Author's notes: As always, thanks to all who continue to support the story. Likes and comments are very appreciated.
Chapter 4: Pestilence
Hurriedly pressing the green telephone button and the speaker, Luigi gasped, "Mario?"
Daisy, Salvatore, and the plumber heard a hacking rasp of a man, followed by slight wheezing. "Hey, fratellino. I'm sorry that I haven't been able to call. Mi dispiace." A second later, they overheard another series of coughs and the sound of him spitting into a tissue.
"Mario, what the fuck's going on? What's wrong?"
"Ah, fuck," he breathed. "One of the local fuckin' redneck motherfuckers decided to look at beaded tits on Bourbon Street and ended up givin' us his fuckin' flu. Because of this new coronavirus running amok in New York and New Orleans, they brought in a few doctors to take a look. Apparently, they don't have a better method than to shove a long Q-tip up the very fucking orifice that hurts the most! So until we get the results back, we're in quarantine for at least another ten days."
"Jesus, fratello!" exclaimed the tall man, his terrified blue eyes connecting with Daisy's stunned amber and Salvatore's dark orbs. "So where are you?"
A click signaled that Mario had put down the phone to let out another few seconds' worth of coughing and spitting. Before Luigi could yell his name, his groans grew louder. "Ah goddamn it ... the government put us in a secure area. The DHS is going to require everyone going to and from the United States to quarantine for the same amount of time, so they made us do it, too. At least I'm not payin' for that shit. Of course, the State of Louisiana doesn't give a fuck; their people just got sent home or on another plane to fuck-knows-where. Fuckin' clown show."
As Luigi closed his eyes, Salvatore approached both the phone and his youngest nephew to give him support. "Niputi, do you really think it's the flu?" he asked in what he hoped was an even tone.
"Uncle Sal?" he wheezed. "The fuck are you doing there?"
"Yeah, kid," the Sicilian replied, nodding unconsciously to the phone. "I'm here. I, uh, came to help Luigi with Josh. Things are getting scary here in New York. A hundred cases in just under a week." Glancing at Daisy who was focusing her attention to a spot on the floor, he added, "Josh is okay – don't worry about that. Have you heard from Cristina?" Each person heard only the pulsing of their heartbeats against Mario's subsequent silence. When he continued not to respond, he gently prodded, "Mario? Sei ancore lì?"
"Yeah, Zio," Mario finally spoke. "She's ... stuck. In Venezia. And now that Trump's closed the borders, I can't get to her. Not even with my Italian passport."
Sal's and Luigi's eyes connected once more. Though it was faint and undetectable to coworkers, acquaintances, and even some of his more distant cousins, both men knew that the waiver in the older plumber's voice meant he was intentionally withholding information. Rubbing his face and mouth to calm his burgeoning alarm at his sick nephew and the possibility of Daisy being another case, Salvatore said, "Jesus. Okay. I assume you're getting what you need in New Orleans?"
"Yeah, Zio, I'm aight." Despite several deep coughs, they could hear the plumber's guffaw and forced grin, "I even get as much spaghetti as I want on Uncle Sam's dime. 'Cause I gotta tell youse, besides those beignets, the food ain't half bad. They got pretty good chicken cacciatore here. I figure, maybe all that gumbo and shit will nuke this fucking crap outta me."
Mario's brother, maternal uncle, and sister-in-law snickered audibly while the second quietly pinched his fingers in the che vuoi. "Alright, kid," he acquiesced, gazing at Luigi, whose lip bite soundlessly expressed a feeling that Mario was not being entirely truthful. "Good to knowyou're hanging in here."
"Fratello, do you want to talk to Josh?" interrupted his still worried younger brother. "He misses you."
He coughed a little. "Nah, fratellino. It's not even six there. Let him sleep. I'll call later, just before dinner in New York, so that he can talk to me without risking a meltdown during the afternoon. Kid takes after his Mamma there."
"Mario, we'll let you go get some rest. But I'm holding you to calling us before dinner tonight," the Sicilian cut in somewhat sternly. "I don't want to alarm Josh more than he already is."
A few dry wheezes could be heard, after which Mario gasped, "You got it, Zio. Just do me a favor – well, two."
While he remained attentive, Luigi murmured, "Anything, Mario. You know that."
"Keep Josh home from pre-K. I know he'll miss his friends, but New York's a cesspool of viruses. You know that as well as I do. And the Sfacciata ... I know she likes personally delivering angry letters to those greedy fucks on Wall Street, but just make sure she don't join those rat bastards on the subway."
As Daisy rolled her eyes and extended the obligatory middle finger to the phone, Luigi chuckled, "She says she loves you, too."
Between coughs, the older plumber responded, "Yeah, I can hear the sound of her dito medio all the way from the Big Easy. Just remember, Sfacciata, even that mouth of yours can suck in travelin' shit, capisci?!" The taller plumber heard his elder brother take in several deliberate breaths, after which he whispered, "Aight, Weegie. I'm gonna get off the phone. Vi voglio bene. Look after Josh and the Sfacciata for me. I'll get back to New York as soon as I can."
He brought his free hand to brush it over his mustache and chin. "Yeah, bro. Ti vogliamo bene – Zio, Daisy, Josh, and me. Take care of yourself, and don't ... don't be a fuckin' hero."
Prior to the call ending, Mario retorted while snickering, "Me? Nah."
Luigi kept staring at the home screen, unable to properly voice the racing thoughts in his mind. There were too many coincidences – Peach's father, Miles's brother, and now Mario and Daisy. Too stunned to do anything else, he remained fixed in place when an outwardly normal Salvatore exhaled, "Mario in quarantine – I feel bad for the government." In spite of the situational gravity, a mirthful chuckle escaped from both he and Daisy, who were suddenly glad for the former priest's habitual wisecracking. Sal raised his right wrist to check his Orient Bambino watch – 6:01 a.m. "Josh will probably wake up in the next hour or so. We have enough food for a few days, but I think I should do a grocery run." He glanced at the flushed woman whose blanket had slipped off her shoulders. "Sobrinha, how are you feeling?"
She shrugged. "I'm not a hundred percent, but I'll live."
Salvatore and Luigi exchanged yet another shared look of concern, and the latter stared at his uncle to ask him wordlessly for a private word with his fiancée. "I'll put an order downstairs," the man finally whispered, turning to leave the couple alone. As the older man creaked softly down the stairs, a tense Luigi moved to close the door and faced the tired, wan woman who was fidgeting with her partially eaten bagel.
"Kerido, I ..." she began, yet abruptly discontinued upon feeling his blue eyes piercing into her.
"Daisy, I know you have to go. That asshole Nemirovsky has forced you into this position, and yeah, I'm going to call him a fucking asshole," his voice grated against the bedroom's eerie calm. She tilted her head in a mixture of anger and resignation at his tone, forcing him to pace and rub his mustache and chin nervously. "Go to the meeting and stay not a fucking minute longer." He held up his hand to the sound of her interjection. "I'm not budging on this. There's paying dues, sweetie, and there's putting yourself at risk for no fucking reason." He bore into her emotional amber orbs. "I'm saying this as a manager. We have elderly or ill customers; you know that. What do you think happens legally, ethically, if I send one of my guys to a job where I know he's sicker than shit, and the customer's impaired? Huh?" Her eyes shifted away, betraying a wordless answer, to which he gave a deliberate nod. Then, taking a few calming breaths, Luigi ambled forward so he could run a hand through the edge of her hairline, caressing her cheek as he did so. "It's not your fault. I know. Back when I started out, Slaughter and some of the other foremen used to do this shit to us apprentices all the time. Maldonado was better, but there were times when even he said, 'Come in if you want a paycheck.' It happens to lowly plumbers and, apparently, it happens to hellraising attorneys."
