Mafia Chic (14 page)

He shrugged. “I like to help people.”

“Buy shoes.”

“Exactly,” he nodded. “I feel like if I leave the world a bit better…by all those women finding the shoes of their dreams, making sure any bad shoes are shipped back to the factory…well, then I’ve had a good day.”

“And a bad day is what?”

“When someone comes in with pinched toes and blisters and says I sold her the wrong pair.”

We finished our drinks, the coffee beans now stuck to the bottom of our snifters.

“Mark…you know—” I stood up “—I have to lock this place up and head home.”

“I understand.” He suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Best food I ever tasted. You should do that cookbook.”

“I just might.”

“How are you getting home?”

“Tony will be here in about twenty minutes to take me home. He won’t say what’s up, but I know something is. I don’t think you should be here when he gets here.”

“Lock the door behind me.”

“I will.”

“Thanks for a fantastic meal.”

“You’re welcome.”

He fumbled for his wallet.

“No, no, no. On the house.”

“Thanks.” He looked up at me and deposited his wallet in his back pocket again.

“Mark?”

“Yeah?”

“I really liked our phone call last night. And our dinner tonight. But you and I both know you don’t sell shoes. Never did, never will—I bet you didn’t even put yourself through college as a shoe salesman. And we both know that my grandfather has a long and colorful history…almost as long and colorful as the history of this city.”

“I know. I accept that.”

“You do, but you have to see this through to its logical conclusion. So I think maybe this should be the last time
you come in here to eat. If you put me under surveillance, I can’t help that. But this—whatever this is—just can’t be. And we’d be really stupid to pretend otherwise. No matter what it is that seems to pass between us when we see each other.”

“But you made a bet with me.”

“And it was crazy of me to do that. Not just for my sake, but for your sake. You have your entire career to think of.”

He nodded and came over close to me. Then, without any warning, he grabbed me fiercely and kissed me. He pulled on my hair; it was a hungry, strong, aching kiss. And then he pulled away.

“Goodbye, Teddi.” He turned and left.

With tears in my eyes, I locked the door of the restaurant behind him. I took our two plates back to the kitchen to the sink. Almost as without warning as his kiss had been, tears started streaming down my face. I brushed them away and willed myself to be strong. To be a Gallo. A Marcello. Hell, I felt so bad, I didn’t care which side had the tougher genes at that point.

Later, Tony came to the door and knocked. I let him in.

“You ready?”

“Almost.”

He went to the bar and poured himself a Ketel One and cranberry.

“What’s with you?”

“Nothing.”

“You look like shit, Teddi. Is it that guy? That Robert guy? ’Cause if he hurt you, Teddi, I swear I’ll—”

“You know, Tony…sometimes life just happens. That’s what you and the rest of the family don’t understand. You
can’t control the outcome of everything.” My voice was hoarse.

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t. I finally have figured out that’s what’s wrong with the lot of you.”

“What?” He sipped his drink.

“Uncle Vito gets a line on a horse. Or a college-hoops star who’s maybe in a little too deep to his bookie. You all bet the way you think the outcome’s going to be. You win. You, in effect, control the gamble. Poppy doesn’t like the way one of his neighbors keeps his house, you pay a visit and persuade the gentleman in question to trim his hedges. You control the neighborhood. And let’s not even get into controlling all the illegal stuff down the line. Control, control, control. But sometimes, people just have feelings and you can’t control them.”

“Bullshit.”

“What about you and Lady Di?”

“What about us?” He looked intensely at me.

“Have you thought about what would happen if she went back to England? Or what would happen if her British earl of something-or-other father met you? What would you tell him you do for a living? Huh, Tony?”

He stared down, grim-faced, into his drink, and swirled the ice around.

“Exactly. What I had to say about my father my whole life. A big ‘I don’t know.’ So you can’t control her and you, and you can’t control me.”

“I love her, Teddi.”

“I know.” I pulled out my keys and walked over to the door. He downed his drink. I set the alarm, and we went outside.

“What am I going to do?” He looked at me.

“I don’t know. Because we can’t control the outcome. We have to learn to play the game the way everyone else does. Like riding your bike downhill with your hands off the handlebars.”

I climbed into the Town Car and Tony drove me home. Michel the doorman escorted me to the lobby. I turned to wave to Tony. He waved back, his face lonely-looking.

We were all riding downhill, and no one was steering.

O
n Thursday, Robert phoned me at work. He wanted me to meet Jerry Turner.

