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“Why what?”
“Why I got out alive. Nobody else did in my company, except two of us. Maybe it was supposed to happen this way. I kept the gun all these years, maybe that’s why.” He shook his head in a way that said he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
Suddenly the door opened and Uncle Sal came in. I took one look at him and my mouth dropped open. “Uncle Sal?”
“Sal?” Cam said. “You okay?”
Herman laughed. “Can you believe this guy?”
My father was in shock. “What the fuck are you supposed to be, Sallie?”
“What, you don’t like the way I look?” Uncle Sal asked. His thin gray hair was slicked back and he was wearing the black leather jacket and boots I’d bought for Herman. He looked like a septuagenarian Fonz. “Betty says I look real good. Handsome, like.”
“Betty?” I said.
“The tomato?” Cam said.
“The little one?” Herman said.
“With the red hair?” my father said.
Sal nodded. “You said fun is good, Ree. So I’m having fun. Look out the window.”
Cam and I got up and hustled to the window. Sucking on a cigarette in front of the hospital entrance was somebody’s grandmother, improbably red-headed, dressed like a nurse. Despite her age, she had a body to die for and eyeliner you could see from three floors up. “Betty?” I asked, incredulous.
“Isn’t she somethin’?” Sal said, jumping up to see over my shoulder. “I’m takin’ her for a ride.”
Cam laughed. “A ride? In what?”
“What?” my father said. “What? You don’t have no car.”
Sal pointed. “In that.”
Parked in front of the hospital was a Harley-Davidson, brand-new, in midnight black. It had sleek onyx curves, gleaming chrome pipes, and a leather seat that reclined like a Castro convertible. It was parked illegally, but the red-jacketed valets gaping at it didn’t seem to mind. I blinked, and blinked again.
“A motorcycle?” Cam said in disbelief. “Can you drive it?”
Sal nodded proudly. “Herm taught me how.”
Herman pushed aside the curtain. “I knew from the service.”
“A motorcycle?!” my father said. “Did you say a motorcycle?”
I just kept blinking. I had been through a lot. My boyfriend’s infidelity, sex with a ponytail I hardly knew, a man shot dead before my eyes, and now this. I was out of words. “Betty?” was all I could say.
“A motorcycle?” my father said. “You bought a motorcycle? Are you fuckin’ nuts, Sal?”
Sal turned on his stack heel. “I do what I want, Vito. You’re not my boss.”
Cam and Herman exchanged looks.
I blinked and blinked.
“Sal?” my father croaked, thunderstruck. He clutched his incision, at least I thought it was his incision and not his heart.
“And I didn’t buy it,” Sal added.
“The motorcycle? Then how’d you get it?” Cam asked.
I had a guess, but I didn’t want to say. I blinked at Sal, who smiled broadly.
“They gave it to me for the whole afternoon, Ree. And they even went for the accent.”
“Betty?” I blurted out.
At the end of the day, I was left alone with my father. I didn’t have any reason to rush away, and didn’t want to. The floor grew quiet after visiting hours were over and people with more respect for rules had said their good-byes. My father’s eyes closed as I tucked his coverlet under the thick mattress.
“You shouldn’ta done it, you know,” he said.
“I know.”
“I wouldn’ta let you do somethin’ that crazy.”
“I know that, too.”
“You coulda been killed, Rita.”
“So could you, Dad.”
“Is that why? You think my bein’ here is your fault?”
Of course. “Nah. You needed the vacation. I’m glad you got shot.”
He closed his eyes. “Miss Fresh.”
Thank you, God. “Did you have fun with David and his boyfriend?”
He smiled drowsily. “They were tellin’ me how to bake bread. They said put carrots in, but I’m go
“No.”
“They think I should sell the store. I think so too.”
Hallelujah. “Good idea, Dad.”
“I was go
“Go to sleep, Dad. You’re half-asleep.”
“You got a choice to make.”
He meant Paul or Tobin. I had told him the whole story when we were alone. He had insisted on it, and truth to tell, it felt good to tell somebody.
“I bet you go back to that jerk.”
I felt a twinge. “It would help if you kept an open mind about Paul, Dad.”
“Either way, I love you. So bet me.”
“On who I end up with?”
“Yeah.” He smiled in a muzzy way, heavy. lidded as an aged cat. “I’m retiring, I need the cash. Fifty bucks says you marry Paul in a year.”
“You can’t bet about stuff like that, Dad.”
“Why not? I raised you better.”
I laughed. “Fifty dollars?”
“You heard me.”
“I hate to take your money, old man.”
“Hah. You’re just chicken.”
“Say what? I went after an armed man with a fish knife!”
“He was a lawyer.”
“So what?”
“Like I said,” he said, but dropped off to sleep before I could demand an explanation.
30
Sunlight struggled through the leaded-glass windows of Fiske’s library. Classical violins screeched away on the CD player. Central air-conditioning forced frigid gusts onto my sandaled feet. And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, my client wanted to play chess. Who says lawyers have it easy?
I made my first move, pushing a white wooden Pawn up two squares. “Ta-da.”
“No,” Fiske said.
“No?”
“No.” He reached across the chessboard, picked up the little Pawn, and put it back down in front of my Horse.
“Don’t I get to move my own pieces?”
“That’s not the opening you want, dear. Remember what I said about dominating the center of the board?”
No. “Yes.”
“It’s like playing squash. One dominates the T.”
“Italians don’t play squash, they eat it. With a little bit of oregano, in olive oil.”
He smiled, relaxed today in a polo shirt and white cotton cardigan. “You play te
“No, I work. A lot.”
He smiled. “But you’ve seen people play te
Hmmm. Suddenly I suspected where this was heading, why Fiske had asked me here. And it wasn’t to move Pawns around. Or maybe it was.
“Unlike some players, Paul knows instinctively when to stay at the baseline and when to charge the net. He has a natural advantage in his height and he exploits it. When he does take the net, he becomes a real threat. Do you know why?”
Because he’s God’s gift? “No, why?”
“Because he understands the power of the position. He dominates the court. He’s quick and sure in his reactions and nothing gets past him, not even down the alley. In effect, he takes the center of the board, every time. Like this.” Fiske reached over the chessboard, picked up the Pawn in front of my King, and placed it two spaces in front of its former home. “Do you see what I’m doing?”
Duh. “Yes.”
“Now you’ve taken a power position vis-à-vis the rest of the board. You’re asserting dominion. You’ve taken your advantage, being white, and exploited it. In effect, you’ve charged the net.”
“Ooh, I feel tingly all over.”
Fiske eased back into his tall leather chair. “Do you know why I didn’t move the Queen’s Pawn?”
“What if I told you I didn’t give a shit?”
“I’d tell you anyway.”
“I figured.” I laughed. Fiske wasn’t really a bad guy, it was just his upbringing. He’d had a stable family, a stone mansion, and a trust fund, when what he really needed was a butcher and a vinyl stool.