WARNING: This chapter contains non-graphic, but frightening themes and ethnic slurs. I do NOT share the character's views by any means, but I have to write him credibly.
Chapter 7: Beware of Greeks Bearing Gifts
Once again, Luigi was going to work alone. As Mario's 'personal physician,' Peach had ordered him to take at least two to three days from work. Reluctantly, the older plumber called Sal for the second time in so many weeks, though his guilt and internal conflict easily resolved itself at the slow feminine caress of his bare, muscular back. While it was a pain in the ass to justify to the union business representative, Sal knew never to ask questions; the Italians – just like his fellow Puerto Ricans and Mexicans – had their own way of 'handling things.' Sal was glad that his best plumber was still standing.
Luigi's six-thirty alarm sounded, which meant that he had roughly ten minutes to drag himself out of bed and head to the shower. Turning off the chirping iPhone, he scrubbed his scruff with his thin hands and padded into the blue-tiled bathroom. Stripping his boxers, he lifted the toilet head and began his morning routine. The quiet Sunday dinner that Mario had planned went straight to Dante's Hell with the angry arrival of Uncle Joe. After the man's scolding for their continual lies to the Family, everyone ate in an awkward silence despite his older brother's multiple attempts to lighten the mood. The only good thing for Mario was that Peach decided to extend her visit by several days to care for his injuries.
The young plumber caught his sleep-accented reflection in the mirror. The Masciarelli family always maintained to a teenage Luigi that he resembled a young Giuseppe due to his six-foot height, piercing blue eyes, and his thin mustache. However, when he was about fifteen, he heard a rumor from one of his Sicilian relatives that he was a taller clone of his maternal grandfather, Luigi Rigassi, who died in Sicily nearly two and a half decades before his birth. On one hand, the Masciarellis were fairly open about their humble Abruzzese origins. Nonno Mario was a partisan who left school to fight Mussolini's fascists as well as the Nazi brutality that ravaged Rome. Maria Clovio was his childhood sweetheart in Pescara. Maria's father, Giacomo Clovic, born during the last days of the Astro-Hungarian Empire, was either a Croatian or Slovenian of partial Italian descent from whom some of the males inherited six-foot height and blue eyes. The Masciarellis had several distant cousins still living in Pescara and L'Aquila; Joe and Lucia visited them on their ten-year anniversary trip to Italy. On the other hand, the Rigassis kept a low profile and steadfastly refused to answer questions about the family history beyond the bare minimum. As a child, Mario attempted to ask Gabriella about Palermo and her memories of colorful Sicily. She smiled kindly and told her eldest son that Sicily was a world away and that they were Americans now. The Sicilian relatives were equally as tight-lipped about their background. According to the official story, Nonna Audenzia brought Gabriella and Salvatore to New York for better opportunities, as her beloved husband died suddenly and unexpectedly. Her older sister and American brother-in-law, Rosa and Carlo, sponsored their immigration. When Mario Senior died, and he was sent to live with them as the only family still living in Bensonhurst, Luigi found out part of the truth.
Apparently, Mario had already been aware of the "Family Secret" since high school.
Luigi recoiled from the mirror, flushing the toilet. He twisted the hot water valve of his shower, stepped underneath the cleansing stream, and pulled the curtain closed. At least his grandfather was not an actual 'man of respect.' In the perpetually screwed-up circlejerk that was Sicilian justice and development, as was also the case in pre- and post-war Italy, shop owners, construction companies, and even politicians regularly paid pizzo – tribute money – to the Mafia in exchange for protection against theft, blackmail, and violent crimes of every sort, either from fellow mafiosi or independent profiteers. Since the Italian Kingdom and the post-war Republic could not be bothered to send competent policemen to the island, Sicilians were forced to turn to mercenaries and militias which became the Cosa Nostra as a loose concept. First, it was to recover cattle: the corrupt and violent police force had a ten percent chance of recovering the stolen property, whereas the rule-based Mafia was successful ninety-five percent of the time. Then they expanded their business into usury and loans to facilitate local commerce in order to save themselves from drought and Rome's economic eye-gouging. By the 1910s and 1920s, they became an essential and respected part of Sicilian society. The Mafia was the local government. And like any other big business, they opened branches in New York, France, Spain, and South America to protect Sicilian interests.
Although they despised Mussolini for his anti-Mafia policies, the Mafia shared some of his right-wing ideas. An anti-communist, nominally Catholic fraternal order, the Cosa Nostra worked closely with the Italian and then the American governments to repress leftist elements in Sicily and Italy throughout the war and post-war periods. In return for certain services, including but not limited to political assassination, the Mafia received nearly all the available building contracts to rebuild Palermo. However, few had experience with construction, and proceeded to erect subpar residences that failed to meet the most basic of Italian building codes. Like most of bureaucrats and landowners in Sicily, the Rigassis participated in a mutually beneficial relationship with the mafiosi, including the Campisis. To strengthen business and familial ties, the construction engineer Luigi Rigassi married the daughter of Antonino Campisi, one of the capodecine for Mafia Boss Calcedonio Di Pisa. When the Palermo clans began to fight each other over a botched heroin deal in 1962, Luigi's grandfather and namesake became a faida statistic on an empty Palermo streetcorner in April 1963.
Luigi scrubbed roughly at his damp skin. While the Italians were masters at food, culture, painting, and poetry, they never quite grasped the art of government. It could be easily argued that mercenaries were a necessity in lawless Sicily; the plumber nonetheless resented the institution in modern-day Bensonhurst, where gaining a reputation for opening one's mouth had serious and possibly fatal consequences. Traditionally, Sicilians had three rules: family first, conservation of food and water second, and pleading ignorance a close third. As he rinsed his skin of the soap, Luigi remembered a Sicilian proverb that his Abruzzese father strangely used to repeat: "Who is blind, dumb, and deaf will live a peaceful life of a hundred years." Growling in response, Luigi shook his head, adding to the numerous droplets of water on the shower walls. All omertà ever gave him was a concussion and years of abuse. And although he would never admit it openly to Mario, he loathed his elder brother's ostensible toleration of this code of conduct. Uncle Joe was right; it was slow suicide, and he refused to take any part in it.
Shutting off the water, he pushed the curtain open, reached for the royal purple towel hanging on the rack, and wrapped it around his narrow waist. One more week until Daisy came back to New York. He smiled as he shaved his morning scruff, applied moisturizer to his skin, carefully trimmed his mustache with small metal scissors, and brushed his teeth. Late yesterday evening, Luigi had texted her to ask if he could pick her up from the airport and was awaiting her response. While part of him wondered if he was being too forward, the truth was that he needed to see her. After three weeks and the family bullshit, Luigi wanted time away with his secret flower.
But how long would she remain a secret?
Thanks to Miles's near slip of the tongue, Luigi was fairly certain that Mario suspected something and would inflict psychological warfare on his poor socially awkward friend to obtain the desired information. Later that evening, he would do damage control by attributing the you-know-who to Miles himself, that he was doing the latter a favor by setting him up with one of Birdo's friends. He would moreover text Yoshi and Miles to get their stories straight before Mario could begin his interrogation. Especially after the past week's events, Luigi would prolong the Family's and community's knowledge of Daisy Abravanel for as long as possible. The last thing he needed was his beautiful lioness scurrying away due to overbearing Italians bearing pasta and intrusive questions.
Dressing in an emerald-colored Oxford, dark grey cargo pants, black Converses, black zip-up hoodie, and reflective vest, he quietly tiptoed down the stairs to the darkened kitchen. He did not expect Mario or Peach to be up earlier than eight-thirty, so he wordlessly grabbed a container, reached into the refrigerator, and cut some of the lasagna for his lunch. Closing the plastic container, Luigi placed it with silverware into his lunch tote. Opting for a regular and a croissant at a bakery in downtown Brooklyn, as his lioness would not be in Carroll Gardens to give him the five-minute show with his bagel, he collected his keys and tote and left the house.
