Google the horse. I dare you. It's also on my version at AO3.
Chapter 12: Metanoia, Part 1
The next morning, Luigi woke up to a sting on his arm from the new tattoo, which throbbed even more in the shower as he carefully cleaned it with unscented soap. Yet he found that like any virgin, the pain made him feel more grown up and masculine. Giuseppe, who always maintained that tattoos were the markers of thuggery and delinquency, would doubtlessly shit a brick upon seeing it. But Luigi did not give a flying fuck off the Verrazzano; he even awaited the reaction with barely contained delight. Today was a new day.
Finished with his shower, then gently patting himself dry, the plumber brushed and flossed his teeth before putting on a fresh pair of jeans and a gray tee-shirt with a red FDNY logo on the front. Grabbing a few tee-shirts at random to avoid Mario's attempts at intimidation, Luigi had not paid much attention at his selections. Normally, he eschewed wearing this shirt; it had belonged to Mario Senior, which he bequeathed to his adolescent son after gaining twenty pounds. However, it seemed appropriate, given the tattoo colors. Slipping it on, the plumber was inwardly pleased that it still fit his body, even after more than a decade. He stepped out of the bathroom and packed up his belongings in his roller suitcase. Hands running through his hair irritably, Luigi grumbled that he had forgotten to pick up a present for Daisy's birthday. Thank goodness for Internet shopping, he reminded himself. Since it was roughly three weeks away, there was still time to order and have it shipped to Brooklyn. A turquoise necklace would attractively highlight his princess's dainty neck.
Meeting Lucas at the restaurant for breakfast, Luigi noticed that he was dressed in, albeit designer label, blue jeans and a purple turtleneck. Aside from the Coffee and Asschew, Lucas ordering a comfort breakfast of a key lime waffle was never a good sign. Because it was his last few hours in Arizona, the plumber ordered the chilaquiles with two sunnyside eggs. Mid-chew, Lucas's eyes widened at his friend's right arm, which became visible with the right movement. Wordlessly, he pointed to Luigi's tattoo and raised his eyebrows. The plumber smirked in response. Though Lucas gave him a thumbs up and a forced smile, his brown eyes betrayed confusion, shock, and envy. After a relatively quiet breakfast, the man in purple settled the bill and asked the concierge to return the convertible. Deciding to take the silver rental car for ease, they left the Four Seasons at around 9:30 am. Luigi turned on the radio to Springsteen's "Growin' Up" and, much to Lucas's disbelief and amusement, began to sing along while driving down the Pima Freeway.
"What's with you?" asked Lucas tetchily. "Tattoo, singing…? Is it the chick? Did she, like, give you a royal phonebone last night?"
Luigi ignored Lucas's crude reference to Daisy. "I'm just feeling … lighter. Lighter than I have in years. So what's bit you in the ass?"
The techie shrugged and huffed while setting his elbow on the passenger door. "I'm fine, Weeg. I just … I wanted to spend more time with you. Scottsdale's one of my favorite places. Good food, good weather, good golfing. And now we're going to … frankly, a shithole."
Shifting his blue eyes between the road and his friend, the driver replied, "Okay, so why are we going then? Where are we going? And why is it such a shithole?"
Lucas shook his head, still staring out the passenger side window at the palm trees in the distance. "Trust me, it's not by choice. It's a directive from my goddamned father."
Luigi squinted in confusion and probed, "But don't you have your own money? I mean, why do you care if you're independent?"
"Why do you work for Uncle Joe and the union if you dislike them?" he countered. A moment later, the man in purple reached out and put a hand on Luigi's right shoulder. "As I said before, we'll some place better the next time. You and me. Let's just get this done."
They spent the next twenty minutes in silence except for the car radio, which, upon their arrival at Phoenix Sky Harbor, was playing the Boss's "Darkness on the Edge of Town." After Luigi returned the car and paid the bill, they boarded the private jet to fly to what Lucas called "a veritable huis-clos." Grumbling that he needed a nap, Lucas reclined his luxury seat and promptly fell asleep as Luigi took a cup of French vanilla coffee from the self-service bar. This time, there was no flight attendant, which he found a bit odd. The pilot also was radio silent; it felt eerily like they were abord a ghost plane on route to nowhere. Trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable for the ride, Luigi forced his mind to focus on Bourdain's No Reservations and Places Unknown. Occasionally, he glanced out of the window to view snow-covered mountains with a tree line about two-thirds up each bump or peak.
Lucas woke up about twenty minutes later; while stretching, he fixed a stressed, almost worried gaze on his friend. Before the plumber could question him, they felt the plane shake from unexpected turbulence. Luigi looked out of the window to the world below; between the gaps of misty cloud were toothed blue-green mountains covered in fresh snow. The pilot maneuvered the plane into a sharp right turn away from the range to scattered housing complexes and brown and gray flat land similar to what he had seen while flying over the Midwest a few weeks ago. The plane shook again as he heard the gears activate. Once again, the plumber gazed out the window; the flat land continued with bodies of water becoming visible as the plane carefully dropped altitude. Rocking with the wind for a few minutes, Luigi could see a long structure that looked like a series of white circus tents atop a glass, office-like base. The aircraft then touched down on a private airstrip and taxied to the General Aviation building.
"Mr. Kariolis and Mr. Masciarelli, welcome to Denver International Airport," announced the pilot. "The local time is about one o'clock in the afternoon and the temperature's approximately fifty-four degrees, though there's snow coming in the next day or so."
"Fucking Denver," mumbled Lucas in response.
A black SUV was waiting for the pair as they exited the area with their luggage. The heavy-set Russian driver, dressed in a black suit, tie, and crisp white shirt, stood to greet them. He loaded their luggage in the back as they climbed into the back seats. Lucas distributed a bottle of water to Luigi and kept one for himself. "Drink this," he said. "This place is high altitude and dry as fuck, almost as bad as Arizona." Unscrewing the cap, the plumber took a swig of the water to appease an irascible Lucas. The Russian slid into the driver's seat and began the drive toward the city. Luigi gazed out his right-side window to the distant blue mountain range against the yellowish-brown plains until his eyes spotted a large cerulean horse rising above the lanes of traffic moving toward the airport.
"What the hell is that?" asked Luigi, pointing at the statue.
Lucas glanced up from his iPhone toward the passing sculpture, then shrugged. "Hey," he called out to the driver. "Do you know what that thing is?"
The driver nodded and answered, "Yes. People here call it 'Blucifer.' About six or seven years ago, the city commissioned a horse sculpture. As the artist was making it, a part of it fell and killed him. The family gave Denver the horse to avoid a lawsuit, but put red eyes in it, as it's a cursed horse."
Googling 'blue horse' and 'Denver,' Lucas's eyes widened at the image, and he gestured at Luigi to have a look at the image of the evil blue horse, complete with menacing red eyes and realistic anatomy down to its veins.