Still unable to speak, she merely nodded in agreement. Luigi's fingertips traced a path from hair to jaw, stopping just shy of her lower lip. As he opened his mouth to nudge her to finish her breakfast, they heard a forceful chirp at the bedroom door. The plumber pivoted his head to face a scowling, fluffy feline whose blue eyes had narrowed into livid slits and whose black tail was tapping in utter impatience. "Uh, sorry," he said to the cat, "one second."
In response, Sasha took two dainty paw-steps to the edge of the closed entrance, stretched along the jam so that she was fully extended on her hind legs, and clawed downward, creating tan-colored scratch marks in the white paint.
"Hey, hey! I painted that a couple months ago, Cat!" he barked, marching over to let the unapologetic Neva Masquerade out to supervise her primary human.
A snort escaped Daisy's nose. "She was the one who greeted me yesterday – Sasha, I think? Very, uh, Russian empress."
Harrumphing on the way out, he murmured a request that she eat a little more. On one hand, he wanted to give his cat-face breathing room; on the other hand, he needed to make sure that she did not try to go to work unattended. Usually, Luigi loved Daisy's independent spirit, work ethic, ambition, yet down-to-earth nature; instead of fine vacations, jewelry, and weekly trips to the salon that may have been expected of a privileged Jewish-American Princess, she was content with a basketball or tennis racket, a set of yoga pants and an old, ratty shirt, and a medium-sized cheese and pepper pizza. That was at home; at work, she remained a consummate professional and never allowed herself to benefit from her father's reputation and influence, as had been the case with some of her colleagues and their parents. More frequently than not, however, the plumber worried if that attitude had not been influenced by the need to prove herself to him and his family. The Masciarellis consisted of a minimum of three generations of working-class Italians, none of whom, prior to Mario, had ever married into true wealth and prestige. Wanting to fit in with the hardworking and cynically stoic Masciarelli elders, particularly Giuseppe, Lucia, Zia Maria, and Zio Tony, she was careful never to skip work or complain about difficulties, so much that Joe and Lucia had wondered whether she preferred her career over their nephew and adopted son.
Luigi sighed deeply while pushing off the last stair; doesn't she know that they're the last people on Earth who should judge her? As he entered the kitchen, he glimpsed the other longhaired, lynx-colored cat rubbing against the rigid posture of a seated Salvatore, who was clicking buttons atop a connected mouse to his laptop, which his nephew noted had been upgraded in the past year. On the other side of the Sicilian, albeit on the floor, stood an irritated looking Sasha. Upon seeing the human who had offended her upstairs, Sasha galloped toward her brother and nipped his bushy gray tail, causing him to chirp-cry, and the middle-aged man to break his concentration and firmly reprimand the Empress in his native tongue.
"She's quite the bossy one, isn't she?" the plumber asked, to which his maternal uncle raised his brown eyes.
"Yeah," he agreed. "Sasha wants attention. Sometimes," he glared pointedly at the slow-blinking seal point, "she uses poor Fyodor to get it." Lifting her into his lap, he began petting the now satisfied Sasha with his left, all the while making sure to do the same with the forlorn Fyodor with his right. Once the felines were calmed, Salvatore resumed his work on the computer. "You're going to be on the front lines, niputi. I can't ... prevent this. Josh will, for the time being, remain here. From what I have read and seen in the media – here and in Italy – the coronavirus has a particularly lethal effect on the elderly and ... those with impaired cardiovascular systems." His eyes, which had darkened with every word, all of a sudden met his. The plumber, realizing their true meaning, could only swallow over a painful lump in his throat and nod. "As for our Signorina Daisy, I can't prevent that, either. However, once she returns, she stays. If needed, an intervention will be made." Despite his agreement that his fiancée should not stay a minute longer than necessary, Luigi's body produced an involuntary shiver at the mafioso's pronouncement. Having finished with his task, the latter closed his laptop and faced his youngest nephew squarely from the table. "There's going to be a press conference from the Mayor's Office later this afternoon. Concerning the shop, I'll give you further instructions afterward."
"Zio," he began somewhat nervously, "Daisy's agreed to come home after her interviews. I'll drive her home. But, uh, with the shop ..."
"Non penso non che ci sarebbero problemi," interjected the Sicilian in their native language. "I would prefer that she be accompanied by family. Since Josh will be under my care, I can't do it myself. There's unfortunately nothing online about how this affects children, possibly because there's an unknown transmission factor or very few are ending up in the hospital. I'd rather not take any risks to his health, however."
"Certo," answered Luigi, who attempted to suppress a splinter of self-disgust and mistrust over taking orders from a Mafia man, even if it was his former priest and uncle. Nevertheless, he could be "excused" from his job to care for his sick Daisy.
An uneasy hush fell upon the two men, each lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, a sleepy blond boy dressed in Mickey Mouse-themed pajamas bounded down the stairs in search of his uncles, cats, and food. Sensing that the small human was approaching, Sasha's and Fyodor's ears twitched. As Josh appeared, Luigi observed Salvatore's dark expression shift into a normal, almost grandfatherly smile. "Good morning, niputinu; you're up early."
None the wiser, Josh replied in Italian, "Buondì. I heard you and Uncle Weegie."
"Ah, sorry about that," he acknowledged, glancing at his unreadable nephew. "You can go back to bed, bambino."
The little boy shook his head and moved to climb into the seat across from the eldest Italian. "Nah. I'm not tired anymore." Both Salvatore and Luigi grinned at the response so reminiscent of his father's.
"Alright. Let me get you some breakfast, huh?" The cats reluctantly jumped to the floor as Uncle Sal rose to prepare a meal for the child. Fyodor wedged himself underneath the table, yet close enough to potentially catch any falling morsel, among his favorites were fish, boiled chicken, salami, cheese, cantaloupe, celery, and strawberries. Sasha, unimpressed by the appearance of the child, retreated into the living room and hopped on the cat tree to look at the more appealing squirrels and birds. Luigi rubbed his nephew's sleep-matted hair, then turned to leave when he heard the older man call out in English, "Niputi, you haven't eaten. You're not going back upstairs until you have something in your stomach – for Daisy's sake."
He rolled his eyes, yet took a seat next to Josh, knowing fully well that his temper would become minutely short if he did not eat. Over the next five minutes, Salvatore glided from the refrigerator to the stove and adjacent counters, preparing scrambled eggs and cheese, toast with jam, and ice water. He fixed three dinner plates' worth of food, reserving a small bit of the eggs on a saucer-sized plate, and served the larger portions to his great-nephew, nephew, and himself. He then took the small serving upstairs; Josh, who had started to eat, and Luigi, who had chosen to wait respectfully, both heard a faint exchange between the woman and Salvatore, alternating between pleading and peevish. A minute later, the olive-skinned man returned to the place across from them, sat down, crossed himself to begin a murmured thankful prayer, and put the cloth napkin in his lap. Fyodor rose from his position underneath the table to rub beseechingly against his human's legs. A happy glint entered Josh's blue eyes, and he broke off a piece of the scrambled eggs on his plate to hold out to the furry beggar.
