Author's notes: A short chapter before I go on hiatus until September. See youse in a few weeks! As always, please leave a comment! Thank you so much for reading :)
Chapter 21: Deuteragony
Luigi returned to his Bensonhurst home in the mid-afternoon, following both the drive from Staten Island and the return of the truck. He took his kung pao chicken, rice, and vegetable takeout upstairs to get ready to leave for Palo Alto on Sunday morning. About an hour into his victory lunch and organization of his clothes, toiletries, and electronics, he heard the front door open and close, with two familiar voices calling out to him.
"I'm up here," he replied, shoveling more chicken and rice into his mouth.
He then heard two sets of footsteps heading up to his room and a soft knock on his door. Mario and Uncle Joe entered his room, their smiling faces both disappearing upon seeing the open suitcases on the bed. Joe walked into Luigi's room and leaned against the corner facing his nephew, crossing his arms, while an agitated Mario sat down on the bed next to the suitcases. Though Luigi moved them to the side to allow his brother more space, he did not discontinue his work.
"What's all this?" demanded the older brother. "You just passed the fuckin' master plumber's exam. The background check's comin' up and we gotta get you squared away with Astoria."
Luigi shook his head. "Yeah, I passed it. I passed it for me. My plane leaves for California on Sunday morning, so I only have today and tomorrow to pack. I've got a year to do the background check, and as for Astoria … What's there to say?" He scoffed on the last words, putting a stack of his shirts and jeans into the suitcase.
Mario launched himself off the bed to confront him. "You're still goin' to California? You just got a promotion! That's forty-five an hour. What college kid is makin' that?!"
Frustrated at the mini Italian Inquisition, Luigi slammed down his lunch on the desk and stepped into his brother's space while side-eyeing his uncle. "Did you fuckin' not hear what Slaughter said? And how long has that asshole been workin' for the union, huh? Longer than you or I have been alive! What makes you think that I'll even last a pension? If you were able to go off to Bumfuckistan for a couple years, then I'm allowed to go to fucking California for eight weeks! And who knows?" Luigi suddenly turned to look them both with a sardonic grin on his face, "maybe I'll even like it and stay!"
Before Mario could grab Luigi by his shirt to 'slap some sense into him,' Joe held up a hand to his eldest nephew. "Basta." He took a deep breath and fixed pained blue eyes on his younger nephew. "Kid, you just did what very few plumbers in New York ever hope to achieve. And at twenty-eight, no less. And you did it with that … piece of garbage breathin' down your neck! Go to California for a bit. Clear your head. You got … a scholarship, so why not. And after eight weeks, you come back, and we get this squared away."
Luigi faced his uncle with enraged Masciarelli eyes. "So that's what this is about? Let's wipe the union's ass some more?! It doesn't matter how badly they treat us, treated me, Maria, nah! It's all about the fuckin' pension! Well, I'm doin' youse a favor – I'm not getting this 'squared away!' I'm done!"
Mario recoiled at his words as Joe approached him hostilely, stopping just behind the former. "You watch your mouth, kid! And no, it's not all about the fuckin' pension! I don't give a shit about that! Y-you know," he pointed, coughing, "you're like your goddamned father! He didn't want to stay and change the union. Nah, he wanted to change the fuckin' world instead! Look where that shit got him! You think that Stanford will somehow make the world a better fuckin' place?"
Luigi regarded his paternal uncle bitterly as well as tiredly. "That's just it. My presence won't make the union do anything. I've been in it for ten years, long enough to know that, even if I'm reinstated, I'll never be anything. Yeah, I'll get a few jobs here and there. I'll collect the forty-five an hour until they get smarter and kick me out with something that I can't disprove as easily. By then, you and Sal will be retired and Mario … will be who-knows-where. And I'll be left holdin' the fuckin' bag like usual." He returned to his suitcases and resumed packing. "Stanford doesn't need to change the world. But it does offer me hope!"
Throwing up his right arm, Giuseppe paced and screamed a litany of partially-pronounced obscenities. Returning to his corner opposite Luigi and crossing his arms again, he then grumbled in both Abruzzese and English that Luigi "was just like his fuckin' father! That fuckin' idealistic, sanctimonious ass!"
"Why does it bother you so fuckin' much, Joe?" yelled Luigi in English. "I'm not a fuckin' scab! Scabs intentionally undermine the union guys. Rather, I'm leaving. I'm doing no damage to you or the guys, and I'm doing something else with my life. What …" he looked around dramatically, "what else is there, huh? I won't have a shop – Nonno's shop will go either to Mario or Maria. I won't have the capital to make another one 'cause union won't give me the contracts. My license would only be good for New York City. I could go upstate, but you know that I'd have to take the test again. So … what? Why is my future so expendable to you?!"
At each word, Mario grew ashamed, and he sat back down on the bed, wiping his mouth and mustache worriedly. Joe stood recalcitrant and chewed on his lip, yet said nothing. A moment later, Mario spoke in his best sergeant-diplomat's voice, "Weegie, let's … let's just table this for now. We … we hear ya. You're not a scab. No one's sayin' that, right, Zio?" he glanced up to his uncle and glared pointedly. "We just … want what's right. And you gettin' kicked out wasn't right. I … I hate you goin' to that fuckin' earthquake-infested landfill. But if that's what it'll take to make this right for now, then that's what'll it take." Again, the red-hoodied man glared at the thin, middle-aged plumber, who crossed his arms even more tightly in a wordless rebuke of both his nephews. Yet contrary to his normally stubborn and stern disposition, the navy blue-hoodied Italian refused to hold their gaze and, much to the nephews' mutual disbelief, allowed a clear and thin trail of saltwater to trace one of the decade-old wrinkles on his cheek.
The room fell quiet; Luigi continued, albeit much more deliberately, to place his clothes in the suitcase, with Mario, still sitting on his brother's bed, hunched over in thought, and an unmoving Giuseppe leaned against the wall and fixated his icy blue eyes on the open luggage. A third time, Mario broke the tension, asking, "What time's your flight on Sunday morning? And which airport?"
