Chapter Twenty-three
Joey went up to the door and scanned the names in the directory and saw A. Gennaro, apartment 2b. He pressed the button, but nothing happened. He pressed it again. Still nothing. He tried another apartment, waited and heard the door buzz open. He walked up a narrow staircase that wound around the elevator shaft to the second floor, and knocked on Angela's door, waited and knocked again. He stood there looking at the door painted green with a high-gloss finish. He turned and looked behind him at another apartment across the hall. Just two on the whole floor.
Downstairs, he heard the door to the building open and close, heavy and solid. Heard someone coming up the stairs. Joey walked halfway up to the third floor and waited, listening. He could see the shape of a man through the steel mesh of the elevator shaft, standing in front of Angela's door. Joey started down, and saw him open the door and go in the apartment.
Joey walked down and knocked on Angela's door, waited a couple seconds and it opened. The guy saw him and tried to close it, but he was ready, put his weight into it, pushing his way into the room. It was the douche bag owed his uncle money. He couldn't believe it, Joey trying to remember his name. 'The fuck're you doing here? Where's Angela at?'
Guy didn't say anything, stared at him like he was deaf.
Was this clown Angela's boyfriend? Must be if he had his own key.
'Where's my Unk's money?'
'I do not have,' he said.
'You do not have?' Joey said. 'You better fucking have.'
Joey wished he had his baseball bat, show this dick with ears who he was dealing with here. Joey moved toward him, hit him in the face and knocked him on his ass. He could feel the adrenalin surge, squatted, put a knee on his chest and pinned him against the carpet. 'Where's she at?' Joey said, the guy's name coming to him now. Mazara, that was it.
'The American took her,' Joey thought he said, easing up a little so he could breathe.
'What American?'
He told Joey about the student they'd kidnapped. Thought he was the son of a wealthy American senator, Charles Tallenger, but instead they had picked up the wrong one, and he had taken Angela.
This was getting good. Joey'd been down since he left Detroit and this charged him up. He felt like his old self again. He'd find this amateur fucking yahoo student, bring Angela back and, who knew, maybe take over his uncle's business while the old boy sat on his ass. Joey was thinking — hold on a second — maybe this was fate. Maybe this was destined to happen. He'd looked up his horoscope online that morning. It said making your mark on the world isn't for the faint of heart. Plans always change. Be open to new voices directing you. It was as if it was talking directly at him, telling him he was on track, showing him the way.
Joey let him up now and his phone rang. Mazara flipped it open and brought it to his ear.
Joey said, 'That him?'
Mazara nodded.
'Gimme the fucking phone,' Joey said.
Mazara handed it to him.
Joey put it up to his ear. 'You have any idea, my friend, who you've got there?'
The voice on the other end said, 'Who're you?'
'Guy who's going to cut your nuts off,' Joey said, 'you don't let Angela go right fucking now.'
'You want her back,' he said, 'get five hundred thousand euros, put the money in a white Adidas soccer bag. Think you can remember that?'
Joey said, 'I wish you luck 'cause you're going to need it.' The phone went dead, asshole hung up on him. He glanced at Mazara. 'Where's the money at?'
'It was cut up like a pizza. Everyone they take a piece and now it is gone.'
'That's what I'm going to do — cut you up, you don't get the money back, including what you owe my uncle, and bring it to me. I don't want to hear any fucking excuses.'
Joey was thinking, with these modern-day dumbass Italians, he'd get a piece of the action, maybe even get it all. He had Mauro drive him to the Excelsior on Via Veneto, this famous hotel on this famous street. He went to the reception desk and got a room with the passport that said he was Salvatore Bitonte, a hairdresser from Detroit, but not a fag.
He had to get out of the villa for a while, be on his own. He looked at his watch, a gold Rolex President. It was 1:55. No wonder he was starving. He went to the restaurant next door, place called Doney, had bombolitti with artichokes, bread and two glasses of Batar, a nice Tuscan white, and for dessert, coffee and strawberries with limoncello mousse, kept Mauro waiting in the car, Joey didn't care. He paid cash for the meal, put the receipt in his shirt pocket and went outside.
When Joey got back to the villa his uncle was acting strange — like what else was new? He wasn't listening to opera or studying one of his paintings. He was sitting behind his big wooden desk he said once belonged to Mussolini, his hands folded like he was praying.
Joey said, 'Yo, Unk, what's up?'
His uncle got up and came across the room, taking tiny steps, an odd look on his face. 'I do not know how to tell you this…'
Joey was thinking the old boy was upset 'cause he blew his woofers listening to Rigoletto.
'Your father is gone,' his uncle said in a soft voice.
'What?' Joey didn't understand him.
'Giuseppe is dead.'
It was strange. His father had died and he didn't feel anything at all. 'What happened?'
'Was his heart,' Unk said, still holding his hands together.
No surprise there. His old man had had angioplasty twice and was taking a blood thinner. Unk put his arms around Joey, hugging him. Joey didn't like this old guy, who smelled like mothballs and BO, touching him. That was another thing about the modern Italians, they could shower a little more often, Jesus Christ. He looked down at the top of his Unk's balding silver hair, the skin on his head tan like his arms and face.
Joey's first impulse was to go home. Sneak back in the country the way he'd snuck out — go to the funeral, see his mother. It was risky, but he had to do it. The family would respect him for coming out of hiding to honor his father, wouldn't they? Respect him, or think he was an idiot for coming back?
Then he thought, maybe his old man got what he deserved. Instead of helping Joey, he'd sent him away, banished him to cover his own ass. Now with Joe P. out of the picture, Joey was on his own. No one would help him. No one would go near him.
His uncle finally let go of him and called Mauro. The little guy came in the room, and his uncle said something to him in Italian. Mauro hurried out and came back a few minutes later with a small-stemmed glass that had clear liquid in it.
'Drink this.'
Joey took the glass and sipped it — sambuca. The warm licorice liquid going down slowly like motor oil, taking his breath away, his uncle staring at him, and Mauro standing there like a statue. Joey said, 'I'm going to Rome, spend a few days in a hotel. I need to think.'
'This is no time to be foolish.'
He wanted to say, Oh, okay, Unk, thanks for the great fucking advice. Joey went upstairs, changed his clothes, hung his shirt and pants in the closet, packed a suitcase, a small bag with enough stuff for a few days. Joey poked his head back in his Unk's room and said, 'Yo, Unk, backo shortolo.'
Joey was happy to get out of the villa. He felt free for the first time in weeks. Mauro drove him back to Rome and dropped him off at the Excelsior. He felt good walking in the lobby, checking out the thirty-foot ceiling with giant