"Vieni, micio," he beckoned Fyodor, whose ears twitched in anticipation.
"Eh, no, nipote," objected Luigi. "I gatti non ..."
"It's okay," assured Salvatore with a wave of his fork. "A little is okay. Niputinu, just don't give him too much or he'll be sick."
An excited Josh nodded, offering the piece to the interested Fyodor, who first licked it in curiosity and, deciding that it was acceptable, dragged it from his fingers to the floor to facilitate its rapid consumption. He briefly sniffed along the floor prior to sitting upright, signaling to his second human that he was ready for seconds and maybe thirds.
"Fyodor, this is your last," his first human warned between a few bites of toast with blood orange jam.
The lynx-colored cat ignored him, too focused on the second piece of egg that was moving toward him. Dispensing with politeness, he rose to meet the child's hand, and steadying it with soft paws, he pulled the food free with his incisors.
"Zio, where did you get these cats?" Luigi queried in English, dabbing his mouth and mustache.
Salvatore snickered. "A friend of mine ... ours," he emphasized to convey its true underlying meaning. "They're good companions. Sasha runs the house, Fyodor catches things – when he's not being such a little gourmand. Neither of them question, uh, if and when I have to go out, you know?"
Luigi nodded as he chewed on the toast. "Are they from the same litter?"
"Yeah, I think so. That's what I was told, anyway. The vet suspects it, as well."
Since Fyodor had moved away from the boy to convey that he was finished and to bathe himself post-second breakfast, Josh redirected his attention to the conversation which was, to his dismay, in English.
"Zio, hai detto che parliamo italiano," he whined, eyes narrowing at his paternal great-uncle.
Chuckling, the older man replied while lightly correcting his grammar, "Si, certo, niputinu. Ho detto che avremmo parlato italiano."
Josh nodded in satisfaction as he chewed the remainder of his eggs. "Dov'è Zia Daisy?"
Salvatore and the plumber traded an edgy glance. "Nipote, she's not feeling well this morning. We're letting her sleep before she has to work," the latter explained.
The boy reached over to his small water glass to take a sip and consider what his paternal uncle had said. "But, Uncle Weegie, why does she have to go? When I'm sick, Mamma makes me stay home." To his elders' snort and Italian pride, his little fingers pinched together in the che vuoi.
Ah, Mario, you'd be proud, thought his brother.
"You're right, niputinu," answered his great-uncle, his thin lips twitching in equal delight. "She should stay home. But sometimes, adults aren't always as wise as mothers, huh? Her boss is making her go."
Without looking up from his plate, Josh muttered, "Her boss's a scemo."
Whereas Luigi shrugged in agreement, Uncle Sal gently reprimanded his great-nephew, "You're right. But we don't say those kinds of words. You can say that it isn't fair."
Nodding, the boy mumbled a mi dispiace to Sal's immediate acceptance, who in turn let his two family members continue eating in pensive silence. Luigi, too worried about his cat-face's health, only managed to finish one-half of the eggs and toast, which provoked a sympathetic, yet chastising look from his uncle. While the former assisted him in clearing the table and pre-washing the glasses and plates, Salvatore reached into the refrigerator for the gallon of orange juice and encouraged the junior Masciarelli to go watch television in the living room. Pouring a tall glass, he handed it to Luigi, whose blue eyes stared uncomprehendingly, and tilted his head upstairs. Not even a second later, the plumber spun on his foot to take it to his fiancée.
Now out of sight from everyone's gaze, additional lines etched themselves upon the middle-aged man's face, and he let the anxiety and disbelief inundate his body. He reached into his pocket for the ever-present rosary, brushing his fingers over the beads to implore the Almighty to protect his family when the other omnipresent item began to ring obtrusively. Chewing on his lip in irritation, Salvatore plucked the burner phone to his ear and growled a pronto. "Yeah," he responded more mildly in English. "No, I'm okay. Yeah. The Jets are still winning." Following the disconnect of the call, he closed his eyes. Due to the interruption of the basketball and, quite likely, baseball seasons, the Padrino had decided to summon all caporegimes and administrators to an emergency meeting, whose purpose would be to re-allocate funds. Those who had invested in online gambling and illegal trading would be safe; the druggies, restauranteurs, and whorehouses would be in danger of no longer working for the company. His money came from online gambling and gunrunning, run by the Morello-Carlino crew, crypto, and from legitimate proceeds of the plumber's union and a few book deals on Greek and Latin translations of various liturgical texts. As a joke, and with his blessing, Gene and Pete's kids invested a certain percentage of his black-market income in Tesla and SpaceX to "launder money through the biggest asshole known to man." He could have profited more from the 'traditional' enterprises of heroin, ketamine, and prostitution, which Joey-B had offered him several times, but he refused, claiming to be satisfied with his present tribute. The priesthood had taught him to get the most from his paltry pastor's salary, thus he managed to amass a small personal fortune within a few years. Yet he knew that business sense could easily inflame the envy of his fellow mafiosi, including his Padrino. Staying alive meant spending roughly a third on luxury items for Joey-B and a sixth on the caporegimes and a few of the senior lieutenants. His generosity kept their propensity for murderous gluttony at bay.
A second phone started to ring. This device, used for legitimate communication, was usually the rarer, nonetheless more welcome of the two, on which he received the occasional call from Mario, Luigi, five of his decades-long priest friends in whom he could absolutely trust, and Giuseppe. His eyes blinked at the latter's name flashing across the screen; it had been over a year since he had last contacted him. Not knowing in the moment how to respond, he let it go to voicemail. Salvatore did not know quite why; it had been at least two years since Joe's last angry message. He loved and hated him at the same time. That essential paradox had characterized their push-and-pull relationship for the past fifty years.
How does it feel to be divorced without having been married, saputello? chuckled a long-gone voice from his – their – past.
The phone rang again.
He moved his thumb to press the green key, only for it to hover within a few millimeters of its target, and merely remained frozen until the missed call message flashed across the screen. Sighing, Salvatore turned the phone ringer off and put it back into his pocket, even as it started to buzz insistently.
Having decided against the usually comforting drone of NPR, Luigi tried to focus on the long line of cars crawling north on the Brooklyn Bridge, but his apprehensive eyes kept glancing at the flushed and lethargic woman in the passenger seat next to him. He could feel the anxiety building in two different ways, converging into a situational nightmare of current experience and past location. First, the normally exuberant Daisy, who would pick a sport at random to pass the time, leaned back in her seat to rest as much as was possible. Second, they were heading to his least favorite place on Earth, although AXD Corporation Headquarters was not exactly located there – just a mere two to three blocks from it. Daisy tiredly pivoted her head to him in a silent acknowledgement of both his discomfort at driving to dreary Lower Manhattan, which he still avoided whenever possible, and visible worry over her health.
Inching closer to the edge of Manhattan proper, he kept his left hand on the steering wheel of their brand-new, blue, 2019 Hyundai Ioniq Electric and reached over to run his right hand through her hair. "I'm fine," he assured her questioning gaze. "Just rest now, sweetie." Too exhausted to protest, Daisy rolled her head so that her cheek was pressing against his hand, then closed her eyes to conserve energy.
