Dina Santorelli (22 page)

Gino
scratched his ass and took another bite of his sandwich, thinking about Joey
and Don and what Leo had said. Leo was starting to connect the dots, and it was
only a matter of time until he knew the truth about the relationship between
Joey and Don—Gino was embarrassed that it had taken even this long for his son
to figure it out. The resemblance, the identical mannerisms, the brains.
What
a tool.

But
what Leo would never know—
could
never know—is that this had all been
part of Gino's master plan. And for all of Don Bailino's savvy and brilliance,
Gino had played him too—sending him to check in on ToniAnne all those times
while Mikey was in prison, knowing full well what would happen. Mikey was a putz
and probably had used his one sperm cell to father his granddaughter Anna, who,
as much as Gino loved her, was a putz too and ugly as a motherfucker. And when
ToniAnne announced her second pregnancy, Gino kept his fingers crossed that
when that kid popped out it was anything but a conjugal-visit baby. And his
wish had come true. He knew it. Donny knew it. ToniAnne probably knew too,
although she never let on.

And
Don Bailino's fate had been sealed. For the past seventeen years. Forever.

Bailino
wanted out, sure. He'd been saying that for as long as Gino could remember. But
as long as Joey was around, Gino had the leverage he needed to make the Great
Bailino his errand boy—a feeling of satisfaction filled him.

But
if Leo figured it out...

I'm
getting too old for this shit
, he
thought. The ice cubes in his glass were nearly melted; Gino poured in some
Coke and took a bite of his Bavarian cream donut.

Rey drove up the ramp onto
the sidewalk and parked in front of the service station.

"Aunt
Ro, I just have to stop in for a moment, and then we'll go, okay?" Rosalia sat
quietly in the passenger seat. "You want to come in?"

"No,
no. I'll stay here."

Reynaldo
hesitated, but then he opened the front car windows an inch or two on each
side, took his keys, and ran toward the station entrance.
This had better be
important.

Pedro
was sitting on the leather bench, panting and looking guilty. Reynaldo spotted
Nada bending down by the coffee machine looking for the plug.

"Why
you leave Aunt Ro in the car, eh?" Pedro asked, looking out the window.

"She
didn't want to come in. I asked her." Reynaldo looked around the office. "So?
What's the big emergency?"

"No
'big emergency,' Rey. I told you..." Pedro walked behind the counter.

"Pedro,
you said 'a big, scary, tall man' came in asking questions. What man?"

"I'm
looking for the paper I wrote his name on,
hermano
. And his phone
number."

Reynaldo
waited while Pedro shuffled through papers. He stopped when he got to a
magazine that had come in the day's mail and flipped through it.

"Pedro,
Pedro... I don't have time. I have to take Aunt Ro to the police station."

"What
did she do?" Nada asked, pouring coffee into the filter.

"Nothing,
you twit," Pedro said. "The governor's daughter is missing, remember?"

"Oh."
Nada shot Pedro a look before taking the coffeepot and leaving the room.

"Do
you think they found the guy?" Pedro asked excitedly. "Do you think Aunt Ro has
to identify him in a lineup? Can I come?"

"Pedro,
I don't know anything. But what about the man who came into the station?"

"He
was asking for you."

"Okay..."
That was not unusual since Reynaldo ran the station. "What else?"

"He
was scary looking." Pedro raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah,
you said that."

"No,
but I don't mean, like, you know, Hulk scary. He had shifty eyes. I didn't
trust him. He looked kind of upset that you weren't here. Was snooping around
too. Oh..." Pedro pulled a slip of paper out from under a pile. "Here's his
card. Told you I had it," he said, handing it to Reynaldo proudly.

Nada
returned with the pot of water as Reynaldo read the business card:

Philip
Goldberg, Tax Advisor

"Jesus,
Pedro, you know him. What is wrong with you? He's our tax guy, Phil. He's been
coming here for years."

"Twit,"
Nada said with a sneer.

"Shut
up, Nada." Pedro came out from behind the counter, and Reynaldo clotheslined
him and put him in a headlock.

"Get
off me, Rey."