A half-hour later, Luigi parked in the last remaining space near the construction site. Exiting and locking his red car, he began walking toward the entrance when he spotted a tall, Armani-suited figure leaning against the fence. The young plumber groaned, rolled his eyes, and tried to move past the young man.
"Yo, Weeg. Dreary day, isn't it? How's Mario recovering?" asked Lucas, who pushed himself off the fence to follow Luigi into the site.
"You're trespassing, asshole," retorted Luigi. "Unless you're an approved worker with protective headwear, you can't be here. Unless you want the cops to explain it to you."
Lucas chuckled, putting on his own hard hat and fidgeting with his handmade charcoal wool topcoat. "Well, does being the owner count?"
The plumber froze in his tracks. Spinning toward the taller man, he spat incredulously, "Bullshit."
"Nope!" chortled Lucas. "I heard the former owner was having money problems. Too bad really. Residential buildings in Brooklyn are primetime real estate, so the rent alone will generate a decent income. Anyway, I solved Scott Pichler's little money problem and then some, enough for him to pay off Tony. No sweat off my back. While Pichler's company still owns the contract, it's my building since I infused the project with much needed capital. The paperwork will be finalized by EOB."
Luigi studied the man with a blank expression. What the fuck was he up to? "So you just decided to buy a building?" he deadpanned.
Lucas shrugged. "Something like that, yeah."
"Why?" asked the plumber. "Is the tech industry suddenly interested in the art of slumlord economics?"
The skinny man laughed heartily and dusted an imaginary piece of lint off his topcoat, black suit, light purple Oxford, and dark brown tie. "Well, I was thinking that my new techies would need living accommodations. I'm opening a campus in New York within the next six months. And in this city, rent is at a premium. Brooklyn's cheaper than the City, and it's close enough to Williamsburg to have the creature comforts of the Bay Area and Denver. They're happy, I make money. Win-win for me. Plus," he added, putting his long arm around Luigi's shoulders, "I got my buddy working on the pipes."
Luigi gently, but firmly removed Lucas's arm. "Congrats. I gotta get to work." He moved quickly past the site entrance and, waving to José, proceeded to his section of pipes. Setting down his tote and half-empty cup of coffee, he inhaled to control the whirl of emotions brewing inside his mind and chest. What the hell was Lucas Kariolis doing here? Why now? He had not seen him in almost twelve years.
"You know," a male voice behind him began, "I thought you'd be a bit more grateful, Weeg. Scott Pichler and thus the two Neanderthals are no longer your problem. Or rather, no longer Sal Maldonado's problem. Moreover, Mario won't have to go GI Joe to save your ass. Although it was kinda fun to see Towelhead Ivan get his ass beat." Lucas calmly strode next to Luigi and, facing him with his arms crossed, leaned against the wall.
No longer able to contain himself, Luigi launched off his crouched position and inched into Lucas's space. The other man did not move, though he blinked in a mixture of surprise and amusement. "Why? What are you doing, Lucas? Hmm? Don't you have important people to bother and kibitz with instead of crackheads?" he hissed.
Lucas shrugged casually. "The crackhead thing was a joke, seriously! I just wanted to fuck with your asshole brother a little. And I am kibitzing with an important person. See, Weeg, you've always been like this, and it's frustrating. Closed off, trying to be something you're not. A plumber? Really?! I mean, Jesus, your IQ is probably fifty times greater than anyone's here, including your boss and Mario."
"And how is my profession any of your business?" Luigi spat.
"Weeg, we go way back. You're my buddy, but honestly," Lucas leaned in conspiratorially, "I thought about getting you canned from the project just to show you how wasted your talents are here. C'mon, Weeg, stop licking Mario's asshole for once. That sewer rat fucker left you to play toy soldier. I never did."
The young plumber stiffened, fists balling up at his sides. "Fuck you and leave my brother out of this."
Lucas uncrossed his arms and gave Luigi a condescending frown. "Don't make me pull rank on you, plumber."
"What – do – you – want?" enunciated Luigi, gritting his teeth.
"I want your friendship, your attention," replied Lucas. "I want you to stop wasting your life in this dump and live up to your true potential." He pulled out his smartphone, dialed a number, and pressed the speaker phone key so that Luigi could also listen to the conversation. "This is Scott Pichler," answered a middle-aged man.
"Yo, Scott, my man, it's Luca Kariolis. Listen, I got a favor to ask of ya," he announced.
There was an audible pause on the line, then the man said, "Uh, sure, Luca. Whatever you need."
"Great. There's a journeyman plumber that I want for some personal projects. I don't want anyone else. And I do mean, no one. If I don't get him, then I pull my funding, and then you can answer to your loan shark about your little fuck up. His name's Luigi Masciarelli. He's one of Sal Maldonado's guys. You think that you can grease the wheels with the union and Maldonado? I'd prefer that they pay him normally, but I'll be glad to cover any costs. Fax me any paperwork."
"How many projects? Sal's pretty protective of that particular plumber and his elder brother," stammered Pichler.
"We'll start with four months' worth. I'll personally talk to Maldonado if it's gonna be a problem."
"No, no, I'll handle this," insisted Pichler. "It won't be a problem."
"Great, thanks, man. Oh, and make sure that everyone in the know signs the NDA." Lucas pressed the green telephone key to end the call. "Okay, perfect. You're done here. Grab your stuff." When Luigi refused to move, Lucas rolled his eyes in frustration and groused, "Jesus, you're still a stubborn mule! Fine. If you don't follow me, I pull my funding from the project, and then you can explain to your idiot union rep and boss how you personally shitcanned a multi-million-dollar contract. Now, can we leave this shithole?"
Luigi's shoulders sank and, after mentally vomiting on the man's thousand-dollar suit, collected his effects to follow a grinning Lucas out of the construction site. The tall man waited at Luigi's passenger car door while the plumber unlocked the driver's side. Both got into the car at the same time. In a defeated tone, Luigi asked his new employer, "Where are we going? What's the job?"
"We're going to LaGuardia. Drive."
Luigi again rolled his eyes and cursed the day that he first spoke to Lucas Kariolis – day two of Intro to Linux and IT Infrastructure at Brooklyn City High. Once they were on the loathed BQE heading north to Queens, the Italian grumbled, "So I've become your chauffeur now? How's this an improvement from plumbing?"
"Weeg, chill out, my man. Just trust me," Lucas replied, rubbing his forehead. "Goddamn, in the past twelve years, you've become so high-strung. C'mon, be fun Luigi. Fun Luigi." He waved his rail-thin fingers at his former classmate as if casting a spell on him. The plumber said nothing, instead choosing to focus on the road.
Thirty minutes later, Luigi and Lucas approached the entrance of LaGuardia International Airport, the small car being flanked by bright yellow taxicabs. "What flight and where do I drop you off?"
"Private, and you'll need to park for a few days. You're coming along," the techie replied.
"What?" Luigi screamed in shock. "Where? I don't have anything with me! And what about Sal and Mario?"
"Not a problem. We're not going to Bum Fuck, Egypt." As if on cue, Lucas's phone chirped with an email message and PDF attachment from Scott Pichler. "Ah, Scott's a good little bitch. Sal has given the all-clear, though apparently, he wants to talk to you. Remember what I said at the construction site," he spoke in a chipper tone, though Luigi immediately understood his implied threat. "And one more thing: you're not allowed to speak to anyone – not your Uncle Joe, not those Brobot losers, and especially not Soldier Boy until you return to Brooklyn. You're also not allowed to tell Sal that you're at LaGuardia or your whereabouts. Park in the long-term. I'm paying for it online, so I'll tell you where. Once we get that settled, call your boss as requested. Just don't make it too long – the plane's waiting."