Luigi momentarily stopped what he was doing and replied, "Um, nine o'clock, LaGuardia. I'll arrive in San Francisco at around noon Pacific Time."
Mario nodded as Joe balled his fists and bit his lip, presumably to refrain from making any outburst. "Bene. I'll give you a ride to the airport …"
Giuseppe hurled himself from the wall and stomped out of the room. Taking two steps at a time down the staircase, he thundered out of the house and slammed the front door. Luigi quickly followed him outside where he found the older man at the driver's side, fumbling with the keys to unlock the truck.
"What the hell is the matter with you?" demanded the green-shirted plumber.
The man stopped, braced himself against the truck frame, and flashed chilly blue eyes at his nephew. Then he shrugged nonchalantly. "What's the matter with me? You're the one who wants to leave. You want to throw away a future, a life, for … what? A nice trip to the fuckin' seashore? I seem to recall that stupid plan, back when you were sixteen!"
"I don't have a choice," firmly answered Luigi, the sunlight above causing him to squint.
"You do have a choice, nipoti," growled Uncle Joe. "You can stay and fight them!"
"Why?! Why me? You never asked this shit of Mario or, hell, even Maria!" he screamed, feeling a deeply-rooted surge of resentment that had been backing up like a hairy clog. "Maria did it because she wanted to! You fucking told her that it wasn't possible, that she needed to find something else! Yet it's different for me, why? Because of some Italian masculine bullshit? Because I'm the coward and need to man up? Yeah, well, screw you. At what point does the Family think that my sitting in the background until it's time to take me out and play me becomes enough?!"
As he turned to re-enter the house, Giuseppe abruptly rushed around the rear of his truck, roughly grabbed his nephew, and pulled him into a bear hug. Luigi struggled against him, but to no avail, surprised at the older man's wiry strength. "Yeah, I fuckin' said that to her, and I hated every goddamn word! For months, I couldn't look in the mirror without feeling sick!D'you know why? Because she almost died because of me! Because I wasn't there! Well, I'm here now!"
"Then why can't you be here for when I need you?" whispered Luigi. "Why does it always have to be about the union, about plumbing?"
"It ain't about the union, kid," he murmured, coughing and wheezing a little. "I could give a flying fuck about the union."
"Then what? Why is it so offensive to you that I'm going? You got Maria, Adriana, Lucia, your grandchild! I don't get it," he said tearfully.
Through his own fresh tears, which Luigi had not realized were freely falling down the elder's cheeks, Giuseppe replied quietly, "Whether you like it or not, you've been my son for the past thirteen years – longer than that, even. You don't understand how much it took not to rip Slaughter's useless body apart! Not simply because of what he did to your cousin, but what he did to you! God help me, figlio," he wheezed, seething, "I was seconds from killing him today."
"I know all of this … But even you let Adriana go to Jersey! Mario's jaunts across the ocean never seemed to bother you as much. Why can't I go to California for eight weeks?" asked Luigi again, this time more gently.
"Adriana's like your zia's sister, chasin' after the first Italian guy who crosses her path. There was no stopping her. And she could have done much worse than Paulie. Mario's more like your nonno. Strong, but reckless and even … violent. Believe me, kid, I have seen men twice your size and twice as long in the union who shrunk in the presence of that grimey fat fuck and would never have dared tell him what you and Maria did." Laughing and sniffling, he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and added, "Sometimes, it scares me to see just how much you are your father's son. You're my last piece of him, kid. And if I lost you …"
"It's like losin' him all over again," the young man concluded. "Zio, listen, I … I get it. But I need to do this. Pops wanted me to see the world outside of New York, and you know that to be true. I'll … table the union issue, like Mario suggested. And I will come back in August. I just … I just don't know if plumbing's what I want anymore."
Giuseppe mutely drew him closer, having ignored everything but his nephew's promise to return to New York. "Bambino mio …" he breathed. "Just come back. Please."
Luigi returned the embrace and whispered, "Ti prometto, Zio."
Instead of driving straight home to Staten Island, Giuseppe drove down 86th Street and the unofficial boundary between Bensonhurst and Bath Beach. The former Little Italy of Brooklyn had changed significantly over the last half century, so much so that he often wondered if he had actually grown up on 65th Street and 18th Avenue. Gone were the empty lots, where the neighborhood kids gathered to play stickball and football, and the old mom-and-pops run by Italian immigrants and first-generation Italian families, long since replaced with new storefronts, coffee chains, and bodega-like shops with English, Chinese, and occasional Cyrillic lettering. The iconic Lenny's Pizza, once the pride of Italian Brooklyn and the scene of John Travolta grabbing a slice before dancing disco, stood like a shriveled old prick between the commercial balls of Hallmark's and Starbucks. It depressed the fifty-four-year-old, as he had moved out of the area shortly after his first two daughters' births and Gabriella's passing in 1990. Despite his and Lucia's pleas for them to move to Eltingville as well, his widower brother continued in his mother-in-law's home and did his best to raise the two sons as a single parent. For the next decade, he and Lucia divided their time between Staten Island and Brooklyn to look after the teenage Mario, who, like his Nonno had been in Pescara, wasa street kid with a nasty temper and a penchant for brutality, and the much younger Luigi, who was a prime target for the neighborhood bullies. After his brother died, when Mario went into the Army and Luigi came to live in Eltingville, Giuseppe had little reason to visit Bensonhurst, and he missed the more extreme changes in the quarter.
His truck slowed down as he circled back in the opposite direction toward one of his and his brother's favorite childhood haunts. Before or after work, or when they wanted to hide from their father's unpredictable bouts of anger, they rode their bicycles from 65th Street down past 86th Street to Gravesend Bay and westward to Bay Ridge. Before the rivers and bays were polluted by population density and synthetics, Mario Senior and Giuseppe used to bring their fishing poles and caught dinner for their mother. Parking near the John Paul Jones Park, he soon found himself slumped in one of the benches next to the Verrazzano. The rough, rocky-shored open space of Bay Ridge had been replaced with Parisian-like emerald-green gardens, flower beds, and fenced-in walks underneath the immense suspension bridge. It was pretty, civilized, and Giuseppe hated it with a passion.