The plumber's eyes also enlarged, and whispering, "Jesus Christ," he returned the iPhone to his companion. Lucas smirked and leaned over to speak into the plumber's ear, "Told ya that this place is hell." Unnerved by Blucifer, Luigi did not answer; instead he turned on his phone to redirect his attention. Since that morning, he received three text messages and one voicemail. The first two texts were from Miles and Yoshi stating that they would be available for phone calls later that evening. Next, he read a good afternoon message from Daisy, inquiring about the Arizona trip thus far and expressing relief at a crisis averted with respect to the group project. The plumber wrote back that he was glad, missed her, and wanted to talk later that evening. Finally, he checked his voicemail:
(10:04 am Mountain Time) "Luigi, it's Joe. Look, nipoti, I – I don't understand this at all. First, you disappear without a fuckin' trace to California," his sentence was abruptly interrupted by a fit of coughing, "then you mysteriously go to Arizona of all places. For three weeks. What the hell are you doing? Mario's getting on the plane to Colorado Springs at the end of the week, so our worries that he'd go AWOL are gone. I guess training's at Fort Carson and not Bragg or Benning this year. He … he also told me that you don't want to talk to your family, me included. Well, know what, kid? Be a fuckin' man and say that to me directly. I want to hear it from you, son." Luigi winced as he heard a fit of coughing and wheezing in the background. "I don't care when you call me. But I think your zia and I are owed that much, Luigi Gabriele Isidoro Masciarelli!"
Luigi inhaled angrily and put away the iPhone. More insults. He stared out of the window, first along the brown grassland, then straight ahead to the blue hue of the Rocky Mountains, the midday sun illuminating the sky and I-70 with a white hue. Due to the ever-present construction and winter potholes, the driver had to stop in the dense traffic near Aurora and Anschutz Medical Campus, aggravating Lucas who impertinently questioned why there would be any back up in a shitty cow town like Denver. The plumber bit his lip crossly, both at Lucas's constant bitching and at Giuseppe's phone call to confront him "like a man." They were soon flanked by several semi-trucks and a couple assholes in Lexuses. It was a known fact to Coloradans that the latter, usually rich city slickers from Dallas, Austin, or Houston, allowed Jesus to take the wheel down to the I-70 and I-25 interchange, known more colorfully as the Mousetrap. Unfortunately for Denverites, the Texan Jesus H. Christ was not a very good driver and habitually caused an accident or three, blocking at least two lanes of interstate for several hours at a time. However, the black SUV was lucky that afternoon, as the Mousetrap was clear of obvious Texans or metal debris. With a left turn, the view of the snow-covered Rockies disappeared to reveal the Denver skyline. Roughly ten minutes afterward, the Russian driver turned off Park Avenue, moving past Coors Stadium, and down the more narrow streets surrounded by modern red brick buildings and large skyscrapers.
Arriving at the nineteenth-century-era Brown Palace Hotel on 17th Street, Lucas made sure to stiff the driver of a tip and growled a "let's go" to Luigi who quietly apologized for the man's behavior and compensated Sergei. Once checked in, Lucas muttered a short rant about how, thanks to his father's last-minute phone call, the Four Seasons and Grand Hyatt were booked up and the Brown Palace was the best that he could do. It was not, however, a complete disappointment: his personal assistant in Manhattan managed to reserve the Reagan Suite and a smaller room with a king size bed, wifi, and en-suite bathroom. Luigi agreed to take the smaller room, and the concierge gave them keycards to the Reagan Suite and Room 904 with a knowing smirk at the New Yorkers. The hotel, particularly Room 904, had a rather notorious history of supernatural phenomena, ghost sightings, and mysterious screaming.
Arranging to meet in the lobby for dinner at six o'clock, Luigi and Lucas got off the elevator on the ninth floor and headed separately to their respective accommodations. The plumber slipped the keycard into the reader and opened the door to a spacious, though not ostentatious room with a king-sized bed, 1930s-style table, chairs, one-person armchair, and large windows to glimpse skyscrapers, 17th Street, and several cafés below. Unpacking his dirty from clean laundry, Luigi collected them into a neat pile which he planned to have cleaned the following day. Checking his iPhone clock, he saw that it was just after four o'clock in the afternoon in the New York area. He texted a quick message to his princess: "Afternoon, Princess ❤️. Give me a call when you can." Then, steeling his courage for the next phone call, he pressed "2" and put the phone to his ear.
"Hello, Luigi," replied a calm, though cold male voice.
"Uncle Joe," he answered in an equally cold tone. "You asked me to be man enough to call you, so here I am."
"Yeah. So what the hell is this? Why the fucking hell did you leave for California and Arizona?" he demanded while attempting to suppress a cough.
"Did Miles tell you that?"
"Answer my goddamned question, Luigi!"
The younger plumber rolled his eyes and scoffed audibly. "Paid vacation. You know, I'm honestly sick to fucking death of the great Giuseppe Masciarelli and his equally assholish nephew, Maa-rio, treating me with nothing but derision for most of my goddamned life. I'm either naïve or a coward. Well, I got the balls now, but it's never enough, is it? Maybe I'm tired of making excuses for the Great War Hero and am ready to tell all youse to fuck off. You got him. You never needed me."
He heard the older man devolve into a coughing fit, which made him momentarily feel bad for his words. "Are you finished, kid?" growled Giuseppe. At Luigi's silence, he continued, "Because, frankly, I don't see how Scott Pichler is gonna help you there. None of this adds up, and don't bother lying to me about the union. This ain't about the union; that much I know. What the hell have you gotten yourself into? And you wanna be pissed off at Mario? Bene. That makes two of us, and I'm glad you're finally standin' up to him. But don't you fucking dare presume that I never needed you …"
"Then why bitch at me for doing what Mario does?" interrupted Luigi.
"Because you're not fucking Mario!" shouted Joe, breathing heavily. "You're better than that! Kid, inasmuch as you try to attribute this bullshit sense of alienation to me and others in the family, the truth is that you've never wanted to see how important you really are. 'Cause that would require you to be responsible. You've always hidden behind Mario, you hid behind what's-his-name at Brooklyn City, too, and look where that got you! Yeah, I've been hard on you, but not for the reasons you think. I …" he inhaled, coughed, then went on, "I had Miles watch you. I can barely watch Mario doin' the shit that he does. But you … the very thought of you … No. I don't want you to be like Mario. Your father didn't, either. He … we wanted you to be you."
"This is me!" retorted the younger man. "You've always known that I wanted to leave Brooklyn! I hated Bensonhurst, whether it was getting my ass kicked or humiliated every day. See, Mario was allowed to leave. He was allowed to go hunt terrorists in Afghanistan and fuckin' Iraq. Meanwhile, I stayed in New York, became a plumber, and did what the family wanted. That life was intended for Mario, but he was permitted to leave it behind! You know damn well that Pops never wanted me to become a plumber. He wanted me to be an engineer, to go to college, to leave! Well, that never happened, did it? You and Mario made sure of it! But I'm not keepin' the peace anymore."
"So you're not comin' back? Is that what you're sayin' to me? You're gonna abandon your job, your home, your family for … what, exactly? WHAT?" hissed Joe.