Luigi suddenly calmed himself. Sal would tell Mario of Lucas's involvement with the project. "Fine," he said with an almost smug look.
"Oh yeah," the taller man said, snapping his fingers. "Forgot to tell you. Sal signed a non-disclosure agreement, so he can't tell Mario or anyone else jack shit. If he does, then my five hundred dollar an hour lawyers will destroy his sorry ass in court. Isn't that wild?" He secretly smiled with glee as he watched Luigi's smirk quickly disappear.
"How would you know what Sal would or wouldn't tell Mario?" challenged the plumber.
"Because, Weeg, he won't risk his nest egg," Lucas bit out as Luigi parked the car. "As for Mario, who cares? The guy left my best friend to play Rambo halfway around the world. Then he continued to do it upon returning home. Let him experience how it feels for once. I mean, Jesus, how many times has he left you to play hero in those shitty cage fights?"
Luigi gently closed the car door, then disposed of the lasagna in the trash rather than let it spoil in the car. His well-dressed companion went to make a phone call to check on the private jet. Inasmuch as he found Lucas Kariolis to be the same manipulative asshole as he was in high school, he felt a sense of primal satisfaction and even the tingle of excitement at the prospect of embarking on an adventure all his own. This time, it would be Mario waiting at home for him. On one hand, he knew that Mario would text him nonstop and would escalate the issue if he received no response. This could also cause Uncle Joe to become involved, depending on how long Lucas kept him out of Brooklyn. On the other hand, he was sick to death of being Mario's maid, voice of reason, and nurse on occasion. He was moreover sick of the 65th Street drama, so a change of scenery, even with Lucas Kariolis, was worth the fallout. If they wanted him to respect their little bullshit code, fine; Lucas's non-disclosure agreement seemed close enough.
"Okay, bruh. The plane's ready. Make your phone call, so we can get going," cajoled Lucas.
Luigi nodded, fishing out his phone and dialing Sal's number. "Hey, boss," he addressed Maldonado. "Yeah. Yeah. No, I just found out. Dunno yet. Yeah, I'll keep you in the loop. Okey-dokey. Bye." He ended the call. At Lucas's raised eyebrow, the plumber answered, "It's fine. Sal wants an update in a few days. If I don't keep him in the loop, he'll suspect something."
Though he was clearly annoyed, Lucas acquiesced. "Yeah, fine. C'mon, let's go."
Luigi jogged the ten feet between them to flank the techie. "So where are we going?" he asked.
Lucas grinned brightly. "LA-LA Land. New York's so fuckin' dreary, so I thought we'd get some palm trees and sun."
A moment passed, then Luigi blinked and gaped at him in shock. "California?!"
The young plumber marveled at the ivory and gold-paneled jet interior. The cream-colored, lazy-boy-like leather seats were actually comfortable. The last time that he was on a plane – a 2007 Christmas trip to visit Mario at Fort Bragg in North Carolina – his long legs were squished by a fat Texas jerkoff who decided to tilt his chair all the way back to his knees. On the private jet, not only did he have leg room, but three hours into the six-hour flight to California, he and Lucas also enjoyed a decent lunch – Greek salad with slices of fresh ciabatta, gourmet butter, and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. For dessert, they each received a small plate of lemon and vanilla petit-fours and French-pressed coffee. They fell into a comfortable silence, with Luigi watching The Lone Ranger remake, which he thought was trash, and The Butler with Forest Whitaker, and Lucas taking several conference calls with – Luigi assumed – his subordinates at his tech company.
With the incorrigible delays that routinely prevented on-time departures from LaGuardia, the private jet arrived at Los Angeles International Airport at a few minutes past two o'clock Pacific Time. Luigi still did not know the particulars of the trip, including how long they would be in California. Once disembarked, Lucas held out his hand and demanded Luigi's phone. Double-checking that the security code was in place, he switched off his iPhone and handed it to his 'employer.' Tucking it in his inner coat pocket for 'safe keeping,' they exited the airport and met the waiting black town car and chauffeur. Unlike the cold and gray East Coast skies, Los Angeles was sunny, bright, and warm at seventy degrees. Lucas removed his overcoat and self-assuredly watched his companion stare out of the window at the greenish brown hills and palm trees. Luigi was always so easy to impress; show the Bensonhurst boy a few flashy toys, and he wanted to see and do more. A few days in California, Lucas reasoned, and he would be putty in his hands. Meanwhile, Soldier Boy would discover the 'disappearance' of his beloved kid brother and go on a predictable tear, preferably against Bowser, Tony, and their gang of low-class thugs.
Just seeing Mario lose his shit made the seventy-grand trip worth every penny.
They soon arrived at the Spanish villa-themed home in Malibu. Though it had been some time since Lucas or his father had lived there, the lush green shrubs, small palm trees, and pink rose bushes were carefully trimmed and maintained. Moss grew stylishly on the pale yellowish-orange walls. Stepping out of the car, Lucas presented the driver a very generous tip, and then guided his guest inside the house. Luigi's eyes widened at the interior; white walls accented the modern gray and black furniture in the living room while an adjacent winding, wooden staircase gave him a glimpse of the upstairs sleeping quarters. Lucas walked over to the large white French doors and threw them open, revealing a massive blue, orange, and gray-stoned patio with bluish-gray and orange accent walls, matching furniture, and curtain for privacy. Luigi walked around the perimeter of the small swimming pool to the panoramic view; the house was situated atop a hill, fixing its owner like a painting in the center of the massive, neighboring forest green hills and the Pacific Ocean in the foreground. Directly behind him were several padded silver pool chairs.
Lucas, who had removed his New York overcoat, suitcoat, and tie, moved to join Luigi at the edge. "Isn't this great, Weeg? Seventy degrees, ocean in front of you."
"Yeah," Luigi admitted, "it's nice. But what's the plan? Why am I here? And for how long?"
"Weeg!" interjected Lucas. "I told you. This is to give you a taste of the good life, what you could be doing other than removing human feces from Sal Maldonado's and Mario Masciarelli's sewer. Weeg," he said, removing Luigi's coat, exposing the green Oxford, and tossing it into the pool, "you're an engineer. You should be building robots and programming cool shit, not wading in shit. You are here to observe and enjoy. That's it. As for how long, hmm, we'll be back on Thursday or Friday. Think of it as a paid training, vacation, and recruitment all in one."
"Lucas, look," Luigi started in a worried tone, "if I'm not allowed to talk to Mario or Yoshi at the bare minimum, they're going to call the Brooklyn police and report me missing after two or three days. You might get into trouble with the cops. Although you do have a point about Mario disappearing, I don't want to do that to Yoshi. Same goes for Uncle Joe."
The taller man shrugged. "No dice, man. Those are the rules. I mean, really, Luigi, you're, what, almost twenty-eight? You're a grown man with a job, and you've been on your own since you were a teen, so why can't you just go on vacation? It's not like Soldier Boy hasn't pulled the same crap. And no, we won't get in trouble with the NYPD. They got better things to do, like murders and shit, than to chase a grown-ass plumber who went to California for a new job opportunity."
"Then why won't you just let me text them to say that I've left?" argued Luigi, exasperation and anxiety accenting his voice.
"Because you won't learn independence and they won't learn not to take you for granted. Besides, you're here, and I already got your phone," he replied nonchalantly. "But," Lucas added while lifting his index finger, "I'll make you a deal. Give it until Wednesday. Trust me, it'll be fine. Now, c'mon, let's get you some California-appropriate attire."