"It's too civilized now," echoed a recognizable voice from years past. The figure moved from behind Giuseppe and sat next to him on the blue bench. "Not the same character from when we were kids. No fish, no dirt, and no wild waves."
The plumber bristled at man's Midwestern-accented speech and refused to face his former childhood friend, replying instead, "There are other benches."
"Oh, I know. In fact," said the man who was dressed in an expensive charcoal gray suit – no tie – and shiny Italian shoes, "I didn't even know you were here. I figured you'd be working in your shop in Staten Island. But here we are. How are you, Joe?"
"The fuck do you want, Pete?" growled the plumber. "I thought you were in Colorado doing God-knows-what. And skiing, I hear, too."
Pete chuckled a little. "Yeah, I still live in Denver, but I'm out here on business. And I do ski. So does your nephew. My cousin." Giuseppe glared at him, and he shrugged indifferently. "Luigi's grown up to be quite a remarkable young man. You know, he looks exactly like my uncle, his namesake."
"He is nothing like Luigi Rigassi or Audenzia's father, you slimy Mafia fuck!" he hissed, letting out an involuntary cough.
Pete tsk-tsked and chuckled. "Mafia? Jesus Christ, you have always had a wild imagination about my family. And besides, all I said was that he looks like Zio Luigi. And he does, to a tee. As my son says to me on occasion, 'Dude, chill.'"
"What the hell do you want?" demanded Giuseppe. "What more can you take from me, from my brother?"
The shorter man shrugged again, though eyeing his former friend in a somewhat irritated manner. "I didn't take anything from Mario; neither did my family. Rather, the Masciarellis took from us. You stole from us. You stole Luigi from us. That wasn't going to fly, and you and your brother knew it. Salvatore knew it. Eventually, you knew we would come for what was owed. I negotiated a truce, and your family got an heir, Joe. You got Mario the war hero. That would have made your father proud. I'd like to think that your brother would have been, too. Be happy with that."
"Over my fucking dead body!" he shouted, leaping off the bench to face Pete. "Luigi is mine! Besides, Jackie didn't want him, remember? He ain't suited for the life. Just let him go, let him live."
"Oh?" challenged the man with a dark eyebrow raised. "You forget that you're not dealing with Jackass, who only remembers what he ate for breakfast and which goomah he fucked the night previous, but with me. You know, despite your high intelligence, Joe, you never saw the big picture or the future. See, I like the big picture. And Luigi fits exactly with that picture." He scoffed and shook his head. "I'm frankly offended at the way you've treated him. Here you are, whining about how he's 'yours' and such when you turned him into a sanitation worker with absolutely no future. You turned him into you. Do you really think the union is going to tolerate someone like him? Someone whose I.Q. is, let's say, light years beyond the nosepickers? In fact, I heard something about that very recently … Apparently, the union kicked him out, I hear, just because he's related to you, to the Masciarellis." Tsk-tsking again, Pete continued, "Though, being the decent boy that he is, he told off that piece of crap. And look where he is – no job and blacklisted."
Giuseppe's blue eyes narrowed like a reptile's, and he loomed over the unaffected Pete who held his gaze evenly. "Did you do this? Did you have Luigi kicked out? Because if you did, I don't care which 'organization' you belong to, Pete. Even if you're scoutin' for the Mets, I'll rip you apart."
Pete burst out laughing; however, his eyes blazed with indignation at the other man's accusation. "Really, Joe? You think I would be that stupid? Let's assume for the moment that I am working for some … organization." He held up his index and thumb to gesture a 'little bit' to the plumber. "Just momentarily. You really think that I would engineer this whole thing, make my … organization publicly lose face by letting that loose cannon out, just so Luigi of all people would get kicked out of his job? Stick to your pipes and toilets. Conspiracies really aren't your thing."
They were both silent for several minutes afterward, a coolish breeze began to coat the afternoon Brooklyn air. In spite of himself, Giuseppe started to cough; betrayed by his body, he pulled out a green handkerchief and sat down next to Pete on the bench. The Denverite watched him as he wheezed into the cloth and tried to breathe at the same time. Averting his eyes from Joe, Pete faced forward and wiped at them furiously. His seizing lungs now still, Joe regained his composure, stood up straight, and finally responded, "Alright. So who's response for this? And don't give me a line of shit about Slaughter."
Pete sighed. "I can't say."
"Fine," spat Joe. "Next question: what about Luigi?"
"I hear he's going to Stanford. It's a very good school, very good fit for his interests. It'll be good for him to get out of New York for a few months." He side-eyed Giuseppe who studied the greenery, ostensibly lost in thought. "Luigi will be fine in California. He's a good kid, smart." At his stony silence, Pete added, "That cough's been getting worse in the past couple years. What did the doctor say?"
"Fuck off."
"That good, huh? Jesus," murmured Pete. "Well, that's what heroism gets you, Joe. At the time, I remember that the media couldn't get enough of you all. Doing what they, the public, the Congress, the President didn't have the stomach to do. And now, a decade later, you can't even get decent medical care."
It was Giuseppe's turn to shrug nonchalantly. "They can't build a time machine. And I didn't do it to be a fuckin' hero."
"I know," nodded Pete slightly. "I know why you did it. But now, you got a family to think about. Your girls. I even hear that you became a grandfather in the past year. You're blessed. You got to stay as healthy as possible for them. Luigi will be okay."
