Blue Smoke (4 page)

“I stay away from him because he starts fights in school and in the neighborhood. Once he took out his pocketknife and said he was going to stab Johnnie O'Hara with it because he was a stupid mick, and Sister took it away from him and sent him to Mother Superior. He . . . he looks at me sometimes and it makes my stomach hurt.”

“The day he hit you, what were you doing?”

“I was playing with Gina, at the school playground. We were playing kickball, but it was so hot. We wanted ice cream so she ran home to see if her mother would give her some money for it. I had eighty-eight cents, but that's not enough for two. And he came up and said I should come with him, that he had something to show me. But I didn't want to and I said no, that I was waiting for Gina. His face was all red, like he'd been running, and he got mad and grabbed my arm and was pulling me.
So I pulled away and said I wasn't going with him. And he hit me in the stomach. He called me a name that means . . .”

She broke off, looked toward her parents sheepishly. “I looked it up in the dictionary.”

“Of course you did,” Bianca murmured, then she waved a hand in the air. “He called her a little cunt. It's an ugly word, Catarina. We won't speak it again in this house.”

“No, ma'am.”

“Your brother came to help you,” Poppi continued. “Because he's your brother and because it's right to help someone in trouble. Then your father did what was right, and went to speak to this boy's father. But the man was not a man, he didn't stand up and do what was right. He struck out to hurt your father in a cowardly way, to hurt all of us. Was this your fault?”

“No, Poppi. But it was my fault I was too scared to fight back. I won't be next time.”

He gave a half laugh. “Learn to run,” he said. “And if you can't run, then you fight. Now.” He sat back, picked up his fork. “Here's my advice. Salvatore your brother-in-law has a construction business. When we know what's needed, you can get this for us, at a discount. Gio, your wife's cousin is a plumber, yes?”

“I've already talked to him. Whatever you need, Bianca, Gib.”

“Mag, will you talk to the insurance company, see what hoops we can avoid jumping through to get this check?”

“More than happy to. I'd like to look at the policy, see if there might be anything we'd want to change or adjust for the future. Then there's the matter of the criminal action against this . . .” She lifted her eyebrows at Reena. “This person. If it goes to trial, Reena will most likely be required to testify. I don't think it will,” she continued. “I've put out some feelers. Typically arson cases are very difficult to prove, but they appear to have this one locked.”

She wound pasta around her fork as she spoke, ate economically. “Your investigators were very thorough, and the fire-starter very stupid. The
prosecutor feels he's going to take the plea bargain to avoid the possibility of being tried for attempted murder. They've got evidence up the yin-yang, including the fact that he was questioned twice before regarding other fires.”

Mag twirled more pasta as voices erupted around the table.

“He was laid off earlier this summer from his job as a mechanic,” she continued. “There was a suspicious fire in the garage a few nights later. Minimal damage, as another employee had plans to use said garage for a tryst with his girlfriend. They talked to people, including Pastorelli, but couldn't determine arson. A couple of years ago, he had an altercation with his wife's brother in D.C. The brother managed an electrical supply house. Somebody pitched a Molotov cocktail through the window. A . . .”

She sent another look down at Reena. “A lady of the evening saw a truck speeding away, even got a partial on the plate. But Pastorelli's wife swears he was home all night, and they took her word over the other woman's.”

Mag picked up her wine. “They'll use this as a pattern and nail him down.”

“If Inspector Minger and our arson detectives had been in charge, they'd have stopped him.”

Mag smiled at Reena. “Maybe. But he's stopped now.”

“Lorenzo?”

“You've got my strong back,” he said. “And I've got a friend in the flooring business. I can get you a good price on replacements.”

“Got dump trucks and labor at your disposal,” Paul added. “Got a friend's brother-in-law in restaurant supplies. Get you a good discount.”

“With all this, and the neighborhood, Bianca, the kids and I can take most of the money and have a vacation in Hawaii.”

Her father was joking, but his voice was a little shaky, so Reena knew he was touched.

W
hen the leftovers had been doled out or put away and the kitchen put to rights, and the last of the uncles, aunts and cousins had trailed out the door, Gib got a beer and took it out on
the front steps. He needed to stew, and preferred stewing with a cold beer.

The family had come through, and he'd expected no less. He'd gotten a “Gee, that's terrible” from his own parents. And had expected no more.

That's the way it was.

But he was thinking now that for two years he'd been living on the same block with a man who set fires to solve his personal problems. A man who could have chosen to burn his house instead of his business.

A man whose twelve-year-old son had attacked—Christ, had he meant to rape her?—his youngest daughter.

