Mafia Chic (9 page)

“Yes. Pastry. With ricotta. From Quinn’s second-cousin’s bakery, Tessa’s, in Brooklyn. I may even still have the receipt.”

His chest moved almost imperceptibly, the beginning of a laugh. A loud belly laugh. Agent Mark Petrocelli, of the perfect biceps and pecs, clutched his stomach and leaned over howling with laughter. I started laughing, too. I couldn’t help it.

“Pastry!” he yelled into the wind. Then he started laughing again until tears ran down his face. Suddenly, he grabbed both sides of my face and planted a kiss on the end of my nose. I was stunned. And he looked just as stunned.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, his face now flushing crimson. “I don’t know what made me do that. Jesus…no…I do. Relief.”

“Relief?” I had to crane my neck to look up at him. “So you believe me?”

“Yeah. After a while, as an agent, you become your own lie detector. And you know your chess comment before?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well…don’t think that doesn’t cross my mind or my
conscience once in a while. I didn’t want to think you were somehow…involved in anything more dangerous than wearing stolen Jimmy Choos.”

My mouth dropped open.

“Yeah. I know about them.”

I turned from him and started walking down the path; again he fell right into step with me.

“So you won’t ship Diana away?”

“No, not for giving away cannolis. Though I don’t know that getting involved with your cousin Anthony is the smartest move she can make. Isn’t he the heir apparent?”

“The what?”

“The heir apparent. There’s your grandfather. Then, of the sons-in-law and nephews in the family business, shall we say, the obvious heir is Lou. Vito is lazy. Sonny’s just plain—forgive me—stupid. Rocky’s also not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Next generation, we have your WB-star brother.”

“Please…don’t mention that stupid show he’s on.”

“There’re no standouts. Except maybe Tony. I’ve seen his transcripts from Rutgers. He’s no dummy.”

“There was Sal.”

“Yeah…. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks. Sally was one of my favorite cousins. He was so funny… God, he could do these impersonations from
The Godfather.
Drugs…” I shook my head. “It’s like the odds turning. You mess with drugs and sooner or later, they turn on you.” I thought of Sal. He always had a roll of Life Savers in his pocket when we were kids, and he always gave me the red ones. I was his little Teddi. Seeing him in his casket after he OD’d was one of the hardest things I’d ever had to face. “Look…” I stopped walking. “I don’t think I should be talking to you anymore.”

“Why?”

“Agent Petro—”

“Mark.”

“Mark. Look, if anyone in my family knew I’d even spoken to you today, they’d have me shot.”

“What?” He looked stricken.

“An expression…. I have to go.”

I turned to walk away.

“One more thing, Teddi.”

“Yeah?” I faced him again.

“Be careful with Robert Wharton.”

“Why don’t you keep out of my love life?”

“I can’t help myself,” he said. Then he winked.

I whirled around without saying goodbye and made my way out of Central Park, whose trees were turning crimson. I hailed a cab when I got to the exit. Settling into the warmth of the back seat, I thought of Mark Petrocelli and felt something foreign in the pit of my stomach. Some combination of butterflies and giddiness. Then I reminded myself that my loyalties were to family first. And always.

D
iana looked stunning for Sunday family dinner. She wore her hair up in a loose chignon with tendrils falling down, and pearl earrings. Her dress fit her perfectly, as if it were custom-made for her narrow shoulders and slender waist.

“Do you think Tony will like it?” She twirled around.

“He’ll go crazy.” I smiled. I had never seen Di insecure a day in her life. She sailed through New York, men drooling over her.

“And you, Teddi, look smashing!”

I looked down at my Donna Karan jumpsuit, Prada boots. Courtesy of another “truck.” I even put on my favorite watch, a delicate antique with diamonds around the face that had belonged to my late grandma Marcello. It always made Poppy happy to see me wearing her jewelry, and I wanted him in as good a mood as possible when he met Robert.

The phone rang. Michel, the doorman, announced that a Mr. Robert Wharton was waiting in the lobby.

“This is either going to be great, or I’m going to wish I was on a slow boat to Naples,” I whispered to Diana as we grabbed our coats and headed to the elevator.

Robert owned a BMW. It was shiny and black, with leather seats, and it seemed like he whisked us out to Brooklyn in a half hour.

On the way, he asked me to teach him an Italian phrase to impress my family with. So I taught him
“Piacere—”
nice and simple “—a pleasure to meet you.”

“Now, listen Robert,” Diana said as we sped along. “Pace yourself with the food.”

“Pace myself,” he repeated. “Got it. Anything else?”

