Accidental Mobster (11 page)

“Uh, I don't know,” I answer, unsure whom Portia means. I never like this type of question because it usually means someone is trying to set me up with a girl. I especially don't like this question coming from Portia. She is the girl I am interested in, not one of her giggling, gossipy friends.

“What do you mean, you don't know?” She asks disbelievingly. “She either is or she isn't, right?”

I'm immediately frustrated. Portia has so far acted differently from the other girls, which I like. Now she sounds just like them. “Why?” I ask, my guard up. She rolls her eyes. “Well, usually I wouldn't care, but Evie thinks Julia will get the role of Juliet in the school play only because she's pretty.”

Oh, we're talking about Julia,
I realize. I answer Portia with a shrug. “What does it matter?”

“Well, for one thing, I really love Shakespeare. And seriously, it's like every girl's dream to play Juliet, one of the most infamous heroines of all time!”

I put several overly large books in my locker. “Having never been a girl, I wouldn't know. If it's such a great role, do you think I should try out for it?” I try not to smile, but can't resist.

Portia pushes me playfully. “You dork! They want someone
pretty
!”

“Well, then, you've definitely got the role,” I say sincerely—maybe a little too sincerely, because Portia blushes as she smiles.
But,
I think,
she did smile.
Tony, however, is not smiling. He coughs, interrupting our playful back-and-forth. “So, Danny, you never told us—where are you from?”

I stop rearranging my locker; Tony's question catches me completely off-guard. I turn and glare at Tony, but I know the question is a fair one. Because I am new to Newcastle, the question was sure to be asked eventually. In fact, Julia has already fielded questions about where I'm from. But somehow, coming from Tony, the question sounds like an accusation. I start rearranging my locker again, hoping that Tony and Portia won't hear the dishonesty in my voice. “Boston,” I reply, hating myself for saying it, but knowing that I must stay consistent with whatever Julia is spreading around the school.

“Boston?” Tony repeats, sounding completely unconvinced.

“
Really
?” Portia asks eagerly. She grips her books to her chest, her eyes shining with excitement. “That's cool!”

Great
, I think, feeling awful. This was going to be a difficult story to maintain. I've never been dishonest like this before.

“You don't sound like you're from Boston.” Tony remarks.

“Parents are from Jersey,” I say, thinking fast.

“I have relatives in Boston—they live in Cambridge. You go there much?” Tony challenges.

“No, I don't know that area well,” I answer, thinking at least that statement is true. The bell rings at that moment, saving me from Tony's interrogation. “I've got algebra, guys. I gotta go.” I walk in the other direction, wondering if I am headed the right way. Fortunately, the classroom I am looking for is just around the corner. I walk in the door and almost run into a person with an extremely familiar face.

“Hello, Mister Doonesby,” I say quietly.

Mr. Doonesby obviously had no idea that I would be attending Newcastle High. He twitches as we make eye contact, then he tries to speak, chokes on his words, and quickly excuses himself from the room, his awkwardly tall, lanky body clumsily knocking over a can of pencils as he backs out the door. I knew our first meeting would be rough, but I hadn't expected him to run away like a scared animal.

I find a desk and wait, but Mr. Doonesby does not come back immediately. Evie files into the room with several other students and quickly takes a seat next to me. She isn't easy to ignore, but her chattiness is somewhat forgivable because she is pretty. Evie is tiny and dynamic, annoying and appealing all at the same time. I realize that personality flaws can be overpowered by good looks and charm—at least, that's how it works in high school.

“Hi, Danny! You should have seen our teacher, Mister Doonesby. He was walking down the hall when I came in, and he looked like he had seen a ghost!”

“Really?” I reply, flipping open my book and trying to appear interested in exponents.

“Yes, really. Maybe if he's ill, we'll get out of class,” she says hopefully. But Evie is not destined to get her wish. Mr. Doonesby comes back to class five minutes later, his face still pale. He doesn't make eye contact with me, but introduces himself to the rest of the class as a middle-aged mathaholic who enjoys running, grilling, and reading science fiction.
And hanging out with a student's married mother,
I think sourly. Mr. Doonesby teaches the entire algebra class without once looking at me, which is impressive because I'm sitting in the middle of the classroom, burning holes into his forehead with an angry scowl. I'm somewhat surprised by my anger, because without Mr. Doonesby's shenanigans, I wouldn't be living the life of luxury at the Vigliotti's place. But I'm so angry at my former principal that I almost think for a moment that Tommy's plan to blackmail Doonesby will be fun. Then I remember that Tommy is my enemy and that Mom was the one who started the flirtation with my principal. But even these thoughts don't help me feel much better about sitting in class with a man who separated my parents, unhappy as they were together.

