“Fuck you.”
“No,” I said, stamping my cigarette under my shoe and speaking softly. “Fuck you.”
I walked off, back to my office, to my life, to figure out what I wanted to do about this woman. I wouldn’t be told who I could and couldn’t fuck, but I wouldn’t be pushed toward her in the name of spite either.
“Spinelli,” Daniel called behind me.
He didn’t seem flustered. He didn’t shout, he just said my name, and that made me listen. I stopped at the corner and looked at him as he flicked his cigarette through the chain link.
“I know where the fourth man is. If you want him, you know what you have to do.”
five.
THE RETURN TO LOS ANGELES
theresa
scar had gotten us into the back of a truck without being seen. He kept making jokes about being a newly minted coyote, since it seemed Antonio had rescued his daughter from one. I sensed an edge to the jokes.
“You didn’t sleep with her, did you?” I’d whispered in a free moment at the depot.
“No. Can’t speak for Paulie though.”
“Jesus. He’s not going to try to get back at you for that?”
The truck had come before he had a chance to answer, and we were all smiles and handshakes.
Hours into the journey, I’d forgotten all about Paulie’s indiscretion. I was getting antsy in the back of the truck. It was dark outside, so it was black inside. The hours blew by in the hup-shh hup of the tires hitting regular seams in the road. The heartbeat sound made me anxious about Jonathan. We’d made the deal to take us all the way to Los Angeles, and the drive seemed to take forever.
“Do you smell that?” Antonio said in the dark.
I felt him next to me, a stalwart presence that kept my pounding heart from exploding. “Smells like trees.”
“Olive trees. There are olive orchards in southern California. We must be passing a stretch along the 5.”
I nodded and took his hand, memorizing that scent. It was important to Antonio. It reminded him of his childhood, and it seemed as if knowing an olive orchard when we passed it brought him closer to me.
“What’s your mother like?” I asked.
“Sick, always sick. Since Nella… since the thing with those men, she doesn’t get out of bed much. But she talks on the phone and leans out the window. When you meet her, she’ll make you listen to opera. She’ll tell you Italian culture has nothing to do with crime. And she’s right. We’re aberrations, my father and I. She’ll show you art and read you poetry. She’ll play you opera until you can sing it in the shower.”
“I love opera.” I was charmed by the idea of meeting his mother. It seemed like a fantasy that could happen. “And your dad?”
“Never. You’ll never meet him. By running away from this marriage, I put him in a terrible position. If I see him again, fifty-fifty chance he’ll kill me. Let’s stick with my mother for now.” The dim light glinted off his teeth when he smiled, but what he said couldn’t be more serious.
“Opera and art then.” My mind wandered to my own mother, her cultured aloofness, and my brother’s love of art.
“Jonathan’s probably fine,” I said into the dark after a long silence.
“Yes. Probably.”
“Fine. I’m sure of it.” I recited it more than said it. “Fine.”
Because I couldn’t see Antonio, when he squeezed my hand, I felt every bit of his skin, his warmth, the pressure of his touch. We’d be home soon. The border patrol hadn’t checked the back of the police van. We just withstood the heat, the stink of gunpowder and old sweat heavy in the bare box.
Oscar had been so confident, he’d sat us in the back without a contingency plan, and he’d been right. He’d taken our guns though. Antonio had been reluctant, but Oscar wasn’t moving armed passengers. End of story.