"You've
got to pay more attention,
hermano
," he whispered into his ear. Reynaldo
let him go, picked up the cordless phone handset on the wall, and dialed.

"What
does he want, Rey?"

Rey
held up his finger while he kept the phone by his ear. He looked through the
open blinds of the front window. He could see Rosalia waiting in the car.

"Yes,
hello." Reynaldo spoke into the handset. "This is Reynaldo Rodriguez. My
apologies for not being here when you came into the station today. I had
completely forgotten about our appointment. We've had some family issues. Would
it be possible to reschedule for Friday? Please call me on my cell phone at
323-3493. Thank you."

"Very
nice, Rey," Pedro said. "Very professional."

"Pedro,
I need you to come to Aunt Ro's tomorrow night. Rikki and Terry can't get up
here from Queens until Friday morning."

"Tomorrow?
Night? Um... I don't know if I'm available." Pedro looked at Nada, who was
pushing buttons on the coffee machine.

"
Basta
,
Pedro! You are going to Aunt Ro's. She can't be alone. And I need to be here
going through tax papers or else we'll all be going to prison."

The
door from the garage opened, and Ricardo walked in. His blue overalls and his
face were covered in grease.

"Goddamn
oil tank sprung a leak. What are you doing here?" he asked Reynaldo. "And why
is Aunt Ro sitting in the car outside, crying?" Ricardo spotted Nada by the
coffee machine. "Where have
you
been?"

"She's
crying? I have to go." Reynaldo looked at Pedro. "You are coming tomorrow
night, yes?"

"Coming
where?" Ricardo asked.

"Yes,
yes, I will be there," Pedro said.

"
Alone…
"

"Yes,
alone." Pedro looked at the floor and put his hands in his pockets.

"Why
does he have to go alone?" Ricardo grabbed a dirty washcloth that was hanging
on a hook near the garage door and wiped his face, creating dark streak marks
that made him look as if he had been crying giant black tears. "Why doesn't
anyone ever tell me what's going on, eh?"

"Oh,
basta
, Ricky, or else I will tell Rey how you made that girl in the
tight skirt walk all the way through the garage, past everyone, instead of
letting her exit right here."

"
Shush
,
hermano
." Ricardo put his finger to his lips.

"Is
that right?" Nada asked.

Reynaldo
wasn't listening. "Pedro, put those papers away, so I can go through them
tomorrow night, eh? Use one of the big envelopes in the drawer." Reynaldo swung
the front door open. "And when you lock up, don't forget to make sure the
garage door closes all the way this time. I don't need any more little visitors
sneaking in during the middle of the night."

"Yeah,
yeah... go, go," Pedro said.

"Don't
you have anything for me to do?" Ricardo asked.

"Yeah,
go jump into a lake," Pedro said. "You could use the bath."

"Ricky,
you just stay out of trouble, okay?" Reynaldo said.

Ricardo
looked dejected.

"And
take out the garbage."

He
perked up instantly. "¡Aye, aye,
capitán
!"

Reynaldo
hurried back toward his aunt, who remained slumped in the passenger seat.

"
Tía
,
I'm sorry I took so long." Reynaldo started the car and pulled into the street.

Rosalia
smiled weakly. "Reyito, if the
policía
arrest me..."

"Arrest
you? For what?"

"Will
you water my plants for me?"

"Yes,
but... I mean, you are not going to jail. You didn't do anything."

Rosalia
looked at the road and rubbed her rosary beads, which she had cupped in her
hands. "How are your brothers?"

"Fine.
The same."

She
patted his hand on the steering wheel. "They are lucky to have you."

Some
people are meant to care for others, Reyito.

Yes
, Reynaldo thought as he sped down the road,
whether
they want to or not
.

Charlotte cackled in the bath
as Jamie poured another cup of water over her head. Bailino was right. This kid
loved water. The stream slid like silk over the smoothness of Charlotte's
forehead, washing away the grime of the riverbank and leaving behind glowing
skin—the kind that belonged in a home with loved ones, not complete strangers.

