Read The Accidental Pallbearer Online
Authors: Frank Lentricchia
The Accidental Pallbearer (7 page)
“You on one of these new medications or something?”
“You’re an interesting man, Tom. Does he have a storage place?”
“The attic.”
Conte looks for suitcases. Finds only one. It bears Kinter’s identification tag. He says, “Thanks for your time, Tom. Do me one more favor, please.”
“You’re insatiable.”
“Say nothing to anyone about my visit, including your brother Ricky.”
“Ricky doesn’t talk to me anymore.”
“Very sorry to hear that.”
“On one condition. You tell me now how you persuaded my ex.”
“Fair enough. I showed her a color picture of herself on all fours with a dog. The dog’s fire-engine-red penis is in full evidence, ready for action. The dog’s tongue hangs out. There are suspiciously colored smears on her cheeks. Her tongue is buried in the dog’s ass.”
Extended silence.
“What type of dog?”
“A Chihuahua – named Lyle.”
Extended silence.
They return to the shop’s back room.
The coffee. The biscotti.
Castellano finally speaks. His voice atremble. “Tell me you doctored that thing. Tell me it never happened. My judgment with her was off. Granted. Tell me it wasn’t
that
off.”
“The photo is authentic. Unbeknownst to you, you married a dangerously sick woman, capable of anything. Thank God, Tom, you didn’t have children with her.”
“Thank God,” Castellano making the sign of the cross. “Don’t be a stranger, Eliot. Come over once in a while for coffee.”
“I promise, and if you think of anything, no matter how trivial it may seem, call me immediately. May I take the rest of the biscotti?”
The light is flashing on Conte’s answering machine. Hits play: You have two new messages. First message, left today at 2:16
P.M.
El, Robby. Turn on your fuckin’ cell. Your father expressed heavy sadness in the company of Father Gustavo that he rarely sees you. Father Gustavo recommended patience, but Silvio is really up there in the years. What else can I say? I’d like to see you in the next day or two concerning you know what. Call me.
Second message, left today at 3:26
P.M.
Hello, Eliot. This is Joan Whittier. You may remember me as Joan Dearborn, a long time ago. Our kids used to have play dates at each other’s houses. I read about what happened in Laguna Beach and I am so sorry … oh, God … this is terribly awkward. I have information for you that came to light a month ago when Christine, my daughter … do you recall her? She’s been in therapy for many years, can’t hold down a job, and has struggled with an eating disorder … it came out that … you may remember that Bunny and Ralph Norwald had daughters we all occasionally exchanged play dates with? Ralph sometimes babysat. Christine had a memory of Ralph, she says he molested her when she was at his house to play
with Cindy and Judy Norwald. I don’t put much stock in this recovered-memory idea, but it made me remember that once when I was going to take Chrissy to the Norwalds’ she balked and kicked out a window in our apartment. Another time she bit me so hard she drew blood. I don’t know what to say except I know that after he divorced Bunny, Ralph married Nancy when your girls were quite young. I also know that Chrissy was in touch with your girls in recent years. She says they didn’t have jobs and were both bulimic like her and living at home … like Chrissy is. If you want to talk my cell is –
The call is dropped.
He retrieves the number, but doesn’t call. Ralph Norwald. A fleeting image. Happy face. Goofy smile. A superficial man … who became rich. Nancy was ignorant of it? She knew and didn’t know? She didn’t want to know, because she knew?
He leaves a message:
Robby, El. I’m taking a wild guess your lovely wife didn’t keep it a secret I stopped in. She made a fine lunch and we had a productive conversation. Uh … listen, I have a plan to uh … neutralize the party in question. Neutralize, shall we say, with prejudice. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow night or early Tuesday morning. Okay, that’s it,
paesan
. Stay out of this biblical rain.