Luigi scoffed again, wiping his eyes in frustration. "I'm coming back in three weeks. This time. But ultimately, yeah, I'm leaving. There's nothin' for me in Brooklyn. Hell, you even left for Staten Island! God, the hypocrisy in the Masciarelli family never ceases to amaze me!"
"Watch your goddamned mouth," the older man warned. "Whether you like it or not, Luigi Gabriele Isidoro Masciarelli, you are part of the Masciarelli family. YOU!"
"For now."
"E che cazzo dovrebbe significare?" inquired Giuseppe very carefully, though his voice was tinged with contained anger.
"Significa che non sono più la pedina sacrificale della famiglia!" screamed Luigi, hanging up the phone. He started to sob harshly in rage, exasperation, and resentment while the phone buzzed from an incoming call, flashing "Uncle Joe" on the caller ID. No longer able to sustain the argument, he ignored it, letting Joe go to voicemail several times. Following five attempts at reaching him, the iPhone stopped buzzing, and an automated message let him know that Joe had left a message. Luigi held one of the bed pillows to his face, stifling his furious sobs and cries. Eventually, he calmed down and let his mind go blank. He had not eaten since breakfast; he knew that he should eat something, though he was too emotionally exhausted to muster a call to the in-room dining service. His eyes mercifully became heavy, and the last conscious image of his surroundings appeared like a photo negative as he fell asleep.
The phone rang again. Luigi's crusted eyes fluttered open, and he checked the caller ID which read, "Daisy." Breathing a sigh of relief that it was neither Giuseppe nor Mario, he pressed the green key. "Hi, sweetie," he croaked. Glancing over at the night table, he saw that it was 3:17 pm Denver time.
"Hey, sweetie. Are you okay? You sound sick," spoke Daisy in concern.
"Yeah, I'm okay. The air's pretty dry, so I guess I'm just dealing with that. Don't worry; I'm drinking as much water as I can. Maybe I'll grab something salty and spicy to help."
"Okay, as long as you're feeling alright?"
"Yeah, I am. How was the project from hell?" he asked, changing the subject to the late-night clean up at Columbia.
"Guay di me!" grumbled Daisy. "This pustema in my group decided to fuck off the night before the project is due because – and I quote – 'group work constituted a microaggression toward the individual spirit'! Christ on a cracker, esta persona! Thankfully, we got the project done, although we decided as a group to oppress her further by writing a note to the professor and the department chair about giving her the same grade."
Luigi chuckled lowly and replied, "Good for oppression. That sounds awful, but still … Where do they find these people? I thought college was for intellectual pursuit and not fucking off on work."
"Heh, yeah. It's shocking to me because there was none of this bullshit at Oxford. You either worked your ass off to receive good marks on your final paper or you were out. You did the same work. Opinions and solutions differed, but everyone was responsible for the same shit. Same with the lycée. I can only imagine what my literature and philosophy teacher would have said: 'What microaggression? Zis is a silly thing! Either you must work or you must fuck off!'" Daisy said in a pronounced Parisian accent, to which Luigi audibly giggled. "And that guy was constantly talking about how horrific racism is in this country. Anyway, how's the consulting?"
He let out a long sigh. "Productive in some ways, but frustrating in others. Daisy, never become a plumber; you're always at someone else's beck and call."
"Hmm, well, everyone sings for their supper at some point."
"That's true," he conceded. "I am in a nice place, so I shouldn't complain. Speaking of which, where would you go? Y'know, if you could go anywhere?"
"To visit? Hmm," began Daisy. "In the U.S. or in the world?"
"Anywhere."
She took a minute to reflect, then answered, "I'd go to Vancouver, Seoul, or Hong Kong. I've always wanted to see British Columbia, and I've never been to Asia. What about you?"
"Ahhh!" he cried softly and comically. "I've haven't been to very many places outside of New York. Before this trip, I was in Rome; I've also been to North Carolina, Los Angeles, Philadelphia, and DC. Well, Bethesda, Walter Reed to be specific. My brother, he, uh … He lost part of his leg in an ambush near Kandahar back in 2009. Asshole Taliban sniper's bullet severed his leg while he was pulling one of the injured guys in his unit to safety. He was at a rehabilitation hospital for over a year."
"Oh, wow, Luigi. I'm so sorry. He's still in despite that? I thought amputees were automatically discharged by the military?"
"Yeah, he's got a bit more on his contract before he's discharged. Because so many guys suffered those kind of injuries in Afghanistan and Iraq, surgeons and mechanical engineers have made quite a few advances in prosthetics, so amputees are actually able to serve if they can pass a physical. Mario did, though he arranged it with the brass that he'd serve in the reserves instead. He wanted to go home. But to answer your original question, I'd go … anywhere, just because there's so much to see. Like, Asia, Africa, rest of Europe. Anywhere."
"Anywhere, huh? Sounds like you enjoy travelling," concluded Daisy.
"Yeah, I do," said Luigi. "It's nice to see something different."
"Luigi? What are you really doing in Arizona? Not too many plumbers are consultants. And I don't think you're working for Thomas Crapper."
He fell silent at the question. On one hand, he inwardly grinned at the image of him consulting for Thomas Crapper. Yet on the other hand, it would not look good to admit that he was playing a potentially dangerous game with a former classmate. Finally, he decided to give her mostly the truth – at least, an idealized version of it. "You're right. I'm, uh, doing some consulting. Y'know, as a plumber. But truthfully, I'm looking at another job opportunity. You remember how I said I did robotics?"
"Yeah, you did mechanical engineering in high school."
"Right. Well, a former classmate at Brooklyn City offered me a job working for him. He's got a contract with my current employer, so he 'borrowed' me for a bit. It's upgrading complex gas and pipeline systems with tech, to make them more secure. If all goes well, I'll be a plumber, but instead of working in a shop, I'll be designing systems that won't fail and be susceptible to bad actors," he explained. "It protects our water supply and power in the city and in other places."
Daisy went quiet to mull over his plan. After a moment, she spoke softly, "Wow. That sounds amazing." He heard her grin over the phone, which caused his heart to swell. "Would you go elsewhere? Leave New York?"
"I don't know. The project would start in New York, so I'd stay in Brooklyn, at least for the next year. After that, I could go anywhere. I just met a couple of guys from Atlanta and Scottsdale who basically offered me a job to work for them. I could also work in … you know … California, Seattle, Portland," he murmured, half-afraid of her response.
"West Coast, huh?"
"Yeah," breathed the plumber. Anywhere you are, he added mentally.
"That could work," she whispered into the phone, as if intended for his ears only.
It was after nearly three-quarters of an hour that Daisy and Luigi bid each other a good night and promised to call or text again the following day, even for a few minutes. Luigi flopped back on the bed and sighed. The more he spoke with the lionhearted California girl, the more he felt lighter, like anything was possible and doable with her support. His heart did a rhythmic ba-da-boom whenever she approved of his plans, of him. Yet it equally pounded whenever she called him on his obfuscation and pushed for more. Luigi just hoped that she felt and would continue to feel the same, that her stomach and heart had butterflies like his.