Lucas happily led the skeptical Luigi indoors and up the staircase to the multiple bedrooms. "Choose one of these," he yelled from his master suite. "I'm going to look for some clothes. Jeans won't work since you're a few inches shorter and a bit more … muscular, we'll say, but I think some shorts and a polo will probably be okay for now. Tomorrow, we'll hit Rodeo Drive."
Luigi cautiously ambled into a spare bedroom that was almost twice the size of his humble upstairs abode in Brooklyn. Like the downstairs living room, the carpet, queen-size bed, furniture, and walls were an ivory, almost white, save for bluish-grey rug and pillows and a green plastic plant in the corner to add color and contrast. In the right corner hung a large flat-screen television above an electric fireplace. The plumber quietly stepped toward the wall-sized window for a near perfect ocean vista. He immediately felt a curious mixture of awe, envy, and desire. If a guy like Lucas can have these things, so can I, he thought. It would perhaps help in the Daisy department, too, as her parents would better tolerate a successful Italian engineer as her lover than a Bensonhurst plumber.
Deep inside his room-sized walk-in closet, Lucas slid out Luigi's iPhone and turned it on, receiving the passcode screen. Looking over his shoulder to make sure its owner was still out of sight, Lucas connected a small device to the iPhone which began entering several iterations of numbers. While moving racks of clothes toward and away from him roughly every minute and a half, he calmly checked the machine for progress. After grabbing three or four pairs of knee-length cargo swim shorts and three pastel-colored purple, pink, and blue polo shirts, he looked down at the machine which had successfully unlocked the phone. The jackasses at Apple only required a four-digit code instead of six, eight, or more, thus making their cellphones extremely vulnerable to brute-force attacks, Lucas reflected smugly. He quickly stole Luigi's cloud ID, installed spyware onto the cellphone, and synched it with his own, making a note of the four-digit code. He then turned the location services as well as the iPhone off to avoid tracking. Placing it back into his pocket, Lucas picked up the clothes and walked into his guest's new room.
"So here are some shorts and polo shirts that'll be much better than the shitty New York plumber's outfit that you've got on now. Believe me, you'll thank me," he said, laying them on his guest's bed. "I'll leave you to change into whatever. Once you're done, we'll go cruise the coast. It'll be fun, as you've never been to California, at least to my knowledge."
Lucas then left, leaving Luigi to examine the outfits on his bed. Instead of feeling the excitement of a man on vacation, he suddenly understood that he was Lucas's Ken doll, someone to dress up and manipulate like a marionette. He sank onto the Egyptian cotton comforter and examined his limited options; Lucas would no doubt have put the iPhone in a lockbox or secure location so he could not steal it back. He also could not send an email to alert Yoshi or dial Uncle Joe's number beginning with area code 347. Peach or his Jersey family might be a possibility, though he would become suspicious of any tri-state number other than Sal's. He then considered Daisy, but he immediately nixed the idea; he did not want her anywhere near Lucas's radar. Luigi checked his watch; it was a little after six o'clock in New York, which meant that, if they were at home, Mario and Peach would be expecting him.
Start fighting your own battles, echoed Bowser's gruff voice.
Since he was trapped in California until the end of the week, Luigi had to play Lucas's game. Changing into the beige shorts but choosing to wear his white tee-shirt instead of the polo, he went into the bathroom to scrub his face and use the toilet. After five minutes, he stilled his budding anxiety and pushed himself downstairs to the living room. Lucas was sitting on his plush ivory couch flipping through a year-old copy of Popular Mechanics; at some point, he had changed into a deep purple polo shirt and thigh-length black cargo swim trunks. The tall man in purple glanced up and grinned. "Hey, yo', it's Sandy Cohen! Alright! Well, as they say out here, waa-hoo, dude!"
The wind ripped through Luigi's dark hair, fanning it in all directions. Raybans covering his eyes, Lucas leisurely maneuvered his plum 2014 Continental GT Speed convertible along the Pacific Coast Highway, with brown hills and lines of parked cars on all sides, and rickety beach houses to their left. After ten minutes, the beach houses cleared to reveal a giant blue expanse of water and sky. Lucas flashed his eyebrows at his traveling partner as if to say, "What'd I tell you?"
"So, I thought that we'd hit Paradise Cove for a few hours and then grab some dinner. I got a few granola bars and Evian water in case you get hangry. It's a three-hour difference between New York and Los Angeles, so your body's thinking it's six-thirty instead of three-thirty," said Lucas.
Parking his sports car in the lot next to some equally expensive cars, Lucas jumped out of the driver's side and collected the beach towels and paper bag of goodies that he had haphazardly thrown in the backseat, as Luigi vigilantly exited the vehicle and mildly shut the door. They strolled down to the azure sea, tall green palm trees, and open sand, where a moderately sized crowd had already gathered. Finding an open space, Lucas hummed to himself as he flopped two multi-colored beach towels on the sand and dropped the bag in between them. Reaching into it, he handed Luigi a fruit and nut bar. Then he stripped his shirt to reveal a pale, stick-like physique.
"Okay, I'm gonna get my tan on. Eat the granola bar before you make everyone's life miserable. Then do what you want," he said.
Silently acknowledging Lucas's logic, as he had begun to feel pain in his stomach and head, Luigi ripped into the plastic wrapper and gratefully munched on the granola bar, facing the sea for a better view with his snack. Lucas stretched out on the left-most beach towel and lowered his Raybans over his eyes. Five bites later, Luigi felt sated and sat down on the other towel, never taking his eyes off the blue sea. Once a long time ago, a teenage Luigi and Lucas lay atop Brooklyn City High School's roof, gazing at the night sky and making plans to the 'shithole' of New York for exotic and strange lands. Lucas wanted to visit Italy, Greece, and Istanbul while his best friend talked about visiting the Santa Monica Pier and the beaches along the Pacific coastline. When asked about the banality of California compared to the Mediterranean, the young Luigi replied that he needed to be as far away from Italy, the East Coast, and Afghanistan as possible. For months afterward, Luigi secretly planned to run away from New York and start a new life in sunshine and under palm trees in Santa Monica. He nearly succeeded: Luigi conned Greyhound into allowing him to buy a one-way ticket from the Brooklyn station to Los Angeles without checking his ID; as he was about to board the midnight bus, he was forcibly dragged off by a fuming Uncle Joe.
Luigi rose from his seated position and, dropping his shirt, shoes, and socks onto the towel, stepped to the water's edge. Observing the scene, Lucas noted that his former friend had grown into a skinnier version of his brother – he was still lanky, but muscular like a soccer player, which had not escaped the attention of the Malibu blondes sunbathing twenty feet away from their spot. Over the past decade, the dorky little Galileo became a New York Italian male model. The sticklike Greek man gulped down the raw envy stirring in his belly. He was wealthy – a multimillionaire to be precise – and ran his own tech company, yet beautiful women seemed to go for classless, dirty sewer rats like Mario and Luigi. No matter: the pure jouissance that Lucas would experience over the next few days would be better than sex. This would be truly earned and savored; he could always pay a high-end escort to take care of his physical needs.
"Ah, shit!" cried out a New York-accented voice. Lucas sat up from his towel and spotted a shivering Luigi submerged in sixty-degree saltwater.
"Weeg, what the hell are you doing? That fuckin' water's cold as balls!" he shouted.
Luigi laughed in response. "Yeah, I gathered that."
"C'mere, fucking putz!" Lucas yelled as he ran toward him and jumped into the freezing ocean. "Holy fuck!" he screamed as the water stunned his body. The bikini-clad blondes giggled watching the two New York idiots shiver, swear, and yelp. As Luigi tried to stand up in the water, Lucas playfully knocked him back in the icy ocean. Stunned at first, Luigi then retaliated by dunking him underwater. Several beachgoers snickered at the scene of the two young hooting and cackling New Yorkers dunking and wrestling each other in the sea.