He thinks about calling Joan Whittier, but can’t do it. He’ll never be able to do it. Puts his head down on the desk, just to close his eyes for a minute or so as he retrieves Joan’s image from thirty years back – long-legged in shorts and movie-star beautiful, walking a two-year-old hand in hand – then opens his eyes and it’s an hour and fifteen minutes later and he has a powerful desire for a blast of his drug of choice. Conte feels it’s time to switch off for a while, cut back to something lighter in impact. Beer, cold beer. He used to drink a lot of beer in college and even more in graduate school. No beer in the house.
On the way to purchase a Czech import, Conte considers alternatives for the meal he’ll make. It’s one of his chief pleasures, maybe number one on his life list, to envision meals to come. In detail. Driving home with twelve bottles of the Czech beer secured and looking forward to their utilization, Conte sees spaghetti
al dente
in a sauce of garlic and extra-virgin olive oil – sees himself not chopping but slicing, actually shaving the garlic with a razor blade into slivers so thin that they dissolve while sautéing in the hot oil – sees himself coarsely chopping the parsley, adding it, and sprinkling generously in at the end crushed red pepper and two pinches of salt – sees himself leaning over the pan, inhaling – how he loves the slicing and the chopping, more so even than the meal itself – and fresh from the crisper a salad of arugula and chicory to cleanse the palate in preparation for Ricky’s specialty, he’ll tackle a double serving of Ricky Castellano’s overwhelming Sicilian cassata … Ricky, the overwhelming Sicilian.
Kills two bottles while preparing dinner, another with dinner, and two more to fortify himself for the phone call he must make to Robert Rintrona because her number was listed nowhere and the Troy Police Department, as he knew, would not give it out, though he would ask anyway. He can’t imagine calling Rintrona and opening with, “Detective Rintrona, this is Eliot Conte – I was just wondering if you might be able to give me Detective Cruz’s phone number.” Of course, whatever diversionary prelude he’d invent would be seen through. At least, though, there’d be a decent delay and his romantic interest in Catherine Cruz wouldn’t immediately be out in the open. A little cover might (might) deter
Rintrona from sardonic retort. And since Rintrona, who was in awe of Silvio Conte, perhaps even in fear of him, had offered Conte assistance, if ever he needed it, he decides to ask him to run a background check on Jed Kinter through the various databases available to him as a law enforcement official, all the way up to the FBI. It couldn’t hurt to get the facts, if there were any facts of a criminal sort to get. Antonio Robinson could, of course, do him this favor, but he needed the Chief of Police to believe he was working full-time on Michael Coca. The bitter truth is that he can no longer trust his only friend.
At Rintrona’s home, a young woman with a sparkling voice answers and says, “Daddy, it’s for you.” After the exchange of pleasantries, Conte says, “By the way, there’s a pirated Pavarotti recording of
Ballo in Maschera
that I happen to own. It’s astonishing – better than the Decca issue.”
Rintrona replies, “Are you telling me the fuckin’ Bologna
Ballo
?”
Conte says, “Yes, that one, and by the way, I’ll be in Albany on business tomorrow morning and maybe I could stop by and loan you my copy, which you could burn if you like.”
Rintrona says, “Who do I have to kill?”
Conte laughs, then makes his Jed Kinter move.
Rintrona immediately responds, “Area code 518-555-1212.”
Conte says, “What?”
Rintrona says, “She doesn’t have a landline. That’s her cell. I’ll meet you at the Melville Diner, 1303 Front Street in Troy, not that far from the station.”
“Named after Herman Melville by any chance?”
“Is there any other fuckin’ Melville worth naming anything after? You know, he lived around here for a while, but they didn’t preserve anything because the authorities have their heads you know where, I’m trying not to use foul speech for a change. Good luck with Katie, you’ll need it. See you at the Melville, shall we say 10:00 tomorrow morning?”
“Sure. Do get me the dope on Jed Kinter, Robert, if you don’t mind.”