It left him sick, and brought home to him that he was too trusting, too willing to give the benefit. Too soft.

He had a wife and four children to protect, and at the moment felt completely inadequate.

He took a pull on a bottle of Peroni when John Minger parked at the curb.

Minger wore khakis and a T-shirt with canvas high-tops that looked older than dirt. He crossed the sidewalk.

“Gib.”

“John.”

“Got a minute?”

“Got plenty of them. Want a beer?”

“Wouldn't say no.”

“Have a seat.” Gib tapped the step beside him, then got up and went into the house. He came back with the rest of the six-pack.

“Nice evening.” John tipped back a bottle. “Little cooler.”

“Yeah. I'd say it's merely approaching the fifth level of hell instead of hitting it square on.”

“Rough day?”

“No. No, not really.” He leaned back, bracing one elbow on the step above. “My wife's family came today. It was hard watching her mother and father look at that.” He jerked his chin toward Sirico's. “But they're handling it. More than. Ready to shove up their sleeves, dig in. Going to
have so much help I can pretty much sit here with my thumb up my ass and have the place up and running in a month.”

“So you're feeling like a failure. That's what he wants you to feel.”

“Pastorelli?” Gib lifted his bottle in toast. “Mission fucking accomplished. His kid came after mine, laid hands on mine, and I'm thinking about it now, looking at it now, really looking, and I think, Sweet Jesus Christ, I think he was going to try to rape my little girl.”

“He didn't. She got scrapes and bruises, and it doesn't help to worry about what might've happened.”

“You've got to keep them safe. That's the job. My oldest is out on a date. Nice boy, nothing serious. And I'm terrified.”

John took a long, slow drink. “Gib, one of the things a man like Pastorelli's after is your fear. It makes him feel important.”

“Never going to forget him, am I? That makes him pretty fucking important. Sorry. Sorry.” Gib straightened, shoved at his hair. “Feeling sorry for myself, that's all. I've got an entire family—with members too numerous to count—ready to help me out. I've got the neighborhood ready. Just got to shake this off.”

“You will. Maybe this will help. I came by to tell you you're cleared to go in, start putting your place back together. Doing that, it's taking it back from him.”

“It'll be good, good to actually do something.”

“He's going away, Gib. I'm going to tell you that a fraction of arson cases result in arrest, and we've got him. Son of a bitch had shoes and clothes stuffed in his shed, stinking of gas, gas he bought locally from a kid at the Sunoco who knew him. He had a crowbar wrapped up in the clothes, what we figured he used to break in. He was stupid enough to help himself to beer out of your cooler before he torched the place. Drank one while he was in there. We got his prints off the bottle.”

He held up the Peroni, tipped the bottle to the side to catch the sun on the glass. “People think fire takes everything, but it leaves the unexpected. Like a bottle of Bud. He broke into your cash register, took your petty cash. You had extra ones in a bank envelope and we found it on
him. We got his prints inside the drawer, off the cooler in your kitchen. There's enough his public defender took the deal.”

“There won't be a trial?”

“Sentencing hearing. I want you to feel good about this, Gib. I want you to feel just. A lot of people see arson as a property crime. Just a crime against a building, but it's not. You know it's not. It's about people who lose their home or their business, who see their hard work and their memories burned away. What he did to you and yours was malicious and it was personal. Now he pays.”

“Yeah.”

“The wife couldn't scrape the money together for bail, or for a lawyer. She tried. Word's out on the kid. Last time the cops were in there, he threw a chair at one of them. Mother begged them not to take him away, so they let it go. You're going to want to keep your eye on him.”

“I will, but I don't think they'll stay here. They rent the place, and they're behind, three months.” Gib shrugged. “Word gets out in the neighborhood, too. Maybe this was my wake-up call, pay more attention to what I've got.”

“You've got the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life for a wife. You don't mind me saying.”

“Hard to mind.” Gib opened another beer, leaned back again. “First time I saw her, I was lightning struck. Came in with some pals. We were thinking about doing The Block later, maybe picking up some girls, or going to a bar. And there she was. It was like somebody pushed their fist through my chest, grabbed hold of my heart and squeezed. She was wearing jeans, bell-bottoms, and this white top—peasant top they called them. If anybody had asked me before that moment if I believed in love at first sight, I'd've said hell no. But that's what it was. She turned her head and looked at me, and bang. I saw the rest of my life in her eyes.”

He laughed a little, seemed to relax. “I still do, that's the amazing thing. Heading toward twenty years, and I still see everything there is when I look at her.”

“You're a lucky man.”

“Damn right. I'd've given up everything, anything, to be with her. Instead I got this life, this family. You got kids, John?”