Jamie
kept her left hand securely behind Charlotte so that she didn't flop backward
as Jamie put down the cup and picked up a bar of soap and washed around the
little girl's shoulders. Charlotte's hands were probably the dirtiest part of
her, but Charlotte was taking care of those herself, splashing them down in the
water, soaking Jamie's shirt and hair. Seeing the cup float, Charlotte grabbed
it with both hands and shook it up and down, then held it in one hand and
slapped it with the other.

"Mo,
Mo, Mo," she said, creating her own little rhythmic beat.

The
unadulterated glee in Charlotte's voice was almost enough to wash away the
events of the past two days.
Almost.

"Mo,
Mo, Mo?" Jamie smiled, squeezing a bit of that yucky dandruff shampoo, the only
kind on hand, into Charlotte's hair and working up a lather with her free hand.
"Are you trying to say
Jamie
?"

"Mo,
Mo, Mo," Charlotte said again.

"Ja-mie,"
Jamie said, pinching her chin.

Charlotte's sweet smile turned into a scowl. She shook her head
and threw the cup into the water.

"Hey,
that's not very nice," Jamie said in a voice that was surprisingly firm.

"Mo,
Mo, Mo..." Charlotte said sternly, as stern as a little girl whose hair has
been fashioned into a sudsy pyramid can look. She brought the fingertips of her
hands together and touched them several times. It was the same motion she'd
made during breakfast.

Suddenly,
Jamie realized that Charlotte wasn't trying to say her name at all. And she
wasn't clapping. She was
signing
. She remembered when her nephew had had
a severe speech delay as a toddler and had qualified for free therapy services
provided by New York State; the therapist would bring Peter's bunched
fingertips together—the sign for
more
—and say slowly "More. More." Before
that, Peter had just been banging his fists on the table to get more of
whatever it was he wanted.

"Why
teach him sign language?" Jamie had asked the therapist, a young, enthusiastic
brunette with a bright smile. "It seems like the opposite direction we want to
go. Isn't the idea to get him to talk?"

"It's
interesting," the therapist had answered, as she continued moving Peter's
fingertips apart and then together. "You would think that teaching sign
language would make the child
not
want to talk. I mean, why should he,
if he is able to communicate in other ways, right? But what we've found is that
sign language helps ease a child's frustration and actually promotes verbal
language."

Jamie
looked at Charlotte, who now had the empty cup by her mouth and was trying to
drink from it.
Somebody taught this little girl sign language.

"Are
you saying
more
, sweetie?"

"Mo,
mo, mo!" Charlotte squealed, bringing the fingertips of her hands together once
again. She held the cup out to Jamie, who took it and scooped more water into
it. When she poured it over Charlotte's head, the little girl clapped wildly,
chanting, "Mo, mo, mo!"

From
the bedroom, Bailino watched, hidden behind the half-closed door. He was
impressed by the confidence with which Jamie handled the little girl, the way
she reprimanded her when she thought she was being impolite, the way one hand
held her firmly while the other washed, shampooed, and poured like a machine.
Or a mother. It was obvious that Jamie had had practice with small children. He
imagined she had teaching experience or perhaps her brother Edward had kids—he
had seen children in the photos on her phone. Something had told him when he
first saw her walking around, looking for a place to sit, at Bryant Park that
she was the one. It was the honesty of her face, her smile, her politeness;
there was a refreshing unsophistication about her, a naiveté, a purity that he
was drawn to. He thought about their conversation in the woods, the utter
disbelief on Jamie's face when Charlotte had come to him willingly, and the
first time they made love, and he smiled.

Jamie's
T-shirt had gotten wet, and Bailino could see the outline of her nipples poking
through her bra and shirt, which roused him; he stepped away from the door and
into the bedroom.

Charlotte was now pouring cupfuls of water down the wall tiles
and watching the drops make their way back into the tub as Jamie held her with
two hands. She tried to stand up.

"No,
no," Jamie said. "Not in the tub. You'll get hurt."

Undeterred,
the little girl poured another cupful of water, and as it weaved its way down
the grout lines of the tile, Jamie's thoughts turned to escape. It was going to
be difficult. She was rarely left alone, unless she was in the upstairs bedroom
or bathroom. It was true that when she was outdoors, although they watched,
they gave her a long leash, but not enough to give her a good head start,
particularly if she were carrying twenty pounds of baby.