“Among other things,” he agrees.
I let that slide. I’m hoping that the other things he’s talking about aren’t directly related to his father’s empire. I want to believe that he’s just an innocent bystander who has nothing on his plate other than the bar exam. Some part of me wonders if I’m being naïve, but another, larger part, believes that it’s okay to trust my gut. I know Frankie isn’t a dangerous man. Whatever he’s doing at all the restaurants he visits can’t be all that bad.
I follow his lead around to the opposite side of the block. The place he wants to go is a tiny sliver of a place, wedged between a sandwich shop and a bookstore. We step inside, and the smell of curry hits me. It’s warm and welcoming, and my stomach grumbles in happy anticipation.
There aren’t a lot of tables, and only one waitress. She seats us near the door so that we can watch all the people walking by on the street. I wish I could open my heart and tell Frankie exactly what’s bothering me. I have a hunch that if I did so, he wouldn’t run away. He might even forgive me, considering all I suffered when I found Danny’s body. But of course, I can’t do that. I have no way of knowing whether Frankie would tell his father, and then my whole investigation would dry up. The lies between us feel like barbed wire, but they have to stay in place.
I search my brain for safe topics of conversation. Our daily activities are off limits, since there’s so much, I have to hide. So, I settle on girls’ softball, since the playoffs are currently running on TV.
Frankie brings up one of his hypothetical questions from the bar exam study website. “There’s a gift shop that wants to advertise by using graffiti on its walls. What are the laws concerning free speech, and do they apply in that case?”
“I guess so,” I say hesitantly.
“It depends on the message of the graffiti,” Frankie tells me. “If it’s just ‘shop here,’ that’s not protected speech.”
“Fascinating,” I say.
He wrinkles his nose, “It’s boring. You can tell me the truth.”
“Okay,” I relent. “It’s a little bit boring.”
“It’s a lot boring,” he objects. “And I’m up until midnight studying every night. Those questions don’t get any easier.”
“You’re going to do fine,” I assure him. “I’ve never seen anyone study harder.”
He rolls his eyes but then catches himself before he reveals anything significant. “I could be studying more,” he says.
“I don’t see how,” I respond.
He doesn’t answer, so I let the subject drop. I don’t want to step on any landmines, even though I feel like Frankie’s the quickest way to a great story. I’m not sure what I’m going to deliver to Mr. Harlan in a few days, but I find myself increasingly unwilling to throw Frankie under the bus.
“I’d like you to come to my house tomorrow,” he blurts out.
I look up at him, shocked by the sudden invitation. I open my mouth to accept, but he rushes into an explanation.
“I’m sorry to just spring this on you, it’s just that I’ve given it a lot of thought,” he says. “There are some things going on in my family that have everybody on edge. It’s not a perfect time to introduce you, but I’m not sure there will ever be a perfect time.”
“You mean, your stepmother’s pregnancy?” I guess, although I’m wondering if he’s talking about his father’s business arrangements as well.
“Yes, that’s it,” he confirms. “I’m sure she would love to meet you.”
“Have you told her about me?” I wonder.
“No,” he admits. “But I will. That is, if you’re available.”
“I’ll make time,” I promise, overjoyed by this new development.
This is the breakthrough in the case I’ve been waiting for. A personal invitation to meet the don himself doesn’t come around every day. I can abandon my attempts to learn anything from Frankie and focus on the real culprit, his father. I don’t want to seem too excited, but Frankie doesn’t mind.
He reaches across the table to take my hand. “We’ve been spending time at your place, so I feel like it’s only right that I take you to mine,” he says. “But just be aware that I don’t live alone, so there will be a lot of people there.”
“Your chef?” I guess.
“Yes,” he confirms. “And my father, my stepmother, maybe my uncle.”
“That doesn’t seem like too many people,” I reply.
He nods thoughtfully, and I have no idea what he’s thinking. After I accept his offer, he seems quieter. I guess he’s worried about the whole ‘meet the parents’ situation. I’m nervous too, but for a whole other reason. I’m about to enter the inner sanctum of the Corello family and witness firsthand how theytreat their guests. It’s an opportunity any journalist would jump at, and I vow to make the most of it.
