in last week.”
Shit. I bet one of those I shooed out of harm’s way, missed the train, and tattled. I keep my voice flat and don my poker face. “Was nothin’. Some out-of-towner trying to make a name for himself.”
“Mmm.” He sucks on his unlit cigar. “I heard The Kings might be unhappy over a blowed-up container truck.”
No other option, I play dumb. “Was that you?”
“Nice talkin’ wid youz. Say hi to Sammy when she gets back from Seattle.” His smug grin don’t bother me much but it might be time to blow off some steam and walk around the block.
Grabbing my coat, I nod at Sam’s mom. “Be right back.”
As I trot outside, my spidey senses tingle and it takes but a fraction of second to realize why. Across the street, three of Vinny’s bodyguards watch as a teen in a hoodie approaches. What the fuck? It’s the same damn fool who shot at me.
A few of the goons start to show interest, so I wave them off. I need to question the idiot, not ID him in the morgue.
Whistling tunelessly, I walk down the street to the corner bodega, buy a lotto ticket, and nod at Mr. Naga. Then, I duck out the back door, jog around the block, and from inside the produce stand, watch while the assassin waits for me to exit.
After a bit, he runs in and out a few times, curses, and types into his phone. A few minutes later an older, tatted guy shows up wearing a King’s leather jacket. They’re so busy arguing, they don’t see me.
The smarter of the two points out the huge Italian thugs. “I told you to wait. You think you can snatch his nephew here? In front of his sister’s house? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I’ve had enough. Nobody threatens my family. Disregarding law and order, my inner-warrior flares to life, and I’m back in the desert. An elbow to the throat and the kid goes down. With a gun to the ribs, the other’s smart enough to surmise he’s seconds away from death’s door.
I pull him into the alley I just exited. “Who hired you. Talk now, or like your friend there, you may never speak again.”
“No one.”