At the end of class, Evie and I make our way to the door, but before I'm through it, Mr. Doonesby calls me over. “Can I see you for a minute?” he asks. I nod and wave to Evie, who glances curiously at me and reluctantly exits the room, leaving me alone with the demoted principal.

“Danny,” Mr. Doonesby starts, but then coughs to clear his throat. He pauses and stares at me, his eyes almost as bloodshot as Mom's had been when she visited me at the Vigliotti's.

“Danny, I'm—I'm sorry.”

I shrug. “Whatever. You don't have to apologize to me.” I start to turn away, but Mr. Doonesby catches my arm. I barely hold back the urge to wrench it away.

“Yes, yes, I do,” Mr. Doonesby says, his voice growing a little stronger. “What I did was terrible. I shouldn't have—I shouldn't have interfered in your life.”

I am steaming. “Interfered? With
my
life? How about my mom's life? She's miserable right now! And it's all because of you!”

“Really? You mean, she's miserable without me?” Doonesby asks expectantly. Now I do jerk my arm away. “Leave me alone! Don't talk to me, and don't you dare talk to my mom!” I stalk out of the classroom, not turning around once. I can't take another word from him, or I might just finish what Dad started.

* * * *

The night is extremely hot and sticky as I wait at the bus stop, drenched in sweat, my palms soaked. I am dressed in dark jeans and a black hoodie, both throwbacks to my Ridley days, which means neither item of clothing could have cost more than ten dollars. But I am now wishing I had chosen something less cozy. The hoodie is suffocating me. Ten minutes pass, and I begin to feel a little nervous. Did Reggie forget, or worse, has he blown me off? I have already put so much work into tonight's plan—I put Baxter in my room early (to ward off any suspicion from Julia), and I told Ronnie that I was going to bed early because of a stomachache. That should keep everyone away for a while. After stashing some money in my pocket, I jogged down to the corner gas station, where I used the pay phone to call a taxi to take me to the nearest bus station, which was over by the high school. The taxi driver was not thrilled with the short ride and cheap fare, but I tipped him enough to lessen his disappointment. From there, I rode the bus to Old Newcastle, along with a strange assortment of people typical of the late hour. After so much effort to get here, I can't walk away from my plan now. But without a car, I can't do anything. Where is Reggie?

The beetle finally pulls to the curb at nine-thirty, fifteen minutes late. But my “where were you?” is cut off by the look on Reggie's face.

“Hey, man, sorry I'm late. One of the Newcastle cops thought I was up to no good. Took me a little while to get him off my back.”

I nod, briefly imagining how a Newcastle cop might see Reggie. My friend's dark complexion sometimes makes people respond unfairly to him. “Don't worry about it,” I offer as I climb into the passenger seat. “But we've got to get rolling. The meeting I heard about is supposed to be taking place now.”

I can sense that Reggie wants to ask questions, but instead he listens quietly as I give him directions to the diner. I bring us around the back of the building and have Reggie kill his headlights. I hope we can arrive undiscovered, but I'm not yet familiar with the area, so we are taking a chance no matter how careful we are. Despite the danger, I can't help but be excited.

As we pull next to a dumpster sitting up against the building that's adjacent to the diner, I try not to feel disappointed by the lack of activity in the parking lot. The buildings appear deserted, and not a single vehicle sits in the lot. I hate to have my plans come to nothing, especially because I brought Reggie all the way out here to help me. Reggie is scanning the area. “What are we looking for?” he asks, sounding puzzled. I shake my head, feeling frustration build inside me. “I'm not sure exactly.”

“You're not sure?” Reggie asks with an edge of irritation in his voice.

“No, not positive. But something should be going on in that parking lot,” I say and point at the diner, as though Reggie has not already figured out that this is the object of our surveillance.