The following morning, Luigi blinked awake to bright sunshine and immediately sat up, momentarily afraid that he had missed his alarm. But as he regained more of his consciousness, he remembered that Lucas had blackmailed him into travelling to California. After the six-hour flight, he took him to the beach and a seaside café in Malibu for dinner. Then they returned to Lucas's, and upon finding his bathroom cabinets stocked with male toiletries, Luigi brushed his teeth and straightway went to bed, jetlagged from the three-hour time difference. Although Luigi would deny it to Lucas, he had more fun yesterday than he had in a long time. He checked the clock on the bedroom night table – 7:05 am. Sliding out of bed, he went into the bathroom and began his normal morning ritual. At around seven-thirty, dressed in the pink polo shirt and the previous day's blue jeans, he descended the staircase to find the house empty. He walked into the kitchen to see what Lucas had on hand in his refrigerator. On the modern ivory kitchen island, he spied a box of croissants, Lavazza coffee, and a purple post-it in his former best friend's precise block script: "Bagels in CA suck ass. Got croissants instead. BB at 11-ish. – L."
Selecting the largest croissant, he popped it in his mouth and closed his eyes. Though absolutely nothing could compare to a proper New York bagel and schmeer, Luigi acknowledged that the croissant was pretty good. Taking a sip of the still hot coffee, he placed the croissant on a large napkin and brought them out on the patio. The morning was overcast and cooler, though not brick like Brooklyn. Luigi winced guiltily; he wondered if Mario had stormed into the business representative's office like a soldier on a rampage or even Sal's messy closet of an office space at the shop. He shuddered at the number of phone calls that he may have received from a concerned Yoshi and a thunderous Giuseppe. It would be about 10:45 in the morning in New York.
Was that what he wanted? For his friends and family to be sick with worry?
That last thought struck him like a slap across the face. However, the truth was that a juvenile, unscrupulous sliver inside him wanted the attention and recognition of his importance in the everlasting struggle between the two families and Bensonhurst streets. Luigi knew that they all viewed him like a sullen teenager who needed constant monitoring and care, and he despised it. While he was not a tough-guy soldier like Mario, he was a year shy of his master plumber and had enough saved for his own house. He stared out to the pool; in a few years, whether as a plumber or an engineer or living in Staten Island or California, he could have his own pool, backyard, and modestly sized house. He could watch his beautiful Daisy happily swim around and decide whether to jump in with her or coax her out and to their master bedroom. While he still distrusted Lucas's motives, Luigi had taken a juicy bite of the proverbial apple and now saw the possibilities in his mind's eye.
Three hours past breakfast, Lucas leaned back in his black executive chair and stretched out his suit-covered legs underneath the glass computer desk. By nine o'clock Los Angeles time, he had chewed out three interns for not getting his mail fast enough and fired one pink-haired software engineer for purposing a female combat veteran as a new protagonist for one of their new wargames under development. Lucas had argued that it went against "concept" and no dude would ever buy a game where "they couldn't imagine killing or fucking the bitch into oblivion." His sycophants applauded his brave stance on female coders attempting to pussify or sanitize gaming. After demanding more violence and blood in the latest version of War Rampage 3: Return to Benghazi, which he wanted ready for release in four months' time, he finally was able to settle down at his corner office several stories above Wilshire Boulevard. Door closed, which signaled to the sane and afraid that their CEO did not want to be disturbed, Lucas slid out his phone and opened the spyware program that he had synched to Luigi's iPhone. Connecting his Bluetooth to the audio on his phone, he remotely accessed Luigi's messages and texts, leaving the originals unopened.
He had six voicemails and nine text messages.
Giddy and rubbing his hands as though he were enjoying a four-course meal, Lucas began with the text messages from Mario:
"Its 1930, where are u?"
"2130. Where the fuck are u?"
"2300. Called Yoshi and Sal. Where are u? Are you ok?"
"0200. Non so dove sei o se sei ferito male. Ti sto cercando, fratellino mio."
"0910. Please answer me. If someone has this phone, please call this number."
Lucas giggled like a schoolgirl, then proceeded to open the text messages from Yoshi:
(10:35 pm ET) "Yo, Mario's freaking out. Where the hell are you?"
(2:33 am ET) "Goddamn it, you're scaring me. Please call either Mario or me. Please. We're driving around Brooklyn."
The remaining two messages came from Sal Maldonado:
(10:27 pm ET) "Luigi, it's Sal. Are you working late on those new projects? Call Mario he's shitting a brick man."
(8:12 am ET) "Luigi what the hell's going on? Please call me ASAP."
Lucas scoffed and said aloud sarcastically, "Sure, Sal. I'll call you, you fucking beaner. Now, for dessert." He opened the voicemails:
(11:18 pm ET) "Weeg, it's Mario. Where are you? You aren't checking your text messages and it's a quarter past eleven. Are you stuck somewhere? Working late? Just call me back."
(1:37 am ET) "Luigi, it's Yoshi. Mario's going out of his mind in his normal Special Forces kind of way. I am, too, for that matter. Birdo and I are coming out to Bensonhurst to look for you. Just … Just call me back."
(4:15 am ET) "Weeg … Jesus fucking Christ, call me! Sal doesn't know where you are, and we've driven all over Brooklyn. We're going to check Queens next. Please." The soldier's voice faintly broke on the last word while Lucas grinned ear to ear.
(8:23 am ET) "Lou, it's Sal. I just got another call from Mario. You didn't come home last night, and no one's heard from you. Given how anal you are about schedules and timing, this doesn't seem right. ¡Coño! I knew this new project thing was a bad idea, I just fuckin' knew it! I'm gonna call Pichler, that puta."
Lucas shrugged and spat aloud, "Game on, bitch," before playing the last two voicemails:
(10:39 am ET) "Whoever has this phone. Please call my number back – you'll see it with this voicemail. I am looking for my brother, Luigi Masciarelli. I just need information. Thank you."
The tall man started laughing uncontrollably at Mario's pleas to the unknown person or people who might have Luigi's phone and possibly Luigi. Like anyone would want to kidnap a plumber! Then he played the final voicemail:
(12:18 pm ET) "Luigi, this is Joe. Kid, what's going on? Apparently, no one's heard or seen you since yesterday morning." There was a pause from the middle-aged man's voice, followed by a deep cough, "Please. I don't know if this message is reaching you or not. These goddamned cellphones. Just let someone know where you are."
Lucas's brown eyes changed to small black orbs at the last voicemail. Of all Luigi's annoying family members, two merited his active hatred: Mario the Meathead and Giuseppe-fucking-Masciarelli. Mario became famous playing war hero, even as he left Lucas to care for and clean up his mess of a kid brother. Joe the Plumber was almost as corrupt; instead of allowing him to reach his true potential as a MIT engineer, he pulled Luigi out of Brooklyn City, forced him to go that hellhole in Staten Island, New Jersey, and then turned him into a shit-loving sewer rat. Lucas could taste acidic and bitter rage at Luigi's family. Now that he was back in his friend's life, he would make certain that Luigi was on the right path. Lucas would get him away from that shitty job, pseudo-intellectual family, and nerd clan of the so-called friends who idly stood by and did nothing as Joe and Mario stifled him. Although Lucas spent years hating and resenting Luigi for leaving their friendship, over the past few days, he realized that neither he nor Luigi was to blame. Like a true friend, he would save Luigi and their friendship.
Allowing the wrath to dissipate from his lanky frame, Lucas carefully deleted the text messages and voicemails from Luigi's phone. Next, he dialed Scott Pichler's number from his cellphone and waited for the man to pick up the call.
"Hello, this is Scott Pichler."
"Hey there, my man, it's Luca," he said lightly.
