The Seven Year Itch (15 page)

Chapter 21

Sunday
Afternoon…

W
ith his father locked up,
Tony made a point to spend as many weekends with his mother Mona as possible.
Once a major babe, often compared to Sophia Lauren, she’d aged much less
gracefully under the weight of her husband’s criminal transgressions. Seemed
he’d gotten stuck in a revolving prison door, and each time he went up, his
absence picked away pieces of her soul, burrowed crevices of worry along her
eyes and forehead. She’d almost grown numb to the pain and had even begun to
allow her leg to drift into Senior’s side of the bed. The lone glimmer of light
in her life, Tony, the one child who hadn’t gotten caught up in “the life,”
brought as much joy to her heart as his three siblings gave her angst. She
cooked for him every chance she got, and Tony never missed a meal.

“Yo Ton’! Is ‘at you?” Uncle Paulie called from the living
room after Tony finished greeting his mother. Uncle Paulie was his mother’s
brother and owned a pizzeria in Baltimore’s Little Italy. He was a grey-haired,
beer-gutted grouser who worshipped the Budweiser gods and thought black socks
with brown slippers was a fashion statement. He’d never gotten caught up in the
life despite Senior’s offers to help him find employment in one of his
racketeering operations back in the day.

“Yeah!” Tony answered, walking to greet him. “Heeeey! Uncle
Paulie. Good to see ya!” He kissed him on both cheeks careful not to disturb
his beer.

“C’mere have a seat. How’s life? Job treatin’ you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Everything’s good,” Tony said, nodding his head.

Uncle Paulie sat up in his seat and turned down the TV
volume. “Your mother keeps naggin’ me to talk to you about settlin’ down. You
seein’ anybody yet? I know you had it pretty rough after Olivia.”

Olivia De Luca was to Tony what Six was to J.J. He had suffered
from superhero syndrome all of his life. He had a “thing” for projects, and
what a project Olivia had been. A single mother (of a cute precocious kid) with
a drug habit she concealed for months. She wanted “the family” life, the
clothes, cars, furs, and jewelry, and Tony’s interests were too far on the
right side of the law, thus ending their brief, passion-filled relationship.

He shook his head. “Nah. Well . . . there is this one lady.
Her name is J.J. McCall.”

“McCall? That ain’t Italian.”

“No...she’s not Italian. She’s black.”

Uncle Paulie whipped his head toward Tony. “She’s a black?”

“No, she’s not
a
black. She’s black.”

“There’s a difference?”

“We’re not dating yet. I just think she’s interestin’. That’s
all.”

“Yet? She ain’t one o’ them welfare broads with six kids and
seven babies’ daddies’, is she?”

Tony snapped his head toward his uncle in stunned disbelief.
“Hell no! She’s an agent. A damn good one too.”

“An agent, huh?” Paulie said. He leaned forward and his hand
flailed to the rhythm of his speech. “Listen. It’s all right to get yourself a
piece every now and again, but you don’t bring ‘em home. And you don’t marry
‘em eitha!”

“I don’t see what the freakin’ problem is. We’re living in a
new day, Unc.”

“Hey, this might be a new day, but Italians are old school.
Years ago I hadda thing with a fine mulignan.
Che bella donna!
Satin skin. And the body?” He shook his head and
bit his bottom lip. “The things she did for me would bring a grown man to his
knees. And she was a good person to boot. But I hadda walk away, couldn’t work.
Then I found your aunt Gloria and look at us now.”

Tony cut him a sideways glance. “She chased you out the house
with a butcher knife last week. You slept on Ma’s couch for three days.”

Paulie sneered. Tony hit a sensitive nerve. “That’s beside
the point. Don’t think I don’t unda’stand your plight. Take my advice and don’t
go down that road. Besides, what’s it gonna do to your mother? Isn’t she going
through enough right now with your father and all?”

When Mona finally joined Paulie and Tony after making a pot
of spaghetti sauce big enough to feed the Italian armed forces, Tony’s phone
rang. She threw her hands in the air, knowing he’d again be called to work
before he could eat.

“Did I catch you at a bad time,” J.J. said, excited and
breathless.

“Nah, I’m with my Uncle Paulie at my mother’s place. She’s
cookin’ dinner for lata,” Tony replied.

“Well. I need you Tony. There’s been a break in the case and
I can’t handle this alone,” she said.

“A break? What happened?”

“Dmitriyev was arrested early this morning…and my business
card was in his wallet. You know what that means.”

“Wait a minute. Your card in his wallet. But—oh no.”

“My sentiments exactly. We need to persuade him to cooperate
with us so we can find out what happened.”

“We?”