Over the past hour or two, Luigi felt her body shift from shivering uncontrollably to radiating heat. Prior to their departure, he had searched through every cabinet and drawer in vain for a thermometer he swore he had, only to let out several Abruzzese and Sicilian curse words when he finally remembered that he did have one – at his and Mario's childhood home in Bensonhurst. Feeling the intense warmth of her cheek, he was certain that she was running a fever, and he regretted not telephoning David Nemirovsky to inform him in his soon-to-be stepmother-in-law's best Hebrew that he could simultaneously fuck off and shit in the Hudson. As the stream of honking New Yorkers ahead of and behind him besieged the Financial District, he moved his right hand from his lioness's cheek to the steering wheel, mentally probing his memory for the location of her stash of Tylenol or Advil in her messenger bag, which was draped over her lap.
A couple of those might reduce her fever and get her through the interviews and fuck-knows-whatever that dickhead has her do, growled the plumber to himself.
When the traffic slowed again at the mini clover leaf, he gently stretched his long arm to grab Daisy's messenger bag, feeling her arms instinctively protect the privileged materials contained inside. "Easy, cat-face, I'm just looking for your Tylenol."
Daisy let out a soft moan. "I already took two with the ... orange juice, remember?"
With one eye still on the movement ahead and rear of him, Luigi checked the time and let out an exasperated Goddamnit – 8:43 a.m. It was too early to increase the dosage.
Keeping his eyes carefully forward to avoid seeing the soaring tower or the complex around it, he maneuvered the blue car along Broadway past St. Paul's Cathedral, visualizing water-like streams of red, green, and blue to calm his rising anxiety, a technique that Dr. Czernin had taught him in his first semester at Columbia when Manhattan became too much. After an average wait of a half-minute at each of the two or three stoplights, he made a final left turn on Liberty Street and parked alongside a fifty-odd-story white building on the right side. Putting the car into park, he then stroked Daisy's cheek with his pinky. "Cat-face, we're here."
The announcement of their arrival caused her to stir, and she swallowed heavily against the growing pain in her temples and throat. Using her remaining strength, Daisy opened her amber eyes and sat up straight, her inner voice whispering encouragements that she just needed to get this meeting done. She unbuckled her seatbelt and, careful to avoid her fiancé's probing blue eyes, murmured, "This shouldn't take too long, kerido. Hopefully before lunch."
Luigi stared through the windshield into gray, brown, and black of the Manhattan morning. "Daisy, sweetie, are you sure about this?"
She nodded. "Yeah, I'll be okay."
He checked once more his iPhone for the time – 8:53 a.m. "Call me when you're done. I mean it. I don't care if I'm in the middle of something – I'm taking you home." Chewing his lip, hesitating to comment further, he eventually twisted his body to face her, and her eyes sluggishly met his. "Mario's sick. And you ... And here I am, in Manhattan of all places ..." Afraid of upsetting her further, he put up a hand and took a deep breath to control the emotions that threatened to boil over, and amended his tone, "Daisy, I love you. Please. If you want to tell Nimrod to fuck off, I'm right here."
Expecting a firm I'm fine or everything will be okay,his alarm grew when her eyes became uncharacteristically moist. "I know, kerido. I'm sorry." Before he could offer a rebuttal, she unlatched the passenger door, managed to rise to her feet, and, shutting it with a firm click, forced him to watch helplessly as she entered the building.
Once she had disappeared inside, Luigi let out a shrieking FUCK, slamming his hand several times against the steering wheel. There was no way in Dante's Hell that he was leaving Manhattan, inasmuch as he loathed the place with every strand of his DNA. Fishing out his phone, he dialed the number of his number two man and put it to his ear. "Yo, Ginsburg," he announced subsequent to a few rings, "Yeah, yeah, fuck you, too. Listen, I need to stay in Manhattan this morning, so go ahead and assign me some tickets. Nothing at any old lady's house. Given what's going on nationwide, I don't want ... Yeah, Manhattan." He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, мудак, I said Manhattan. No, I'm not shopping at Bloomie's! Yeah, okay, thanks."
Hanging up and inhaling against the geyser of anxiety that was building pressure, the plumber checked his phone to find one ticket in Midtown that had been received ten minutes prior – clogged toilet for a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Checking to make sure that he had his toolkit and a pair of sterile examination gloves, he put the car into drive, merged into the tight morning work traffic, which resembled that of a Sunday instead of a Thursday morning, and drove toward the FDR. Normally, the twenty-minute trip along the freeway would have helped clear Luigi's mind; instead, he inhaled and exhaled throughout, the intrusive thoughts of a sick elder brother and pallid princess bombarding him. Desperate to keep control of both himself and the Hyundai, he turned on the radio and selected an alternative rock station. Eventually proceeding westward along the alley-like East 42nd Street and past a line of New York's landmarks, Luigi tried to focus his racing mind on the Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Californication" when he heard his iPhone ring. At the next stop and flock of people crossing the street, he glanced at the caller ID – Uncle Joe.
"Cazzo! Just ... f-f-fucking fantastico! Just what I need! Giuseppe Masciarelli knowing that I'm in Manhattan!" he exclaimed to the empty car. Knowing that he would continue to call or, worse, try to confront him in person at the shop, the plumber engaged the speaker phone, reminding himself not to mention Daisy or Mario. "Zio, I'm sorry, but I'm on the road."
"Figlio, first ... why the fuck are you drivin' around at nine in the morning? Second, have you heard from either your brother or Sal? I've tried callin' both of 'em several times!" boomed Giuseppe's voice over the car speakers.
Inching forward in the ever-present line of cars, Luigi silently mouthed a shit and goddamnit. "Yeah, I've heard from them both, Zio. Mario's still in New Orleans on the job. He's aight. And Sal's ... Well, he dropped in a few days ago. Why?"
He could hear Giuseppe cross his arms and glare through his Buddy Holly frames. "Yeah, you answered one of my questions, figlio. Why the fuck are you drivin' around? And where's Josh if he ain't with you?"
"I'm on a job. And Josh's home."
"Cristina returned from Venice, then? She made it before Trump shut down the borders?" asked the older man, whose voice carried a hint of hope.
Luigi swore again at Joe's penchant to see through his trickle-truthing. "No. She's still there."
"You ... You left a four-year-old alone at home?!" exploded the Masciarelli volcano. "How could you, Luigi Gabriele Isidoro Masciarelli! Of all of the most stupid fuckin' irresponsible ..."
"I didn't!" yelled the younger plumber, interrupting his adoptive father's tirade. "I would never do that! Sal's watching him!"
As soon as he had erupted, Giuseppe quietened. "Sal's with youse?"
"Yeah! He showed up yesterday morning! And please spare me the bullshit about his ..."
"I get the point!" he interjected with a bark. "Kid ... the Mayor's gonna speak this afternoon. We're alrightin Staten Island, but youse in Brooklyn ... You can send Josh to us. Lucia and I. You can even ... y'know ... come down here."
Inside the car, Luigi wiped his burning eyes and fell silent. "I ... I can't," he whispered.
"Figlio, you know I don't believe any of this shit about the President or anything that comes outta China. But this ... I believe what's happening in Italy. And knowing that Sal with youse, he knows it's serious. I ... I can't ask him to come. But you gotta take this seriously, kid. I know you got your shop. But you can run it from Eltingville. Take it from me, as someone who's been there: don't fuck around. At least send Josh and Daisy down here."
"I can't!" he shouted, tears freely falling from his eyes. "I can't! Non posso farlo!"