For the first time in several minutes, Giuseppe pivoted his head to the other man and growled, "I have my children, my grandson, my wife, my mama, and I thank God every moment for them. But Luigi is also my son, goddammit. He became my son when cancer claimed Gabriella." Jabbing his finger toward the north, he yelled, "He became my son when those sonsabitches flew halfway 'round the world and murdered my brother!" Coughing a bit more then spitting into his green rag, Giuseppe went on in a quieter, yet firm tone, "That's what you fuckin' Rigassis never understood! You deal in treaties, walk them back like they're nothin', and treat the people involved as if they were … commodities. You're no different than the fuckin' pigs on Wall Street who ruin lives like they were cheap spaghetti. You think he's yours by some fuckin' agreement that I never made. Yeah, my brother may have been the biological father of Luigi Masciarelli, but I am his father in every fuckin' way that counts! Every way!" He shook his head empathetically. "I'm talkin' family, blood! I was there when he refused to cry for his father, just to show that he was as tough as his brother, when he ran away because he thought that the world had ended. And it had." Wiping a tear from his eye, he demanded, "And where the fuck were you? Huh? Denver? As for Big Jackass, he sat on his ass and did a big fat nothin'. So don't you dare tell me how I should feel about Luigi."
As Giuseppe rose disgustedly from the bench, Pete raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. "Ah, the coward who could never escape his own father wants a redo with the child of the man whom he always envied." Without facing him, the plumber stopped in place, body shaking at Pete's words. "You're such a hypocrite, Joe. You've always been one. And now we're rehashing a three-decade-old debate."
Slowly, and as he coughed once more, Joe turned toward Pete and replied, "Stay away from him. I don't give a shit about your … code, traditions, omertà,whatever the fuck you wanna call it. You might be his cousin, you might have the ears of people important to somebody, but I will always be there."
"Will you now?" asked Pete skeptically. "Your brother thought that, too."
White as a ghost, Giuseppe retreated to his truck, leaving an expressionless Pete Morell on the bench in nearly the very spot where they – Mario Senior, Gabriella, and Salvatore – once made plans to leave Brooklyn after high school. As his former friend disappeared from view, Pete fished out a burner phone and dialed a number. A moment later, Pete spoke, "Yeah, I'm waiting. It's where? Okay, see you in thirty."
Pete immediately left the bench and, looking over his shoulder, backtracked several times, pretending to be on a stroll through John Paul Jones Park. He then drove his rental car across the Verrazzano to a quiet residential street in New Dorp, Staten Island. The white and red brick houses on both sides of the street were constructed similarly to those of Bensonhurst, built by Italian-owned companies – fathers and sons – who left Brooklyn's Little Italy to 'start afresh' after the non-Italian and non-Jewish immigrants arrived in the 1970s and 1980s. Parking alongside one of the nondescript red and white houses, Pete exited the vehicle, walked up the concrete staircase, and knocked on the gold and white front door. A young woman from Argentina, Ana, opened the door and smiled. "Pete, please come in; he'll be glad to see you."
"Thanks," nodded Pete with a smile. Walking through the old-style white and red-painted parlor, Ana guided him to an old, thin, Italian man in his eighties watching an old episode of Bonanza in a beige Lazy-Boy. The house itself would have seemed strangely bare to an independent observer – no books, photographs, or icons on the walls, and the only furniture – including dining room tables and chairs – was in the living room with the old man. However, Pete knew that despite his age, this man liked to move from place to place during the day and never conducted business or received guests at his family home in Tottenville. In addition to his trusted soldiers constantly circling the block, it reduced the possibility of the NYPD or FBI bugging or following him.
"Ah, this never gets old. I don't know what these fuckin' kids watch nowadays, with their fuckin' Jersey Shore shit." The man deliberately turned his neck toward Ana and Pete, who waited for him to acknowledge their presence. "Buongiorno, Petey-boy. Grazie, Ana. I'm sure my piece of shit son will be joining us soon. Would ya bring some coffee, please?"
As Ana left the room, the old man waived the waiting younger man over to him. Pete reverently approached his elder, whispered a buongiorno, kissed his hand, and pulled up a chair to sit next to him. In wordless response, the old man lovingly slapped Pete on the cheek, smiling, and said, "Ah, Sofia and Paolo got lucky with you, kid."
A few minutes later, a very fat, dark-haired man in a two-thousand-dollar Italian suit pushed past Ana into the house. Spotting the two men, he obligatorily kissed his father's hand, mumbled an acknowledgement of his padrino, and took a chair on the other side of the elder. After removing his thick-rimmed glasses to clean them from the day's dirt and oil, he set them back atop his nose. They waited in uneasy quiet as the old man chortled and made commentary on the Bonanza episode. Ana arrived with three small espresso cups and a small sugar-free cookie for each man. "Another one of these goddamned fake biscotti?" he whined at the younger woman.
"Sorry, Señor Carlo. You know the doctor's orders," she replied good-naturedly. "Your A1C was too high the last time you had your checkup."
"Ah, you're a good ragazza, Ana. But lemme give you – and youse – a piece of advice: doctors are a bunch of fuckin' fools. Longevity is one thing, but takin' the fun outta life ain't worth it, huh? Bene, grazie," said the old Italian, raising his hand to dismiss her.
As she obediently left, he took a sip of the espresso and remarked, "She's a good woman. Italian Argentina. Makes good coffee, so bein' eighty-four fuckin' years old ain't so bad." He nibbled at the 'fake' biscotti with a sour face, "The cookie's fitting. It presents itself as a biscotti, but when you bite into it, it tastes like saccharine shit. It describes our current predicament in maniera perfetta." Face still sour, Carlo sipped the espresso and discarded the cookie. Pete drank the coffee while Jackie ate the cookie in two bites and threw an irritated glance at his small saucer that there was no extra sugar. The father observed his son's habits with complete derision and, no longer unable to hold in his temper, slammed the saucer down on the table next to his Lazy-Boy. "You fucked up again, Jackie! You and your fucking Bowsers! What the fuck are you doing with the goddamned micks, anyway? Are you out of your fucking mind?"