The iPhone sounded for the third time in almost three hours. Checking his caller ID, he saw "Yoshi" and answered, "Hey."
"Hey, man. Both Miles and I are in the office, so we'll jump on the same call. Can you switch to Skype on your phone?"
"Uh, sure." He hung up, signed into his Skype account, and accepted the call request. A grainy video screen revealed a bickering Yoshi and Miles inside a messy graduate student office. Luigi snickered while the two geeks kept jerking the screen toward his individual direction, occasionally knocking over haphazardly stacked books, bits of black and red wires, and weeks-old paper coffee cups. "Okay, basta, guys," he finally called out once it became apparent that this would have continued ad nauseam.
"Oh, hey, Luigi," greeted Miles.
Yoshi swatted him on the shoulder. "Yeah, hey."
"Um, I guess I should start," began Luigi timidly while sitting up cross-legged on the hotel bed. "Yoshi, I'm sorry about a few weeks ago. Has Miles filled you in?"
"Yeah, he has. Your iPhone was hacked and you went to California. Do you know who did it? Also, why did you go to Cali?" deadpanned Yoshi as he glared at his blond officemate.
"No and, well, that's hard to explain. Are youse gonna tell Joe or Mario?" timidly inquired the plumber.
"That depends," replied Yoshi.
"On?"
"How much you're gonna bullshit me and how fucked up it is."
Luigi rolled his eyes a little and responded quietly, "I went out for a job interview."
Yoshi blinked and his mouth fell open. "A job interview?! A job interview. In California?"
"Yeah."
Miles and Yoshi exchanged incredulous looks. "But … You have a job here," said Yoshi with an almost whine to his voice. "You … You wanna leave New York? I mean, if you're bored, you could always come and work for the Professor. It wouldn't be …"
"Yoshi," interrupted Luigi, "you said it yourself at that club where I met Daisy; I haven't been happy for a long time. If all goes well, I'll stay in New York for another year, but then, yeah, I'm gone."
A scoffing Yoshi, crossing his arms, growled, "A job doing what? And what about Mario? Your family? Your friends?"
"SCADA. And he'll – they'll – you'll be alright. You've all gone about your lives with and without me. So why can't I do the same? I mean, it's about time, right?" asked Luigi with a hint of a self-deprecating smile.
"SCADA. That's what you're tellin' me?" demanded the young Japanese. "Bullshit. What's the real reason?"
"That is the reason."
"Lou," interjected Miles, all the while Yoshi alternately glaring at him and Luigi, "then why all the secrecy? What the hell is in Arizona? Help us understand. We just … we just want to understand this."
"Financial backers are in Arizona. I can't say anything more than that."
"This is shady as shit!" hissed Yoshi, standing up to pace in the background. A pencil dropped onto the linoleum floor in the background. "I don't understand this; some asshole offers you a 'dream job' to go cruisin' in California, and you just decide, 'Ah, fuck it, sure. Never mind the people back home!'"
"You think this is easy for me?" yelled Luigi. "I've watched you – both of youse – grow, have lives of your own! I'm happy for you, truly. But you rarely call me anymore! Once youse have your PhDs, you'll be outta here! Meanwhile, I'm stuck in goddamned Brooklyn," he took a breath, then added more gently, "I'm stuck in Brooklyn doin' nothin.' Doing nothing and being like that until I'm seventy, eighty fuckin' years old and wondering what-if just before I'm six feet under. Would you want to live your life like that?" Their eyes shifted away from the screen in a wordless answer. Luigi nodded, "Yeah, thought so. So why ask me to live that way?"
Rubbing his face with his hand, Yoshi coughed and gazed at Luigi's video. "Okay. I get that. I'm your best friend. I just … I want to see you happy, Lou. If … if you need to leave Brooklyn to do it, then okay. But don't cut me out of your life. I need you, man. You and Miles. Brobot Boys for Life."
"Yeah," agreed Miles. "Lou, I told Giuseppe about California, but I didn't tell Mario. I won't tell either of them about the job. I know … I know it'll cause problems."
"I know, and thanks, Miles," smiled Luigi.
"Lou, whoever hacked your phone is dangerous. Seriously. I'm … I'm gonna keep watching," nervously added Miles. "Whoever did this used serious skill. I was able to track a single footprint. It's not much, as he – or she – used a fake location, but someone did this intentionally. It wasn't Apple. Usually, someone with this level of black hat normally hunts for financial info or hacks government agencies; they're not worried about a plumber in New York."
The mustachioed man winced. Lucas. Lucas obviously did this, but why? And why let his family think that he had been dropped off the Verrazzano? Revenge for turning him in to the school administration? No, he wouldn't spend the money on that level of revenge, especially when it didn't affect his education one iota. "I'll be careful, Miles. I promise," he finally answered.
"Lou, we mean it – be careful. At the first sign of trouble, I will tell Joe and Mario about what's going on," vowed Yoshi.
Luigi agreed to meet up with the Brobot Boys when he returned to Brooklyn. Strangely, he felt a sense of relief that he knew Miles and Yoshi would be watching from afar. The tattoo tingled on his arm, though not always unpleasantly. He glanced again at the red, orange, yellow, blue, and silver of the thunderbird. Despite the underlying skin being red and sore like a low-level burn, the bird's wings and coloring came through brilliantly, so vividly that he thought it would fly away into the space of the hotel room. Not knowing when he would return from dinner, he gently applied basic soap and water to clean and take some of the sting away from it. Once he was finished, Luigi brushed his teeth and checked the outside temperature on his phone – fifty-seven degrees and partly cloudy.
At 5:50 pm, the plumber rode the elevator from the ninth floor to the lobby to meet Lucas for dinner. Lucas, still in his jeans, purple turtleneck, though with the addition of a black North Face jacket, was pacing agitatedly back and forth, phone to his ear.
"No. No, I'm serious, Matt. No, our plane got delayed in Phoenix. Yeah, we should be in on Wednesday or Thursday. Well, there's a snowstorm on its way, so what the fuck do you want me to do? Change the weather? 'Cause God knows what Denver's climate is like – a hundred fuckin' degrees one day, snow the next. Yeah, we'll see you on Thursday, alright? Bye." Lucas hung up with a worried look which he attempted to camouflage from Luigi. "Yo, man. Ready for some … very limited Denver cuisine? The only half-decent restaurant within walking distance is a Mediterranean place. The Guardian loved it, apparently."
Luigi, who had put on his poufy black coat, cautiously walked up to Lucas. "Everything okay? Who's Matt and why did you tell him that we'd be in on Thursday?"
Looking around wildly as if someone could be listening, Lucas took his confused friend by the elbow and quickly guided him out of the hotel to 17th Street. At the light, they crossed over to Republic Plaza, where Luigi shook free and bellowed, "Lucas, what the hell is going on?!"
