The Saint of Lost Things (14 page)

“Less than dirt,” says Cassie.

“Less than dirt is right,” says Renato. “If they keep their hands on it. So I have to take steps. Big steps. To protect Mamma. She has nightmares. Thank God Papà didn’t live to see it. But if he was alive today he’d kill me for doing nothing to protect her—and his investment.”

Cassie cracks a smile. “I told him he should be a good son and move back in with her.” She pinches his cheek. “Then we get married, and I come to live there, too. One big happy family.”

Renato leans over in his chair. He looks each person in the eye. “I tell you: big steps. Soon. It’s gone on too long already. Here’s the plan. Cassie’s going to stop into the bar at Mrs. Stella’s just before it closes. She’ll drink a little too much—not hard for her, to be sure—and she’ll give the restaurant the name of a taxi. The man next door to Mamma, the head of the family, if you can call him that, works at the taxi company. When he comes to pick her up, she tells him she lives in Marcus Hook, and he drives her to my friend Lino’s house. You don’t know Lino. He used to be a boxer. He has no heart for these
mulignani
trying to take over. He moved all the way to Marcus Hook to get away from them, and even that’s not far enough these days. So the
mulignane
drives her to Lino’s house, and when he tells her the fare, she says, ‘I have no money,’ and makes him come inside Lino’s if he wants to get paid.”

“Gesù Cristo,’”
Antonio says. “Then what, you beat him up? My brother can’t be tied to this. Why does it have to be Mrs. Stella’s she came from?”

“It’s two blocks from my mother’s house. He’s the closest taxi, so there’s a good chance they’ll call him. If they don’t call him, we
keep trying different nights until they do. It might take a few tries, but the important thing is to make it look natural.”

“Keep going,” Buzzy says. “Let’s hear the whole plan before Antonio tells us what’s wrong with it.”

“We don’t beat him up,” Renato says. “That’s the beauty. Cassie has a much more elegant idea—”

“We get him inside,” Cassie interrupts. “Lino’s there, right? And Renato, and maybe Buzzy too.” She glances at him. “In front of them, I tell the man, ‘You won’t be getting any money tonight. You drove me all the way to Marcus Hook to try to—’ and then I tear my blouse and slap my face a little. I start to cry. The man is confused. Then he understands and gets nervous. He throws up his hands and tries to leave. Then Renato tells him—”

“Get out of Seventh Street!” Renato says, standing. He points his finger at Antonio as if he were the colored man. Cassie slides over to the empty seat. “If you and your monkeys aren’t gone in one week, this girl tells the police what you did to her.”

“I’ve got tears all down my face, and I’m screaming,” Cassie says. She thrashes and musses her hair and runs her nails up and down her neck, making red marks. “I can’t control myself.”

“You see the quality of actress she is,” Renato continues, still talking to the colored man. “Who’s going to believe you over her?”

“So much for going straight,” Antonio says, in Italian. He pushes his chair away from the table. “I don’t know why you tell me these things. Stealing bracelets is different than—”

“What did he say?” Cassie asks. “Anytime you talk Italian, I know it’s about me.”

“After he’s gone, my uncle from Naples moves in,” Renato says. “He’s been waiting to come here since the war. For a free place to live, he’ll help take care of my mother. Cassie and I will stay here and kick Buzzy out. Everybody’s happy.”

“Except Buzzy,” Buzzy says. “Where am I supposed to live?”

“You could buy all of Seventh Street with the cash in your mattress,” says Renato. “You stayed with me this long because you’re a tightwad.”

“I don’t want them in my neighborhood any more than you do,” Antonio says. “Two of them come to my street. Every morning I sweep up their cigarettes, like I’m their maid. I’m so angry I can take the broom and—” He takes a swing like he’s aiming for a baseball. “But your plan is not right. First of all, it’s sloppy. A hundred things can go wrong. Second of all, it’s dangerous for everybody.”

“That’s why I called you here,” says Renato. “To give us a better plan. To improve this one. To do what you can for your friends and your people.” He pulls his chair closer to the table and folds his hands. “Now, tell us how to make it work.”

Antonio rubs his face. “I need to think it over for a few days.”

“In a few days, ten more of them will move in. We need your help now.”

“Esagerato,”
Antonio says. “Nobody moves this time of year.”