Jackie Morano froze mid-sip at his father's swift scolding. Embarrassed and angry, he balanced the coffee down in his lap and retorted, "The Bowsers are moneymakers, Pops. They make us a lot of dough, which you collect. The Irish are …"
"Fucking insane!" interrupted the padrino with a thunderous roar. "Your fucking Leprechaun bartender made a show for the whole fuckin' world to see, and now, now, he's the goddamned laughing stock of fuckin' Bensonhurst. The stupid cocksucker got his ass kicked by a ragazza! A ragazza that is apparently with your cousin Luigi. That makes her off-limits, and your dumb fuckin' mick knew that!"
"I dealt with him, Pops. Him and my idiot son. Don't worry; it's been taken care of."
"Oh?" replied Carlo. "I hear that Luigi also found himself out of the fuckin' union. Our fuckin' union. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would ya, Jackass?"
At Pete's raised eyebrow at his fellow mafioso, Jackie hotly snapped while holding up a finger to both men, "Wait a fuckin' minute! I didn't do shit to him!"
"Then who allowed Slaughter and his buddies to make a unilateral decision like that, huh? You wouldn't be tellin' your old Pops a fib? Because, Giacomo Morano, I may be eighty-four, but I'm not a fuckin' babe. And you better not be lyin' to me!" warned Carlo.
"I ain't lyin', Pops!" insisted Jackie, waving his hands palms up. "Luigi's a..a.. finocchio, but I'd never hurt him!"
"Then who the hell sent the thugs after Mario and Luigi? Are they related to Slaughter or Pickler? Those are your connections, you fucking minchione!" barked Pete, who was quickly losing patience at his New York counterpart. Carlo held up a comforting hand to his subordinate, both to quiet and to reassure him that he was in control.
Jackie shrugged and nodded a little sadly. "Tony's a little cazz'. It's true; Mateusz and Ferenc are his guys. Pichler's a cockless ballsack. Bowser's always had a little impulse control issue, but nothin' I can't handle. And as for Slaughter, he pays the dough; that's all I give a fuck about."
Carlo's brown eyes contorted into black points. "Well, see, we have a problem then, figlio. You and Tony are responsible for the union and our interests. Yet you don't know who controls Slaughter. And if it ain't us …" To both Pete and Jackie's visible shock, the old man threw the cup and saucer at his large son, splashing the remnants of the coffee on his expensive suit. "You just fucking allowed a takeover of our turf, you stupid fuckin' jackass!"
Big Jackass froze, still crouched over from Carlo's assault by porcelain, finally realizing the scope of the situation. He shivered at the inevitable punishment that he and Tony would face from their padrino, his Papà. Shit rolls downhill. "Pops, I …"
"Just shut your stupid fuckin' mouth!" he hissed quietly. "Marrone, this is a fuckin' embarrassment." He scrubbed his face with his thin wrinkled hands. "Now what to do. Someone knows. It wasn't one of the other families; that shit would have been dealt with. Could it have come from one of our connections – Russians, Albanians, Greeks?"
"Georgie Kariolis is clean, Pops," insisted Carlo's son in a plea.
"You sure about that?" challenged the old man. "Georgie and his fuckin' son … They make us money, sure, but they're wild, unpredictable. Greeks are like that – there's a fuckin' reason why the Trojans feared 'em and the Romans copied 'em. And this computer mumbo-jumbo shit! Back in my day, gambling, billion-dollar Manhattan high-rises, building contracts, and exchanging favors – those were easy money! We built New York! Now, you have to peel every fuckin' dollar off the ground. Money's good, but only the money that you can control. We saw that bullshit in the eighties with junk bonds and pyramid schemes, then with smack and the fuckin' DEA in the nineties. I ain't about to get fucked in the ass here." He paused, then said, "Jackie, I want you to bring me that goddamn Kariolis. I wanna talk to him myself. Capisci? And handle your fuckin' son and his Irish rat before the FBI start sniffin' up our asses. Now, get the fuck outta my sight."
Deflated at his father's furious dismissal, Jackie set his espresso cup down and ambled out of the house while Pete sat noiselessly. Carlo grabbed the remote control and turned off the television, then smiled at his protégé. "Padrino," started Pete, "I did get some of the information from that little prick, Lucas. He gave us fifty percent of what he stole, but not all of it."
Carlo waived his hand again. "Sti cazzi. That little arrogant fuck will eventually lead us to it. As you've learned well, patience is a virtue. Now, what of young Luigi? The way that he humiliated that Irish pig did us all proud."
"He's going to California. I'm not thrilled about Lucas accompanying him, but Luigi needs time away from New York, Giuseppe, and Mario."
"Bene. Lucas is a sniveling little shit, but he's useful at times. Plus, we need to keep our friends close, but our enemies closer. Mario is a bruiser like his nonno; give him a target and a king's crown, and that little Abruzzese fuck will jump. But Giuseppe … Him, I respect, Pietro. The union guys respect him. And for that, we need to tread carefully. It's no secret that Luigi is like his own. What of this ragazza Luigi's with?"
"Well," Pete began, consciously choosing his words, "as you well know, the rules are different in my crew than they are in New York. As long as the husband's Italian, then the wife's origins don't matter. It prevents issues with men taking up with goomahs who might talk to the cops or the FBI. Happy home makes quiet home."
Carlo nodded. "It's prudent. The paesani out there needed to assimilate to survive. At times, I wish this is this how we handled things. Unfortunately, the Board thought otherwise. This ragazza ain't Italian. Personally, I got no problem with him going with a Spagnola or a Portoghese. As long as she ain't a moulie or beduina, per me va bene. But that ain't the way here. The family must be completelyItalian. That way, we know if someone's got a problem with someone else. Avoids conflict." He shrugged a little. "But for now, it's a little bit of nothing. Let him enjoy it." He paused, feeling late-afternoon fatigue settle into his aching bones. "Pete, I want you to oversee this computer shit. You seem to understand it. I come from a different time, y'know." At Pete's nod, he resumed his order, "It's to our benefit, but erratic. I don't like that. And Jackie and Tony are fuckin' coglioni who wanna be that stupid fuck Gotti, and they will get caught in a RICO. You're low-key, low-profile. A decade ago, I made a big fuckin' mistake by sendin' Luigi to that stupid, ungrateful fat fuck. After the kid gets what he needs in California, he'll be your responsibility. He'll learn properly, quietly."