“I do. A son and two daughters. A grandson and granddaughter, too.”

“Grandkids? No kidding?”

“Lights of my life. I didn't do all I should've done when my kids were coming up. I was nineteen when the first came along. Got my girl pregnant, we got married. Next one came two years later, and the third three years after that. I was fighting fires back then. That life, those hours, can be hard on a family. I didn't put them first, and that's my fault. So we got a divorce. Nearly ten years ago now.”

“Sorry.”

“Funny thing is, after, we got along better. We got closer. Maybe the divorce burned away the bad stuff, made room for some good. So.” He tipped back his bottle. “I'm free if your wife's got an older sister available.”

“Just brothers, but her cousins are legion.”

They were silent for a moment, companionably. “This is a good spot.” John sipped and smoked and studied the neighborhood. “A good spot, Gib. You need another pair of hands putting your place back together, you can have mine.”

“I'd appreciate it.”

Upstairs, Reena lay on her bed and listened to their voices carry up to her open window as the sky went soft with summer twilight.

I
t was full dark when the screams woke her. She tumbled out of bed with thoughts of fire chasing her. He'd come back. He'd come back to burn their house.

It wasn't fire, and it was Fran who'd screamed. Fran who stood on the sidewalk now with her face buried against the shoulder of the boy who'd taken her to the movies.

The television was on in the living room, with the sound turned down low. Both of her parents were at the doorway already. When she
pushed between them, she saw why Fran had screamed, why her mother and father stood so stiffly in the open doorway.

The dog was burning, its fur smoldering, smoking as was the pool of blood that had come from its throat. But she recognized the hard-barking mutt Joey Pastorelli called Fabio.

S
he watched the police take Joey Pastorelli away, much as they had his father. But he didn't keep his head lowered, and his eyes had a vicious glee in them.

It was one of the last things she remembered with absolute clarity during those long, hot weeks of August when summer was ending and her childhood was over.

She remembered the glee in Joey's eyes, the strut in his walk as they took him to the police car. And she remembered the smears of blood, his own dog's blood, staining his hands.

The glossy pink goo of Mariah Carey's overorchestrated
Emotions
oozed through the wall of the adjoining room. It was a never-ending stream, like frothy lava. Inescapable and increasingly terrifying.

Reena didn't mind music when she studied. She didn't mind partying, small petty wars or the thunder of God's judgment. After all, she grew up in a house with a big, loud family.

But if her dorm mate spun that track just one more time, she was going in and jabbing a pencil through her eye. When that was done, she was going to make her
eat
that damned CD, jewel case and all.

She was in the middle of finals, for God's sake. And the load she was taking this semester was a killer.

Worth it though, she reminded herself. It was going to be worth it.

She pushed back from her computer, rubbed her eyes. Maybe she needed a short break. Or earplugs.

She got up, ignored the flotsam of two college students sharing one small room and opened the little refrigerator for a Diet Pepsi. She found an open pint of low-fat milk, four Slim-Fasts, a Diet Sprite and a bag of carrot sticks.

This was just wrong. Why did everyone steal her stuff? Of course, who the hell was going to pilfer Gina's I'm-on-an-endless-diet food, but still.

She sat on the floor, Mariah's voice swimming in her overtaxed brain like evil mermaids, and stared at the piles of books and notes on her desk.

Why did she think she could do this? Why did she think she
wanted
to do this? She could have followed Fran's lead, into the family business.

She could be home right now. Or out on a date like a normal person. Once, becoming a teenager had been her life's ambition. Now she was nearly out the other side of the era, and she was sitting in a crowded dorm room, with
no
Diet Pepsi, buried under a course load for the insane masochist.

She was eighteen years old and hadn't had sex yet. She barely had what passed for a boyfriend.

Bella was getting married next month, Fran was practically beating guys off with a stick, and Xander plowed happily through what their mother called his bevy of beauties.

And she was alone on a Saturday night because she was as obsessed with finals as her dorm mate was with Mariah Carey.

Oh no, now it was Celine Dion, she realized.

Just kill me now.

It was her own fault. She was the one who'd studied her brains out in high school, and worked more weekends than dated. Because she'd known what she wanted. She'd known since that long hot week in August.

She wanted the fire.

So she'd studied, with her eye focused on more than learning. On scholarships. She worked, tucking her money away like a squirrel with nuts in case the scholarships didn't come.

But they had, so she was here, at the University of Maryland, sharing a room with her oldest friend, and already thinking about the grad courses down the road.

When the semester was over she'd go back home, work in the shop, carve away most of her free time down at the fire station. Or talking John Minger into letting her do ride-alongs.