Breathing a sigh of relief, the man answered, "Jesus, thank god you got my message. Sal's pissed. And do I mean really pissed. Did you know that Luigi's missing?"
Lucas rolled his eyes at the slow hamster wheel turning inside that moron's head. Absently swiveling back and forth in his chair, he stated, "No, I didn't know anything about that."
"Yeah, well, he is, and he's gonna send Mario after me. He all but said it directly."
The CEO chuckled as though he were listening to a work colleague's joke. "Nah. Just play it cool and follow my instructions exactly. Plus, you'll get some well-deserved revenge. When Mario either calls you or shows up in a tizzy, tell him that you'll make some calls to find out Luigi's last whereabouts. Wait, say, until the next day and then call him back. Tell him that some of the guys at Luigi's last job thought that they saw those two Pollack assholes in the vicinity. You know which ones. Trust me, it's much ado about nothing – Luigi's fine, I'm sure. But whatever you do, your NDA applies, even when chatting with Mario." He then hung up the phone. Humming to himself, he stood up, gathered his work laptop and phone, shut off the lights, and let his secretary know that he would be out of the office for the rest of the day.
Throughout the afternoon, Luigi and Lucas shopped, ate, and drank on Rodeo Drive. The 'stingy' Luigi bought very little, though he acquiesced to Lucas's demands by choosing two pairs of designer blue jeans and a black suit at Giorgio Armani, followed by swim trucks and a waterproof, long-sleeved, palm-green swim shirt at a surfing and scuba-diving boutique. Around one o'clock, they had a pasta lunch at an Italian restaurant which Luigi begrudgingly confessed met his stringent standards for semi-authenticity. After spending another hour browsing and mocking the so-called couturier in the windows, they returned to Lucas's Malibu home to change into colorful swim gear and head out to the beach.
Once again, Lucas was stretched out on the beach towel as Luigi, dressed in the long-sleeved swim shirt, covetously eyed several of the surf boards at the make-shift rental desk next to the café. The taller man in purple and black swim trunks watched with interest as Luigi approached the stereotypically blond, forties-something surfer dude at the front desk and engrossed him in conversation. Two minutes later, the surfer dude waved another younger man over and, accepting three twenty-dollar bills from Luigi, selected a beginner's surfboard. Luigi, who was carrying the foam board, trailed behind the younger man to the water. Over the next hour, the man showed Luigi how to balance on the board, which the New Yorker was eventually able with six or seven attempts, one of which planted him face-first into the sand, and how to ride small ocean waves. Lucas glared at the men as they maneuvered several small waves; on the fourth wave, Luigi succeeded in standing up and riding it like in a 1960s beach-boy movie. Satisfied that the new student was independent enough as a kook, the instructor left him to tackle the larger, more difficult waves, though he stayed close enough to him in case of trouble. Several of the waves knocked Luigi off the board, but he remained undeterred, popping up and achieving the correct posture for a few seconds at a time.
Fucking prick. Lucas hated whenever Luigi learned a new skill. For some reason, the awkwardly lanky dork managed to make soccer or fencing look easy. No matter. He swallowed the burning envy rising in this throat; the taller man would always have more money and influence than the plumber, and the latter would need him to move forward. Money opened the doors; power talked. Let him have this small victory, he thought charitably. Plastering on the fakest smile that he could muster, he sat up from the beach blanket and ran toward the wet, but thrilled Luigi.
After another two hours of surfing and messing around on the beach, the two men relished a fish-taco dinner and came back to what Lucas called "Base Camp" at the Malibu house. The techie insisted on re-living their glory days by fetching a full bottle of Captain Morgan. At first, the young plumber was reluctant, providing an excuse that he did not like to drink on weekdays. Lucas gave his friend a skeptical look and responded that he was in California, on vacation, and not on a Brooklyn job. Shoving the amber-colored spiced rum in front of him and clinking their glasses together, he waited until Luigi took a sip, then another. Two sips turned into two-thirds of the bottle once they started retelling each other stories – Luigi slurring the stories – of the mischief and mayhem that they caused at Brooklyn City High, which they had called and continued to call "Broken and Shitty." Luigi dosed off in a drunken slumber on the couch a little past midnight. Shaking his head at the lightweight, Lucas put a small blue-gray pillow underneath his head and covered his friend with a blue crocheted blanket. Sitting down quietly and softly on the arm next to Luigi's head, he took a long-fingered, spindly hand and brushed wavy hair strands from his forehead. He repeated the action, moving atop Luigi's hair to scratch his scalp like a pet cat. The latter, still asleep, mumbled a soft, "Mario." His eyes narrowing, Lucas bolted from his position, stared at the drunk plumber, and angrily sulked to the master bedroom.
The digital clock in the kitchen read 10:00 am Pacific Time. Wednesday morning was much brighter and sunnier than the previous day, though this failed to phase Luigi who continued to sleep off last night's Captain Morgan. Fully dressed in an indigo polo shirt and beige cargo shorts, Lucas grabbed one of the pastries and coffee that he had delivered early that morning and went to his private office. Shutting and locking the door, he set his breakfast at the corner of his mahogany computer desk, away from (but hand-reachable to) his multi-monitor computer. Taking out his phone and connecting it to his desktop, he accessed the spyware to check Luigi's messages.
Four voicemails. It's too bad that the frenzy was somewhat dying down, Lucas sadly conceded as he programmed his Bluetooth to the audio.
(7:07 pm ET) "Uh, Luigi, it's Miles. Um, Yoshi asked me to call you to see if anyone picks up or checks the messages. He went down to that bar on 18th Ave to stop Mario from doing something monumentally stupid. He's on a rampage."
Lucas howled with laughter. Soldier Boy was so predictable. As for Bowser and Fat Tony, they deserved a beat-down from that floating piece of shit for how rudely they treated him in the bar.
(11:17 pm ET) "It's Yoshi. I hope someone's listening to this. Mario's gone apeshit. If you have Luigi, know that Mario will find you. Put an end to this bullshit now."
(10:16 am ET) There was a pause at the end of the line, then a familiar and deceptively calm voice hissed, "Aight. You've made your point. Return Luigi safely to me. If even one hair is harmed on his head, I will fucking end you. Do you understand me, Matusz? I will kill you. Prison does not scare me in the slightest."
Lucas snickered, putting his hand to cover his impish grin. Scott must have told Mario that the two independents were seen near Luigi's "job site." Perfect. Either Mario will try to kill Matusz and Ferenc or Lard-Ass Tony will have to deal with them to avoid a murder by plumber. Lucas always preferred elimination by third-party; it was cleaner and tidier.
(12:34 pm ET) "Hey, sweetie, it's me. I thought we were having a phone date during your lunch today? Did I get the time and date wrong? Call me back."
Frowning in confusion, Lucas checked the number. 415? Daisy? Who the fuck was Daisy? He saw that there was a previous exchange between her and Luigi, as her name had been saved to his address book, but unfortunately for him, the app only downloaded information subsequent to the synch-up. Using his impressive deductive skills, Lucas supposed that "Daisy" may be a girl that he was chatting up, as the British say, especially given his disinterest in the beach girls from Monday's outing. Unwilling to raise Luigi's suspicion that his phone had been tampered with, Lucas decided that patience was indeed a virtue, and he would let her reveal herself to him. If she was sufficiently attractive and intelligent, then he would keep her around in Luigi's life. The so-to-be software engineer did not need any more morons filling his head with tedious and limiting beliefs about "la famiglia" and "honest pay." As his father once told him, "Bimbos are for fucking; wives are for heirs and hearth." Lucas would make sure that any future spouse of Luigi's – if he even needed one – would foster his creativity and intellect.