"Bene, padrino."
"And whoever's fuckin' around in the plumber's union has my attention," snarled Carlo irritably. "I want that cocksucker Slaughter to be brought to me personally. Arrange it before you leave for Colorado, Pietro. I want this cleaned up before it gets out of hand."
"Consider it done."
"Bene. After this, go to Junior's, personally, and tell him what I just told ya. I don't want to risk the fuckin' FBI or whatever-fuckin'-letters hearin' about this. The union's been ours for fifty years. I ain't givin' it up to a bunch of goddamned Irish trash." Carlo gave one final look to his nephew and patted his cheek. "Keep your health; getting old is the shits."
At a few minutes before eight o'clock on Sunday morning, Miles nervously exited the High Street and Cadman Plaza subway stop and walked at a brisk pace toward Dumbo. Disliking tardiness, he checked his watch several times to make sure that he would arrive on precisely the hour as requested. Normally, he did not come to Brooklyn on a Sunday except when he was invited every so often by Yoshi, Mario, or Luigi for an afternoon meal. On weekends, the blond engineer refused on principle to get up before eleven o'clock in the morning, having spent his Friday and Saturday nights conducting 'reconnaissance' for various reasons and benefactors – both personal and professional. But Miles decided that this Sunday was exceptional.
Unbeknownst to Luigi, Mario and Peach had taken the liberty to invite Miles, Yoshi, and Birdo for a late Saturday lunch. Over Sicilian-style pizza and cannoli, the elder brother had dramatically recounted the previous day's events in Staten Island and Luigi's response to Slaughter. Yoshi and Birdo howled with laughter as Miles, Luigi, and Peach smirked. Upon Luigi's return, Birdo vowed to have green tee-shirts made with a two-sided print: on the front, "UA 2;" on the back, "Suck My Dick!" Keeping to his apparent promise to table any discussion about his brother's future in the union, Mario limited the celebration to Luigi's success in passing the master plumber's exam and his advancement to the background check stage, which roughly fifty to sixty percent of applications never reach.
As Miles had laughed along with his friends, he abnormally felt the buzz of a received voicemail; most of his colleagues, contacts, and friends, including Luigi and Yoshi, exclusively used text. Taking out his phone, he checked the number and frowned uncomprehendingly. Excusing himself and promising to return as soon as possible, he walked away from the group who had gathered at the dining room table and into a far corner of the living room so that he could have some privacy. The familiar voice asked Miles to meet at the Plymouth Café near the Brooklyn Bridge at 8 am the next morning. Texting a confirmation, Miles pocketed the phone and rejoined the gathering.
At precisely eight o'clock, the engineer stopped under the Plymouth's bright green awning. There was no one waiting, which both relieved him that he had not been late and worried him as to when the caller would arrive. A moment later, hands shoved in his characteristic blue plumber's hoodie, a tall, curly-haired man with glasses ambled up the sidewalk and toward Miles. Once within a foot from the younger man, he wordlessly gestured with his head to follow him inside the café. Miles did as he was asked and, from a corner, he observed the older Italian plumber greet the man and request two regulars. Pivoting on his almost gaunt legs, Giuseppe offered Miles a pastry, but he politely declined. He then handed Miles one of the coffees and, after paying, exited the café. Miles bounded after him; they walked down Cranberry Street until they came to a large and long path, bicycle racks, deep green trees, and a perfect view of the East River and Lower Manhattan skyline. Giuseppe crossed the path, chose a bench seemingly at random, and sat down at one end, sipping his coffee. The engineer sank to the other end of the bench and, holding the warm drink in his hands, waited for him to speak.
"I don't even recognize it, y'know," began Uncle Joe. "Brooklyn. It was so different in my day, when I was a kid, when I was your age. Just, uh, just a couple blocks from here, we – Luigi's father, mother, and I – used to go picnicking. On my brother's off day from the Fire Department, we would bring little Mario, and just, y'know, enjoy the air. It was kind of dangerous then, but what could ya do on a probie's and apprentice's salary?" He took a slow sip of the coffee and smiled sadly. "Anyway, you're not here to listen to an old man ramble. I need your help, Miles. I know you're, uh, proficient in computers. And I know you're able to … acquire information through unusual means. I want to hire you."
"Hire me?" asked Miles. "Why? I mean, if it's to monitor Luigi …"
"Not exactly, kid. What I'm gonna ask of you is dangerous. Very dangerous, so feel free to say no."
"Depends on what it is," answered Miles carefully, still holding the untouched coffee.
Giuseppe nodded. "Fair enough. Luigi's trip to Colorado. What did he tell you about it?"
"He asked me about Pete Morell or Morello. I … I think he's, uh," he looked around to see where others could be listening and, seeing that there was no one in earshot, said, "LCN. But I don't know just how high up."
The older man smiled a little and shrugged. "Not much gets by you, does it?" At Miles's raised eyebrow, he nodded again. "Yeah, he's LCN, kid. He's what you call caporegime; at least, he was back in the nineties. He could be higher up now, I don't know. His mother was the sister of Mario and Luigi's grandfather, Luigi Rigassi. All of the Rigassis are in it except for their uncle Salvatore, who went into the priesthood. Anyway, Luigi was, uh, brought to Colorado to meet the family."
"Yeah, I know." At Giuseppe's surprised look, Miles answered, "I'm worried about Luigi being on the West Coast. Especially with the union thing happening and … Pete Morello's trips. He takes trips to New York from Denver every three months. I'm sure it's to report back to his, uh, godfather."
"Kid," Giuseppe leaned in, rising his index finger, "if you know something, you got to tell me! I can't protect him if I don't know. Pete and I spoke right after that shit that went down in Staten Island. That's why I'm here, Miles. I don't know if it was by chance or by accident, but Pete's being in New York isn't a fuckin' accident, trip or no. He knows about Luigi and Stanford. Please. Help me."