“Informal,” Robert said. “You know. Just drinks. I want him to meet you…. Jerry and I are good friends, as well as colleagues. I think you’d like him. He’s really a decent guy.”

“That’s what my father says about Louie ‘Knuckles’ Bastone.”

“Isn’t he serving life in Sing Sing?”

“My point exactly.”

“You want to compare a cold-blooded killer, who allegedly kept a collection of eyeballs next to his finger collection in jars on his mantel—”

“Nothing alleged about it. I saw the fingers once.”

“You want to compare this man with Jerry Turner, the television journalist?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Teddi…this isn’t like you.”

I felt tired of people telling me who I was. “Jerry Turner once said my uncle Teddy, my father’s brother, was akin to the Son of Sam.
Son of Sam,
Robert. He isn’t interested in truth. He’s interested in ratings.”

“Didn’t your father’s brother get convicted for murdering two men and chopping them into little pieces and burying them underneath the concrete patio of his restaurant?”

“He was framed. The concrete foreman did it.”

Robert snorted into the phone.

“What was that?” I asked him.

“Teddi…look…please meet Jerry. He’s a friend. You’re both important to me.”

“Fine. But discussion of my family is off-limits.”

“Deal. Hey, why have you been hiding from me lately?”

“I’m not hiding.”

“Well, you have been hard to track down.”

“Just busy. Nature of the restaurant business.” I softened. “I work a double shift some days. I work nights. Early mornings. It’s a grueling business and not good for relationships. You’re equally busy. That’s all it is.”

Jerry, Robert and I met at Whiskey Blue and were shown to a small table in the corner, away from the crowd at the bar. The waitress, who weighed about eighty pounds, tops, and who wore a black leotard and miniskirt with thigh-high boots, fawned over Jerry Turner, leaning in extra close and squeezing what little breasts she had in her push-up bra together.

In person, Jerry Turner was less imposing than the man who bellowed live at the cameras five nights a week, with reruns on the weekends. He actually looked like a nice gentleman in a suit and tie, with a smile that made his eyes crin
kle in the corners, and a big semipompadour of silvery-blond hair swept back from his forehead.

“I should thank you,” he said to me after we ordered a round of drinks.

“Why?”

“Since he met you, Robert is a dream to work with. Always in a good mood.”

I smiled at the compliment. “Well…I’ve been in a good mood since I met him, too.”

“I trust Robert like the back of my hand. In my business, you can’t say that about too many people.”

“I hear you.” Not too different from my family’s business, where trust and loyalty were the most valued commodities of all.

The waitress, with a mop of curly blond hair on her head, which resembled a Q-Tip atop her thin frame, brought us our drinks, and I sipped my martini.

“Do you watch the show?” Jerry asked me, raising his voice slightly over the music.

Robert looked nervously at me.

“Not really. I actually don’t watch a lot of television.”

“Everyone says that. Come on. I’m a big boy. I can take it. You don’t like me, do you. I don’t mean personally. I mean…the whole show. The TV me.” The TV him had just gotten off the air a half hour before. He still had makeup on.

“Well…” I took a sip. “You’re a little confrontational. But Robert says you’re very dedicated to finding out the truth.”

“Absolutely.” He slapped my knee. “The truth and ratings. Hand in hand.”

Robert laughed. “Jerry has the highest ratings of any cable show in the eight o’clock slot.”

“Good for you.” I smiled.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

“What?”

“When Robert told me he was dating Don Angelo Marcello’s granddaughter, well, you can imagine the thoughts that went through my head.”

My smile tightened. Of course I could imagine. It was what everyone imagined my entire life.

“No, what?” I asked.

“Well…you know all the stereotypes.”

Sure. They called me Teddi Tortellini when I was in grade school. The fact that my cousins could pulverize anyone who messed with me helped me more times than I cared to count. But after a while, I was avoided as if I had “the cooties.”

“Sure, Jerry. But I’m not my family.”

“Something Robert here made very plain to me. Still, it had to have been interesting. Off the record. Come on…”

“‘Interesting’ would be a good way to describe it.”

Interesting wasn’t the half of it, of course. Other kids told stories of visits to grandma and grandpa’s house, complete with cookie-baking and getting to stay up past bedtime. My fondest memories were of days at the track, learning to read racing forms. The fact that I could pick winners better than any of my male cousins—except Quinn—was a badge of honor. I was Poppy’s favorite—and everyone knew it.

“The RICO trial seven years ago must have been hard.”

