as Chris leaned forward to turn on the radio and tune into his favorite station. The Beatles sang Twist and Shout through the static and Chris lowered the volume, hoping that would keep his mother from turning it off.
“Me. I had to clean out the grease trap,” Chris said. His eyes stayed on the radio.
“Well, those clothes will have to go in the wash, young man, and you scrub yourself when we get home. You smell like a greasy spoon.”
“What’s for dinner?” Clay asked, not caring about food, but wanting to talk about something else, anything else.
“Meat loaf. Clay, you look pale as a ghost. Are you all right?”
Clay rubbed his face with his hand, trying to bring some life back into it. He was surprised it still showed, not happy that his face betrayed him so readily. Chris glanced up at him, then back to the radio. C'mon c'mon, c'mon, baby, now, come on and work it on out—
“Yeah, fine. Tired and hungry is all. Chris did a great job today.”
“Well, good,” Addy said. She moved her eyes from Clay to Chris, then back again, trying to signal Clay to tell Chris, not her. Clay understood what she meant, but what the hell was he supposed to do, repeat himself?
A long black car drove past them, a Cadillac Deville, polished and gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Clay knew the car.
“You’d better go,” he said. “I’ve got business coming. I’ll be home at seven.” He shut the door, patted the hood, and stepped back. He watched the Nash drive off, heard the rumbling noise that told him it would need a new muffler before long. It was a ’59, bought used last year, and it was going to start costing money. It was just for around town, but he wanted it to be in good shape for Addy. She deserved better. Clay looked to the Cadillac idling double-parked. The polish job looked a mile deep as it reflected the overhead sky. Last year’s model, it was sleek and lean, clean lines, classy. Addy would look good in that car, maybe a white convertible. He imagined them driving, top down, heading to the beach, sunglasses on, wind swirling over the windshield, cooling them in the summer sun and asphalt heat.
A car door opened and slammed shut. The driver was out, a big fella in a green sharkskin suit. He opened the rear door for his passenger, a smaller man dressed in a black suit. Except for a stark white shirt, everything was black. Pointed toe shoes, tie, cufflinks, hair, mustache, even his eyes looked like black dots on white. He walked towards Clay, looking into his eyes, searching for something. He stopped when he was nearly toe-to-toe. He was a couple of inches taller and tilted his head slightly. Clay smelled cologne, cigarette smoke, and sour wine.
“Inside,” he said.
“Sure, Mr. Fiorenza,” Clay said, and followed.
Clay wasn’t surprised when they went inside and another well-built guy in a dark suit was standing by the back booth. Like the last time, the only time, Pasquale Fiorenza had come to Jake’s Tavern, he sent one of his men around the back first, to check out the place. Then he made his entrance. Mr. Fiorenza hadn’t made it to where he was today by walking into rooms without knowing what was on the other side of the door. Mr. Fiorenza sat in the last booth, facing the room. The dark suited guy sat on a bar stool facing the rear door. He didn’t order a drink.
Clay slid into the booth, glancing at Brick, who shrugged, raised his eyebrows, and pulled a draft. Clay turned to Mr. Fiorenza, who sat with his hands up to his face. He looked tired. Clay was wary, uncertain of what the visit meant.
“Can I get you anything, Mr. Fiorenza? Coffee?”
Mr. Fiorenza pulled his hands down his cheeks, stretching his lower eyelids until the wet, red inner lid showed. His eyeballs were bloodshot, not the crystal clear white they had seemed outside. His hands finally left his face, which returned to its normal hardness. The hands went flat on the table.
“How long have we known each other, Mr.
“Me. I had to clean out the grease trap,” Chris said. His eyes stayed on the radio.
“Well, those clothes will have to go in the wash, young man, and you scrub yourself when we get home. You smell like a greasy spoon.”
“What’s for dinner?” Clay asked, not caring about food, but wanting to talk about something else, anything else.
“Meat loaf. Clay, you look pale as a ghost. Are you all right?”
Clay rubbed his face with his hand, trying to bring some life back into it. He was surprised it still showed, not happy that his face betrayed him so readily. Chris glanced up at him, then back to the radio. C'mon c'mon, c'mon, baby, now, come on and work it on out—
“Yeah, fine. Tired and hungry is all. Chris did a great job today.”
“Well, good,” Addy said. She moved her eyes from Clay to Chris, then back again, trying to signal Clay to tell Chris, not her. Clay understood what she meant, but what the hell was he supposed to do, repeat himself?
A long black car drove past them, a Cadillac Deville, polished and gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Clay knew the car.
“You’d better go,” he said. “I’ve got business coming. I’ll be home at seven.” He shut the door, patted the hood, and stepped back. He watched the Nash drive off, heard the rumbling noise that told him it would need a new muffler before long. It was a ’59, bought used last year, and it was going to start costing money. It was just for around town, but he wanted it to be in good shape for Addy. She deserved better. Clay looked to the Cadillac idling double-parked. The polish job looked a mile deep as it reflected the overhead sky. Last year’s model, it was sleek and lean, clean lines, classy. Addy would look good in that car, maybe a white convertible. He imagined them driving, top down, heading to the beach, sunglasses on, wind swirling over the windshield, cooling them in the summer sun and asphalt heat.
A car door opened and slammed shut. The driver was out, a big fella in a green sharkskin suit. He opened the rear door for his passenger, a smaller man dressed in a black suit. Except for a stark white shirt, everything was black. Pointed toe shoes, tie, cufflinks, hair, mustache, even his eyes looked like black dots on white. He walked towards Clay, looking into his eyes, searching for something. He stopped when he was nearly toe-to-toe. He was a couple of inches taller and tilted his head slightly. Clay smelled cologne, cigarette smoke, and sour wine.
“Inside,” he said.
“Sure, Mr. Fiorenza,” Clay said, and followed.
Clay wasn’t surprised when they went inside and another well-built guy in a dark suit was standing by the back booth. Like the last time, the only time, Pasquale Fiorenza had come to Jake’s Tavern, he sent one of his men around the back first, to check out the place. Then he made his entrance. Mr. Fiorenza hadn’t made it to where he was today by walking into rooms without knowing what was on the other side of the door. Mr. Fiorenza sat in the last booth, facing the room. The dark suited guy sat on a bar stool facing the rear door. He didn’t order a drink.
Clay slid into the booth, glancing at Brick, who shrugged, raised his eyebrows, and pulled a draft. Clay turned to Mr. Fiorenza, who sat with his hands up to his face. He looked tired. Clay was wary, uncertain of what the visit meant.
“Can I get you anything, Mr. Fiorenza? Coffee?”
Mr. Fiorenza pulled his hands down his cheeks, stretching his lower eyelids until the wet, red inner lid showed. His eyeballs were bloodshot, not the crystal clear white they had seemed outside. His hands finally left his face, which returned to its normal hardness. The hands went flat on the table.
“How long have we known each other, Mr.
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