"Perché?! E non mentirmi, cazzo!" Joe demanded, matching his son's tone and volume.
"Well, gee, Zio, if you've read all this shit about the virus, then you'd fucking know that it's cardiovascular! As in, cardio-it-fucking-kills-impaired-guys-vascular! And I'm in Manhattan right now! Yeah, 'cause there's so many of us Masciarellis left!"
As he zoomed past Grand Central Station, the line went quiet, even though the call was still active. "Kid ... you're the fucking manager of your own shop," began Giuseppe in an eerily calm voice, which signaled to Luigi that the volcano was about to fully erupt, "Why the flying fuck did you go into the most densely populated part of Ground-fucking-Zero?! Huh?! Do I fucking need to remind you of what happened to the last Masciarelli who decided to do that?!"
"Yeah, I know," he bit out. "I wasn't there like you or Mario, of course, but I am very familiar with the result!"
"You watch your goddamned mouth!" he screamed. "Be glad that you weren't! Now cut the shit and get your ass back to Brooklyn!"
Coming to a stop short of Bryant Park, he wiped his eyes and growled, "It's always so simple for you, isn't it? Do you really think I'd just ... come to the City of all places for shits and giggles? Because a jaunt to my least favorite place on Earth is somehow that much more appealing when shit's about to hit the fan?" At the older man's stony reticence, he added sarcastically, "Yeah, got no response to that, do ya? Whether you like it or not, I have adult responsibilities – to other people!"
Following another right turn on 6th Avenue, Luigi glowered and honked the horn at one of the slow-moving trucks which had not cleared the intersection and had left him to block oncoming traffic. "Where's Daisy?" he heard his pseudo-father rasp. When he did not reply, Joe persisted, "It's her, isn't it?" Even when the plumber decelerated to the final stoplight prior to a final push to the parking garage, he kept quiet, instead closing his eyes in defeat. "Jesus Christ," the older man muttered. "I don't care how much fuckin' money they offer her at that law firm. She needs to go home! It ain't safe!"
"No shit!" bellowed the shaking man inside the car. "Look, I have a job to do! Now! And I'm not leaving without her!" Pulling toward to the scanner to flash his parking permit, he abruptly ended the call. Once his QR code had been accepted, he steered the car to an open space. Retrieving his toolkit and gloves, he exited both the parked car and garage into the cold, cloudy morning. A two-minute walk afterward, the plumber arrived at a blue awning and, double-checking the address, chuckled as he noted that the hole-in-the-wall was in fact a Brazilian eatery. Walking inside, he called out in English and his survival Portuguese that o encanador acabou de chegar. The owner, who thankfully did speak English, was visibly stunned that the New Yorker plumber could speak basic Portuguese and ushered him to the flooded toilet. While Luigi worked, the Carioca peppered him with questions as to why and how he learned to speak the language; although he was not in a talking mood, the master plumber was nonetheless cognizant of customer service and answered that his fiancée's family was from São Paulo. Diagnosing the problem – a toilet trap clog – he proceeded to flush the back-up with his auger, clearing it after a few minutes of toil. Relieved that he had not needed a hydro jet or chemicals, the plumber called Ginsburg to take care of the payment, as unlike his field journeymen, he did not have a credit card processor. He watched the owner attempt to haggle with his second-in-command over the three-hundred-twenty-five-dollar charge plus New York City taxes; the Ukrainian, however, was having none of it, bluntly informing the Carioca that "the Boss of the Shop came to fix his second-rate Manhattan throne for a journeyman's price and he should be grateful for the service." Stunned for the second time that morning, the man's brown eyes shifted to the sheepish man who merely shrugged. Arguing no further, he simply paid the fee and wished Luigi a good rest of the day.
Now free to enjoy a quick coffee in wait of the next job, he crossed the street to proceed toward the corner of 5th Avenue and West 45th Street. Privately gagging at the thought of a heaping cup of Seattle's Shit, he was willing to stomach the offense in case Daisy were to call. The wait was non-existent since there was only one person in the shop, and he received a three-dollar dark roast that, in his opinion, tasted like a cross between roasted badger and pigeon droppings. Just like the fucking movies, when you're waiting for someone who's ill, he groused. Sipping his unacceptably bitter drink, Luigi scurried back to the parking garage, checking his messages every thirty seconds.
Nothing except for a single, post-argument voicemail from Uncle Joe.
Next, he checked his work phone: no tickets. For the past three years, most of the daily or weekly tickets originated from Brooklyn and Queens; the barely active Manhattan route was usually left to new apprentices, first-year journeymen, and the very rare incompetent plumber whom Luigi would have to phase out and fire. Most of his plumbers, even some of the apprentices, refused the route due to its essentially part-time nature; some had, as an act of malicious compliance, refused to clock out and attended Broadway shows or went shopping for their girlfriends and wives on the company dime before the manager decided to reduce service to Manhattan above Houston. Given his guaranteed hourly position, however, a slow morning shift impacted neither his income nor the operations of the shop. Tossing the vile beverage into the trash can nearest his car, he drove southward toward Washington Square Park for better coffee and, inevitably, the Financial District.
Except for the occasional honk at the crazy speeding by the iconic yellow cabs, the parade of cars, taxis, and city buses was mind-numbing, though he noticed that there were fewer cars on the road, as if it were a Sunday morning. As the blue Hyundai and the line of cars slowed to a stop at the intersection just shy of the Empire State Building, Luigi's right eye caught an unusual, ant-like line at the edge of his field of vision. Glancing quickly at the red light, he turned his head toward the pharmacy on the corner, where a line had begun at its doors and seemed to curve down West 34th Street. Once the light flashed to a green, he guided his vehicle through the crossroads, and his blue eyes followed the queue that extended several hundred feet down the street.
"What the fuck's that about?" he muttered aloud.
Despite knowing that he was proceeding along 5th Avenue at a slightly faster-than-normal pace, Luigi felt like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, repeating the same observation of the crowds waiting in line at each corner pharmacy. Eventually, he reached the edge of Washington Square Park and decided to zigzag around New York University campus toward the Bowery. The lighter traffic abruptly became tighter and tighter as he approached Houston Street. He waited five minutes to roll two hundred fifty feet, which, with every fifty, revealed increasingly heavy foot and vehicle traffic. At the intersection, his eyes widened at the immense crowds that were moving to and from the Whole Foods on the corner; several people dashed along the crosswalks, their hands tightly clutching shopping bags stuffed to the brim with toilet paper, oranges, cases of La Croix, and cleaning supplies.
"Christ ..."
The light turned green, and the plumber applied his foot to the gas pedal. Checking the time and not hearing from Daisy, he quickly chose to change lanes, an action which would have been disallowed on a weekday, to circle back through the Bowery where several of her favorite vegetarian and vegan restaurants were situated. Although the staunchly Sicilian Salvatore would likely be disinclined to eat vegan cuisine, Luigi thought that a nice carrot ginger soup might brighten his fiancée's spirits. Managing to inch his way into one of the last legal spaces available within a three-block radius, he shut off the engine and, withdrawing from the car, grabbed his wallet, keys, and phones. A pedestrian crossing and two minutes afterward, he entered the vacant restaurant to order a serving of soup and a brownie. Food in hand, he came back to the car. About the turn the key and engine, he felt the buzz of an incoming text. Immediately, he retrieved his iPhone to see a message from Daisy: "Come get me." Luigi's body trembled; had she been feeling even remotely well, she would have sent a smartass remark about Nimrod or a tease about waiting for her luscious plumber. Fingers quivering, he wrote that he would be there in fifteen minutes.
