“I don’t think I can be around you anymore,” I told Vin.
A gust of wind blew through the tower of his hair, leaving it lopsided. “I understand,” he said.
“Tell Teddy whatever you want about the fight. I don’t see how I owe him anything else now.”
I started moving away, toward a broken part of the Boardwalk.
“What about you?” Vin tried to keep up with me. “What’re you gonna do.”
“Never mind about me.”
I still hadn’t worked out whether I was going to try to stay or get out of town after the fight. Either way, I wanted to make sure I’d have enough money to give my wife and kids.
“Anthony, gimme a hug.”
I turned to look at Vin. This murderous old man, who’d destroyed the life I could’ve had. I’d never noticed how hairy he was before. He had hair in his ears, hair in his nose, hair curling off the back of his neck. Larry DiGregorio must have felt his hairy fingers pressing down on his windpipe. Somehow I couldn’t find it in my heart to hate him. I just knew I had to get away from him.
He held out his arms to me.
“I’m not going to do that.” I stiffened.
Vin bowed his head, accepting that was the way it was going to be. “All right,” he said. “The only thing is, just make sure you get Teddy the sixty you already owe him. Otherwise, even I can’t protect you.”
“Don’t worry. He’ll get it.”
The wind whistled down the beach like a long train sigh and the tide crested along the nearest jetty. I looked down and saw the Boardwalk was littered with thousands of pieces of clamshells that had been dropped there by seagulls and crushed underfoot by tourists.
“Hey, Anthony.” Vin suddenly grabbed my arm and turned me to face him one last time. “I’m sorry.”
“About what?” Where could he begin?
“I dunno.” He let go of me and started to walk away with his hands in his pockets. “I guess everybody oughta be sorry about something.”
49
ON THE AFTERNOON OF the fight, Rosemary stopped by the club called Rafferty’s to pick up a few clothes and the spare set of keys she’d left in her dressing room. She found a hugely pregnant young woman sitting in her chair, with a black vinyl handbag on her lap.
“You’re older than I thought you’d be,” said the young woman, thrusting a hand deep into the bag.
Rosemary had the unmistakable feeling there was a gun inside. “Excuse me?”
“I said I thought you’d be younger. I’m Carla. It’s my husband you’re stealing and my children whose mouths you’re taking food out of, you slut.”
The outline of what looked like a barrel poked against the side of the bag.
“I’m afraid you are making a mistake,” Rosemary said, looking back at the door and wondering who’d let this crazy person in.
“No, you’re the one making a mistake,” Carla informed her. “You think you can just walk away with my Anthony and not have to deal with the consequences? How old are you anyway?”
“I’m thirty-eight.” Rosemary suddenly wished she hadn’t worn the tight ribbed tank top and the short denim skirt that showed off her tan legs.
“Well, you’ve kept your figure very nice for a woman your age.” Carla swallowed hard and closed her eyes for a second. The baby was obviously kicking her. “You got a glass of water back here? My throat is killing me.”
Rosemary brought her a full cup from the water cooler in the corner. “How many months are you?”
“Eight.” Carla took the water and smiled gratefully. “I thought this was when it was gonna get easier. With my first two, I got all this energy toward the end.”
“This is what happens when you don’t eat right and don’t drink enough fluids.” Rosemary backed away from her. “The baby just takes what it needs. In my eighth month, I wasn’t getting enough calcium, so my daughter just took it from me. Sucked it right out of my bones. I thought my teeth were going to fall out.”
“You have kids?” Carla gave her a queasy look, but the outline of the gun was no longer visible against the bag.
“One and one that I lost.” Rosemary felt her bare knees knocking together.
“Well, at least Anthony went for a woman with some miles on her, and not some bimbo like I thought he would.”
Rosemary sensed this woman was not dangerous or even very angry. Just sad. But you had to be careful with guns and jealousy.
“I told you before. I am not having an affair with your husband.”
“Then how come the guy behind the bar told me you were his girlfriend?”
Rosemary froze, but just for a second. “It’s because I wouldn’t give him a blow job. You know how guys are. If you don’t come across, they’ll say anything about you.”
Carla narrowed her eyes. “I sure hope you’re telling the truth, because if it isn’t me coming after you, you’ll have the rest of my family to deal with.”
Rosemary thought of Anthony’s stepfather threatening her in this same spot a few weeks back, but didn’t say anything. These people were truly insane. She wondered how she’d allowed herself to get involved with them. After the fight tonight, she was going to take her money and her daughter and get the hell out of town before another of these crazy Russos popped up and tried to shoot her.
“Listen, I am sorry if your husband is having an affair,” she continued to lie out of self-preservation. “But it really has nothing to do with me. I’ve sworn off married men. Once you get mixed up with them, you spend your whole life waiting for miracles that’ll never happen.”
“That’s me,” Carla said, taking the words more seriously than Rosemary meant them. “I’m always waiting for miracles out of Anthony.”
“Well, you can’t live your life like that,” Rosemary said. She was just riffing now. Trying to move things along, so this pregnant girl would leave soon. Poor girl. In spite of the loaded handbag, Rosemary felt sorry for her. This Carla literally looked like she was dying for a little encouragement. She must’ve grown up around beasts like that Vin.
“You have to take charge of your life,” Rosemary counseled her. “Nobody else is going to rescue you.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s right,” said Carla, struggling to her feet. “You know what I think? You got too much on the ball to be messing around with my Anthony. Now tell me if they got a bathroom back here. I’ve gotta pee like a racehorse.”
50
SEVEN HOURS BEFORE the fight, I was standing on my porch, watching my son spin some kind of disc on the concrete driveway.
“What’s that you got there?” I said, hoping it wasn’t one of my old Springsteen records.
He brought over a miniature roulette wheel, the type you can buy at a novelty store.
“Where’d you get this from?”
“Un-CLE TED brought it over.”
I gave it a good look. The number six slot was bigger than the others. Only another five-year-old could believe the game wasn’t fixed.
“So what are you supposed to do with this?”
Anthony Jr. took a deep breath. “Un-CLE Ted said I should bring IT to school and bet num-BER six.”