The taller man turned away from him, though still standing in the same spot. After a moment, he sighed and said, "Weeg, we're unfortunately gonna meet Matt and his buddy, Sam. Actually, they're cousins. And they're … well … geeks. Annoying ones. I just wanted a day with you before dealing with their special brand of shitkicker. Now, c'mon on; I made reservations."
Reluctantly, Luigi followed Lucas who strolled down toward the 16th Street Mall. They boarded the semi-crowded Mallride toward Union Station; Luigi peaked out of the dirty bus windows to view an endless row of tall trees and pink, blue, and pale green sculptures in the middle of the gray-stone walk ways; at the furthest end were mall stores – H&M and Victoria's Secret – a Hard Rock café, an Italian restaurant, and a movie theater. They passed by several taverns, pedestrians wearing winter jackets and Denver Broncos poof-ball caps, and 1920s buildings that had subsequently been converted into stores and shops. Every other street, the bus stopped for debarking and boarding passengers, some of whom – much to Lucas's horror – were transient. The bus soon drove past a tall, brown tower built as a department store in the early 1900s which reminded Luigi of the Campanile of the Piazza San Marco in Venice. Five minutes later, Lucas gestured to him that it was their stop. They got off the Mallride at 16th and Larimer. Crossing the street, they walked a few streets toward one of the older parts of downtown Denver; the buildings were a curious mix of traditional Western red brick and twenty-first-century glass skyscraper. The city had strung little lights and Colorado state flags from one set of buildings to the other across the street, creating a block-sized canopy of light, fabric, and color. The restaurant was located next to a popular coffee and ice cream shop which was crowded even during the winter months.
Luigi and Lucas were seated at a small table with seaweed green chairs. Each ordered a house salad and a small glass of Riesling for the first course. Neither spoke much during the appetizer, each man lost in their own thoughts regarding the next day. For the main course, Lucas ordered the Spanish-style octopus with artichoke hearts while Luigi opted for the lamb two-ways. Halfway through their meal, Luigi murmured, "You're fairly quiet. What is it about these guys that has you so … I dunno … perturbed?"
Taking a bite of the spicy octopus and wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin, he replied, "Don't worry about it, Weeg. They're Rocky Mountain cowshits who think they're big shots. As I said, they're fucking annoying."
"So why are we dealing with them?" asked the plumber.
"My father's doing business with Matt's father, Pete. That's why," he hissed. "Anyway, let's change the subject." Lucas's frown suddenly turned into a leering grin. "Tell me about the chick. On a scale of one to ten, how hot is she?"
Mid-bite, Luigi froze in shock. Chewing slowly, he hurriedly considered his options. Given what Miles had told him earlier, Lucas had likely hacked his phone, but did not seem to know precise details about his relationship with Daisy. He knew that if he did not give Lucas certain details, he would try it again and obtain the information himself. Between bad and worse, Luigi chose the former and to play it down a bit. "Uh, she's, y'know, a seven." Actually, she's a twelve, but I won't tell you that.
"A seven, huh?" he said nonchalantly.
"Yeah, we're seeing how it goes."
"Bullshit," interjected a smirking Lucas. At Luigi's feigned confusion, the man in purple went on, "Weeg, you're not a very good liar. When you say 'seven,' I immediately multiple it by two. Thus, she's a fourteen. Hell, Éclair was black, but even she was like a nine, nine-point-five. I'd have banged her if she hadn't been yours. And as for 'seeing how it goes,' your little hissy fit in Scottsdale negates that shit. Let me see a pic."
Minchia! "I don't have any pics of her."
"Liar."
Shrugging wordlessly, Luigi ate a bit of lamb and merguez sausage from his fork.
"Weeg … Pic, pic, pic," he softly chanted, fork and knife in each hand as he pounded them against the table.
"Oh, for fuck's sake, fine!" Pulling out the iPhone from his back pocket, he unlocked it and opened his photo library to the picture of Daisy as Queen Esther. Holding it up to Lucas's face, he growled, "Happy now?"
Lucas studied the photo carefully. Inopportunely, while no skin was visible in her Persian-style tunic, he could see her very Latina, almost Arab face with auburn hair, olive skin two shades darker than Luigi's, amber-colored eyes, and a thin, pouty mouth. "Goddamn," he spoke, "you really go for the darkies."
"Okay," Luigi spat, "that's … not appropriate. I can't believe you fuckin' said that, especially in a crowded restaurant!"
"It's Denver!" retorted Lucas. "Like they care! Fuck, their airport's named after a Klansman. It's the Nut Capital of the West."
"Yeah, well," the plumber answered, jabbing the last of the lamb on his fork, "I care. Don't say that again."
"Okay, mi dispiace, Jesus."
They spent the rest of dinner in a comfortable quiet. Although Luigi wanted to visit the coffee and ice cream shop next door for dessert, Lucas refused due to the "long lines." The plumber rolled his eyes at the stuck-up Manhattanite's reluctance to sully his manicured nails with the low-class likes of Denver. They ended up compromising by having an espresso and an in-house tiramisu gelato which Luigi deemed "not bad." Lucas paid the bill, and they took the Mallride back to the Brown Palace Hotel at around eight o'clock. He insisted on "watching a movie together," though Luigi warned him that the titles better not have "chicks," "inches," "blow," "head," any form of "cat," or use of the twenty-fourth letter of the alphabet. Lucas assented, shrugged, and rather gleefully chose The Wolf of Wall Street while he ordered room service of champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries. Luigi uncomfortably watched the movie on his bed with Lucas who chuckled and critiqued DiCaprio's performance. At some point, the man in purple fell asleep, snuggling close to Luigi who eyed his phone to distract himself from the awkward situation. Except for the voicemail from Giuseppe which remained unopened, he had no messages. Not knowing what to do, he carefully extricated himself from Lucas's arm, chose a free pillow at random, and turned out the light. Keeping his phone and charger close, he arranged himself on the thin floor at the foot of the bed.
A few hours into the Rocky Mountain darkness, save a few errant lights from the outside downtown skyscrapers, Luigi's eyes flickered open, the hairs on his neck stood up and a chill passed through him. Suddenly, he felt fingers – not Lucas's who was sleeping soundly on the bed – touch his hair, then his shoulder. He shivered and froze, unsure of whether he was dreaming or was awake. A moment later, a shadow passed against the window's light. The plumber's breath hitched in the middle of his throat. As he fell deathly still, an odor passed through his nostrils, the smell of acrid, fumeless and invisible smoke. A gasping Luigi jumped up from his position on the floor, heart racing and blood pressure skyrocketing. Looking around frantically, he saw a slumbering Lucas's long body stretched out on the king-size bed and an empty, normal hotel room at night. The lights from the outside lit the window in a kaleidoscope of synthetic red, green, pink, and yellow. Still breathing harshly, he checked his iPhone for the time – 4:12 am. Soundlessly making his way to the bathroom in the darkness, he turned on the cold water faucet and spread it onto his face. Inhaling against the thinner air, he reached for the white washcloth to dry his face when he spied a man behind him. A semi-audible wheeze emanated from his throat and his skin became ashen. But when he spun to confront the figure, he had already disappeared. Whispering a "Jesus Christ" under his breath, Luigi returned to his sleeping space on the floor and unlocked his phone. It was still too early in New York to text either Daisy or his friends to ease his mind, so he contented himself with reading Google News and watching several cat and dog videos. After an hour and a half and shortly before twilight, he fell back into a dreamless sleep.