Lady Di leaned up between the two front seats. “No, no. You are not paying attention.”

“Pace myself. I heard you.”

“Yes. And I am sure in that educated little mind of yours you are thinking of food consumption of normal mortals. Ordinary human beings. You must ban that thought from your mind.”

“Yes,” I said, holding his hand. “You are entering into the pantheons of eating.”

“Is there such a thing as…oh, I don’t know…
stopping
when you’re full?” He laughed.

Diana and I both gasped.

“What did I say?”

“Robert, you silly boy,” Diana continued. “I fast on Saturdays. What did you have to eat today?”

“I went for breakfast at a diner near my apartment. Eggs. Bacon. Side of toast. It’s Sunday. It’s the one day I eat a nice breakfast.”

Diana slapped his upper arm. “Fool. Bloody fool.”

I looked at Robert. “Eating was a no-no. I should have made that clear. It’s going to get ugly.”

“God…” he muttered under his breath, “I hope I’m ready.”

“Of course you’re ready.” I patted his hand. “They’ll love you.” But I glanced back at Lady Di. Our expressions spoke volumes. The Marcellos were going to eat
him
alive.

As we pulled up to the house, the family couldn’t have been more obvious. Not only was there a Marcello at every window, but I noticed several Gallos. The two sides had made up from the last feud when one of the old-time Gallo brothers—Quinn’s uncle—had supposedly cheated at a high-stakes poker game in the basement of Vito’s house. I spotted Quinn’s father, his uncle. Oh God! Poor Robert. Poor me!

We climbed the steps of my aunt Gina and uncle Rocky’s house. I felt like I was heading to my own execution. Dead woman walking!

Every Sunday my aunts and my mother rotated whose house we had dinner at so that no one had to do all the work more than once every six weeks. However, the competition to host the most elaborate and delicious dinner seemed to escalate each Sunday so that whoever’s turn it was spent two weeks prior to it cooking and cleaning. My mother used to scream at me for “living” when I lived at home. Not so much as a speck of dust escaped her eye.

Uncle Rocky opened the door before we were at the top of the stairs.

“Piacere,”
Robert said, perfectly.

Uncle Rocky looked mildly impressed. “
Piacere.
Come in.”

As soon as we walked into the house, we were swarmed
by relatives. Everyone wanted to shake Robert’s hand, and Di was able to slip to Tony’s side virtually unnoticed. Neither of them, I was sure, was anxious to clue the family in as to their date later. Who needed that kind of pressure?

My father took over the introductions. There would be no way for Robert to keep it all straight. Tony, Tony, Tony, Vito, Rocky, Gina, Angela, Angie, another Tony…I was lucky
I
could remember all their names.

Finally, after all the introductions, my father pulled Robert to the side. “Come on, Bobby, let’s go watch the game.” Daddy pulled out a cigar and lit it, then offered one in cellophane to Robert. I knew what was going on. The men in my family considered it a right of passage to introduce young men to Cuban cigars when they hit about thirteen. Most every one of my cousins had turned green around the gills and puked up their first one. However, over the years, they acquired a taste for them, or at least could chomp and smoke one without throwing up. They considered any man who couldn’t smoke a cigar a “pussy.”

Robert put his hands up. “No. I don’t smoke. But thank you, Mr. Gallo.”

He failed test number one. Oh, Robert…perhaps I should have prepared him even more.

“No problem, Bobby.” Another test. All names in my family were somehow given a “y” on the end, or in my case, an “i” with a “y” sound—whether you wanted to be called that or not. They even called Quinn “Quinny.” The only exception was the “don” himself, my grandfather. He was Angelo. Though I, and my cousins, as well as his daughters, called him Poppy, so I guess he didn’t entirely escape.

“No one’s called me Bobby since grade school,” Robert said, smiling broadly.

“Something wrong with Bobby?”

“No, no, just kind of funny.” This he said to my father, who still went by Frankie. Just like in grade school. Robert was failing miserably. And he was off to the den to be left alone with these vultures until dinnertime.

There was no question I couldn’t go into the inner sanctum of the den. It was the kitchen for me. So with a sinking heart, I joined the women around the pot of gravy.

“More oregano, Gina. This tastes flat.”

“Maddon’, but you’re all makin’ me crazy. Stand back,” Aunt Gina snapped. The kitchen was a hundred degrees. Maybe more.

“Open a window,” my mother shouted.

“Where’s Diana?” someone else asked.

“Here I am,” she sang, coming into the kitchen looking slightly pink-cheeked.

