44
In the cramped kitchen of a fourth-floor walkup on Sullivan Street, Bert the Shirt d'Ambrosia, his monogrammed cuffs rolled up past his elbows, was making meatballs, while his sniffly chihuahua lay on the cracked linoleum, content in its master's nearness and in the homey smells of meat and garlic and frying onions.
The old mobster, humming tunelessly, sculpted a hollow into the big raw mound of blended beef and pork and broke an egg in it. He kneaded the mixture through the fingers of both hands; it made squishy sounds as the egg yolk ran and bubbled. Then he split the gooey mass into two batches.
He went to the doorway and peeked through it into the living room. Bo, who believed that people should keep up with things, was sitting rapt in front of the evening news, frowning at earthquakes and warlords. He wasn't getting up anytime real soon.
Bert went back to the counter and reflected on how lucky he was in his jailer. Bo had been nothing but considerate, gentlemanly. He'd taken Bert uptown to the Stafford, let him gather up his things, even carried his bag for him. Downtown again, they'd walked Don Giovanni together, shopped for dinner like roommates, met Pretty Boy for a drink at a bar on Bleecker Street. The handsome thug moved from speedy to opinionated, in what seemed the early stages of a night of getting blotto, but Bo had remained a pleasant companion all the while.
He'd been so nice that the Shirt felt almost bad as he dumped the rest of the flaxseed into Bo's half of the meatball mixture and worked in the oily pellets with his fingers. The arthritic chihuahua roused itself at the familiar smell and did a jointless little pirouette next to the garbage can.
———
The ceiling fan turned slowly above Joey and Sandra's dining room table; the blades sliced through the steam that wafted up from the giant bowl of fusilli and shrimp and the tails of langostinos.
Arty held out a chair for Debbi. He smelled her hair as she settled in, but his mind was not at peace.
When everyone was seated, Vincente, regal in his smoking jacket, raised his glass and said, "Salud." Five arms stretched across the table; glasses clinked.
Heaping bowls of pasta were handed round. Arty thought about the first time he'd eaten here. Out of nervousness, he'd had three helpings of linguine, and everyone had offered an opinion on his appetite and his physique, talked about him like he wasn't there—or as if he'd always been there.
Now salad was making its way around the table.
The ghostwriter, his insides stuffed with secrets, felt no appetite. He tonged a few leaves onto his side plate. Joey said to him, "Take more. There's avocado at the bottom. You like avocado."
Debbi shot a quick wry look at Arty; this was just the kind of thing the two of them would smile about together. Arty felt her glance but was too knotted up to return it. "How do you know I like avocado?" he said to Joey.
"Come on," the other man said. "I don't know what you like by now? I don't see? It's like family already. Family, ya know who likes avocado, who hates onions, who peppers make 'im burp. Ya just know."
So Arty dug out some avocado.
There was a silence which then phased into a rumble as the air got ready to carry sound. Vincente said softly, "Family changes. It changes. I didn't used ta think it did, I thought it was the only thing that stayed the same. I was wrong—what else is new? The feelings change, the boundaries, like, they ain't so solid like I thought. People leave. People come in. It changes, yeah."
He blinked from underneath his awning brows. He looked through the steam that wafted from the pasta bowl, saw Joey and Sandra, Arty and Debbi. They were staring at him, and only when he saw them staring did he realize he'd spoken aloud. They looked worried, they looked sad for him. It didn't do for people to be sad at table, and Vincente tried to smile. To his surprise, a small smile came easily, he felt in some way unburdened. "It changes, yeah," he said again. "I ain't sayin' that's bad."
Bo the gentlemanly thug dabbed his thick lips on a napkin and patted his distended tummy. "Terrific meatballs, Bert," he said. "Howdya make em?"
The old mobster, his own small stomach pressing lightly against the bone buttons of his shirt, got up to clear the table that was squeezed into a shadowy alcove with a hissing radiator. "Ya gonna tell me why you're keepin' me heah?" he said.
"We been tru dat," said Bo. "Ya know I can't."
"Then I ain't givin' up my recipe." He ran dishes up his arm and headed for the kitchen. His dog followed stiffly behind, paws ticking on the floor.
"Ya puttin' up coffee?" Bo asked him.
Bert put the dishes in the sink. There was a clock on the wall; it said ten after nine. With the dog, it usually took about an hour for things to happen with the flaxseed. Of course, Bo was a lot bigger than the dog. Then again he'd had a lot more meatballs. Bert didn't know if it would make a difference either way. He didn't hurry on the coffee; eleven minutes were gone by the time the brown foam dribbled out the spout of the espresso pot.