Staten Island Noir by Patricia Smith

Kensington Street home, where he'd lived since the young secretary he left her for left him when he ran out of money. His business failed and his hair fell out. Still, he was the father of her two daughters and she was grateful for that, but was hoping he'd die soon and put everyone out of their misery.
    That day she wore a bejeweled patch over her left eye because her recent self-improvement had been laser surgery so she wouldn't have to wear trifocals. She had a tall weave of teased hair that fluffed around her face like blond cotton candy; Frankie said she looked like a disco pirate and I had to agree. The only thing missing was a parrot on her shoulder and a cutlass in her hand.
    After Theresa's first husband died in a mysterious fire, she got involved with a married man who strung her along for ten years before marrying her. She was still mourning her dead husband while trying to keep the new one interested.
    "Come on, Frankie, give me the recipe. Bennie would buy me a fur coat if I made cannoli like this," Theresa said.
    Requests for Frankie's secret cannoli recipe were always appreciated, but she declined with her usual answer: "If I told you the recipe I'd have to kill you. This one goes with me to my grave, ladies, since it looks like neither one of my sons want to make me a grandmother."
    "What's the matter with your Gianni? He's a handsome guy, got a good job in the city," said Angelina, already a little tipsy from her second glass of chianti.
    "Too damn picky, my Gianni. He's thirty-five years old and still no wife." Frankie dabbed at her mouth with a linen napkin.
    "You should've left him in Sicily with your brothers for a few years."
    "My brothers would've killed him. He likes to read books. They're fishermen, they gut fish for fun. Gianni hates fish. He barely lasted a week every other summer. One good thing came out of it, though. He speaks perfect Italian."
    "Theresa, you got anybody for Gianni? Is your youngest married yet?"
    Theresa was well respected as a matchmaker since she had miraculously married off her homely thirty-year-old niece to a retired boat captain in Sardinia and successfully introduced a young cousin with a limp to a cab driver who lived in Sunnyside.
    "My Sheila's married three times already. The oldest is married to her job. Works for a lawyer in Bay Ridge but she spends most of her time in the city. She seems to have a taste for married men," Theresa complained.
    "Just like her mother." Olympia poured more chianti into my glass.
    "What do you mean, Olympia? Ben was almost divorced when I met him. We got married right after his divorce was final."
    "Ten years later, wasn't it?" Olympia smiled at me and winked.
    "Olympia, I swear I'll put your other eye out and it won't be temporary."
    "Frankie, your son Charlie, he's connected, isn't he?" Olympia changed the subject.
    Frankie's look could have sliced through the Italian marble fireplace. Her voice was cold and dropped to a whisper: "My son Cicero is in construction like his father. He's a legitimate businessman."
    "I didn't mean anything . . ."
    "Cicero's a good boy. He brings me a box of assorted from Alfonso's Bakery every Sunday, and my Gianni, he works with me in my garden. He bought me a Madonna to put in the backyard. He'll help me install it before the ground freezes. Gianni, he's a good boy. A little queer with the books and all, but I couldn't be more proud of him. He teaches English at a private school on the Upper East Side."
    "My Nardo saw him coming out of a double feature at the mall last week," Celia offered.
    "Was he with somebody?" Angelina asked.
    "All alone. So sad. He's so good-looking." Celia picked up the framed photo of Frankie's youngest son from the buffet.
    "Movie-star handsome," Olympia said, passing his photograph around the dining room table.
    "I know I can find somebody for him," Theresa insisted.
    "Staten Island is like a village. Everybody knows your freaking business and thinks they can improve it." Olympia