Of course, there was Bella's wedding. There'd been little on the menu but Bella's wedding for the last nine months. Which, come to think of it, was a really good reason to be here, alone in her room on a Saturday night.

It could be worse. She could be back at Wedding Central.

If she ever got married—which meant she'd need an actual,
official
boyfriend first—she was going to keep it simple. Let Bella have the endless fittings of the elaborate dress—though it was gorgeous—and the endless, often weepy debates about shoes and hairstyles and flowers. The plans—more like a major war campaign—for the enormous reception.

She'd rather have a nice family wedding at St. Leo's, then a party at Sirico's.

Most likely, she'd just end up being a bridesmaid, perennially. Hell, she was already an expert in the field.

And for God's sake, how many
times
could Lydia listen to the theme from
Beauty and the Beast
without going into a coma?

On a sudden inspiration, Reena sprang up, kicked her way over to the portable CD player and pushed through the masses of jewel cases.

With her teeth set in a fierce grin, she plugged in Nirvana and blasted “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”

While the war raged between diva and grunge, the phone rang.

She didn't turn down the music—it was a matter of principle now—just shouted into the phone.

A third blast of music assaulted her ear as Gina shouted back.

“Party!”

“I told you I have to study.”

“Party! Come on, Reene, it's just starting to roll. You gotta live.”

“Don't you have a lit final Monday?”

“Party!”

She had to laugh. Gina could always make her laugh. The religious phase she'd gone through during the summer of the fire had morphed into a poetry phase, into a rock star phase, then a fashion diva phase.

Now it was all party, all the time.

“You're going to tank it,” Reena warned.

“I'm putting it all in the hands of a higher power and am reviving my brain with cheap wine. Come on, Reena, Josh is here. He's asking where you are.”

“He is?”

“And looking all sad and broody. You know you're going to ace every damn thing anyway. You better come save me before I let some guy take advantage of my drunken self. Hey, on second thought . . .”

“Jen and Deb's place, right?”

“Party!”

“Twenty minutes,” Reena said on another laugh, then hung up.

It took her nearly that long to change out of ancient sweatpants, wiggle into jeans, decide on a top and deal with the hair that was currently an explosion of curls down to her shoulder blades.

She kept the music blasting while she dressed, added blusher to relieve the cramming-for-finals pallor.

Should study, should get a good night's sleep. Shouldn't go. She flicked on mascara, lectured herself.

But she was so tired of being the one who always did the sensible thing. She'd just stay for an hour, have a little fun, keep Gina from getting into too much trouble.

And see Josh Bolton.

He was so good-looking with the sun-swept hair, the dazzling blue eyes, that sweet, shy smile. He was twenty, a lit major. He was going to be a writer.

And he was asking where she was.

He was going to be the one. She was ninety-nine percent sure of it. He was going to be her first.

Maybe tonight. She set the mascara down and stared at herself in the mirror. Maybe tonight she'd finally know what it was like. She pressed a hand to her belly as it jittered with anticipation and nerves. This could be the last time she looked at herself as a virgin.

She was ready, and she wanted it to be with someone like Josh. Someone dreamy and sweet, and with some experience so there wasn't a lot of embarrassing fumbling.

She
hated
not knowing what to do. She'd studied the basics, of course. The anatomy, the physicality. And she'd absorbed the romance of the act in books and movies. But the doing of it, the getting naked and fitting two bodies together, would be an absolute first.

It wasn't something you could practice or diagram or experiment with until you worked out the kinks in your technique.

So she wanted an understanding and patient partner who'd guide her over the rough spots until she found her own way.

It didn't matter so much that she didn't love him. She liked him a lot, and she wasn't looking for marriage like Bella.

Not yet, anyway.

She just wanted to know, to feel, to see how it worked. And, maybe it was stupid, but she wanted to shed this last vestige of childhood. Having it all in the back of her mind was probably why she'd been restless and distracted the last few days.

And, of course, she was overthinking it again.

She grabbed her purse, shut off the music and rushed out of the dorm.

It was a beautiful night, warm and star-studded. Ridiculous to waste it buried in chem notes, she told herself as she walked toward the parking lot. She tipped her face up to the sky, started to smile, but a chill tickled down her spine. She glanced over her shoulder, scanned the grass, the paths, the glow of the security lights.

Nobody was watching her, for God's sake. She gave herself a little shake, but quickened her pace. It was just guilt, that was all. She could live with a little guilt.

She hopped into her secondhand Dodge Shadow and, giving in to paranoia, locked the doors before driving away.

