1984
THE CURTAINS CLOSE
"Your father meant so much to me. To all of us."
His father was laying out in his casket gussied up with make-up and formaldehyde. Lips in a permanent fish-pout, eyes shut and the liver spots painted over. Rose in his suit pocket. Rosary crucifix around the hands.
Charming.
Sal had his wife jawing off while the priest was talking and he'd promptly told her to shut her mouth, Gioia told him it was rich coming from the same sleazeball'd never shut his fucking mouth when- blah blah fucking blah. Sal tuned it out, walked off mid-sentence and let her keep jawing at the frost and the fog. Screw it.
Bad day. Chilled you to your bones and needed gloves, needed coats - would rightly need humility. Sal never cared for humility. Had the camel coat on clashing fierce with the monochrome of everyone else, kept himself to the corner of the funeral procession with the other guys from Atlantic Quays.
The other guys.
Sal Leone was average - used to work out, hadn't in a long time and kept to good food that evened things out. Just average. Painted tie and graying hair with the 'line receding down to the crown, this mad widows peak poking out, a mustache. Stood side by side with good friends; hulking Tony Cipriani, 6'5, barrel chested guy needed a tailor, if not that, the big-and-tall store. Dark-rose jacket and brown shirt and jowls.
With Eggy Goterelli. These crazy aviators and this gold around the fingers and the wings in his hair and the cigar in his mouth his wife'd told him not to smoke while the priest was going but like he gave a fuck what the skank said, he'd been to more wakes than he could think of and he was just killing time before the pasta platter at Momma's.
With Toto Cilli. Not Toto, Sesto, but he thought Toto was funny and the whole thing stuck. Flared collar spread out a quarter-inch, double breasted royal blue jacket, bug eyes and half a monobrow, this knife cut up on the nostril still loose he kept touching.
These guys - blue, cream, red, gold.
Everyone else - black. White.
Four of 'em and a few others stood out half a distance from the rest where the seats where with their backs near the gravestones and a good view of the whole thing. Good view of Beppe, Beppe Leone, father Beppe, Don Beppe, being lowered deep in the dirt where the worms'd like him nice and warm.
Sal and Toto and Tony and all the goddamn others' kids doing god knows what a little while away. Sal's brother scowled back.
Carmine Leone was younger, but what did it matter? Curled out hair and thin brows and square jaw and this weird bunched chin because he'd keep doing Beppe's pout. Had his guy Red Meo with the pork pie hat and old Al Zizzo and old Uncle with the spectacles on his sides looking at the casket, but what'd it matter? What did it matter?
Carmine woulda thought it wasn't respectful.
Sal thought respect was in surplus.
"My father," Sal said. "Giuseppe was…"
He was talking to one of his guys, little guy named Mike with stubble and a bad shirt, usually kept quiet but decided he'd go off now for good measure.
"Yeah?"
"He preferred boot lickin' to bank notes. Not much more to say."
"That's not fair."
Toto shrugged and pulled smoke - "This fuckin' business is all about this whole bullshit fuckin' dicklickin' thing. That's it. This," he gestured out, "is prime fuckin' dicklickin'."
Mike shrugged. Tony pat him on the back, nearly knocked the wind out despite himself, but just gave him this look and knew.
Tony Cipriani, gentle giant.
"This thing a' ours."
"Tomata' sauce."
In a couple hours, after all this ended, Carmine Leone was gonna get in his car with Al and Uncle and Red, and he was gonna drive outta Staunton Island to the old gentleman's club in Saint Mark's. He was gonna speak a lot of Italian, sign a contract that didn't exist - and alongside consigliere Zizzo and bodyguard Meo and old Uncle Leone from Sicily, he was gonna go from underboss to boss - from Vice President to CEO - of the Leone-Palermo Produce Company.
And Sal still a middle manager.
Motherfucking fucking fuck it.
They'd put Beppe in the dirt and everyone had gone to their cars and Sal was lagging around because Gioia wouldn't shut her goddamn gob and whenever he tried to wring it out she'd go back on him and tell him he was hardly at the funeral at all and he'd try turning the radio up and she'd throw the dial right back to zero.
Joey was in the back seat of the Washington with his feet on the windows and dress pants and a black shirt and black sneakers - or the best in his wardrobe - and after hearing the two go at it for god knows how long on the way to the ferry he just kinda blurted out "We're goin' to Momma's, right?"
"Momma's ours or Momma's Cipriani's?"
"Cipriani's, no shit."
"Oh!"
"Excuse me!"
"You don't talk to your mother like that!"
"What, you say that kinda shit to-"
"You don't fuckin' talk like that."
"Well look who he's learned from, Sal. Doting father."
"Go fuck yourself you fuckin' skank."
"There it is! Sicillian fuckin' parenting and-"
Just kind of went on from there.
Through Staunton gridlock and the most inefficient cross-river transit in the country and broken Portland windows and red-and-green banners up Saint Mark's. Brownstones and backstreets and inclines with the car put-put-putting 'til they hit the right inclines and the right backstreets and the right brownstones.
