The Vendetta Defense

“I know, Mrs. D.” Judy kept eating. “She expects me to work for my paycheck. She’s evil and mean.”

“Yes!” Mrs. DiNunzio pounded the table with a hand that wasn’t as delicate as it looked. “Yes! She’s evil. Evil!”

Judy finished the last of her eggs and hoped for seconds. She knew from experience that the thought alone would transmit an instant telepathic message to all Italian mothers in the universe, and one of their representatives would materialize any moment with plates of steaming food. Who needed e-mail? “Bennie just wants to talk to me so she can fire me.”

“No,” Mary said. “That’s not it. She gave me her proxy. You’re fired. And stop getting my mother riled up.”

“Why? I want her to get her voodoo in high gear. Stick pins in something. Light candles and cast spells. I need an extension of time for that dopey article.” Judy smiled, but Mrs. DiNunzio was in the zone.

“That witch, she’s lucky to have you girls work for her. Lucky! I go to her! I tell her!” Mrs. DiNunzio picked up a serving fork and jabbed the air for emphasis. Judy, who had seen her in action only with her wooden spoon, was properly intimidated. Extreme situations called for extreme utensils.

“You smart girls!” she went on, brandishing the fork. “Very smart girls! You work like dogs! You sacrifice for her! My Maria, a bullet they shot at her!”

Mary looked sideways at her mother. “Ma, please put down the fork. And Bennie’s not that bad.”

“She’s a devil!” Mrs. DiNunzio said, quivering with emotion, and Mr. DiNunzio patted her arm heavily.

“S’allright, Vita. S’allright.” His eyes were soft with worry.

“Mary’s gonna be okay. Judy, she’s gonna be okay, too. Right,

Judy?”

“Right.”

Mr. DiNunzio sighed. “I don’t know if you should stay on Pigeon Tony’s case, Judy. Me, I’m responsible. I asked you to do it. Now look what’s happening.”

“Mr. D, I would have done it anyway. I wanted to do it.” Judy reached across the table and pressed his arm, and he grabbed her hand. He looked like he was about to burst into tears, and Judy panicked. She was way over her emotion quota for the year, in only one day. “Don’t cry, Mr. D. It’s going to be all right, like you said.”

Mary smiled. “Don’t worry, Judy. He cries when the Phillies lose. He likes to cry. He’s not happy unless he’s crying.” She turned to her father. “Pop, get a grip. You’re upsetting Judy. She’s not used to people like us. She’s normal.”

Mr. DiNunzio laughed hoarsely. “I’m allright, I’m allright. But I’m gonna help you, Judy. I heard about the pigeons, and I got it all figgered out.”

“What do you mean?” Judy asked in surprise, and there was a soft knock at the door.

“You’ll see,” he said, and got up to get the door, just as a second helping of eggs, peppers, and onions appeared on the table in front of Judy.

Message received. Over and out.

Chapter 21

The full moon shone on an unlikely caravan threading its way through the city blocks. Old Chryslers, Toyotas, Hondas, and a battered Ford Fiesta snaked along in a line that lasted ten cars. If it wasn’t Raid on Entebbe, it was Raid on South Philly, and it went a good deal slower because it was staffed by septuagenarians, whose night driving wasn’t the best. Judy, in the lead, inched Frank’s truck down the skinny street, with Mr. DiNunzio navigating in the passenger seat and Tony-From-Down-The-Block and Tony Two Feet in the back.

“Slow down, Jude, you’ll lose Tullio,” Feet warned, leaning forward. His glasses had been repaired at the bridge with a thick Band-Aid, which couldn’t have helped much with visibility.

“Turn left on Ritner,” Mr. DiNunzio said, pointing. Judy turned slowly and braked to five miles an hour, the truck’s huge engine grinding in protest. It felt like walking a tiger on a leash.

“Tullio’s still fallin’ behind,” Tony-From-Down-The-Block said, chewing on a half-smoked cigar that Judy had insisted he put out. Even unlit, it reeked. “It’s that friggin’ Fiesta he drives. I tol’ him to get rid of it. It’s a piece a shit.”

“He don’t listen to nobody,” Feet agreed, and Tony-From-Down-The-Block nodded.

“He breaks down, I ain’t helpin’ him.”

“Me neither. He can walk, for all I care. I tol’ him the same thing. He’s a cheap bastard.” “God forbid he should pick up a check.” Feet clucked. “Never happen.”

“Never happen.” Tony-From-Down-The-Block cleared his sinuses noisily. “You remember, he didn’t chip in for the judge’s gift at the Newark Futurity. You believe that? For the goddamn judge. God forbid he should open his friggin’ wallet.”

“Never happen.”

“Never happen. For the judge, even. So you tell me. How’s his loft gonna do the next race? You tell me. You think he’ll ever win a friggin’ race?”

Feet clucked again. “You think that judge is gonna go out of his way?”

“You think that judge is gonna forget the jamoke that didn’t chip in? Who didn’t even know what the present was? Never.”

“Never happen.”

“Never happen.”

Judy rolled her eyes in silence. She had lost track of who was talking and she didn’t even care. “Is Tullio still with us, gentlemen?”

Feet laughed. “He’s still alive, if that’s what you mean, Jude. In this crowd, you don’t take nothin’ for granted.”

Tony-From-Down-The-Block snorted. “He’s movin’ now. Musta taken his Viagra.” He burst into phlegmy laughter, as did Feet.

Mr. DiNunzio pointed right as they turned onto Ritner. “Stay on this for two blocks,” he said, and Judy nodded. On her own she would be lost. South Philly was a warren of rowhouses, beauty parlors, and bakeries. If you weren’t Italian, you had to drive around with them. “How long until we’re there, Mr. D?”

Mr. DiNunzio looked over. “At this rate, three days.”

Judy smiled, watching the Fiesta puttering in the rearview, and even so hardly delaying the rest of the caravan. Still she couldn’t fault them, even with their blocked nasal passages. They were members of the pigeon- racing club, each with his own loft, and they had volunteered to rescue Pigeon Tony’s birds in the middle of the night. They even had a chart that divided the birds equally among them, keeping them in their own lofts until Pigeon Tony could reclaim them. Judy felt confident the Coluzzis wouldn’t attack them in number, and the old men were all cooperating. The Bar Association should have this much collegiality.

“I tol’ him,” Feet was saying, “sell the friggin’ car, on the Internet. They got eBay, it’s free! You don’t even hafta put an ad in the paper. My kid told me—eBay, it’s called.”

“You’re shittin’ me. You can sell a car on it?”

“Goddamn right. And I tol’ him, it’s free for nothin’, Tullio, you cheap bastard.”

“But he don’t have a computer.”

“No way does he have a computer! They cost money, computers. They ain’t givin’ those babies away.”

“You think he’s gonna buy one?”

Never happen, Judy wanted to say, but didn’t. She checked the rearview mirror. The Fiesta now trailed three car lengths behind. She braked again, with a sigh. “If this keeps up, Feet, I want you to take the wheel from Tullio.”

“Gotcha, Jude. We’ll do like a Chinese fire drill.”

Judy winced. “You’re not allowed to say that anymore, Feet.”