“I like
this
plan,” says Cassie. “I don’t understand why Antonio gets to decide. He’s too scared to even be there.”

“He’s the family man,” Renato says. “His head is on straight. More straight than mine or yours. If he could get the beautiful Maddalena to marry him, he must have something upstairs that we don’t.”

“Can you unlock the whiskey now?” Antonio asks.

“What, modest all of a sudden?” says Renato. “You walk into your village, pick an eighteen-year-old girl you barely know, and a month later she’s your wife. Smile on your face when you come back here like you won the lottery.” He turns to Cassie. “Even before, when we used to go out together in Wilmington, he would tell me, ‘Renato, let me do the talking,’ and a minute later, two girls
come to our table with free drinks and invite us to some private party.”

“And if my memory serves me,” says Buzzy, “he worked some magic on you, too, Cassie.”

Renato pretends not to hear this, but Cassie rolls her eyes. “Fine. I’m not going to talk anymore. I do all the hard thinking work, but no one cares about my opinion.”

“I care,” says Renato and gives her shoulder another smooch.

Antonio checks his watch. It’s not late enough to use time as an excuse. “There’s an easier way to do this,” he says.

“Good,” says Renato. “Then come up with one. Otherwise, it’s Cassie’s plan next week. Between Christmas and New Year’s. I’m counting on you. This is bigger than Riverview Drive. It has to do with friendship—loyalty—not money. And who’s to say that, someday, one won’t lead to the other? That a favor now won’t affect a favor later?”

The two coffees, and now Renato’s threat, have set Antonio’s heart going.

“You know who else is counting on you?” Renato continues. “My mother, in her bed right now with the covers pulled up to her neck, scared to death.”

“We should go there this minute,” says Cassie. “Make sure she’s OK.”

“Don’t tell your brother anything,” Renato says. “It’s better if no one at Mrs. Stella’s knows. Remember: everything natural, and no one gets in trouble.”

So much for the beauty of Christmas, Antonio thinks. “Are we playing cards tonight, or what?” he asks. Renato stares at him. “How did everything get so serious all of a sudden? I come here to relax. If I can’t relax in the pizzeria, where am I supposed to go?”

“We’re not teenagers anymore,” says Renato. “If we don’t protect what we have, nobody will do it for us. You know that better than I do.”

“I don’t like this plan,” says Antonio. “Not one bit. I’m telling you that as a friend, Renato. Someone’s going to get hurt, and it’s not going to be the
mulignane.”

“Then fix it,” says Buzzy. “Knock some sense into these two.” He yawns. “I’m going up to Marcie. I have a stomachache.”

“He doesn’t have the stomach for anything anymore,” Renato says.

Buzzy’s hair is going gray. He colors it with some sort of oil, but the roots of his curls are darker than the ends, and nothing about it looks natural. Before taking the stairs, he unbuttons his shirt at the collar to impress Marcie with his chest hair, which he also regulates with the oil. Buzzy has admitted his fear that Marcie will discover his secret and leave him for a younger man. This, Antonio thinks, is the sort of problem he could handle. He’d tease Buzzy a little, get him cursing, then remind him: not a single one of your women has ever called you the next Cary Grant, and look how you’ve scored.

But the kind of crime Renato’s talking about? With that Antonio has no experience, and now it seems it might decide not only their friendship, but future business. He can’t let Renato down again. In the past, he has tracked when and where the clerks at Braunstein’s take their afternoon breaks. He has found Buzzy a free garage to hide his car in the weeks after a job. Unlike this plan, stealing from department stores hurts no one. He has to think fast.

Cassie watches him, arms crossed, as if she can see this plan turning over in his mind: vandalism. Rocks thrown at the window. A two-a.m. visit from an angry Officer Stanley. He doesn’t like it, exactly—he won’t do any of it himself—but it’s less complicated, more direct, than Cassie’s idea. It’s what the coloreds should expect, anyway, living apart from their own kind.

Cassie’s eyes dare him to speak. Buzzy comes back down in his underwear and shirtsleeves for a sandwich. Finally Antonio says, “All right, this is it. This is what I suggest.” He stands in front of Renato and raises his right fist like a politician’s. “Old-fashioned
intimidation. We send these people a message. First, we paint
GO HOME
on a brick and throw it at the front door. Second, we slash the tires of the taxi and stuff an Italian flag in the gas tank.” This will work over time, Antonio assures them. All it requires is a little patience.