Rintrona’s already there when he arrives. The place is empty, shabby, clean. On one wall, an actual harpoon, but his attention is riveted by a large painting, behind the cash register, of a looming white sperm whale in dramatic breach. The whale’s formal boundary is everywhere porous, its whiteness spilling into the whiteness of sky and white spray of the burst sea. Something indefinite about the whole, something, something nameless and unimaginable – it attracts him and fills him with fear, like looking over the edge of a high balcony. Throw yourself over.
Rintrona is talking with a sexy waitress in her late forties, whom he pats on the hip as Conte approaches. She says to Conte, “He acts like I’m in love with him since he’s been coming here for the last fifteen years – like I think he’s too good for me and that I don’t have everything I need right at home with Big Paulie, who’s very big, you can take it to the bank.” Rintrona pipes up, “Big Paulie is the consolation prize, Loretta, let’s face it.” She says, “What’ll you have, handsome?” Conte, in the swing of things, shocks himself: “I’ll
have whatever Big Paulie most likes having.” She looks at Rintrona and says, “This one,” pointing at Conte, “is worse than you.” They’re having a very good time.
She brings him a mug of coffee and an outsized croissant, jelly and butter, and parts with, “Bobby is a softy who spends his entire life covering it up, what a g.d. shame, but I know who you are, darling, don’t I?”
Rintrona, blushing, “Let’s keep it between the three of us. Don’t mention it to Big Paulie.”
Conte pushes the CD of
Ballo
across the formica surface. Rintrona pushes a manila folder and says, “You get the worst of this deal, Eliot, but I’m not complaining. Good to see you again. Guess who did it?”
“Who did what?”
“The painting you couldn’t take your eyes off of.”
“The late great Herman Melville himself?”
“Big Paulie. Hell of a nice guy. I love’ em both. When are you seeing her?”
“For lunch.”
“Hey, I’m happily married, like Loretta and Paulie, otherwise …”
“Otherwise you’d sweep Detective Cruz off her feet.”
“Without saying.” Points to the manila folder. “What’s your interest in this animal?”
Conte tells the story.
“Once in a while, Eliot, bastards like Kinter meet their match, which almost makes me believe in God, just like that telephone met its match the other day. Who would guess you’re a scary guy – the opera, so forth, the gentle demeanor – all of a sudden someone’s life is hanging by his fingernails
when the opera lover becomes a rage machine. The apple doesn’t fall far from the fuckin’ tree.”
Conte, looking away, “Silvio Silvio Silvio.”
“No offense. I never meant to insinuate your father does violence. People in politics fear him, this is well known, after all. He’s got their balls in his pocket and periodically squeezes hard to remind them who they are and who he is. Your father’s the Lyndon Johnson of New York politics. Me, I was always a big LBJ fan – especially when he made reporters interview him as he sits on the can shitting up a storm. In other words, he welcomed the press into their true element.”
Tapping the folder, Conte says, tonelessly, “Why not give me a quick summary of what’s in here?”
“At fifteen, he’s expelled from high school in Galveston and placed in meaningless detention for assaulting a female teacher.”
“Rape?”
“Strictly fists and feet. At sixteen, he takes a baseball bat to a kid’s head, who barely survives with permanent brain damage. Charges are mysteriously dropped. Kinter’s father is a mover in Texas oil, who’s probably the solution to the mystery. At seventeen, he shows up in Philadelphia. According to FBI sources, he becomes a low level gofer for Joseph (The Maximum Ayatollah) Stonato. At eighteen, he shows up in Providence, Rhode Island where he somehow attaches himself to the Patriarca family and becomes a serious person, suspected of being the trigger in two Mob-related executions. At twenty, he moves to Utica, that was fifteen years ago, where I’m sure you know he’s been working for the
Observer-Dispatch
ever since. Keeping his nose clean as far as
we know. Those are the facts. I can’t prove it, but an animal like that doesn’t keep his nose clean. Why does he move to Utica? Why would anybody? Something’s going on and I don’t mean child or spousal abuse.”