Scrubbing every message except for Daisy's, he turned off the app and switched to his own messages. Aside from mind-numbing voicemails about the upcoming board of directors meeting at the end of the month, only one piqued his interest: a six-thirty call from Scott Pichler assuring Lucas that he did as requested; when Mario confronted him about Luigi's potential whereabouts in the previous evening, Scott told – more like stammered to – him that some of the crew saw two shady guys with Eastern European accents circling the joint as Luigi was about to leave for the day. Lucas smirked in victory, for there were only two more steps to complete Mario's demise.
He heard rustling from the upstairs area. Time for the first of two steps. Locking his interior office, Lucas pressed the on button for Luigi's phone. Though he knew that Luigi would eventually come looking for him, he feared no other discovery; he had programmed several virtual machines on his computer to produce false IP addresses and cover his actual location. Lucas quickly used one of the virtual machines to hack the service provider and GPS, resetting Luigi's phone to transmit the decimal degrees 40.608148 and -74.038771 as a fixed location. Then he programmed the provider to reroute Luigi's voicemails and texts to his phone, whose identity was camouflaged as a cell belonging to some forty-three-year-old accountant in Nebraska, until Saturday at 0001 EST. Once finished, he switched the phone off and descended into hysterical cachinnation until several tears rolled down from his small brown eyes to his cheeks. Taking several deep breaths to control his mirth and wiping his cheeks with the side of his knuckles, he unlocked his office and went upstairs to find Luigi for the second and final step.
The tall man in a purple tee-shirt and black pants calmly approached his ailing friend who was in the upstairs bathroom searching for aspirin and his toothbrush. Luigi's clothes were wrinkled from having slept in them.
"Right-side medicine cabinet," Lucas said helpfully.
Luigi nodded his thanks, opened the cabinet, and twisted the cap to dump three capsules in his hand. He slammed the pills down his dry throat and quickly filled a plastic cup with water to push them into his stomach.
"Better?" he asked.
"Yeah," Luigi gasped. "Jesus, why'd you let me drink two-thirds of Captain Morgan? Fuck, that hurts."
Lucas chuckled, shrugging as he crossed his narrow arms. "Hey, you needed some blowoff time. Since when have you been able to just let loose?"
Luigi started to laugh with the taller man while putting mint toothpaste on his toothbrush. "It's been a while. God, I'd forgotten half that shit at Broken and Shitty. Developing all that tech, annoying those jerkoff teachers."
"Weeg," began Lucas, "this is why I wanted you to come out to California. Okay, I'll admit that I was angry with you for leaving. But we were kids, you know? I've honestly missed you. You know, I tried calling your house in Staten Island. Your Uncle Joe picked up and told me that you didn't need that school shit anymore." Toothbrush in his mouth, Luigi blinked his surprise and incredulity. Nonetheless, Lucas continued, "Yeah, he said that. I tried again, several times. He told me that he'd call the cops if I called again. So, I stayed away. I figured that you didn't want to see me. Then when Tony contacted my father and I to go into business, I never dreamed that we'd run into each other again. As you know, my father's a shady asshole and will get into business with anyone. I try to stay away from Fat Tony as much as possible. Anyway," Lucas took a deep breath, "I want you to come and work with me."
Luigi shook his aching head, spitting out the bubbled toothpaste into the sink. "It's been a while since I've really coded anything, and Manhattan doesn't interest me."
"Weeg, who said anything about game coding? That's for the interns. I'm talking AI, something a bit more grown-up! You'd have thousands of dollars just to play around and think shit up. And you wouldn't need to go into the City! I don't know, you could move to LA or even Palo Alto. Shit, just pick a place! C'mon, admit it: you like it here. You've spent a grand total of five hours balls-deep in freezing water and surfing! I've seen you looking at that pool and the view. Weeg, you're smart enough that you could own a house like this. Don't let the Masciarelli family drama keep you down."
Rinsing his toothbrush and placing it back into the holder, Luigi glanced at Lucas suspiciously. "You want me to believe that of all the young talent coming out of MIT, Cal Tech, and Harvard, you're just hiring me to develop a lab? What's your real game here, Lucas?"
Lucas sighed dramatically. "Honestly? I'm trying to make up for lost time. Plus, I need people that I can trust to open that campus in New York. Yes, I'm aware that you don't go into the City. Frankly, that place is a sewer, and no sane person would. And I'm saying that as someone born and bred in Manhattan. But I can't attract the right people unless I put it in an identifiable place. For you, though, I could put an adjacent space in Brooklyn – Williamsburg, even. It's not a major issue."
Luigi crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "Why should I trust you?"
Blinking in dismay, Lucas murmured, "Okay, I gotcha. I have to get to know you again. Reasonable request. Remember that I asked Scott Pichler for a four-month contract? Let's start with that, okay? You can go back to being a plumber if, after four months, you don't like my proposal. Since you're covered by the union, I can't just fire you. You'll do a weekly plumbing project or whatever to make it legit and you'll get paid regardless. I'll have Pichler contact Sal for any permits or whatever you can't legally do. So, tell me, what do you have to lose?"
The Brooklynite paused for a moment to consider his options. On the surface, it was a good opportunity; he could put his toe into the murky waters of another field while risking little in terms of pay and benefits. Luigi could hear Lucas's voice echo in his mind: that little question of what-if. The idea itself was seductive; what if he did find success in artificial intelligence and what if he moved to California? Lucas was right that he did enjoy swimming in the ocean and surfing. If he had been on vacation with Daisy, it would have been a perfect couple of days. Up until he saw the rental desk at the beach, he had not realized how isolated he had become in the past decade. His life consisted of work, Mario, and his family, all within the windy, claustrophobic skyscrapers and red brick of New York City. Yet it almost seemed too perfect; Luigi could not forget how he came to California – Lucas's blackmail and refusal to allow him contact with Mario and the others in Brooklyn.
He also could not forget their mutual past.
Finally, the plumber voiced an acknowledgement. "Nothing to lose. I'll admit, I'm interested. But that brings me to what you said – getting to know me. I'll come willingly with you if you give me back my phone. I want to make sure that I'm not worrying my family and friends."
Lucas nodded, which surprised him a little. "Sure. I did say that I'd give you the phone back on Wednesday, and it is Wednesday." He reached into his pocket and extended it to him. "Here," he offered.
Mumbling his thanks, Luigi switched on the cellphone and waited with a hitched breath for the data to populate.
One new voicemail from Daisy to ask him where he was at lunch New York time. No other messages, including texts.
Luigi's mouth dropped open in surprise and sadness. Except for Daisy, no one noticed that he was missing. He clenched his teeth; that meant Mario either went to Peach's place in Manhattan or he went back to fight again. No one else was the wiser, as Yoshi, Miles, Uncle Joe, and the rest of the Family would take his elder brother's lead. Fine, he thought; he was done patching him up and being the fallback little brother. He quickly sent a text to Daisy, apologizing for his absence due to an unexpected issue at work and promising to make it up to her on Saturday. Since he did not want to worry his family and friends by telling them that he had suddenly decided to go to California, he switched off his iPhone and put it in his jeans pocket.
"Okay, it looks like all is well," spoke Luigi, flashing him a synthetic smile. "What's up for today?"
Lucas feigned concern. "Are you sure? I mean, do you want to use my phone?" He caught the spark of shock and gloom in Luigi's face when he found no messages save Daisy's. The growing bud of alienation from his brother and family would make this so much easier. Of course, Luigi would inevitably find out that they had indeed been calling, but any IT specialist – usually, some high-school dropout possessing an A+ or CCNA certificate and little true black hat experience – would attribute the issue to a malfunctioning iPhone. He inwardly cackled in anticipation at Mario's discovery of his second little surprise. No doubt Matusz would have taken a beating by the Pissed-Off Paisan and would have offered little to no information about Luigi. Desperate for any clue within the seventy-two-hour frame, Mario would have one of the script-kiddie Brobot bitches or his little Special Forces buddies run a trace of Luigi's phone. They would find the last ping near the water just below the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge.
