little brother. Oh, many were the conversations I eavesdropped upon, hearing him tell your mom how he didn’t want you and Lou to ever have anything to do with the Outfit, how he loved you far too much to allow it to poison your pristine little souls. Over time, I realized that when Enzo died someday, your dad would be caught in a moral quandary-do I continue on in the Outfit tradition, or do I take my family and disappear? — and that pause for reflection, that dropping of the guard, so to speak, would be my chance to pounce for the notebook.”
“In other words, you were waiting not only to exploit my dad’s conscience, but also his grief,” I said, hearing the acid in my voice.
Elzy nodded, smiling proudly. “In the old days, Outfit thieves pulled a nifty move called a ‘Rest in Peace.’ They’d scan obituaries for funeral times of the wealthy dead, and while the family wept at the graveside, they’d ransack their homes. So yeah, it’s something like that.” She sipped at her drink and then waved her hand, saying, “You like this place? Snug, isn’t it? Personally, I love it-I grew up here, did you know that?” I shook my head like a mummy, and she said, “My father owned it.”
“Roberto. .?” I said, recalling what I’d read in the notebook.
“His nickname was Bobo. .”
“Zanzara,” I said. “Your last name. Bobo Zanzara. . didn’t he work for my grandpa at the bakery?”
“Very good,” she said. “Yes indeed, in the kitchen, just like an indentured servant. It was quite a comedown from having been the owner of such a glorious front business like this one, but he had no choice. You see, Daddy had a dice problem, as in they refused to roll his way. He ran a successful gambling operation for the Outfit but was a terrible gambler himself, and he lost his piece of Twin Anchors back to the Outfit.”
“His piece,” I said. “My grandpa owned the other piece.”
“That’s where the story gets bitter,” she said with a mirthless smile, crinkling her nose. “Of course you know that your grandfather was counselor-at-large for the Outfit. He had power and he had money. . it would’ve been so easy for him to simply give his piece of Twin Anchors to Daddy. Your grandfather didn’t need it and wouldn’t have missed it, while Daddy needed it desperately.”
“But wouldn’t your father have just gambled it away, too?”
“That’s not the point!” she hissed. “Enzo Rispoli sold his piece to the Outfit and made a tidy profit, and then took my father into the bakery like. . like an employee!”
“Maybe my grandpa was just trying to help him,” I said.
“My father didn’t
“It’s better than nothing, isn’t it?” I said. “At least it was an honest living.”
Elzy snorted, emptied her glass, and said, “Let’s cut the bullshit, sweetie. There was
Elzy’s speech was poisonous and targeted, but it didn’t hurt-by then I had already been wounded by the truth of my family. Instead, it gave me an insight, and I said, “It was Bobo, wasn’t it? He found out about the notebook.”
“Indeed he did,” Elzy said, grinning broadly.
“Your dad wasn’t just a lousy gambler. He was a disloyal sneak who spied on my grandpa at the bakery.”
Her eyes flashed, as if she hadn’t expected me to hit back so accurately. “Daddy suspected the notebook was hidden in Club Molasses and was caught trying to climb into the oven one night after hours by Enzo the Baker. And your sweet little grandfather, always the soul of charity, called on the Outfit to dole out punishment. Of course he couldn’t admit that the notebook existed, so he told them that Daddy had stolen a large sum of money from the bakery. The Outfit framed Daddy on a trumped-up charge of something or other, and in the blink of an eye, he was sent to prison for life. Except. .”
“My grandpa wouldn’t do that,” I said, not sure of my assertion in the least.
“His sentence lasted only a few weeks before he was stabbed by an inmate. Typical prison death, they said. Murder for hire, I said. Of course, in order to survive, I had to pretend to believe that the absurd frame-up that sent Daddy away was real, pretend to be ashamed of him, and pretend to know nothing about the notebook. Except that I did.” A fresh drink was delivered. Elzy sipped and said, “Daddy told me he’d overheard your grandpa telling your father when he was just a young man that the notebook contained a secret so powerful, whoever possessed it could control the Outfit.”
“What secret?” I said, remembering what Uncle Buddy had told me about
Elzy shrugged her birdlike shoulders. “He never found out. Your grandpa seized the notebook, Daddy went to prison and then to heaven, and the notebook has been in Rispoli hands ever since. But no matter, my little brother and I decided that we would get the notebook ourselves and tear it apart until we found the answer to that untold secret. So, feigning ignorance and loyalty, I went to work in your parents’ home and my brother went to work at the bakery. While I monitored your family, he would succeed where Daddy had failed by infiltrating Club Molasses and stealing the notebook.”
“I remember you talking about him,” I said, trying to recall his name.
“He was such a handsome youth, a mere twenty-year-old sprig of a man when he began rolling dough in that stinking kitchen,” she said. “He despised your grandfather of course, and your father, but he saved his purest hatred for your uncle.” She paused and her face changed from frosty self-assurance to twitching rage as she spit, “Buddy Rispoli. . Buddy-goddamn-Rispoli! He just desperately needed to boss someone around, and the fat schlub rode my brother day and night. More flour, less salt, roll the dough lengthwise not vertically, until my brother wanted to twist his neck.”
“Twist his neck,” I repeated, feeling my bruises.
Elzy slammed the drink, a fresh one replaced it immediately, and she told me how her brother was working alone in the kitchen one morning. He’d just removed trays of cakes from the oven and was sampling one when Uncle Buddy showed up. My uncle berated Elzy’s brother for using his bare hands, delivering a blistering speech on kitchen hygiene, and her brother flipped off Uncle Buddy and told him to go to hell. That’s when Uncle Buddy made the mistake of shoving him. Elzy’s brother beat him to his knees but my uncle wouldn’t stay down, and Elzy’s face changed to something that was not self-assurance or rage, but horror.
“Buddy was on the ground, struggling to get up, and my brother charged him,” she said slowly, her words tinged with revulsion. “At the last minute, Buddy grabbed his ankle. My brother tripped, lost his balance, and fell face-first onto a white-hot, overturned cake pan stamped with the Rispoli
Oh my God, I thought, feeling my spine freeze, that means Ski Mask Guy is. .
“Poor Kevin,” Elzy said mournfully. “Half of his beautiful face, his neck, and his vocal cords. It drove him to the brink of insanity and he had to go. . away. Years later, when he escaped from the. . hospital. . I broke out too, from my existence, and we reunited,” she said, blowing her nose into a cocktail napkin. She put on a smile that would’ve startled a snake and said, “And here we are.”
“Here we are,” I said, seizing control of the rapidly rising ghiaccio furioso just as I’d done with Uncle Buddy, trying with all of my strength to focus it across the table. Elzy blinked rapidly behind the cat’s-eye glasses as I said, “But where’s my family? What have you done with them?”
To my great surprise, she ceased blinking and chuckled. “Who knows? Maybe dead in the ground somewhere. Worm food first and then gone forever.”
As she spoke, I felt a little electrical storm break across my head and shoulders.
The cold fury popped and faded, and I was flooded with exhaustion.
I sat back heavily, struggling even to hold up my head.
“I’ll be damned. So you’re the one who got the gift,” Elzy said, staring at me with curiosity. “Even though you and your brother both have blue eyes, I never would’ve guessed it would be you. Amazing how sexist we’re all trained to be. Even I naturally assumed that a man would get the power.” She sighed and said, “By the way, it doesn’t affect me.”
I shook my head, confused, and she sat forward smiling.
