Debbie thinking about it.
She said, 'They're not gonna send a guy with you, are they? We could meet somewhere like Paris-why not? And play it from there.'
'Yeah, we could.'
Vito appeared in the doorway motioning to them. They crossed the front hall with him to Tony Amilia's study.
Debbie looked at the ornate seventeenth-century desk-Oh, my God--and gave the mob boss a perky smile. She said, 'Mr. Amilia, I can't tell you how much we appreciate what you're doing.'
Tony was standing now, wearing a dark suit and tie for the photograph.
He said, 'We're ready, let's get it done,' and turned to the photographer testing his strobe, bouncing the light off a white umbrella on a stand. He looked over and said, 'Hi, I'm Joe Vaughn,' and edged toward them to shake hands, a young guy in his thirties, Tony Amilia's height; he seemed pleasant but maybe a little nervous. He said, 'Father, if I could get you and Mr. Amilia to stand right against that wall-'
Debbie moved aside. She watched Joe place them in front of a commemorative plaque mounted on the wall:
The University of Detroit Mercy honors Anthony Amilia as a patron member of the Ignatian Circle in recognition of his generous financial support and dedication to higher education in the Jesuit and Mercy traditions.
'You see this?' Tony said to Debbie. 'I went there when it was just U of D, before they went in with this other college and tacked the Mercy on. I don't think it helps the basketball team, you're U of D Mercy Titans. I was there they played football, Oklahoma, Kentucky, some good teams.' He looked at the plaque again. 'I want it to be part of the picture, show I do this kind of thing and it's not fake photography. Joe'll give it to the News and the Free Press and they'll run it. Joe takes my family pictures, different events, birthdays.'
Debbie heard Terry say he went to U of D, too, but Tony didn't comment. He said, 'Come on, take the picture.'
Joe said, 'You want the check in the shot, don't you?'
Tony motioned to Vito. 'On the desk.'
Vito brought Tony the check and Debbie watched Terry trying to read the figures, Terry smiling, taking the end of the check between his fingers as Tony presented it and then pulled it away from him.
'You don't need to touch it I'm handing it to you. All you have to do is look grateful. Joe, take the picture.'
'I want to shoot a Polaroid first,' Joe said. 'See what we're getting.'
'You're getting me and him and the check's what you're getting.
Now take the picture.'
Joe went to work shooting, the flash popping, Joe getting warmed up, five shots in the camera, and Tony said, 'That's enough. Vito, help Joe with his equipment. Pack it up out'n the hall.' He walked over to his desk with the check.
Debbie said, 'Well, that was quick. We are grateful, Mr. Amilia, more than I can tell you.'
He was looking at Terry. 'All right, Father, you all set? Vito's gonna take you back.'
Debbie said, 'Well, if that's it,' standing at the desk now, waiting for Tony to hand her the check.
He turned to her saying, 'Father's going home, you're staying awhile. I want to talk to you.'
Debbie said, 'Would you mind if Father waited? So we can go back together?' She beamed a smile at him. 'We're pretty excited.'
Tony said, 'Do what I ask, all right? I would like you to stay.'
She gave him a cute, wide-eyed shrug, all innocence. 'I just thought it might be easier-'
The man's expression did not change. He'd spoken and that was it, end of discussion. Debbie said, 'No, if you want me to stay, I'd be happy to.' God, overdoing it. She heard Terry, behind her, thank Mr.
Amilia.
He said, I'll call you later, Deb.'
And sheturned in time to see him going out the door, Vito closing it behind them. She thought of what he'd said in the other room, about their making sure he went back to Africa.
The first thing Tony said was, 'Don't be nervous. Come on over here and we'll sit down, have a talk.'
He brought her to a grouping of white leather chairs around a slate cocktail table, a phone there, a floor lamp turned low, but she didn't sit down right away. Debbie walked a few steps past the chairs to a glass door that looked out on water, the wide expanse of Lake St.
Clair narrowing in the dark to enter the Detroit River. She stood close to the glass, hands shielding her eyes against the light in the study, to see what was out there. Nothing. Gray shades of night. His voice asked if she wanted a drink. She said without turning to him, 'I don't want to put you to any trouble.'
'Yes or no.'
'Okay, but only if you're having one.'
'I don't think I will, Miss Manners, so you don't get one.'
Even as he said it she was thinking, Do you hear yourselfЈ? He even caught it. She remained at the glass door looking at nothing, into herself in the dark, wanting to get back to being herself and stop acting cute and so fucking grateful. She'd gone over the top thanking him and that was enough. Now there was a pinpoint of light out there in the gray that was a darker gray than the sky, two lights, moving.
She said, 'Is this where you used to bring in liquor from Canada?'
'Me?'
'During Prohibition.'
'How old you think I am? No, that was mostly the Jews, the Fleisher brothers and Beeny Bernstein, the Purple Gang. Before my time.'
She turned from the glass and sat down with him, the slate table between them. She said, 'What's the catch?'
'What're you talking about?'
He reminded her of Ben Gazzara, maybe a bit older and heavier, but that type. She said, 'What do I have to do?'
'Oh, you think I want to have sex with you. Pop a few Viagras, listen to Frank Sinatra while we give the pills time to kick in. And you know what? I think it'd be terrific, even with Clara upstairs saying her beads.' He said, 'Are you fucking the priest?'
Out of nowhere.
Like a heckler in a comedy club, something she could handle. She said, 'No, are you? Does he get the check or not?'
Tony brought it out of his inside coat pocket and looked at it, a pale-green check. He said, reading it, 'Pay to the order of The Orphans of Rwanda Fund,' looked straight at Debbie and tore the check in half.
She said, 'Well, that's that. You've got your picture and you'll come off looking great in the paper. I should've known.'
'You should've known what?'
She said, 'Considering how you make your money.'
'You don't know what I do.'
'I'm following your trial.'
'The feds don't know half of it. I don't talk about what I do, I don't advertise. I don't put on a show. You see these pro backs, these iitterbugs, they score a touchdown and do their dance, the funky chicken? Larry Czonka, one of the greats, said if he ever did that in his time, Howie Long, another one of the greats'd punch him in the head. That's my style, do the job without calling attention to yourself.