“The RICO Act is what the government gets you on when they’ve got nothing. They try to tie you to bullshit, Jerry. You know that as well as I do. They play connect the dots with nothing tangible. Notice they only got two convictions out of twenty-four indictments. And that was all
for bullshit small-time stuff. My cousin did three months, my uncle Vito walked.”

Jerry raised his Scotch and soda in a salute to me. “Your friend here is pretty tough, Robert. She’s no pushover. Not that I’d guess Angelo Marcello’s granddaughter would be.”

Robert lifted his glass and winked at me. I downed the rest of my martini and bit an olive off the plastic toothpick.

Jerry was not one to give up. “Your grandfather still running things?”

“Running what things?” I asked.

“You know. The family.”

“No. I don’t know.” For some reason, I liked making Jerry Turner have to say what was on his mind.

“Oh…I forgot. He’s a restaurateur.”

“Exactly.”

Robert rubbed my forearm protectively. “Come on, let’s talk about something else.”

“All right. Are the Giants going to win on Sunday?” Jerry asked.

“Of course they are.” I grinned but then immediately felt a rock in my stomach as I thought of sending away Mark. I had kept the flower from my hair. It dried out overnight, and I pressed it behind a picture frame.

“I think they might go all the way this year,” Jerry mused.

“Please,” I said. “The Giants toy with their fans every year. They make us think they’re going all the way and then they blow it. I miss Bill Parcells. He took us to the Super Bowl in 1981 and 1987. But I root for the stupid Giants, anyway.”

“A woman after my own heart,” Jerry said. “You care to place a wager on Sunday?”

“Depends.”

“I say they don’t cover the spread.”

“I say they do.”

“Fifty bucks.”

“You’re on.” We shook on it.

The three of us then moved on to a discussion of restaurants and hot spots and life in Manhattan. I started to relax. I felt like we’d moved past the novelty of my family. That’s all I asked for—a chance to be seen as Teddi, as myself. Robert saw me that way. Lady Di did, too. Mark Petrocelli did—and he didn’t. At the same time, I liked to bait people like Jerry who met me with their own preconceived notions.

Somewhere around twelve-thirty, we called it a night and waited as the doorman in front of the W Hotel called us two cabs. Robert and Jerry took one, and I took the other.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Robert whispered as he kissed me. I had been replaying the kiss with Mark in my mind, but Robert was sensual. Nothing wrong with his kisses, either.

“Talk to you then.” I smiled as I slipped into the cab.

On the ride home, I settled against the seat and looked at New York, alive at night, as the cabbie whizzed me past restaurants and all-night delis and coffee shops. I gazed up at the apartment buildings, glimpsing people as they moved about their apartments. New York City is a voyeur’s paradise. It reminded me of the old dioramas we had to make in grade school, little frozen scenes, a flash of a person at a window, doing dishes at the kitchen sink. Another apartment might have the bluish tint of the television reflecting off the windows. People stood hailing cabs. Little poodles and shih tzus and Pekingese with their pushed-in faces were walked by their owners. Occasionally, you saw a dog walker
handling five or more dogs at once. I loved the anonymity. I loved Manhattan.

The cabbie pulled in front of my apartment building, and I paid the fare and tipped the driver.

“Good night,” I said, then slid out and held open the door for a couple who hurried over to seize the cab.

The night doorman, Michel, waved to me and held open the door to the building.

“
Bonjour,
Teddi.”

“
Bonjour,
Michel. How’s Gabriella?” I inquired after his wife. “She have that baby yet?”

“No. Not yet. Mrs. Weiss in 9C told me I should take her out for Mexican food. The spicy food will start contractions, she says. You think that’ll work?”

“I think that baby, Michel, will come when he’s good and ready. But you never know. It’s worth a try. You know, there’s a place over on Eighty-eighth called the Orange Blossom. It has some kind of salad with a patented balsamic dressing. Was a cute article in one of the papers how it started labor for three mothers in one week.”

“We’ll try anything.” Michel smiled at me, and walked to the elevator.

“Good luck,” I said. I got on the elevator and made a mental note to ask Di to go shopping with me on Saturday to buy some baby outfits for Michel and his wife.

I unlocked my apartment and stepped inside. Di wasn’t home, and I walked back to my bedroom and slipped out of my shoes and clothes and put on pajamas.

I felt tired. Maybe what I wanted was instant understanding. I wanted to skip the getting-to-know-you phase and move right into acceptance. I didn’t want to recount every detail of my life from puberty to the RICO trials and be
yond. I didn’t want people to judge me. And suddenly, I wished more than anything that Special Agent Mark Petrocelli really did sell shoes.