While he loathed the entire area of Lower Manhattan, especially the Financial District and anywhere near that place, he took the most direct route via Broadway, cursing in his finest Brooklynese and Italian at each fucking stoplight that kept him from Daisy and AXD Headquarters. Over the course of the nearly three-mile trajectory to Liberty Street, he let out thirteen fucks, eleven motherfuckers, nine goddamnits, and four pieces of shit, eighty percent occurring near his least favorite place on Earth and where he was forced to observe a red light on Fulton Street. Finally allowed to escape, he exhaled in semi-relief when he arrived at AXD's building. Now in park, he scanned the empty sidewalk for any sign of Daisy, of which there was none. Panicked, he threw open his car door and was about to dart inside the lobby when a man in a white security uniform holding up a slumped, albeit conscious woman came outside.
"Are you Luigi Masciarelli?" asked the middle-aged New Yorker.
"Yeah," gasped the plumber whose eyes filled with terror at the appearance of his disheveled, sallow fiancée. "What happened? What's wrong?! Daisy?!"
The man, who was murmuring easy and you're okay to the sickly woman, replied, "Help me get her inside your car. She wouldn't go to the hospital. And the only reason why I didn't make her go is because she said you were comin'. But she isn't doin' so well. She get food poisoning or something?"
Luigi rushed to their aide, opening the passenger door, and assisting the security guard to ease her and the messenger bag into the seat. Buckling the safety belt, he observed her for the first time since that morning: her skin was pure white and sweaty, eyes unfocused, and breathing shallower than normal. He put his hand to her forehead and nearly yelped at the heat. "Where ... where the fuck is that piece of shit boss of hers?!" he hissed angrily.
"Oh, him," deadpanned the guard. "Yeah, I'll let you call him that, but between you and me, Mister Masciarelli, I don't disagree. Your wife collapsed after the meeting up on the forty-seventh. I'm sure he's still up there schmoozing with the CEO. He was still kissing ass when she took a nosedive into the elevator doors."
Though he nodded at the other man's words, the plumber's attention remained on his ailing cat-face. "H-H-Hang on, sweetie. I'm gonna take you home, aight?" Looking up at the concerned man while he closed the passenger door, he said, "Thank you. I appreciate it."
"Yeah, no problem. Good luck to ya both."
Daisy whimpered against heavy, effuse pain throughout her body as well as the blackness that surrounded her. She tried to open her eyes, yet the weightiness seemed to intensify with every quiver of her peripheral nerves. Subsequent to the meeting at AXD Corporation, the lawyer remembered very little; although she was able to conduct interviews and conceal the extent of her illness from Nimrod, who would have undoubtedly relegated her to the research office, her body literally gave out at the elevators. In and out of consciousness, Daisy recalled her fiancé's nervous nattering in the car, being hoisted up the stairs of their brownstone, and then voices – Luigi's angry pleading, Salvatore's soft responses, and Miles's hesitant interjections.
Moaning a little, she pushed one eye open to glimpse her surroundings. She was propped up against the pillows in their bed, blankets covering her almost completely. At the foot of the bed lay a brown and black coil of fur. Auburn strands of her hair were caked with sweat, and her skin felt clammy. As her body became more responsive, Daisy groaned from a swift spike of pain in her throat and head, and she closed her eyes once more to soothe the unpleasant sensation. Sometime later, she heard approaching footsteps and soft clattering near the night table next to her.
"Luigi ..." she breathed.
The answer came in the form of an almost freezingly cold cloth across her forehead and masculine hands tilting her neck gently forward and back to feel another cold piece of fabric.
"Kerido ..." repeated Daisy, who tried to twist toward the man.
"Just rest, sobrinha. I'm going to stick a thermometer in your mouth. Don't try to move," spoke the faceless figure.
Before she could ask Salvatore about Luigi, she felt a metal poke underneath her tongue. About a minute afterward, he heard the beep signaling that the device was finished taking the measurement. Slowly, Salvatore withdrew the thermometer; in the near silence, she thought she had heard him mutter, "Shit," which was abnormal for the former priest-turned-mafioso.
"What's it say?" inquired Miles from what sounded like the hallway.
"Miles, you know you cannot come any closer!" bellowed the Sicilian. At the woman's stirring, he placed his hands on her shoulders to still her. "Easy, sobrinha, easy. I'm sorry for raising my voice; just rest."
She heard someone take a step and whisper-hiss, "We need to get her to a hospital."
"Sal ... Miles ... what ...?"
Salvatore sighed, and Daisy could feel the man's anxiety and hostility build. "Kid," he began in a deceptively calm voice, "she needs to rest. They will not take those who are – and I quote our governor – 'young and healthy.' Because, unlike you, I can read Italian; just like in Italy, those hospitals are going to need ventilators. And they'll be reserved for the elderly and the half-dead."
Daisy's eyes finally rolled open to see an ashen Miles staring at both her and the vibrating older man. "We have to do something!" he pleaded.
"Sal," she interjected in spite of the fire in her throat. The man focused his worried brown eyes upon her. "Tell me the truth – what's the temperature? And ... where's Luigi?"
Luigi's uncle sank to the bed in defeat, causing Sasha to wake up and look at him with a mixture of irritation and puzzlement. "One hundred one point seven. And ... Luigi ..."
"Was forced back to work!" immediately spat their friend, whose brown eyes directed a j'accuse at the man.
"It wasn't my first choice," Salvatore responded in a low, almost ashamed tone. "But his men, the shop, need him more than we do right now."
Miles crossed his arms. "Speak for yourself. I'm sure Daisy would love to disagree here. I know I do. I know Giuseppe would!"
As Salvatore pointed his finger and was about to argue with the angry blond, Daisy rumbled, "B-B-Basta!" Both men straightaway quietened; Miles retreated to the corner and re-crossed his arms defiantly while Salvatore returned to his perch next to Daisy and Sasha. She blinked, then focused her fatigued amber orbs upon her friend. "Luigi's a plumber. I ... don't like it, either. Just as I'm a lawyer." Both men's eyes widened in chorus when she attempted to lift herself upright; the Sicilian slid closer to hold her in place.
"What the hell are you doing?!" he demanded. "You have a hundred-one-degree fever, sobrinha!"
"And like Luigi, I have a job to do," retorted the lawyer wiggling in his iron grasp.
Afraid of both Daisy hurting herself and the mafioso's reaction, Miles took a step forward, to which Sal spoke once more in that calm voice, "Kid, don't."
From over the Sicilian's shoulder, Daisy flickered her eyes at the blond to stand down, which he reluctantly did. "Salvatore, I can't just quit representing a client just because I'm not feeling well. I'm at home. Life doesn't stop for me ... just as it doesn't stop for Luigi or Mario ... or Peach, wherever she is."
"You can't represent your client if you're dead!" barked the mafioso, who lowered her back to the mattress. Daisy's eyes boldly fixated upon him. "If I have to sit here and make you stay, I will. You're not going anywhere."
Shifting in place, the engineer called out, "Salvatore, I can keep her from going. I can sit ..."