“You’ve got to help me, Tony. I’m asking…no begging you. And
I promise, if we discover
one more
piece of information that implicates Jack, I’ll let him eat his just desserts.”

Tony pondered the deal for a moment, blowing his nails and
whistling to himself as he lingered in a long painful pause. He combed his
fingers through his hair and shook his head. The corners of his mouth lifted.
He could never say no for long. “All right, J.J. you’ve got a deal.
One
piece of evidence, I don’t care what
it is, and we end this and let Sabinski fry.”

 
“Agreed,” J.J. said,
sounding relieved. She blared her horn causing Tony to pull the phone away from
his ear. “Get the hell out of the way! I swear. Freakin’ Sunday drivers.”

“Easy there, Danica Patrick,” he said. “I’ll see you in a
few.”

“Great. Meet me at 3-D and hurry. We don’t have much time,”
J.J. urged.

Adrenaline pulsed through Tony’s veins. Even better than
receiving information on Plotnikov’s whereabouts would be to recruit Dmitriyev.
J.J. and Tony knew Aleksey had one weakness—he loved America. At least that’s
the information they received from a clean diplomat they’d been running for
years. It was a vulnerability they could exploit. He’d served in London for six
years, postured himself for a U.S. tour. By all accounts he was a rising star.
They wouldn’t have another opportunity like this one. Then a smile emerged on
Tony’s face as he replayed J.J.’s words in his mind.
I need you.

Tony hung up the phone, sucked in a breath, intoxicated by
the spaghetti’s aroma. He’d miss eating this meal fit for a king, or a prince
as it were. But wouldn’t miss Mona’s musings on the ills of bachelorhood.

“I gotta go, Ma. Work calls,” Tony said. He stood into a deep
stretch, oblivious to his exhaustion at week’s events. He’d have time to crash
after the case ended. Until then, no rest for the weary. For now, coffee would
have to suffice.

“Not again! Every time you visit me, it’s work, work, work.
Dolce far niente.”

“What’s that?” Tony asked. He understood little Italian and
spoke less. She could tell him in the time it’d have taken for him to
translate.

She threw her hand up in frustration, and opened the kitchen
cabinet door. Plastic food containers tumbled to the floor as she pulled
several to pack Tony some Italian delights to carry with him. After all, she
didn’t eat much, not anymore. And it’d be a shame to let such nice bread go to
waste.

“I swear if I didn’t push you out for 36
hours I’d wonder if you were really mine. It means you need to stop workin’ so
hard, that’s what it means!” Her hands actively flailed, speaking volumes above
her voice.

Mona reached into a second cabinet beneath the sink and
pulled out a shopping bag, the big brown one with the sturdy handles. She sat it
on the countertop and loaded the buffet inside. Tony’s eyes followed her as she
fluttered around the room. Funny, he hadn’t eaten and yet he was full…
of guilt
.

“Hey. I gotta work so I can afford your grandchildren.”

“Grandchildren? Ha! You gotta roll the cannoli every now and
again to make a baby! All you do is work! Work, work, work!”

Tony cringed and laughed aloud. The gibes she let pass her
lips.

At once, she froze and cut through him with her gaze. “Hmph.
But since you brought up the topic of grandchildren, when are you gonna find a
good Italian girl and settle down? That Rosa was nice. What happened with her?”

Hesitant to answer, Tony dug his hands into his blue jean
pockets. He rocked back forth toe to heel, searching for the right words to
explain to the woman who set them up that Rosa was a whack job.

Mona met Rosa at Saturday evening mass. By Sunday breakfast
she was the first Mrs. Antonio Donato, at least in Mona’s and Rosa’s minds. She
lit candles and said two hail Marys. Little did she know Rosa was this side of
crazy—controlling, obsessive. His intentions were to obtain a restraining
order, not marry her. “Rosa and me, we didn’t work out so good. We go out on
one date and already she’s namin’ our kids. I wanna find someone for myself who
isn’t a few pepperonis short of a pizza pie. Did you hear that, Ma? Me. I.”

She paced toward him, stopped, and hung one hand on her hip
as she motioned dramatically with the other. “How many times I gotta tell ya,
huh? Marriage has nothing to do with happiness.”

“Look at you and Pop . . . well,
before
he got pinched.” Tony started motioning his hands to mirror
his mother’s. It was contagious.

“Exactly! Look around you. Think back to when you were a kid
in Jersey. You call that perfection?” She took a seat next to him, grabbed his
hand. Her eternally wrinkled brow and weathered skin bore the weight of a
worried mother. “You kids, you want everything to be perfect. The body, the
hair, the pretty face, love, romance, please! Chi troppo vuole, nulla stringe!”