The plumber was shaken awake by a groggy Lucas who raised an eyebrow at his friend's position on the floor. Mumbling at the door that he would meet him for breakfast in an hour, he left, leaving Luigi disoriented in the hotel room. It must have been a dream, he rationalized as he went into the bathroom to urinate, shower, shave, and brush his teeth. He took an extra-long shower to clear his head of the nightmare, and instead of the normal twenty to twenty-five minutes from toilet bowl to socks, Luigi threw on a long-sleeved black shirt and jeans after thirty-five minutes. It was quarter past eight and halfway through the hotel breakfast service. Hurriedly, he took his coat, key card, wallet, and iPhone out of the room to the elevator. He arrived at the ground floor and restaurant for breakfast, where Lucas sat smirking with a plate of brioche French toast and maple syrup. Luigi slid into the chair across from him, glanced at the menu quickly, and politely flagged down a server to order a stack of buttermilk pancakes. He gazed at the nineteenth-century-style, red, ivory, and gold British salon paneling and equally antique chandeliers above the diners.
"Morning," began Lucas while shoveling a piece of French toast in his mouth. "You're late. Feeling okay in the Rocky Mountain air?"
"Mornin'," grumbled Luigi, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah, just rough night. Had a nightmare."
Lucas looked at his friend in concern. "Yeah, I saw that you were on the floor. Must have been some Freddy Krueger type shit."
"Yeah, something like that." A few minutes later, the server set Luigi's breakfast – buttermilk pancakes, fresh butter, and sausage – before him. Carefully drizzling the maple syrup atop and along the stack, he sliced into it and gobbled his first bite.
They ate silently, with Lucas occasionally giving him an affected stare. Pouring Luigi a couple of coffee from the pot that he had asked the waitress for at the beginning of his order, he decided to make an attempt at conversation. "So I was thinking that I'd rent a car, and we'll go for a drive to Estes Park. We won't be able to see Rocky Mountain National Park because it's still snowed in, but it'll be good for a day trip. You know that movie," he leaned in toward Luigi who was chewing on his pancakes, "The Shining - the one with Jack Nicholson – was filmed up there."
Shrugging, Luigi replied, "Sounds cool, except for the Shining part."
As Lucas was about to respond with a quip about "Here's Johnny," two men in their early- to mid-twenties approached their table, one of whom slapped his hand on Lucas's lilac zip-up sweater-covered shoulder with a tad too much force. Lucas's body recoiled, and he, with an oh-shit expression, sat up straight in his chair. The first man, who was approximately Luigi's height and had medium brown hair, dark eyes, thick-framed hipster glasses, and a slender build, observed the two New Yorkers with an unreadable expression. Large hand still on Lucas's shoulder, the second man had a quintessential cowboy look about him – sandy-blond hair, brown eyes, and extremely muscular.
"Hey, Lucas, my dude. I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow. Huh, your plane must have gotten in late last night," spoke the first man.
The second man added nothing, though he watched Lucas with a bemused smirk.
Attempting to regain his composure in front of Luigi, Lucas nonchalantly set his silverware down on his plate, coughed into his right fist, and then responded in what he hoped was a normal voice, "Hey, Matt, Sam. Y-Yeah, our plane got in late last night. We were gonna call you after breakfast."
Luigi observed the exchange with increasing alarm. Who were these guys really?
The slender, smiling man turned his attention to the seated, wide-eyed Luigi and extended his hand in a non-threatening manner. "Hey. My name's Matt – Matt Morell."
Skeptically, Luigi accepted the man's hand. He took a moment to scrutinize the two men who had, by Lucas's admission, connections to his former friend's underhanded father. The nerdy, hipster Matt wore a medium-sized navy-blue Columbia jacket, plain blue jeans, and a knit cap while the other man wore a black fleece coat, jeans, and a faded Denver Broncos-logoed baseball cap from the late John Elway era. "Luigi Masciarelli," he finally answered.
Satisfied with Luigi's response, he asked politely, "Mind if we join you guys for coffee?"
Luigi looked over at Lucas who had his head bowed as if to indicate that he no longer had a say in the matter. "Uh, sure," he said.
The second man extended his hand to Luigi as he pulled out the chair to Lucas's right and removed his cap, "Sam Carlin." A confused Luigi shook it. Once the two young men were seated, the waitress returned to their table and inquired about an order, to which Matt ordered two cappuccinos and a pot of fresh coffee.
"So, uh," began Luigi, sipping his coffee while trying to remain calm, "tell me about yourselves. I take it you're local?"
Matt and Sam exchanged an unreadable look. "Yeah, we're from Colorado," said Matt. "I'm from Denver and Sam here's from Pueblo originally, but he came up here for school. Pueblo's about two and half hours south of us. What about you? Sam and I go back a ways with Lucas here."
"I'm from Brooklyn," said Luigi timidly. "Lucas and I go way back, too. We went to the same high school for a few years. He, uh, invited me out on a business proposition. How do you know Lucas?"
"Right on, dude. Welcome to Denver. We and Lucas met through his father, George, who's a business associate of my dad's. Dad's in restaurant and beverage, and George invested some money into a few local bars and clubs in Denver. Since we're in tech – Sam and I – we hooked up a few years ago," explained Matt as he sipped the cappuccino. "Isn't that right, Lucas?"
"Yeah," reacted Lucas almost meekly. "Yeah, Weeg. Matt, Sam, and I have worked on a few networking and gaming projects up in Interlocken, just north of Denver."
"So is that what we're doing?" inquired Luigi. "Working on oil and gas or AI?"
Once again, Sam and Matt exchanged a brief, albeit disbelieving look. "Um, yeah, actually." Matt checked his black leather wristwatch and noted, "It's about nine-thirty. Luigi, let's all meet for lunch around 12:30. Sam and I will come to pick you and Lucas up. Then we'll discuss the project. Sound good?"
"Yeah, that's fine by me. Lucas?" asked Luigi.
"Absolutely. That's perfectly fine, Weeg," said the man in purple, fixing his best smile.
The two Coloradans stood up at the same time and each offered a handshake to Luigi. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Luigi," vocalized Sam, picking up his Broncos cap, who thus far had not uttered a single word. They made a gesture of goodbye to the immobile Lucas and left the hotel dining room.
Once he was certain that they were out of earshot, a nervous Luigi hissed, "What the fuck have you gotten me into, Lucas? Who the fucking fuck were those guys?"
"Weeg," began Lucas casually, "as they said, they're just business associates of mine. Woodland Critters of Colorado. That's it. Nothing to worry about it."