There were cars outside Momma Cipriani's.
A lot of cars.
About a dozen from the old procession stuck around in the already-cramped lot and bleeding out into the street. Almost exclusively imports.
Sal turned. "Behave."
Joey rolled eyes.
"That's not fuckin' behaving."
"Okay, okay!"
Okay up the concrete-stone-whatever stairs with his wife primping herself up with a pocket mirror and his son half clawing through the pants he was made to wear, okay at the door with Sal breathing in by the banners and the umbrella-clad outdoor tables. A little sign by the door, "Closed for the Wake of Giuseppe Leone".
Could already smell the cholesterol.
Door swung open and the place blasted heat and the noise was fickle chatter and the stereo playing classical music. Opera. Sal didn't know and didn't care, fucking hated that shit.
"Salvatore!"
"Great pick wit' the Double Clef, Tony," Sal beamed. "Love it."
Tony Cipriani with an ill-fitting chef jacket draped atop the suit's padded shoulders: the man couldn't look comfortable in human clothes if he tried. "Ah, you know, you know. Was the traffic good?"
"Fuckin' tedious."
"Eh, that's Staunton."
Carmine wanted the wake elsewhere, but those complaints were made a long time ago when he wasn't gonna be boss and he didn't get everything he wanted. Beppe overruled on his deathbed, said the food was better than whatever piss poor Italian joint in Fort Staunton you'd get otherwise - real authentic family shit versus some Well Stacked slices. Funny how his priorities were while the tumors grew in his throat.
But real authentic Italian shit it was - Sal watched over Tony's shoulder as the porter crew flew out the kitchen, headed to the buffet line with steaming bowls of fettuccine and linguine in white sauces, calamari platters and chicken parmesan and eggplant in various stages of presentation; the works thrust into warming tray after warming tray as the guests stood by impatient.
The mourners had brought appetites.
"There's a fuckin' buffet line?"
Tony looked back, back and around again and paid the question a lot more mind than it deserved. "Uh, yeah. Yeah I think uh, I think Sandra told you that would be, y'know, the most efficient way of goin' about it. Lets the kids run around a bit and-"
"It's undignified."
Tony stared.
Gioia put her hand on her husband's neck, probably asked a bit more terse than she wanted, "You want me to fix you a plate?"
"Yeah, whatever."
Big smile on her face, she turned to Tony - pocket mirror missed the lipstick on her front teeth. "You got any a' those zucchini flowers he likes so much?"
"Nah, uh, those're outta season."
She left anyway, grabbed a hot plate by the line and something sparkly in a tall glass offered by a waiter.
"How you feelin', Sal?"
"Never better. Can we siddown somewhere? This draft's making my balls ache."
"I'm always sayin' that."
Pair started walking through, away from the door that kept opening and flooding with new arrivals, letting the frigid air sift into grease-laden humidity and the chemical smell of two dozen suits that just got dry-cleaned yesterday. Sal took off his gloves.
He really got an eyeful.
Dozens of packed tables in diagonals, white tablecloth and candles not yet lit and centerpieces - more white, chrysanthemums in an inch of water wavering in the slipstream of mourners running to their tables with overflowing plates of pasta. Full blown murmur and laughter over the cello playing on speakers, pairs and groups alike already wine-drunk and one in particular - not a table but a green felt booth in the corner, Carmine Leone holding crony court; Al Zizzo and a hatless Red Meo with three bottles of red on the wood. They'd been here what, a half hour?
Carmine never could help himself from a Valpolicella. His boys could never turn it down one glass at a time.
Sal looked, looked away. He and Tony were at a booth too, opposite corners of the room under an oil painting, some horses and carts and dirt roads and cypress trees thing that fell off a truck fifteen or twenty years back.
They sat opposite each other, waiter brought them house red before Sal put his gloves down. Tony kept to the edge, eyes to the kitchen through the round windows.
Sal stretched, scratched an eyebrow. "Didn't mean that about the dignity of this thing, what do I give a shit? Your wife's a great cook, Anthony. And you're not so bad yourself."
"Ah, don't worry about it."
"You got a good woman there, dutiful wife, mother. Meanwhile it's fuckin' Joy, I'm tellin' you, the woman's got me cursed. Can't get rid of this bad energy whenever she's within fifty feet of me."
"You married a Siciliana, Salvatore, breaking balls gotta come with the territory, huh?"
"Siciliana my ass, the spoiled brat's never left the goddamn state. I dunno if she's even left the city, sure as hell ain't been with me," raised his tone enough for her to maybe-hear, "I'd pitch the fuckin' car off a cliff five minutes into a road trip with her, God help me."
Tony's eyes were wandering. "Hey, where's Joey?"
"Ah, shit."
Forgot Joey.
Scanned the room. Probably would've broken off from his parents anyway, Gioia now mingling with the other fake-nailed hairspray-clouded leopard print wives, but he'd found himself in the company of Toni and some other kid away from the adults, they'd found themselves in the company of one of those cassette music player fucking things.
Fine.