“You sick?” Aunt Carmen held the back of her hand to Diana’s head. “Feel her. She’s hot.”

Aunt Tess put her hand to Di’s forehead next. “Yeah. Honey…sit down. Whatsa matter?”

“Nothing.” She tried to laugh them off. I knew she was just
lovesick,
but they were already arguing over what remedies she needed.

“Tea with lemon and honey.”

“Scotch. A shot of Scotch.”

“A brandy. Is it your stomach, hon? If it is, blackberry brandy.”

“Is it the curse?”

“Thank God for menopause. No more curse.”

“She needs fresh air. Open another window.”

“Maybe I better take a shot of brandy. Come to think of it, it is my tummy.” Diana smiled weakly, playing up her “ill
ness” for all it was worth. She knew the women in the kitchen almost as well as I did, and she loved them. She also knew that if she didn’t accept their advice, they’d hound her all day. It was simpler, in the words of Diana, to smile and nod. Instead, she smiled and drank. Two brandies. I had one, too. I was nervous for poor Robert.

At dinner, which we coordinated with military precision to the half time of the Giants game, the first course was scungilli, and next came the heads. Robert looked pasty. I didn’t know whether it was the sight of the heads or if they had talked him into a cigar. He sat beside me, and I squeezed his hand underneath the table.

“So, Robert, what is it you do?” my mother asked politely.

“I’m a television journalist. I’m actually going to be switching over to the
Jerry Turner
show.”

“Really?”
My mother said the word
really
as if it had three syllables, and a murmur went around the table. The last guy I’d brought home was my high school boyfriend. And he’d said all of three words before he escaped, never to be heard from again. He went off to college and sent me a “Dear Jane” letter.

“Jerry Turner? That
jamook?
” my uncle Vito said derisively.

“Jamook?”
Robert asked politely.

“Idiot,” I said underneath my breath.

“What?” Robert turned to me.

“Uncle Vito thinks Turner’s an idiot. A jerk.”

“Acch,” Aunt Gina said. “I watch Jerry Turner every night. The man is a god. A
god.
” She said god also as a three-syllable word.

Suddenly a five-minute verbal war broke out over
whether Turner was an ass or not. I looked over at Poppy. He didn’t tolerate Sunday disruptions for long.

“Enough,” he said. “I say…okay, so he does the show.”

I contained a smirk. My grandfather, God love him, was so used to his word being law.

“Oh—” Robert smiled around the table “—I assure you all that I will do only the best shows. I know—” he held up his hands “—he sometimes does some…salacious shows. But I’m after the truth.”

“That fuckin’ asshole once tried to do a show on Pop,” Sonny said.

“Really?” Robert looked pale.

“Yeah. Don’t you know who you fuckin’ work for?” Sonny asked, then plucked the eyeball from his baby sheep’s head, held it on the ends of the tines of his fork, then popped it in his mouth and chewed ever so slowly, trying to intimidate Robert.

“Yeah. Yes. Um…” He looked desperate to change the subject and turned his head to look at my dad. “What do you do, Mr. Gallo?”

Inwardly I cringed. After all, I still didn’t know what it was my father did. Or at least what he told Uncle Sam he did.

“Me? I’m a waste-management executive.”

“I see.”

I looked imploringly at Diana, then Tony. For once, he rescued me instead of torturing me.

“So you think the Giants are going all the way, Bobby?”

“I’m an Eagles fan myself.”

“The Eagles? How can you bring dis guy home, Teddi Bear?” Uncle Sonny asked, but an appreciative laugh went around the table, and everyone began arguing about a much safer subject—sports.

Five courses later, Robert looked like he was going to be sick. In fact, if it wasn’t so early in our relationship, I think he would have undone the top button of his pants like some of my cousins and uncles, but he didn’t.

Tony suddenly stood and stretched. “Aunt Gina? I’ll take my dessert to go. I gotta head back to my place.”

“What?” his mother asked. This was sacrilege.

“Yeah. Poker game.”

“Oh,” she said, somewhat approvingly. Poker was an acceptable excuse. It was a man’s man game.

Di kicked me under the table.

“We should go, too. Robert has a big day tomorrow, and Diana wasn’t feeling too well earlier.”

“Sure, kids.”

My aunt Gina packed us enough desserts to feed our apartment building, and we went and found our coats. Robert shook everyone’s hand again and thanked them for “such a lovely time.”

We all got to the door and bid the family a final goodbye. It hadn’t gone well. I only hoped he could grow on them, because I knew as soon as we pulled out of the driveway, my uncles’ first word would be
mortadella.

Italian slang for loser.