Luigi threw his napkin down on the table and stood up angrily. "Bullshit. You're playing me. Well, fine. I'll find out at lunch when I ask 'em!" Ignoring Lucas's shocked pleas to return, he left him in the dining hall to take a walk around the hotel.
After walking aimlessly in the cold downtown Denver air for an hour, cigarette in hand, which the plumber regretted as he was unaccustomed to both the mile-high altitude and the thirty-degree temperature drops within twelve or fewer hours, he ended up at the coffee shop next to the restaurant that he had spotted the previous night. Inside, the coffee and ice cream store reminded him of a cross between a Western general store and a New York bodega where Denverites could purchase either a handful of candies from open baskets, a decent croissant, choice of several Italian and French pastries, or a Jewish-style pastrami sandwich with an excellent cup of coffee. Seated at one of the French-style café tables and chairs, he drank his regular and contemplated what had occurred this morning as well as his next moves against both Lucas and the two Coloradans. Though he did not know just who the hell these guys were, Luigi did know that Lucas seemed wary, if not outrightly terrified of them. The normally hedonistic, collected Lucas Kariolis, who laughed in military men's and principals' faces, went so far as to lie about their whereabouts, no doubt angering Matt and Sam into a confrontation. Yet they seemed interested, friendly, and even aware of his presence. The plumber failed to suppress a shiver down his spine. Even as Matt and Sam were harmless to him, something about this whole trip to Denver did not add up, and the lack of awareness frightened him. Subconsciously, Luigi touched his iPhone and thought about the "1" key. He could press the button, alert Mario of the issue, and then … what? They stopped talking to each other a few days prior, and his elder brother had not called or texted since, per his demand. He gulped; wish granted – he was truly alone now. Inhaling against the rising fear permeating his chest, he reasoned that it was just as well; it was time to fight his own battles like an adult.
He got himself in this mess, now he could get himself out of it.
Like with Lucas, he had to play along with their little game, which meant that he had to passively observe whatever would occur at lunch. Continuing to sip his coffee anxiously, he wondered if he had not gambled a little too much and the inevitable loss would soon follow. The morning had started off to a poor start, from the weirdness in his room to the meeting at breakfast. Actually, the entire visit to Denver had so far been, in Lucas's words, no bueno – the demonic blue horse should have been their first clue to leave. Spending an hour and a half at the café to stare into space and watch various people stroll in and out of the cold, Luigi placed the porcelain coffee cup and saucer in the gray dish bin and exited the market. He shivered at the continuously dropping temperature and made his way toward the Mallride. Fifteen minutes passed when he arrived at the hotel entrance.
"Luigi!" called out a voice. He turned around to see Matt parallel parked in a green Subaru Outback.
Mustering all of his courage, he walked over to the passenger door and slid into the cab. He needed a fucking cigarette. Glancing in the empty backseat, the plumber remarked as he fastened his seatbelt, "Where are Sam and Lucas?"
Merging into the moving traffic down 17th Street, Matt replied, "They'll join us later. Had some stuff to take care of. It's just you and me, dude."
"Where are we going?"
"The family's restaurant in the Highlands. That's 'uptown' for you New Yorkers," he said with a grin. "Dad really wants to meet you."
"Why?" demanded Luigi skeptically. "I mean, no offense, Matt. You seem like a nice guy and all, but what's going on?"
Matt shook his head in dismay as he turned onto 20th Street to go in the opposite direction. "That douchecanoe Lucas didn't tell you who we are, did he? Figures he wouldn't."
Luigi glared at the driver. "So who are you?"
They were stopped at a red light at the back end of the Denver skyline. Matt faced his passenger, adjusting his glasses. "Luigi, I'll let my father explain this. But I'm really sorry that you've been kept in the dark. It must have been scary for you, not knowing who Sam and I are, and how we met earlier."
"Yeah, that's putting it mildly."
Matt remained quiet for the remainder of the ten-minute drive to the restaurant, save for pointing out Coors Stadium and lamenting how the Rockies sucked for the seventh year in a row, though they would eventually return to the World Series. They drove into an obviously older part of town which Matt called Sunnyside and entered a small parking lot behind a small red brick building that must have been at least fifty years old. Exiting the car, Matt walked over and held open a back door for Luigi who cautiously passed into the eatery. Inside was an architecture and design with which he was intimately familiar as a Brooklynite: a central, 1920s-era bar with black, gold, and red accents, matching stools, and several red velvet booths. Matt guided him toward a booth in the back where a middle-aged man was sitting with a photo album on the wooden table in front of him. He looked up and waved over the two younger males.
"Dad!" greeted Matt happily.
"Hello," he replied in an equal tone, then glanced at the confused and suspicious Luigi. "Please sit down, the both of you."
Luigi waited until Matt sat down first, then took the space next to him and in front of the older gentleman. He squinted uncomfortably, evaluating Matt's father. The man was obviously of Italian descent, though he did not speak with an East Coast or New York accent: he was of medium-height, thin, and clean-shaven with dark curly hair and deep brown eyes; a businessman and restauranteur, he wore a white Oxford and black slacks. Not wanting to be immediately disrespectful, the plumber waited for him to begin the conversation.
"Luigi, I'm Pete. You've met my son, Matt, and my sister's son, Sam. I'm afraid that there's been a huge miscommunication for which I deeply apologize. We were all under the impression that Lucas told you who we were." Luigi chose to remain quiet, to which Pete picked up the large white photo album, flipped it open to a few photographs, and presented it to him. Taking the album and analyzing the first photo, the plumber gasped and felt his heart stop. Taken sometime in the early 1970s, it was of three teenagers, two males and one female, all with the same dark curly hair and olive skin. In front of a heavily decorated Christmas tree complete with wooden and glass ornaments were a young Pete, who had his arm around a smaller Salvatore, and a smiling Gabriella.
"I remember when that photo was taken. My mother had to show Aunt Audenzia how to work the camera. It was one of those newer – well, at the time – Zenit-Bs," reminisced Pete.
The second photo was of a nineteen-year-old, baby-faced Mario Senior in a black and white wedding tux with his new bride, Gabriella, standing with Audenzia, Salvatore, seventeen-year-old Giuseppe, fourteen-year-old Maria Masciarelli, and two unknown, forties-something women in their Sunday best outside of a Catholic church. "I took that one," replied Pete to Luigi's unspoken question. "And those women are your great-aunts Rosa Campisi and Sofia Rigassi."
Finally came the last photo which caused Luigi to drop the album flat on the table. It was of a mustachioed Mario Senior in a light blue FDNY uniform and an exhausted Gabriella standing over a very small baby in some sort of pediatric intensive care unit. "You were born premature, more or less. We didn't know Gabriella was sick yet. She'd lost three babies before you. My uncle – your great-uncle Carlo – had her moved to Manhattan to avoid losing you, too. You were born a couple days before that picture was taken."