This would make a great investigative report on Dateline, he mused.
"No, it's fine, Lucas," said Luigi quietly. "I doubt they've even noticed my absence."
"Well, if they haven't, bro, then they don't deserve you," responded Lucas in a sympathetic voice. "Let's get you some breakfast and soak up that alcohol." He put his arm around his shorter friend's shoulders and guided him to the kitchen.
Once Luigi's headache dissipated from the aspirin and food, they dressed and went to the Getty to see the Ansel Adams Exhibition and Jackson Pollack's Mural. After spending a few hours just gazing at contemporary and medieval canvasses and sculptures, they went to a French bistro a few miles away for lunch – steak au poivre for Lucas and moules-frites for Luigi. The latter raised his eyebrow curiously as Lucas conducted the order in fluent French which impressed the Parisian waitress.
"So, Weeg," Lucas began, as he took a bite of his steak with fork and knife, "do you still speak French? I know back at Broken and Shitty that you were taking French just so you could get with – what was her name – Eclair, I think? You didn't tell your father or Joe about that, either. They thought you were still taking Italian. I still remember that we had to steal the Italian textbooks from the school depository so they wouldn't find out."
Finishing a few of the French fries and mussels, Luigi said carefully, "Ah, nah. The only language that Staten Island offered was Russian because it was a magnet school. It kinda screwed my GPA as I was two, three years behind everyone else. I went from a 4.0 to 3.25 for my junior year just because of that fucking class."
The techie frowned. "And let me guess, Jackass Joe didn't even get you a Russian tutor."
Glaring at his lunch companion, Luigi warned, "That's my uncle. Tread carefully. And no, he didn't. But it worked out in the end, 'cause I can order takeout in my grammatically incorrect Russian. Eclair, well, she went back to her boyfriend at the beginning of sophomore year. Dunno what happened to her."
Lucas grinned and leaned in conspiratorially to Luigi who was chewing on a French fry. "Ah, shit, yeah! I remember that the boyfriend was captain of the varsity basketball team; he said to the whole school that he was gonna beat your cracker ass for fucking his girl. Remember? You – you fuckin' hid in the school cafeteria refrigerator rooms for, like, three hours as he and the basketball team looked all over the school! Goddamn, you were like fuckin' Zorro to all the nerds after that."
Cracking a thin-lipped smile, Luigi fondly recalled the memory. Though at the time, he was deathly afraid of the aforementioned six-foot-six basketball captain, the post-French homework kisses and hot car sex with Eclair were worth the near ass-kicking. Afterward, several of the engineering majors serenaded him with modified lyrics from Afroman's Colt 45.
That was the day before.
Desiring to distance himself from the latter remembrance, he changed the subject, "So, did you continue French at Harvard?"
Chewing his piece of steak, Lucas nodded his head. "Yeah, got my language rec done my freshman year. It wasn't that exciting – it was some guy from Paris jacking it on the male gaze and fuckin' Jacques Derrida. Total waste of time. I wrote my final paper entitled, 'On the Deconstruction of Homo Erectus: Penises as Perspective,' and got an A. I mean, I literally included every possible dick joke and got an A. Though the dick jokes got me to Paris for a semester, so there's that. I must have fucked three French girls while I was there. Damn, we should go back."
The plumber did not reply to that last comment. While he was fully aware of Lucas's not-so-subtle hints of picking up girls to have certain parties as they had done throughout sophomore year, Luigi wanted to leave that lifestyle solidly in the past. The only party of that kind that he wanted was a private affair with one Daisy Abravanel.
Later that afternoon, Lucas brought Luigi to the Wilshire office in downtown Los Angeles to view his company's gaming projects and meet some of his top (sycophantic) programmers. The plumber smiled politely and shily, though he was secretly impressed with what Lucas had managed to achieve in such a short time. Nevertheless, he was still torn; his former friend continued to demonstrate certain undesirable traits and to dominate the conversation at every turn, even as he truly missed having the full attention of a best friend and confidant. Luigi had Yoshi and Mario, but he had felt their priorities shifting away from him for the better part of a year. Although he remembered Virgil's adage to beware Greeks bearing gifts, he could tolerate four months with Lucas, if only to expand his own horizons and, perhaps, move on with his own priorities.
Following takeout dinner in Los Angeles with Lucas's VIP Team, which Luigi enjoyed since, outside of Yoshi and Miles, he had not spoken with fellow computer and science geeks in over a decade. He missed the intellectual challenge and stimulation, and he found himself wanting more. In the conference room, Luigi felt like part of a group and not an outsider who was too metrosexual to be one of the boys. They drove back to Malibu to organize and pack for a return flight the next afternoon California Time. Luigi checked his iPhone again to find no messages from anyone, including Daisy. Assuming that everyone was busy or, in Mario's case, cage fighting, he decided to turn in early.
On Thursday, Luigi gathered his shopping bags from Rodeo Drive and personal belongings – including the coat that Lucas had tossed in the pool – and left with Lucas for the airport at around eight o'clock. The six-hour flight back to New York was uneventful and calm; during the first hour, Luigi began to pine for the warm weather, palm trees, and blue water of Malibu; by the fourth, he outlined a general plan to visit again during the summer with Daisy. The private jet touched down at LaGuardia at just past six o'clock in the evening. It took an additional hour to disembark and reach the parking lot where they had left Luigi's red car.
Giving his friend a hug, Lucas spoke, "Thanks for coming, man. I think you're gonna like where this is going. Don't worry about taking me back to my apartment. Just drive back to Bensonhurst."
Returning the embrace somewhat stiffly, Luigi responded, "Thanks for taking me out to Cali. Should I meet you tomorrow or …?"
"Nope!" interjected Lucas. "Take the weekend off, relax a bit. We'll start Monday morning at eight, nine, whenever. I'll email you some books to look at to come up to speed."
They said their goodbyes. Luigi pulled out of the parking lot toward Bensonhurst, leaving the grinning Lucas at the airport. An hour later due to two accidents on the BQE and picking up Chinese takeout for dinner, Luigi turned into the driveway of the red brick house on 17th Avenue. There were no illuminations or lights coming from the top- or ground-floor windows. Collecting his shopping bags and takeout, he walked up to the front door, slipped the key into the lock, and twisted the knob. Flicking on the lights, he saw that the living room was empty, albeit relatively clean, almost in the same condition as when he had left on Monday morning, save for moldy plates in the sink. Curling up his nose in disgust, Luigi decided that he would take care of them in the morning. Turning off the living room lights and climbing the stairs to his room, he closed the door behind him and settled in to watch Modern Marvels while eating sweet and sour pork. At around nine o'clock, he shut the television off, brushed his teeth, and went to bed.
An unknown amount of time had passed when he heard the front door creak open and shut carelessly. Luigi shut his eyes again, only to be awakened with a loud thud and a low whimper, an almost sob. Grabbing his phone in fear, he stayed motionless as he heard footsteps coming toward his darkened room. A pause, then the footsteps became quicker up the stairs, excited even. The door crashed open and the lights flicked on. As Luigi sat up to tell his brother off, he froze at the sight before him: Mario's normally distinct and neatly-trimmed mustache had become part of an unfettered beard, his hair and clothes were unkempt and putrid with body odor, and his blue eyes were bloodshot and swollen. Before Luigi could speak, Mario tripped over his footing in a rush toward his younger brother's bed. Taking his head in his hands, the elder plumber pulled him into a crushing embrace and began to mumble and sob incoherently in Italian and English. Stunned at his brother's ragged appearance, Luigi became limp in Mario's arms, and his heart chilled at the frightening realization of what had occurred over the past four days.
What have I done?