“What’s ‘at mean?”

“He who wants too much doesn’t catch anything. Stop being so
freakin’ picky. Find warm place to hide your sausage. Make sure she can cook
and keep house. Then make it work. Simple! You young people these days, you
make life too hard. Life’s not that hard.”

She patted his back and resumed her task. His snack bag
needed filling. “So what you’re saying is, I should just settle.”

“Yes,” she deadpanned. “Settle shmettle. No woman is
perfect.
 
Neither is love. And here’s
another newsflash, my dear Antonio. Neither. Are.
You
!” She pinched his nose.

Tony chuckled and shook his head. His mother had done her worst and he’d
survived. Time to go. But not before checking up on the old man. Tony might be
dead to him, but a father was a father. “Before I go, you uhhhh...you heard
from Pop?”

Chapter 22

T
en years had passed and they hadn’t spoken a single word to
one another. Not hello. Merry Christmas, Happy Birthday. Or kiss my ass. When Tony
graduated college and chose the FBI over the family business, his father, a
“made” man, broke ties immediately. His son’s choice was an act of treason
against the life. His sisters, Carla and Adrianna, married wise guys. His
younger brother Dante became heir to the family business and the number one
draft pick.

He was groomed to be a soldier before Tony took the Bureau
job. But in rejecting the family way, Tony ended Dante’s career before it
began. Got feds in your family? Can’t be a wise guy. Dante was forced to go
legit and he held a monster grudge against Tony. Wouldn’t even acknowledge his
presence on the street, despite the fact that Tony didn’t work in Jersey and
skillfully avoided Bureau attempts to recruit him into the Organized Crime
section. Tony gave up nada. He didn’t know anybody. Never saw anybody. Never
heard anything. That’s the way it had been. That’s the way it would always be.
He never took the vow of silence but he honored it.

Tony had sacrificed a lot to live life on his own terms and
follow his own path. The same stubborn determination he’d inherited from his
father, was the same quality that ripped his family apart. His education, the
one he received before he shunned the life would serve him well in his new
occupation. Operational security techniques. Recruiting soldiers from other
families to stay informed about the enemy. Avoiding face-to-face meets.
Detecting surveillance. Tony entered the Bureau with better practical training
than Quantico could ever provide.

Mona let out a long sigh and turned her face to the heavens.
“Yeah, he’s good. Well, as good as you can be in the pen. Your uncle Paulie
went to see him last week, took him some groceries. Your father’s still
stubborn as a mule though, make no mistake about that.”

“Did he ask about me?”

She looked away from him, avoided his gaze. Her melancholy
expression betrayed the answer before she could speak. “Your father loves you,
you know. His life isn’t your life. You did the right thing. Don’t doubt
yourself for a minute. Your family will always be your family whether you agree
with each other or not. Always remember, you can’t choose family, so you can’t
lose family. Besides, I couldn’t bear to see you in—”

She broke down. Not full on waterworks, just a few streaks,
this was significant for Mona. Tony walked over to her and let his arms console
her. “It’s okay, Ma. It’s okay.”

She recovered quickly, her sleeve soaking up her tears. Then
she pinched and, palm open, double patted his cheeks. “You go on to work and
make sure you eat, you hear me? Your mama’s gonna be fine. I’m always fine,
aren’t I?”

Tony grabbed his bag and headed for 3rd District.

He hated to leave Mona in her sullen state, but it was time
to shift gears. Dmitriyev could be a major score, and his performance would
have to be convincing. Their routine was trite but effective. As long as J.J.
was on her A-game she’d seal the deal. Dmitriyev would be singing canary-style
before nightfall.

•
 
•
 
•

Tony arrived at 3-D thirty minutes later.
J.J.’s brother met him at the door as expected. He smiled as Tony approached.
Tony wondered whether J.J. had mentioned him outside the context of work.
Malcolm was a tall guy, like his sister, and equally likeable. His
down-to-earth attitude was genuine, and he lacked the “fuck you” attitude cops
often had toward FBI agents. His sister no doubt made him Fed-friendly. Tony
admired their closeness, even envied them at times, the way she spoke of him
with such adoration. Could never be he and Dante, not as long as he served the
nation. The possibility had all but vanished once he took his oath of office.
No matter what, he’d still show up for any one of his siblings. If they ever
needed him, he’d be there. Whenever. Wherever. Without hesitation.

Tony’s glance darted around the precinct. Only a skeletal
staff remained on Sunday duty. They took a stairwell to the basement lock down.
Dmitriyev’s holding cell was located a few feet down a narrow hall on the left.
The interrogation room, separated by two sets of alarmed steel doors and metal
detectors, was on the right. Malcolm waved to the duty officer who buzzed them
inside.