His mouth clamped shut at the hostile glower from the seated man. Having rendered the former to silence, Salvatore faced the insolent younger woman and crossed his arms tightly across his chest and raised an eyebrow. "Miles, go check on Josh, please. I think he's still playing that video game."
"Daisy?" he called out, unwilling to leave her alone, suffering from a potentially lethal virus, in the administrator's presence.
"It's okay, Miles," she assured him. "Mario's not here, and neither is Luigi. Consistency is what Josh needs right now."
Narrowing his eyes at the Sicilian, who ignored the action, he walked out of the room and downstairs to the small child playing one of the kart games that did not require a fluent comprehension of English.
Once he had gone, Daisy's eyes reflected both pain and fatigue, and they started to close despite her mind willing them to stare down the equally stalwart Salvatore. "It's not necessary for you to stay here. As you can see, I'm in no condition to do much of anything."
Without moving an inch, he rejoined, "On the contrary, sobrinha. The mind is a wonderful thing. It also tries to get the body to do ... inadvisable things." No longer able to resist, her eyes shut like weighted flaps. "It was probably ... February 1964," she heard him mumble. "We'd come to New York in the summer of '63 after my father ... died. Gabby was seven; I was barely four. One afternoon, she'd come home with a fever; my mother, Audenzia, had to force her to stay in bed." He looked down at the semi-conscious woman, his brown eyes having loosened from a dense black to a teasing chocolate, and chuckled. "Several times in fact. She was sure that the magic wand she'd made from aluminum foil would make it all go away. The next day, she, uh, had a high fever; three days after that, a rash, red eyes. Mamma kept her away from me. We couldn't afford a doctor, so she did the best she could, even as she nearly got fired for missing work. Anyway, the hearing in Gabby's right ear was never quite the same."
By the story's conclusion, Daisy had fallen back into somnolence. Giving the half-awake cat a few strokes of her silky fur, he readjusted the cloths on his niece-in-law's forehead and neck. Once he was certain that she was truly sleeping, he exited the room to prepare for his meeting later that night.
A tired and weary Luigi returned to their brownstone at a little past six-thirty. Following the Mayor's press conference and a state declaration of emergency, four journeymen and two apprentices, who had elderly parents and in-laws at home, quit on the spot, leaving the plumbing shop manager with fewer guys and a growing number of tickets in lower-middle-class areas in Elmhurst and Bedford-Stuyvesant. Apparently, nearly all of the grocery stores and warehouses had been raided, leaving bare shelves throughout New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut; the only available food were from the increasingly empty restaurants. Nevertheless, on the way home, he succeeded in taking the last of the sweet and sour chicken, Mongolian beef, egg rolls, vegetable wonton soup, and Crab Rangoon from one of his favorite Chinese restaurants in downtown Brooklyn.
Walking up the stairs to his brownstone, he tried to juggle his plastic sacks of food, the ringing phone, and his keys. Seeing Mario's caller ID, he let the handle slip to his narrow wrist as he put it to his left ear. "Mario!"
"Yeah," he coughed harshly. "Goddamn motherfucker ..."
Turning the key with his right hand, he entered his domicile where Josh was ready to greet him with a hug around his legs. "Ah, kiddo!" he gasped in English. "Here, talk to your son while I put dinner on the table, huh?" He leaned down to Josh and announced, "Qualcuno vuole salutarti, Josh."
The little boy took the phone into his small hands, and his blue eyes broadened at the sound of his father's voice. "Babbo!" he exclaimed joyously. "Dove sei? Cosa fai?"
Miles, who was sitting on the couch and typing on his laptop, smiled faintly at both the reunion between father and son and his best friend's arrival. "Yoshi says hi; he's ostensibly being sent online as of tomorrow. He said he's going to enjoy teaching the freshmen in his boxers. Personally, I think that's TMI, but then again, I decided against a career in academia for a reason."
Luigi snorted at the mental image of the Bensonhurst Japanese physicist teaching Introduction to Physics II in an Oxford, blue tie, and polka-dot boxer briefs. "Poor Birdo." Setting dinner atop the kitchen table, opening one of the sacks for the vegetable soup, and gesturing to Miles to help himself to dinner, he flew upstairs, taking two steps at a time, until he reached the master bedroom where an auburn-haired woman and Neva Masquerade lay sleeping in bed. Ignoring the feline's glare at his rude entrance, the distressed plumber put his hand against her skin, which was warm and moist to the touch. Removing the now dry cloth across her forehead, he tapped on her cheek with his finger. "Cat-face, wake up. I need you to eat some of this broth."
Daisy let out a protesting whine as he turned on the desk lamp and helped her inch up the pillows in a quarter-sloped position. Holding the thick paper cup to her lips, she sipped the yellow-brown liquid. He retracted it so that she could swallow, only for her to make a sour face.
"What's wrong?" he murmured.
"Mmm ... it's watered down. Did they just use colored water or somethin'?"
Frowning, he asked uncomprehendingly, "Colored water?" He sniffed the liquid, which smelled of salt, brine, and Chinese spice. "It smells like veggie wonton soup to me."
"No ..." she gasped; eyes still shut. "It takes like hot water."
Now confused at his fiancée's insistence that the soup tasted like water, Luigi put his hand to her head. Warm, but not boiling hot. "Well, you need the fluids, kerido. Humor me, huh?"
Nodding, she tilted her head forward to sip the hot liquid, groaning every so often at its contact with her hoarse throat, to which the plumber murmured a soft apology. Once she had finished about a quarter of the soup, he allowed her to lay back, and he dabbed at her mouth with the stiff terrycloth.
"Sweetie, do you want to change out of your clothes?" he inquired. "It might be a bit more comfortable."
After Daisy nodded a second time, he pulled her to a sitting position and pushed the covers aside. Kneeling before her, he began to unbutton her blouse, careful to avoid his normal inclination to touch her intimately. His heart raced as her head lolled to the side, causing his fingers to shake as he pushed the material off her shoulders. While she lethargically finished removing her slacks and hose and unfastening the cuffs, he went to their shared drawers to select an orange tank top and matching pajama bottoms, presenting them to her once she signaled that she was ready.
"Do you need me to ...?" he trailed off at the shake of her head. Remaining on the bed, she hoisted the bottoms over her tanned legs and pulled on the top. Irritated from the humans jostling the mattress, Sasha rose, stretched, and moved toward the middle, into a new spot about a foot away from Daisy on her bed, where she kneaded her paws to form just the right crevice.
"Like what you see, plumber?" she rasped hoarsely in an attempt to lighten the mood.
"I always like what I see when it comes to you," Luigi said simply and without the lasciviousness that usually accented his voice at such a question.
Daisy frowned at the whirl of blues in his eyes. "Kerido, I'm ... I'm okay. It's one hell of a cold, but I'll be okay."
He bit his lip to keep from shouting in frustration at her sheer denial of the situation. Picking up the soup cup, he held it to her. "Keep pushing the fluids, love. Also, when was the last time you took the Tylenol?" Without waiting for her answer, his eyes immediately began a search on the floor for her discarded messenger bag, which, out of the corner of his eye, he found atop the dresser, along with her cellphone.
Ten text messages and four voicemails – all from Numbnuts.
"Could you ... bring me my phone?"
Exhaling a deep, angry growl, Luigi ripped open her bag for her pill bottle and handed it to her. "You've got messages from Nemirovsky. He can wait until you're well!"