The group house was a five-minute drive off campus, an old three-story brick that was lit up like Christmas. Partiers spilled out onto the lawn, and music spilled out of the open door.

She caught the sweet drift of a burning joint and heard snatches of high-toned debates on the brilliance of Emily Dickinson, the current administration and more comfortable discussions on the Orioles' infield.

She had to squeeze her way through once she was inside, narrowly avoided having a glass of some alcoholic beverage splashed down her front, and felt some relief that she actually knew some of the people crammed into the living room.

Gina spotted her and wiggled through the bodies to grab her shoulders. “Reene! You're here! I have such news!”

“Don't tell me any more until you eat an entire box of Tic Tacs.”

“Oh, shit.” Gina dug into the pocket of jeans so tight they must be causing organ damage. The Slim-Fast hadn't whittled off all the twelve pounds she'd gained in their first semester.

She pulled out the little plastic box she always carried and tapped several orange Tic Tacs in her mouth. “Been drinking,” she said, chewing.

“Who'd have guessed? Look, you can leave your car and I'll drive you back. I'll be the DD.”

“It's okay, I'm going to throw up soon. I'll be better then. Anyway, news!” She pulled Reena through an equally jammed kitchen and out the back door.

There were more people in the yard. Did the entire campus at College Park decide to blow off studying for finals?

“Scott Delauter's totally flunking out,” Gina announced, and did a little butt boogie to accompany the statement.

“Who's Scott Delauter and why do you boogie on his misfortune?”

“He's one of the housemates. You met him. Short guy, big teeth. And I dance because his misfortune is our jackpot. They're going to be one short next semester and another of the group graduates next December. Jen says they can squeeze both of us in next term if we bunk together. Reena, we can get out of the pit.”

“Move in here? Gina, come back to my world. We can't afford it.”

“We're talking about splitting the rent and stuff four ways. It's not that much more. Reena.” Gina gripped her arms, her dark eyes dazed with excitement and cheap wine, her voice reverent. “There's three bathrooms. Three bathrooms for four people. Not one for six.”

“Three bathrooms.” Reena spoke it like a prayer.

“It's salvation. When Jen told me, I had a vision. A vision, Reena. I think I saw the Blessed Mother smiling. And she was holding a loofah.”

“Three bathrooms,” Reena repeated. “No, no, I must not be drawn to the dark side by shiny objects. How much is the rent?”

“It's . . . when you consider the split, and how you won't need the food allowance on campus because we can cook here, it's practically free.”

“That much, huh?”

“We're both working this summer. We can save. Please, please, please, Reena. They have to know pretty quick. Look, look, we'll have a yard.” She swept her arm out toward it. “We can plant flowers. Hell, we'll grow our own vegetables and set up a stand. We'll actually
make
money living here.”

“Tell me how much, Gina.”

“Let me get you a drink first—”

“Spit it out,” Reena demanded. And winced when Gina blurted out the monthly rent.

“But you have to factor in—”

“Ssh, let me think.” Reena closed her eyes, calculated. It would be tight, she decided. But if they made their own meals, cut out some of the money they blew on movies, CDs, clothes. She could give up new clothes for the wonder of three bathrooms.

“I'm in.”

Gina let out a whoop, caught Reena in a hug that danced them both over the grass. “It's going to be awesome! I can't wait. Let's go get some wine and drink to Scott Delauter's academic failures.”

“Seems mean, but oddly appropriate.” She swung around with Gina, then stopped dead. “Josh. Hi.”

He closed the back door behind him then gave her that slow, shy smile that curled her toes. “Hi. Heard you were here.”

“Yeah, I thought I'd take a break from studying. My brains were starting to leak out my ears.”

“Got tomorrow for the final push.”

“That's what I told her.” Gina beamed at both of them. “Listen, you
two get cozy. I'm going to go throw up now, in what will shortly be one of my own bathrooms.” She gave Reena a last boozy hug. “I'm so happy.”

Josh watched the door slap shut behind Gina. “Should I ask why Gina's so happy to puke?”

“She's happy because we're going to move in here next semester.”

“Really? That's great.” He moved in a little, and with his hands still in his pockets dipped his head to kiss her. “Congratulations.”

Nerves sizzled over her skin, a sensation she found fascinating and wonderfully adult. “I thought I'd like living in the dorm. The adventure. Me and Gina from the neighborhood, doing the coed thing. But some of the others on our floor make me crazy. One's trying to destroy my brain with round-the-clock Mariah Carey.”

“Insidious.”

“I think it was starting to work.”

“You look great. I'm glad you came. I was about to head out when I heard you were here.”

“Oh.” Pleasure fizzled. “You're leaving.”