“Teenage pranks?” Cassie says. “That’s your smart family-man idea?”

They can’t afford patience, Renato argues. He has been patient long enough. Besides, that race is very stubborn; too stubborn to let a few broken windows scare them off.

“This is the traditional way,” Antonio counters. “And the traditional way always works. It’s human nature. No man keeps his wife and family in danger for long. I promise: you hit them hard the first time, they’ll be gone soon after.”

“I thought of something like this already,” Renato says. “For the same reasons. Then Cassie changed my mind.” He’s quiet for a while before he turns to her. “This is much easier, you have to admit.”

Cassie shakes her head. “Too easy, if you ask me,” she says. “What’s fun about it? It has no imagination!”

“This isn’t Broadway,” says Buzzy, listening from the stairs.

Renato rubs her shoulder. “You’ll get your chance, my little actress,” he says, with a wink. “Don’t worry. But maybe we try Antonio’s plan first, and if it doesn’t work, we try yours.”

“That makes sense to me,” says Antonio. “Go with the first idea you have. That’s another tradition of human nature: trust the gut.”

“Traditions are boring,” Cassie says. “Not to mention a waste of time.”

“Don’t worry,” Renato repeats. “You won’t be bored for long. Not with me around.”

At midnight, Antonio pushes through the front door onto the sidewalk. He waves to Officer Stanley, who sits smoking in the front seat of his patrol car, and struggles into his coat. An uneasiness
comes over him, not only because he has stayed out too late again and will pay for it in the morning, but because he can’t shake the suspicion that Renato and Buzzy agreed too easily to his change of plans. They may only be humoring him. He has to play both sides of this, make sure no harm comes either to Mrs. Stella’s or to his friendship with Renato. He walks quickly, his head lowered against the gusting cold.

Before he realizes where his mind is taking him, he’s reached the glowing neon sign at 522 North Union Street. He finds Mario out front, helping an old woman in a fur coat down the steps. “See you next week, Signora Finch,” he tells her. “Or should I say next year?” He gives an exaggerated laugh that echoes through the streets. “Nineteen fifty-four! Can you believe it?” He guides the woman into the passenger’s seat of an idling Lincoln, then waits as the car pulls away.

“Always the gentleman,” says Antonio.

“Fratello!
” Mario says. “Where’d you come from? What a nice surprise.” He hugs him. “Did you see Mrs. Finch?” He rubs his fingers together to indicate her wealth.

“Listen,” Antonio says, before he changes his mind. He takes out a handkerchief and blows his nose. Then, with one foot in the gutter and the other on the sidewalk, he tells Mario the details of Cassie’s plan. Just in case they go behind his back. If they’d asked him for another tradition, he might have told them this: blood is thicker than water.

“Come in for some coffee,” says Mario. “Looks like you could use it. You’re not making much sense.”

“It’s Christmastime,” Antonio says, as he follows his brother into the warmth of the restaurant. “There should be peace between us.”

“I didn’t know we were at war” is Mario’s response.

7
Tombola

T
HE WEEK OF
C
HRISTMAS
E
VE
, the women wake before dawn to shop and prepare the men’s lunches. After work, there is the weekday dinner to fix, the gifts to buy and wrap, and every room to clean for the guests who will stop in over the next month. Every piece of silverware must be polished, every yard of drapery washed and rehung, every wall scrubbed. Maddalena sweeps under the stove and dusts the bulbs on the chandeliers and candelabra; she irons the tablecloths and napkins; she writes a card to her family and encloses the check for twenty-five dollars that Antonio has left on the dresser. She and Ida argue with the fishmonger over the paltry size of this year’s catches, which stare up at them open-mouthed from their beds of ice. They buy and prepare flounder and scallops and smelts and anchovy sauce, batter for the apple and cauliflower
frittelli,
and trays of fried dough lightly powdered with sugar. They make twelve pounds of linguini by hand and dry them on the basement ironing table. The entire basement is smudged with flour—the floor, the cabinet handles, the stacks of pots and pans. Every few hours, they change the water in which the salt cod is soaking to achieve the perfect
baccalà.
The stink of raw fish—salty, intestinal—lingers in their clothes and hair, and
Maddalena is convinced that everyone at the Golden Hem can smell it.