“Great!” Reggie's sarcasm is unmistakable. “I drive all the way out here for you, and all you can do is—”

“Shut up, Reggie,” I interrupt. “There's someone there.”

Sure enough, two men have come around the side of the diner. Reggie and I fall silent and shrink down into our seats. The beetle is well hidden by the dumpster, and I know the men probably won't see it—but I'm nervous anyway. I have no idea how these guys will react if they realize they are being watched, but I have a suspicion that they will not be happy. Reggie and I must be invisible for our own safety.

The two men seem to be arguing, and I wonder whether this might end in violence, just like my unplanned ride in the Lexus two nights before. The argument carries on for several minutes before both men disappear once more around the side of the building. I put my hand on the car door handle and start to open the door as quietly as possible.

“What's going on, Danny?” Reggie demands in a harsh whisper.

I pause. I know that Reggie has a right to know what he is getting into. He has followed me blindly until now, and that shows a great deal of trust.

“I think my godfather, Gino, is in the Mafia,” I reply.

Reggie rolls his eyes. “Duh! I think I figured that one out by now. How do you know?

What's happened?”

“Well, I don't know anything for sure. But I did hear Gino talking about someone trying to kill somebody, and then I saw him and another man beat up the would-be killer and put a gun in his face. And Gino talked about using some person in power—someone named Capriotti.”

Reggie's eyes narrow. “Capriotti? I wonder if he meant the district attorney.”

I am surprised by Reggie's knowledge. “How do you know who the district attorney is?”

“'Cause I had a run-in with him just last year.”

My eyes widen. “You were in trouble?” I ask, but then I smile. “You're messing with me.”

Reggie grins. “Yeah. Actually, I met him when I was on the debate team.” He pauses thoughtfully. “I don't know quite how to describe him, but he's not the kind of guy you feel like trusting. He's very slick.”

“Well, that would make sense, especially if he's working with the Mafia.”

Reggie grabs his own car door handle. “So, what's the plan?”

I feel embarrassed. “I really thought any action would take place in the parking lot. But maybe everyone's inside. I'm going to get out and try to look through a window or sneak in the door.”

“Let's go,” Reggie says, and before I can consider the consequences of walking toward a building that might be full of violent, angry men, we are creeping across the dusty lot toward what might become an extremely dangerous situation.

Within minutes, I realize that the building doesn't have windows. The only way we are going to be able to find out what is going on is to go inside the diner itself. I know I can't take a chance of going in the front door, and I am at a disadvantage because I have no idea what the layout is inside the building. But the only other option is to turn around and go home, and I just can't do that, not when I am already here. Reggie points to a door on the far right side of the diner, and I nod. It is the only other door we have seen other than the front door. But when I try the handle, it's locked.

“Do you have anything we can use to pick it?” I ask.

“Hey, it's not like I carry a lock picking kit around with me. Isn't that racial profiling?”

Reggie jokes, but I'm not in the mood for humor. I roll my eyes, frustrated. I may have been able to pick the lock—Mom habitually locked us out of the house, and I was good at tricking the lock with her bobby pin, which usually made me feel sure that our house was vulnerable to the most inexperienced of burglars.

But without any tool to pick the lock, our investigation is at a standstill. After a few more minutes of trying to come up with a solution, we decide to walk back to the car to wait a little longer. Just as we start back, however, the door opens. I grab Reggie's shirt and we smash ourselves up against the wall. A man emerges from the diner, props the door open with a nearby rock, and walks a small distance from the diner while unzipping his pants to take a pee in the lot next door.

I cannot believe how lucky this is. I know my idea is foolish, but this is our one chance to get inside the diner. I pick up a small stone next to my foot and toss it as far as I can in the opposite direction of the diner. The man flinches when he hears it land, and not knowing what it is, zips up his pants and starts toward the noise, away from the diner. Reggie and I take a few quick steps around the side of the diner and through the propped door. If it is dark outside, the blackness that greets us inside the door is worse. Reggie bumps into me as I stop, unsure of where to go or even what is on the floor in front of me. I know we must move quickly—the man outside will not be distracted for long. I put my hand out in front of me. Nothing is there. I shuffle a few steps forward, and my hand finally reaches the wall, but I don't know which direction to turn. We hear footsteps on the gravel outside—the man is returning. I take a few steps backward and bump into Reggie.