Miles nodded slowly and faced the skyline. "I told Luigi that I would keep this confidential. I usually honor my oaths, especially when invoking Spock's name. However, I think Mr. Spock would break confidence to save a life or when it's otherwise fucking important." Giuseppe eyed him, shook his head at the spontaneous mention of Star Trek, then waited for the engineer to divulge the secret. "Luigi sat down with a capo friend of Pete's – Vinny or something." Lost in thought, the blond did not notice Giuseppe choke on his coffee. "I don't think he was especially privy to anything. But Luigi apparently saw a video of Marco Bowser selling secrets to Al-Qaeda. Pete was apparently upset, and understandably so."
"He what?" hissed Giuseppe. "Luigi sat down with a fuckin' made guy? Are you making this shit up, Miles?"
"Why would I make that up?" he retorted evenly. "Anyway, the video of Marco Bowser exists. Pete called this meeting in Denver with the Vinny guy, and Luigi was invited along."
"Was his name Vinny DiScala?" asked Giuseppe in a shaking voice.
"Yeah, that was it, yeah," confirmed Miles.
Giuseppe began to cough brutally and, as he reached for his green handkerchief, was unable to stop a trail of blood drip from his mouth. A shocked Miles cried, "Jesus, we need to get you to a doctor …"
Wiping his mouth, he shook his head. Regaining his composure, he said softly, "Kid, they can't do anything for me. And don't be an idiot and tell Mario or Luigi, either!" He inhaled deeply to force badly-needed air to his weakened lungs. "Back to what I do need. Vinny DiScala's a special type of dirtbag. Nickname's Il Macellaio– Vinny Meat-Market. I don't know him personally, but there were always rumors, back in the eighties, when I still lived in Bensonhurst. He used to be Carlo Morano's personal hitman. Marco Bowser's six feet under, so I have no idea why Pete would call him."
"Why involve Luigi in any of this?" inquired Miles worriedly, who began to sip at the lukewarm coffee.
Giuseppe scrubbed his face with his hands and sniffed, letting out a frustrated yelp. "Because his idiot father made a deal with Carlo Morano and Pete. Mario is the oldest son of his father, Mario, who was the oldest son of my father. That makes him the prospective Masciarelli paterfamilias in Sicilian and old-school Italian culture. Out of respect for my father, the paterfamilias when Luigi was born, they left him alone. Luigi, however, is the second son. He's also a Rigassi – Luigi's grandson and Carlo Morano's great-nephew."
"Heir apparent," concluded Miles with an angry edge to his voice.
"Yeah," the older man breathed. "And if Pete is more than just a capo now, if he's Carlo's successor, then introducing Luigi to Vinny DiScala was a vetting process. They can't just introduce guys, especially in New York. They got vet 'em to make sure that they won't start a war between the families."
"How do you know so much about this? I mean, even if you grew up in Bensonhurst, this isn't exactly common knowledge."
Uncle Joe emptied the now cold coffee down his throat like a whiskey shot glass. With haunted blue eyes, he faced the boy and answered, "I wasn't one of them, if that's what you were thinkin'. But I know someone who … was in the life. He's a pentito – it's what the Sicilians call someone who has 'repented' and is no longer Mafia. In any case," he glanced down into the empty paper cup, "Pete will attempt to get Luigi made. He was letting meknow it on Friday. And I can't let that happen, Miles."
"Luigi would never agree to be made. So I don't understand …"
"Normally, I would agree," replied Giuseppe softly. "But these people do not take 'no' for an answer. If they say you join, then you join. It's familial. They make sure you do. Whether it's for money or … protection. Even the most moral people can buckle."
"Okay," he agreed. "So how do we prevent that for Luigi?"
"As I said earlier, I need someone who knows his way around a computer. If I were to give you … certain information, could you … look into Slaughter? UA 2 is owned by the Mob, which means, in theory, so's Slaughter." At Miles's widened eyes, Giuseppe spoke, "The fact that Luigi got kicked out is shocking in itself. And Pete denied doing it or having any knowledge, which I strangely believe."
"What about Fat Tony or Jackie? Could they have done it?" interrupted Miles.
Giuseppe shook his head. "Nah, they'd never go against their father. Without Carlo, both Jackass and Tony would either be in prison doin' serious time or their worthless fat asses would be lying in a landfill, and they're smart enough not to bite the hand that feeds them. No, someone else is behind it. I need to know who it is and why."
"I see," said Miles, who stared out at the lifting clouds above the blue-brown of the East River. "If the Rigassis didn't kick Luigi out, and they obviously wouldn't if they're trying to make him, then that means …"
" … There's a war brewing, and Luigi's caught right in the middle," finished Giuseppe.
Suddenly, Miles shook his head. "Wait a minute. Why not just let Pete deal with whomever it is? I mean, from what I've read, going after the family of mafiosi is a huge no-no unless the Commission or the Don okays it, and I don't see why they would in this case – Luigi has kept his mouth shut about Bowser. Slaughter ending up in the river serves everyone's interests."
"And he likely will if Pete and Carlo know," the older plumber spat. "The man nearly killed my daughter, and believe me, kid, it's taken twelve years of weekly confessions to my priest not to end his miserable fuckin' existence." Raising his index finger, he added, "But I'd rather he burn in hell instead of me, so if they want to take care of him, be my fuckin' guest. I'll gladly drink to his demise. That ain't the problem. It's what they might get Luigi to do for 'em as a result of this … war. Not to mention whoever is behind Slaughter."
"Okay, but what would you do with that information? I mean, if I were to find something? And what about Mario?" asked the engineer hesitantly. "Black hat seems all cool to the outside, but it's quite agonizing at times. It's a responsibility."