"Kerido," she responded in a calm, yet tight voice while popping two capsules into her mouth, "what would happen if one of your employees didn't call in sick?"
The man's shoulders sagged in defeat before passing her the phone. "Daisy, I'd never make someone work who was obviously unwell," he insisted, then spun to face her and watch as she texted a long message to her supervisor, presumably to explain the situation. When she had sent the text, she set the phone on the night table.
As he inched closer to her locus on the bed, they both heard a child's giggling and Miles yelp, "Cats don't eat Chinese food! Or rather, they should not eat Chinese takeout!"
Daisy chuckled, soup still in her hands. "It looks like someone's getting impatient for dinner. Where's Salvatore, by the way?"
"I have – I have no idea." Grudgingly, he left his fiancée to check on the downstairs occupants. Josh, still on the phone with Mario, was rolling on the kitchen floor laughing as Miles glared at Fyodor, who was chewing on strewn parts of an egg roll on the vinyl. "Jesus ..." he gasped. "Mafia cat nabs my chicken egg roll."
He then felt Josh tug at his shirt. "Zio, Babbo wants to talk," he spoke, holding up his phone.
"Grazie," he smiled, taking the phone. Tucking it into his neck, he ambled to the sink to wash his hands with hot water and soap. "Yo, Mario."
The man coughed into the phone. "Weegie. I'm speakin' English so that the kid doesn't understand. Miles is there?"
Glancing at Miles, who was scooping some rice and chicken onto Josh's and his plates, he nodded. "Yeah."
"Bene. Dipshit's good at research. Listen, fratellino ... This fuckin' virus ... It's not just the flu, aight? I don't know what kind of bullshit they're spinning up there, but here, they're acting like nothing's happening. I'm tellin' youse, don't let anyone in; lock that place down. I mean it. Try to work from home if you can."
Fixing himself a small plate of rice, beef, and a piece of Crab Rangoon, Luigi hesitantly replied, "Wait, how do you know ...?"
"PCR came back for one of the guys who arrived in New Orleans just before I did – positive. Mine hasn't come back yet, but it's a safe bet."
"Fuck."
"Yeah, fuck's right. I wasn't gonna say it in front of Uncle Sal or the Sfacciata, but it's nasty shit. I've been coughin' like two goddamn days straight. And lemme tell ya, I've been exposed to some motherfuckers overseas, too."
The green plumber winced as he heard his elder brother move the speaker from his mouth to cough and hack into a tissue. Swallowing harshly, he set his plate on the kitchen counter and proceeded outside to the small garden and Brooklyn twilight so that neither Josh nor Miles would overhear them. "Fratello ... I ... I'm telling you this because of Josh. He's aight – you heard him yourself. It's Daisy ... she's ..." He sighed into the heavy silence. "I think she's got it."
"The fuck ...?" breathed Mario. "How ... How the fuck did she get it? It's not like Landau and Bowman are public defenders! Me? I deal with shit and scum twenty-four-seven, courtesy of the Feds. It's gotta be the sniffles or some other shit."
"Lander and Bardeau," corrected Luigi. "However it happened, she's got it."
"Lander – whatever their name is – they're still fuckin' sharks at the bottom of the Atlantic who can kiss my fat Italian plumber's ass." Both brothers paused, mulling over what the other had said. "Just, uh, wash your hands real well. Keep her separate from everyone else. If she does have it, then it's transmitted through sweat, spit, and, uh, close contact. Y'know ... Just sayin.'"
The younger plumber guffawed. "Got it to both."
"And where's Sal? Apparently, he's babysitting Josh? Normally, I wouldn't be a fan of that, but it's not a," he put down the phone once more to cough violently, "a normal time."
Luigi shrugged to the darkening sky. "I don't know. I didn't get a chance to ask Miles. I just got home when you called."
"Watch your ass, Weege. I know those assholes still own the union. I saw that March Madness and shit's been canceled. God only fuckin' knows what will happen as a result a-that."
He nodded and pulled the heavy iron garden chair closer to his body to sit, wincing as he heard it scrape across the mini-porch wood. "Yeah."
Another poignant pause fell upon them for what seemed like minutes; he remained pensive, unsure of what to add, even while Mario experienced several more coughing episodes. "Peach, you know, she ... she's doin' okay. Or as well as can be."
Realizing that his brother had provided him an unspoken invitation to discuss his sister-in-law, the younger man queried, "Where is she, exactly? And her father ...?"
Mario exhaled raggedly in a mixture of hacking and sadness. "They, uh, buried him a week ago, I guess. Her mother took it pretty badly, even though they had been separated for, shit, decades. Peaches would have sent for Josh and I to attend the funeral, so that her mother could meet her nipote, but ... the cases in Venice are beyond critical. Peach's working in the ospedale civile; there're so many cases and so few staff that they begged her to assist as a New York pulmonologist. You can see why. Last time we talked, she ... she was puttin' on a brave face, I think."
Luigi closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Shit ... I'm sorry, Mario."
"Thanks, though it ain't you, fratellino. You're doin' enough right now by taking Josh." Both fell awkwardly quiet again, not knowing what to say to one another. Finally, the older man, stifling a wheeze, went on to his stunned brother, "I'll be there as soon as I can, bro. Count on it. If the world's gonna fuckin' end, then I ain't spending the last minutes stuck in the Armpit of America. Whatever the fuck this is, it's not strong enough to keep me from youse. Not even close. I'll tear a goddamn hole into the Earth if I have to. We're a package deal."
Beaming a little through anxious, unshed tears, the younger plumber whispered, "I thought the Armpit was New Jersey."
"Same difference."
Both de-evolved into giggles, with Luigi snorting and Mario hacking and spitting. Then the former nodded in the dark. "Aight, bro. Package deal."
An exhausted Salvatore curb-parked alongside the now pitch-black Carroll Gardens street, save for a few dimly lit streetlamps and faint glows of late-night programming. The suited man ran up the staircase, fishing out the spare key that he had taken to re-enter the house. Using his unpriestly skills to slide the metal into the lock and turn it soundlessly, he looked up and down the street, ever paranoid that the FBI, NYPD, or whichever acronym had followed him, and glided inside the dark brownstone. After clicking the door into its frame and re-locking it, Sal removed his shoes to muffle the sound of his footsteps, and strode past Miles, who was unaware in his blue sleeping bag, to the stairs. With the exception of a single creak, the mafioso caused no disturbance while progressing to the upper floor. Pushing the left-most door open a crack, he spied the unworried Josh and his cat companion, Fyodor, curled up together in the guest bed. Leaving them to sweet dreams, he proceeded to the master bedroom, whose door, to his dismay, was left wide-open. Walking inside, he found Luigi asleep on the floor, phone in hand, and a perspiring woman unconsciously shivering in the bed, despite the warm room temperature. As he stepped gradually toward her so as not to bother Luigi, Salvatore retrieved the thermometer and, using the discarded washcloth to clean the tip as well as possible, threaded it into the edge of Daisy's mouth. When it beeped loudly after a half-minute, he quivered, momentarily afraid that he had woken his nephew, then repossessed it to read the temperature. His eyes enlarged at the number, and he debated whether to risk waking them both to repeat the measurement.
One hundred three point two degrees.
Not knowing what to do, especially in light of what had been decided by his Padrino, he sank to the ground in front of the night table, thermometer still in hand, and stared vacuously into the darkness.