'Please,' Nola hissed through the wire mesh. 'Don't leave me high and dry, Mr. Underman.'
Her attorney glared at her. 'The truth, Nola. What does it take for me to hear the truth? Do you know him or not?'
'I did know him. He's dead.'
'No, he's not. He got a face-lift, and now goes by the name Frank Fontaine.'
'What?!'
Nola's hand went to her mouth, the shock on her face all too real. The female guard waddled over. She weighed two hundred pounds and was shaped like a bowling pin. Underman said, 'Please. I need another minute with my client.'
The guard scowled. 'Don't use me as leverage, mister.'
'No, ma'am,' Underman replied.
The guard waddled back to her high chair and sat down.
'That bastard,' Nola swore under her breath. 'He used me.'
Underman dragged his chair back into the booth.
'You're saying Fontana set you up,' he whispered.
Nola nodded her head savagely.
'And you never saw it coming.'
'Not until you just told me.'
'How long have you known him?'
'Too long.'
'How long is that?'
'Since we were kids.'
'Were you involved?'
'Excuse me?'
'I mean, were you in love with him?'
Nola let out a bitter laugh, the sound shaped by a lifetime of hurt and betrayal. She dug a nasty-looking hankie from her pocket and honked her nose into it.
'Was I 'involved'?' she said, mocking him. 'Hell, Mr. Underman, I was married to the son of a bitch.'
14
B arely seventeen, Nola Briggs was married on a rainy Saturday morning in a Catholic church on the south side of the Bronx. The priest, Father Murphy, had at first said no-he did not marry children-then changed his mind when Sonny slipped him a C note, and he forever bonded them in holy matrimony.
'I wish I didn't have to leave,' Sonny said as they stood on the church steps. 'You know that, don't you?'
'Yes,' Nola replied. 'I know that.'
'I'm sorry it has to be like this,' he said.
'So am I.'
'I'll come back for you. I promise. I will come back.'
'Stop saying it, then.'
Nola twirled the gold band encircling the third finger on her left hand. Rain spit on their heads. She had wanted her wedding day to be the Sound of Music; instead, it was On the Waterfront. Sonny took his leather jacket off and covered her shoulders. She shut her eyes as he kissed her on the lips, wishing the moment would last forever.
The shrill blast of a car's horn ruined the moment. Sonny's father, Elvis Fontana, owner of Elvis's House of Billiards, sat in a rusted-out Lincoln across the street, looking homicidal. He pointed at his wristwatch and mouthed the words Hurry up.
'I'll call you every day-and write letters,' Sonny promised, holding Nola in his arms. 'I swear. Every day.'
'Sure you will.'
'Don't make it sound like that. I wouldn't have asked you to marry me if I didn't mean it, would I?'
'Why doesn't your father just work it out?' Nola said, her eyes brimming with tears. 'Why doesn't he just say he's sorry and give the money back?'
'You don't understand,' Sonny said. 'He didn't just take their money-he cheated them.'
'So?' Nola said. 'That doesn't give them the right to kill him.'
'To these men, it does,' Sonny told her.
Elvis Fontana did a U-turn and pulled the Lincoln up to the curb. He hit the horn again. Nola got the feeling that if she stalled long enough, he might have a heart attack and die right there.
'Good-bye,' Sonny said. 'I'll call you in a few days.'
They kissed a final time, his mouth warm and sweet. Then Sonny ran down the church steps and jumped into the car, his father peeling out before the passenger door was shut.
'I love you,' his voice trailed down the empty street.
Nola hugged herself, trying to fight off the cold. She thought about what Father Murphy had said about love and friendship and patience and all the other things that made up a true marriage. Then she began to cry, knowing it was all lies.
'I had a miscarriage the following week,' Nola said, crushing out her cigarette and ending her story.
'Did you ever hear from Sonny again?'
'No,' she said.
The airless interrogation room in the basement of Metro LVPD headquarters fell silent. Nola shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Underman lit up a fresh cigarette and placed it between his client's trembling lips. Longo, who was doing the questioning, glanced across the room at his standing-room only crowd, which included Valentine, a freshly shaved Bill Higgins, Sammy Mann, and, on the other side of the two-way mirror, Wily and Nick Nicocropolis.
'That's not true,' Nola suddenly said. 'I got a couple of postcards. He bounced around for a while. Miami, Atlanta, Myrtle Beach. Then the postcards stopped. Not a peep for twenty years.'
She inhaled pleasurably, then crushed the cigarette out in a tin ashtray-and kept crushing after the flame was long dead. It was something a crazy person might do, and Valentine stared at her, then her attorney. Underman had his best poker face on and had not uttered a syllable during her entire confession.
'How did Sonny find you?' Longo said.
'He didn't,' Nola said. 'I found him.'
'Explain yourself.'
Suddenly, Sammy Mann broke in. 'You had it in for Nick, so you went looking for Sonny Fontana.'
Nola flipped the butt out of the ashtray and hit Sammy square in the chest with it. 'Who asked you here, you stupid cretin?'
'I did,' Longo snapped, sliding the ashtray off the table. 'Do that again, and I'll cuff you to the chair. Answer the question.'
'I never had it in for Nick,' Nola insisted. 'I worked for him for ten years. I was loyal. Doesn't that count for something?'
'He dumped you,' Sammy said. 'He asked you to get your tits blown up, and you said no. He hurt you.'
Nola stared at Sammy in bewilderment, then at Longo. 'Who fed you that line of crap?'
'Your old friend Sherry Solomon,' Sammy said.
'Sherry's lying,' she shot back. 'Nick never said that to me. It had nothing to do with my tits, you dried up pencil-dick!'
'It's the truth,' Sammy swore.
'No, it's not! Ask Nick.'
'Nick doesn't remember-'