"I get that, Miles!" he snapped. Inhaling a bit, he went on in a softer tone, "I know, kid. Possessing knowledge is the only way right now to protect Luigi. And as for Mario, he needs to be left out of this. Whether it's Pete or someone else, they will use him if they can. He's a war hero and commands a lot of respect in Bensonhurst. Most importantly, there isn't anything he won't do for his brother, and they know that. If they can get both brothers, they will."
"Yeah, whoever hacked Luigi's phone already used Luigi against Mario," stated Miles flatly. "But why Luigi? Luigi isn't exactly … well, Mario. And why did you guys not tell them? What is this code of secrecy in the Masciarelli family which, I agree with Luigi, seems mafiosi? The Rigassis don't seem to care whether Bensonhurst knows they're Mob."
Cup in his hands, Giuseppe leaned against the bench, watching the now pale blue East River and the skyline, the green trees framing the scene like a postcard. They remained silent for several minutes, Miles awkwardly looking down at his cold coffee cup and stone of the platform underneath the bench. As he was about to end the awkwardness and make a discreet exit, Joe finally spoke, "Miles, every family has its share of fucked up. Every single fuckin' one. Mine was no different. As for Luigi, he's not Mario; you're right about that. But Pete is not Jackie."
"Alright," Miles answered. "I'll help you. What's this information on Slaughter?"
Joe reached into his front jeans pocket and handed the blond engineer a plain black jump drive. "Do what you need to do, kid."
Accepting the drive, Miles unobtrusively pocketed it and replied, "Give me forty-eight hours. I'll put a rush on this due to Luigi going to Stanford today. I'll call you when I find something. I do have a fee."
"A fee?"
"Yeah," he nodded. "It's not money. You want to save Luigi? Don't lie by omission. It hurts him because, in his mind, he was never as good as his brother or even his father." Miles rose from his seat, thanked the open-mouthed plumber for the coffee, and began to walk toward the subway back to Chelsea.
For the next several minutes, Joe remained frozen in place, running the young man's last words through his mind like an earworm. How history loved to repeat itself, he thought glumly. Three fucking generations of misery. With his left hand, he took out his black wallet and slipped out five photos that he carried with him at all times. The first was a Christmas portrait taken in the late 1990s of he and a medium-sized blonde with brown eyes sitting with two girls in their teens and one about nine or ten who was giving the camera a goofy smile; the middle child – Adriana – with her mother's blond hair and Maria and Lucia with their father's dark curls. The second was of a heavier-set, mustachioed man in a FDNY sweatshirt, his arm around a curly-haired, seventeen-year-old Mario in a yellow and blue baseball uniform carrying a bat over his shoulder. Joe smiled at the latter photo; Mario played third base and set the home-run record for New Utrecht High School that year. The third was much more recent, that of an white-haired Italian woman in her eighties holding her month-old great-grandson, Giulio. The fourth, which always brought a proud grin to his face, was of a seventeen-year-old Luigi dressed in a black sweatshirt, faded blue jeans, yellow hard-hat, and tool belt hanging off his boyishly narrow hips; he was making measurements for his first independent pipefitting in his Staten Island shop. He looked like a fourteen-year-old; though he reached his six-foot height, it would be another two or three years before he rounded out into a muscular man.
The fifth and final was a black and white photo from the late 1970s. Standing in the middle of an empty lot, a long clothes line extending between balconies in the background, were a group of kids in their teens displaying their regalia of youth – cotton, corduroy, denim, and leather. At the center of the group was a long-haired and clean-shaven Mario with a denim jacket, pants that slightly flared at the hem, and beat-up sneakers, his arm around a long and curly-haired Gabriella in brown bell-bottom pants, form-fitting tee-shirt, and windbreaker. On their right was a spectacled, curly-haired Giuseppe who, like his brother, wore a similar outfit, but with a winter coat. On the other side of them stood a short, dark-complexioned Salvatore in a zipped coat, jeans, and new sneakers, fake cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and their little sister, Maria, in a Catholic school uniform, who was fourteen at the time. Sòggira – mother-in-law – Audenzia took the photo a month or two before both Mario and Gabriella's graduation from New Utrecht High School and the eldest son's fiery resignation from their father's plumbing shop and intended apprenticeship. Mario had gone to live with the Rigassis in his last months of high school. Under the watchful eye of the very Catholic Audenzia, Mario finished his final semester and worked a string of dead-end jobs before a friend of the family – an Irish guy named Paddy McCullough whose in-laws were Italians – got him in with the Fire Department, just in time to cut his teeth during the hot and frightening summer of 1977.
By 1981, Mario Masciarelli – his brother, the skinny kid whom their father said would amount to nothing in life – became known throughout Bensonhurst and Bay Ridge as "The Jumpman" for having so far rescued two of his fellow firefighters as well as six people trapped in various buildings that had been set alight for insurance money. However, he as a young man was still living with his parents and working in his father's plumbing shop as an apprentice, sneaking out in the evenings to take classes at Brooklyn College. That was where he met the fierce Napolitana, Lucia Bianchi, from Flatbush. She was in two of his classes – Classical Origins of Western Culture and Introduction to Mathematical Reasoning and Computer Programming. A waitress by day, she was determined to get a profession at night. Though he was crazy about her from the start, she ignored him for the better part of a year, preferring to focus on her education instead of being a good Italian wife. Eventually, he won her over, and they married in 1983. Maria was born roughly a year later. His parents, however, disliked the blonde-haired, brown-eyed Lucia who spoke her mind, preferring that the now-heir to the plumbing business marry a nice, quiet Abruzzesegirl who would keep the home and produce sons.
The plumber's apprentice produced three daughters; the fireman who rejected the plumbing union had two sons.
Giuseppe coughed a little and gazed once more at the skyline rising majestically over the faint blue-brown water. He lived a good life; he had a beautiful family, having added two more generations of Masciarellis, and owned a modest, yet successful shop. The family survived, he survived. Yet that fact weighed on him like several tons of steel. Rising to his feet, he placed the photos back into his wallet, with the one of young Luigi on top of the others, and sadly made his way back to Staten Island.