Tony followed Malcolm through another short hall and stopped
when Malcolm peered inside a small door window on the right. “He’s in here. We
have someone monitoring you behind the one-way glass so just motion us when
you’re ready to leave,” Malcolm said, turning to walk away. “His 24 hours is
almost up. We’ll have to call State or send him to Central Cell Block soon.”

Tony took a deep breath, tapped into his inner asshole, and
stepped inside. He understood his mission: Make Dmitriyev feel more miserable
than he already looked.

And he looked like twice-hit road kill.

“Well, well, well, so we finally meet in person, Mr. Dmitriyev,”
Tony said with a smug smile pasted on his face. He pulled his credentials from
his back pocket and gave them a customary flip. “Special Agent Donato at your
service. Been following your career for a while now.”

Dmitriyev nodded his head to acknowledge Tony’s presence.
Then Tony handed Dmitriyev one of his business cards.

“You recognize this, don’t you?”

Dmitriyev pursed his lips and stiffened his frame.

“You sure?” Tony asked, fully expecting silence he met. Tony
was just the warm-up act. “Man, you don’t look so good. Rough night, eh?” Tony
rested himself in the empty chair across the table. “I’ve never seen a green
Russian before. Can I get you something? Coffee? A little hair of the dog,
maybe?”

Still nothing. Tony couldn’t blame the guy. After all, a rock
and a hard place would’ve been heaven for Dmitriyev, especially given the
humiliation facing him if he returned to the embassy without the veil of Bureau
secrecy protecting him. Tony cringed on Dmitriyev’s behalf. Unless Aleksey
spilled his guts about what happened to Plotnikov and cut a deal, his life
would stink like twice-dead road kill too.

Dmitriyev sat stone-faced and shackled with his fingers
locked together on the wooden table. The sweat beads surfacing on his forehead
appeared to be hangover symptoms rather than a sign of nervousness. From what
Tony had read, Dmitriyev’s long-time friend and colleague Stanislav Vorobyev, a
First Secretary and the senior-most counterintelligence officer in the
residency would choke Dmitriyev if he found out about this fiasco. He’d have no
choice except to send him home. Stan-the-Man, as J.J. affectionately referred
to him, was a declared member of Russian intelligence and his affiliation was
known inside and outside embassy circles which meant he could never engage in
operational activity—clandestine or otherwise. He was mostly an internal
administrator who supervised the operations of other intelligence officers,
such as Dmitriyev.

According Russian reporting from another Embassy contact,
Stan had privately warned Dmitriyev about some unspecified sketchy behavior but
J.J. and Tony had no idea he had an appetite for prostitutes, especially black
ones. Apparently, he didn’t listen. As a result, he was destined to find
himself on an express flight back to Russia. Not to mention the fallout from
his wife’s reaction.
 

 
Dmitriyev’s stakes
were high and most intelligence officers deplored the idea of being forced into
some mind-numbing desk job in the Center.

Tony continued, “Listen Aleksey. We both know you don’t want
to go back to Moscow, especially not under these precarious circumstances. I
mean, soliciting a prostitute? A black, transgender prostitute at that? Well, I
can only imagine how that’s gonna go over at the embassy. And assaulting a
police officer? It’d suck for you if that story somehow found its way to
the Washington Post
,” he said, tapping
his index finger against his chin. “Which section do ya think that would make?
Entertainment maybe? And Stan...he probably won’t look favorably on your extracurriculars,
neither will the State Department. You might get PNG’d.”

Being declared persona non grata in the United States was
tantamount to a death penalty for intelligence officers—a career death penalty.
It virtually assured an intelligence officer would never work in a Western
country again.

“If I have to call Stan, we both know where you’ll end up,”
Tony said. “I’m not going to sit here and insult your intelligence because
we’re both counterintelligence, we know how the game is played. I guess the only
question you need to answer is... what do you want to do? You can work with the
Bureau or declare immunity and, well, you know the rest. Just understand if you
want to stay in the U.S. of A, and finish out your tour, all roads lead through
me. So, ball’s in your court.”

“What do you want?” Aleksey asked flatly.

“You’re counterintelligence. If you can’t figure that out
then this meeting’s over and my friend at the
Post
will enjoy an informative…,” Tony looked down at his watch and
glared at Dmitriyev, “…brunch.”

They stared each other down and a muted tension seized the
room. Each refused to give an inch. Dmitriyev had been threatened, blackmailed,
disrespected, and insulted.

Mission accomplished
,
Tony thought.
It’s J.J.’s turn.