Shaking his head in disbelief, Luigi glowered at Pete, "Okay, who the hell are you? Why do you have pictures of my parents, my uncle Sal, my grandmother? And who the hell are these other people? Your … Your name is Morell."
Pete held out his hands in a calming gesture. "It's okay, son, I'll explain. This part of the family has been in Colorado since the 1950s and 1960s. I was born here. We changed the name to avoid attention from the Klan which was active in the Rockies well into the 1990s. The original name was Morello. My father was Paul – Paolo – Morello. He married a woman from Palermo, whose family were friends of the Morellos back in Sicily. My mother's name was Sofia Rigassi. Her brother was your grandfather, Luigi. Your mother was my cosina carnale– first cousin."
"Why didn't I know about you? W-Why didn't Pops, Joe, or even Jackie mention you?" stuttered Luigi.
Pete paused as if debating on how much to reveal to an already visibly disturbed Luigi. Sighing, he answered, "I don't know what the Masciarellis told you, but they didn't exactly get along with the Rigassis. The only person who reached out to us from that side was Giuseppe, before he became an outright asshole. As for Jackie," he made a face of pure disgust, "he and I have our own issues. However, those don't concern anyone but us."
"So why all of the secrecy? Why am I here? And why not my brother, Mario?" demanded the young plumber.
Suddenly, a server appeared with a large plate of prosciutto, provolone cheese, peppers, ciabatta bread drizzled with a thick balsamic vinegar, and three glasses of ice water. Pete moved the photo album to the side, nodded, and said, "Thanks, Linda." He turned to Matt and Luigi, extended his hand slightly, and said, "Mangiu." Matt happily took a good helping of prosciutto and cheese onto his own plate while Luigi slid a few pieces for himself to respect his host.
"All good questions," acknowledged Pete, nibbling on a piece of meat. "First, why the secrecy? Well, as I said, we've had difficulty with the Masciarellis, particularly your nonno and Giuseppe. We … Mama and I tried to contact you for years, especially after your parents' deaths. We sent you birthday and Christmas gifts every year when you were a kid, which Mario and Gabriella gave you, but your nonno and that goddamned asshole interfered whenever they possibly could. Your father was actually planning to come out to Denver right before he … he passed. He and you."
"Wait, what?!" Luigi shook his head in incredulity, wiping a hand across his face. "He never said anything to me about a trip to Denver."
The older man chuckled. "I wasn't talking about a trip, son. He was gonna let you finish your sophomore year at Brooklyn City, and then you were leaving New York. We'd talked about private schools here in Denver and, after graduation, you'd go to college wherever – back East, Mines, or California."
A long buried memory in the plumber's consciousness began to surface. A few days before his father's death, a fifteen-year-old Luigi sat tearfully on the stoop outside of his Bensonhurst red brick house. It was a warm, yet cloudy day in early September. A door opened gently behind him, and a man in his early forties appeared. Like Luigi's brother, the man was short, a bit stocky, and had a thick mustache; however, his hair was wavy and medium brown like Luigi's. As it was his day off, instead of the blue FDNY uniform or thick black and yellow fireproof coat and boots, he wore a green hoodie and faded jeans. Coming to sit beside his teenage son on the steps, he glanced up at the gray Brooklyn sky.
"Looks like it might rain," he said.
Luigi did not answer his father; he continued to sob. Unnerved by the sound, Mario added, "Everyone screws up once or twice." He looked over at his bereaved youngest child. "I've been thinkin'. Maybe it's time for a change. You know, for both of us. You and me. How's that sound?"
"What change?" the teenager managed to gasp between tears.
"We could get outta here. Outta Brooklyn. Outta New York."
Lifting his head in shock, Luigi fixed his watery blue eyes on his father's meditative stare westward. "How – What are you talkin' about, Pops? Go where? And w-what about the Fire Department? You'd lose your pension! What about Mario?"
Mario Senior gave him a meaningful look. "You let me worry about that. And as for Mario, he's welcome to come with us. But … he's finishin' up his apprenticeship with the union and Pauline's here. Once he's a journeyman in a few months, he'll probably want to settle down with her, have his own family." He scoffed, "Half the time, I don't know what's in that kid's head, anyway." Putting an arm around his son's shoulders, he added more kindly, "Don't worry, figlio; we're not goin' to a foreign country."
Present day, a single tear rolled down Luigi's now pallid cheek. Gazing up at Pete and then Matt, he cleared his throat and whispered, "He was going to take me out of New York right before …"
Pete nodded. "Yeah. It must have been Labor Day when he called me. We had discussed it a year or two prior. He was getting tired of cleaning up one hate crime or arson after another – "Same old shit," he used to say. But," he sighed, folding his arms on the table, "he always said no, 'cause you had been accepted to Brooklyn City, and it was a one-way ticket to Princeton or MIT. I was pretty surprised, to be honest, when he started asking about private schools in Denver, how good they were, y'know. After he died, Jackie stepped in and … yeah. Followed by that little prick Giuseppe, who swooped in like the vulture that he is," he trailed off, rolling his eyes.
"But why wait until now? Over a decade later? And Mario?"
"I was going to wait until you'd become a journeyman, 'cause I know how the unions can be. Then Mario came back from Afghanistan, leg blown off. Poor bastard. I called the house a couple times around Christmas and Easter, but he was never in a talking mood," answered Pete with a tinge of sarcasm to his voice. "Son, your brother may be my cousin's eldest boy, but he's a Masciarelli."
Luigi gazed at the table in front of him. Based on the photo album as well as one of his last conversations with his father, he knew that at least some of Pete's story was true. Yet he had always been warned by Giuseppe and the Family to stay clear of Gabriella's side, as they were 'mafiosi' and 'habitual liars.' More hypocrisy, he internally sneered; they kept their mouths shut at Mario's frequent presence at the Koopa Bar, whose 'patron,' Fat Tony, was none other than Cousin Jackie Morano's son. The Rigassi-Masciarelli family drama aside, Pete still had not explained one troubling aspect of this whole trip.
"Wow," the plumber finally uttered. "This … This is a lot of take in. A lot. I'm sure that there's more that you're gonna mention. But what's with Lucas? Where's he at, anyway?"
"Don't worry, Luigi," interjected Matt with a piece of cheese in his mouth. "He and Sam are just taking care of some implementation upgrades to one of my uncle's real estate offices in Boulder. It's a thirty-minute drive from here without traffic, so I'm sure they're on their way."
"And," added Pete, "his father invested in my restaurant, so I owe him a few favors like hosting them – he and his son – whenever they come to town. Along those lines, I've asked Matt and Sam to show you around while you're here, give Lucas and especially you a warm Colorado welcome. Tech stuff, too. That being said, you're really here to meet the Rigassis in Denver and Pueblo. They'll be up here on the weekend, if you're amenable to meeting them."
"Absolutely," Luigi agreed. "I'm curious."
Pete raised his water glass. Matt and Luigi copied him and waited wordlessly for the older man's words. Pete fixed his brown eyes at Luigi and contentedly said, "A toast – to new beginnings; to family."
