of, like his brother or his wife, and they pressured him, he'd spill the beans, he knew he would.
So, sitting on the seawall, his knees already getting pink, he drank his smoothie and he fretted. Then, suddenly, he knew what he should do. He walked on burning feet to a pay phone near a frozen-custard stand with a speaker that blared out, over and over again, an irritating little tune, and called the plumbing store in East Harlem.
The Dominican kid picked up on the second ring, said, "Amaro Sanitary Fixtures. You got Eddie."
"Hello, Eddie," Louie said.
"Mist' Amaro!" said the kid, and there was a happiness in it, a pleasure of reuniting that took Louie by surprise. Until that moment it had barely occurred to him that he might be missed, worried about, that it wasn't only Angelina whose absence would leave a small hole in the world. "Where ah you, mang?"
"I can't tell you that."
"Why you no can't tell?"
"I just can't, Eddie. Listen, I need you to do me a favor."
"Name it, Mist' Amaro."
"I want you to call my wife—"
"Your wife, she been calling plenny. I think maybe she been drinking."
"Call her up, tell her Angelina's okay, we're together, no one has to worry. You got that, Eddie?"
Eddie said, "Angelina? You go 'way with someone Angelina, and I'm supposed to tell your wife?"
"She's my niece," said Louie.
"Sure," said Eddie. "Your wife, she gonna ask where you're at."
"You can't tell her. You don't know."
"When you comin' back, Mist' Amaro?"
"I don't know. It isn't up to me."
There was a pause. Louie pictured Eddie leaning over the marred gray counter, shifting his crossed ankles the way he did when he was puzzling something out.
"Mist' Amaro," he said at last, "you been kidnap, something?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Eddie. We doin' any business?"
"Then why it's no up to you, when you come back?"
"It just isn't. How much money's in the till?"
"Nah much," said Eddie. "Hundred'ollars maybe."
"Take it if you need it."
"Take it?" The words scared Eddie, seemed like some crude temptation out of a fable from Sunday school, or like further evidence that something dreadful had happened to his boss. "Mist' Amaro, you tell me never touch that money."
Louie said, "And now I'm telling you take it if you need it." He ran a hand through the sparse bundles of damp hair atop his scorching head, and wished he'd bought a cap instead of a visor. Rose would have made him buy a cap. "And call my wife," he said. "Good talking with you, Eddie."
*
Paul Amaro was pacing like a bear among the mismatched tables of the Gatto Bianco Social Club.
Clumsy with fatigue, dizzy now and then, he occasionally bumped a chair back with his hip. He hadn't shaved, he gave off a faint but penetrating smell of rage and worry.
His old friend Funzie Gallo was eating a cannoli, the kind with crushed pistachios garnishing the ends. He watched the other man pace, then said at last, "For your own good, Paul, try to think about somethin' else awhile."
Angelina's father didn't stop lumbering and rocking. He fixed the other man from under tangled brows and said, "Fuck else is there to think about?"
Gallo blinked, pads of semiliquid fat shifted all around his eyes. "Business, Paul. Money. We used to make a lotta money here, remember?"
"And it's turned to shit," said Paul Amaro.
Funzie Gallo wanted to disagree. He found he couldn't. But Amaro seemed to understand that an attempt at help was being offered, he tried to meet Funzie halfway. He resumed without enthusiasm, "Okay, okay, so talk to me."
Gallo said, "These rods for Cuba—"
"Funzie," Amaro interrupted. "You're practically as old as me. Y'oughta remember. Our friends, Trafficante, Lansky, even Luciano, they lost their shirts in Cuba."
Funzie nibbled around the edges of his sweet, licked back oily crumbs of crust. "That was different, Paul. That was heavy-duty investment. This is a one-time cash transaction."
Amaro leaned against the pool table where no one ever shot pool. For a brief time
So, sitting on the seawall, his knees already getting pink, he drank his smoothie and he fretted. Then, suddenly, he knew what he should do. He walked on burning feet to a pay phone near a frozen-custard stand with a speaker that blared out, over and over again, an irritating little tune, and called the plumbing store in East Harlem.
The Dominican kid picked up on the second ring, said, "Amaro Sanitary Fixtures. You got Eddie."
"Hello, Eddie," Louie said.
"Mist' Amaro!" said the kid, and there was a happiness in it, a pleasure of reuniting that took Louie by surprise. Until that moment it had barely occurred to him that he might be missed, worried about, that it wasn't only Angelina whose absence would leave a small hole in the world. "Where ah you, mang?"
"I can't tell you that."
"Why you no can't tell?"
"I just can't, Eddie. Listen, I need you to do me a favor."
"Name it, Mist' Amaro."
"I want you to call my wife—"
"Your wife, she been calling plenny. I think maybe she been drinking."
"Call her up, tell her Angelina's okay, we're together, no one has to worry. You got that, Eddie?"
Eddie said, "Angelina? You go 'way with someone Angelina, and I'm supposed to tell your wife?"
"She's my niece," said Louie.
"Sure," said Eddie. "Your wife, she gonna ask where you're at."
"You can't tell her. You don't know."
"When you comin' back, Mist' Amaro?"
"I don't know. It isn't up to me."
There was a pause. Louie pictured Eddie leaning over the marred gray counter, shifting his crossed ankles the way he did when he was puzzling something out.
"Mist' Amaro," he said at last, "you been kidnap, something?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Eddie. We doin' any business?"
"Then why it's no up to you, when you come back?"
"It just isn't. How much money's in the till?"
"Nah much," said Eddie. "Hundred'ollars maybe."
"Take it if you need it."
"Take it?" The words scared Eddie, seemed like some crude temptation out of a fable from Sunday school, or like further evidence that something dreadful had happened to his boss. "Mist' Amaro, you tell me never touch that money."
Louie said, "And now I'm telling you take it if you need it." He ran a hand through the sparse bundles of damp hair atop his scorching head, and wished he'd bought a cap instead of a visor. Rose would have made him buy a cap. "And call my wife," he said. "Good talking with you, Eddie."
*
Paul Amaro was pacing like a bear among the mismatched tables of the Gatto Bianco Social Club.
Clumsy with fatigue, dizzy now and then, he occasionally bumped a chair back with his hip. He hadn't shaved, he gave off a faint but penetrating smell of rage and worry.
His old friend Funzie Gallo was eating a cannoli, the kind with crushed pistachios garnishing the ends. He watched the other man pace, then said at last, "For your own good, Paul, try to think about somethin' else awhile."
Angelina's father didn't stop lumbering and rocking. He fixed the other man from under tangled brows and said, "Fuck else is there to think about?"
Gallo blinked, pads of semiliquid fat shifted all around his eyes. "Business, Paul. Money. We used to make a lotta money here, remember?"
"And it's turned to shit," said Paul Amaro.
Funzie Gallo wanted to disagree. He found he couldn't. But Amaro seemed to understand that an attempt at help was being offered, he tried to meet Funzie halfway. He resumed without enthusiasm, "Okay, okay, so talk to me."
Gallo said, "These rods for Cuba—"
"Funzie," Amaro interrupted. "You're practically as old as me. Y'oughta remember. Our friends, Trafficante, Lansky, even Luciano, they lost their shirts in Cuba."
Funzie nibbled around the edges of his sweet, licked back oily crumbs of crust. "That was different, Paul. That was heavy-duty investment. This is a one-time cash transaction."
Amaro leaned against the pool table where no one ever shot pool. For a brief time
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