Smedley—well, plenty of people can’t resist a setup like that. In Smedley’s office, there was this marshal named Todd—a GQ-looking jerk—who would press his cheek to his shoulder, toss his arm in the air like a trunk, and make a trumpeting noise when Smedley walked by. Everybody just laughed and laughed at that. Including Smedley. He pretended it didn’t bother him, but he secretly envisioned bitch-slapping Todd into early next week. Smedley just couldn’t assert himself enough to tell those guys to shut the hell up. He daydreamed about it, though. A lot.
What the hell, Smedley thought, as he crammed the remainder of the cream-filled delight into his mouth. Maybe he’d start a diet next week. It was never too late, right?
With his hands free now, he twirled the radio dial. He preferred talk radio. Rush Limbaugh, Dr. Laura Schlessinger, even those two goobers who yakked on and on about car repair. Those guys were pretty funny, even if they did have weird accents. Smedley found some sort of program about horticulture and sat back in his seat.
A car came bouncing down the rutted street in front of the Mamelis’ house. Could be a Mercedes. It looked kind of gray, too. Kind of hard to tell yet... nope, it was a Lexus, and it kept on going down the road.
Smedley had knocked on the door when he first arrived, but nobody was home. Looking through the garage windows, all he saw was the kid’s Camaro. So Smedley parked out on the road, a hundred yards down, waiting. A few minutes later, Sal’s Lincoln came ripping along with Sal and the kid inside, returning from who-knows-where.
It was Smedley’s job to drop in on the Mamelis on occasion, maybe a couple of times a month. Kind of keep an eye on them, make sure everything was kosher. Granted, Sal didn’t have a lot to gain by running at this point, but with some of these guys, you never knew what they’d do.
Smedley remembered Gino Riccotto, a wiseguy who had turned federal witness. Late in the game, Riccotto decided he’d made a mistake, he wasn’t a rat, and it was time to kiss and make up with the men he was going to send to prison. So, the day before the trial, Gino slipped away from the safe house while Smedley was asleep on the sofa. Not much you can do for him now, Smedley’s boss had said. He’ll turn up eventually. Three days later, a security guard found what was left of Gino oozing out of a bus-station locker. Maybe that’s how Sal will end up, Smedley thought. Then he realized he was smiling.
Angela and Maria drove along in silence in Angela’s gray Mercedes, the only sound the hum of the tires and the soft classical music on the stereo.
There were times when Angela could hardly stand to look at her housekeeper. She didn’t hate Maria, exactly; in fact she didn’t hate her at all. After all, deep down, Angela knew it wasn’t Maria’s fault. If something was going on between Maria and Sal, Angela felt certain it was all Sal’s doing. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Sal’s infidelity had left Angela plodding through life in a state of despair and regret for twenty years. She didn’t love her husband, and wasn’t sure if she ever would again. Sure, she had loved him at one time, back when they first met. Those days seemed like a fairy tale compared to the last two decades.
Sal had swept Angela off her feet in 1983. She was a secretary working for the New York building inspector’s office, leading a dreary life, living in a dreary apartment, hanging out with dreary friends.
Then one day, in walked a good-looking young man with thick black hair, playful eyes, and a beautiful smile. Tall. Charismatic. In an expensive suit. He had an appointment, he said, and his name was Roberto Ragusa. (Angela couldn’t get used to his new name, Sal. She still slipped sometimes and called him Bobby. Sal always looked around nervously and said, What, you trying to get me killed? It’s Sal,
What the hell, Smedley thought, as he crammed the remainder of the cream-filled delight into his mouth. Maybe he’d start a diet next week. It was never too late, right?
With his hands free now, he twirled the radio dial. He preferred talk radio. Rush Limbaugh, Dr. Laura Schlessinger, even those two goobers who yakked on and on about car repair. Those guys were pretty funny, even if they did have weird accents. Smedley found some sort of program about horticulture and sat back in his seat.
A car came bouncing down the rutted street in front of the Mamelis’ house. Could be a Mercedes. It looked kind of gray, too. Kind of hard to tell yet... nope, it was a Lexus, and it kept on going down the road.
Smedley had knocked on the door when he first arrived, but nobody was home. Looking through the garage windows, all he saw was the kid’s Camaro. So Smedley parked out on the road, a hundred yards down, waiting. A few minutes later, Sal’s Lincoln came ripping along with Sal and the kid inside, returning from who-knows-where.
It was Smedley’s job to drop in on the Mamelis on occasion, maybe a couple of times a month. Kind of keep an eye on them, make sure everything was kosher. Granted, Sal didn’t have a lot to gain by running at this point, but with some of these guys, you never knew what they’d do.
Smedley remembered Gino Riccotto, a wiseguy who had turned federal witness. Late in the game, Riccotto decided he’d made a mistake, he wasn’t a rat, and it was time to kiss and make up with the men he was going to send to prison. So, the day before the trial, Gino slipped away from the safe house while Smedley was asleep on the sofa. Not much you can do for him now, Smedley’s boss had said. He’ll turn up eventually. Three days later, a security guard found what was left of Gino oozing out of a bus-station locker. Maybe that’s how Sal will end up, Smedley thought. Then he realized he was smiling.
Angela and Maria drove along in silence in Angela’s gray Mercedes, the only sound the hum of the tires and the soft classical music on the stereo.
There were times when Angela could hardly stand to look at her housekeeper. She didn’t hate Maria, exactly; in fact she didn’t hate her at all. After all, deep down, Angela knew it wasn’t Maria’s fault. If something was going on between Maria and Sal, Angela felt certain it was all Sal’s doing. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Sal’s infidelity had left Angela plodding through life in a state of despair and regret for twenty years. She didn’t love her husband, and wasn’t sure if she ever would again. Sure, she had loved him at one time, back when they first met. Those days seemed like a fairy tale compared to the last two decades.
Sal had swept Angela off her feet in 1983. She was a secretary working for the New York building inspector’s office, leading a dreary life, living in a dreary apartment, hanging out with dreary friends.
Then one day, in walked a good-looking young man with thick black hair, playful eyes, and a beautiful smile. Tall. Charismatic. In an expensive suit. He had an appointment, he said, and his name was Roberto Ragusa. (Angela couldn’t get used to his new name, Sal. She still slipped sometimes and called him Bobby. Sal always looked around nervously and said, What, you trying to get me killed? It’s Sal,
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