Sal leaned back in the seat. "Real handsome kid you got, Anthony. Good boy, too, never seen him give lip." Saw the smartwear: Toni in a tailored tux, slim fit against Joey's God just put some clean fucking clothes on Jesus Christ dress shirt, Zip pants. "Knows how to dress, knows how to act. You done good."
"Takes after his ma."
"He'll be a fine man."
"I hope so."
"Fine man."
Blunt silence a moment with the wine, Sal's eyes on the kids. Toni all sullen and Joey jittery, couldn't sit still. Sighed, sipped, still felt sober. Looked back at Tony edging half off the seat pitter-pattering the table.
"Hell are we doin', Tone?"
Eyes snapped back, "What?"
"It's this… all this fuckin' thing. Laurel wreath bullshit. That fucking roach."
Blink. "What?"
"You know what my brother's doin' over there?"
"I didn't see him."
"He's got Al and that fucking lughead fucking prick-"
"Russo?"
"-I don't fucking know, porkpie fucking idiot, and they're acting like it's supreme court a' some shit. Jesters, the lot a' them."
"What?"
"I'm runnin' wit' the medieval thing."
"Supreme Court ain't medieval."
"More like fuckin' clowns, eh?" Neck on a swivel, sharp turn behind them. Eggy Goterelli with his coat off showing off the middle-age-gut and the suspenders, threw a plate down with assorted Italian and let the pasta and the glasses wobble on rickety table. "Great fuckin' food, Anthony."
"Watch the fuck out, you nearly got wine all ova' the tablecloth."
Tony all coy, "Thank you, Egidio."
"This gravy, madon'. How she make this shit?"
"Believe me, thank Sandra, and she-"
"Youse was talkin' about Carmine, right?"
"Yeah, Eggy, say it a little louder," Sal hissed. "Let him hear it."
"Sal, I gotta-" Tony got up, dusted himself off. "I'm sorry, but- y'know, Sandra, she's-"
"You need'a go, you need'a go."
"Yeah," Eggy went. "You need to go, you need to go. You know."
Gave a bewildered look at Eggy before just turning tail and leaving. Just him and Sal now, Tony's glass still standing half drank. Egg shifted, took a sip out of his glass, "Carmine, then."
"You know where Toto is?"
"Somewheres."
"I fuckin' figured."
"I said my blessings to 'im."
"To Toto?"
"No. Carmine."
Sal snarled, "Don't say a fuckin' word to him."
"He's boss in two hours tops. I'm payin' respects. I don't like the guy and he don't like none a' us, but it's tradition. These is the rules."
None a' us: the boys from Atlantic Quays were blue collar as blue collar came. Carmine weren't. Carmine worked white-collar union rackets and milked construction, dined with politicians and squared things straight. Put the right bills in the right pockets. Didn't matter if Sal was the one who did the upkeep, made sure the right people didn't say what, if he was the one who moved the shipments and sold the 'tomatoes' on the street.
"Fuck the rules."
"That's what this is."
"This ain't that. This is-"
Clink clink clink.
Halfway across the room.
Carmine stood up. Doing that fishlip-Mussolini face and holding up champagne. Close to a smirk as he could get. Meo adjusted in his seat, pulled his jacket back, pulled his suspenders back, this close to standing up with him but relenting last second.
"I'd like a word," Carmine said.
"You got da' floor!" some schmuck shouted somewhere, scattered a few laughs.
Carmine did this polite half-chuckle like he was hiding a cough, refixed his position. "We laugh tonight. We do, and laughter is part a' the grieving process. We gotta remember the good times, you know, especially now. Especially through all this turmoil and this struggle."
Mister fuckin' orator. Carmine must've caught Sal's glare. Paused. Looked back with empty eyes like he didn't give a fuck.
Sure.
A crowd of these guys from Saint Mark's, the guys Carmine hung tight to, they were gathering up and around and heading the room, chests puffed and chins held high and glasses the same in memoriam. "My father, Giuseppe, was a great man," Carmine said. "He came to this country penniless. He did. We was nothing, we had nothing. He…" trailed off. This theatric sigh, cleared his throat.
Sal swore he grinned at him behind the hand.
"He was a hard worker. He was forward thinking. He was an inspiration. Many of us might think of tonight as a time for mourning-"
Sal felt a pat on the back, craned neck. Toto grinning. "Questa stronzata, huh?"
Got a chuckle back. "Siddown, Ses'."
"-celebration of his life, of what he wanted for all of us. For unity," Carmine shot a glance at Sal. "For peace. Ending bickering and ending bullying and fighting and just… family. Famiglia."
Famiglia.
Carmine raised his glass. "A toast," he said. "To Beppe Leone."
"Salut!"
"Salut."
"Salut."
The room was split in half. These guys, all these guys in black and white to the north; around Carmine and around Zizzo, the lackeys.
They stood.
Sal sat. Some of his men didn't. Harwood, Atlantic Quays, Trenton - they were colorful men who all wore it. Toto and Eggy and Salvatore. They didn't sit.
Sal smiled a toothless smile. He raised his glass.
"Salut," he said.