Anyone But You (4 page)

“So I’m the decoy?”

“You’re our insurance,” Aunt Val clarified. “We can’t risk them pulling any stunts the first night we’re back in business.”

“If you ask me, you ought to get even with those bastar—sorry, Ma—
jerks
, for what they did to us. They should have to pay,” Frankie said.

“I could make them pay,” Ty stewed, flashing dark eyes the color of coffee grounds. “Just say the word, Uncle Benji.”

“Yeah,” added Frankie, “even Carmen here could roll up on that cocky, pretty-boy son of theirs, not to mention the pathetic entourage he calls friends.”

“I won’t specify exactly what I’d do to Roman Monte’s face,” issued Enzo, “but it might resemble Aunt Nora’s lasagna here by the time I’m through with it.”

“That’s enough,” said my mother. “Last I checked, our name was Caputo, not Capone.”

My experience with Roman Monte was limited to hearing him nominally categorized as “Spawn of Satan” by my hyperbolic cousins, who claimed, among other things, that he had an ego the size of Soldier Field. I’d never laid eyes on the guy. Natural curiosity led me to wonder whether Frankie’s assertion that he was a “pretty boy” had any merit, but I figured my cousins couldn’t be counted on for a reliable answer on that front. I’d have to cyber-stalk the guy when I had a chance and see for myself. Too bad Mom already planned on monopolizing my every waking minute for the next two weeks to help her pull off the birthday soiree I’d just as soon skip.

“What makes you think Roman Monte is the one who pulled our fire alarm?” I asked no one in particular. “Did anyone actually see him?”

“Seriously, cuz, don’t be so naive,” Ty sighed.

“What?” I continued. “Enzo, you and Mom were in the stockroom, and Chef was manning the stove. No one ever ID’d anyone, and—”

“Believe me, if we had proof, that family would be drowning in legal bills right now,” said my dad, dismissing my point out of hand. “The new security cameras went in last week. Next time they try something, we can sue them to the hilt.”

“Is anyone going to ever tell us the
real
reason our families hate each other, anyway?” I said, attempting a different tack.

“Because they’re base degenerates,” offered Aunt Val, most unhelpfully.

“I mean, there are plenty of other Italian restaurants in Chicago,” I continued, “so where does all this hostility originally come from?” You’d think, being taught from birth that the Montes were our sworn enemies, I would already have a good answer to this, but I didn’t. Our family had simply espoused this truth for as long as anyone could remember, which is why my question elicited only blank stares from the faces across the table, as if I’d just asked them to recite the world capitals in alphabetical order.

“Just steer clear of the lot of them. That means
all
of you,” my father decreed, eyeing Ty in particular. Ever since the boys’ dad, my Uncle Greg, had suffered a heart attack and died four years ago, Ty was like a simmering pot, always ready to boil over. “If there are any scores that need settling,” Dad continued, “that’ll be something that’s handled directly between me and Joe Monte.”

Carmen had a tendency to lag thirty seconds behind in whatever conversation was going on, but I half suspected the old lady could mop the floor with the rest of us, mentally speaking. Leaning closer to me, she whispered cryptically, “If you go digging up dirt, you’d better be sure you really want to see what’s buried underneath.” The wizened waitress had worked at Cap’s longer than any of us. Did she know something more about our family’s epic grudge that she wasn’t saying? The only thing I could say for certain was that my cousins and the other part-time waiters and busboys we had on staff at the restaurant weren’t exactly lobbying for a peace accord with our not-so-friendly competition. I had to wonder if any of them might have done something to incur this latest act of war. They were always puffing out their chests to one another about what they could do to mess with the Montes. Had they done something first? Was the fire alarm stunt an act of reprisal?

Mom dabbed her napkin at the corners of her mouth, careful not to mar the coral lipstick that had long been her signature shade.

“Security cameras,” she said, eyeing my father. “That sounds … expensive.”

“Rich thought it was a good idea,” Dad explained. “Thinks it’ll protect his investment.” Perry Beresdorfer’s dad, Rich, a venture capitalist who worked in an office building down the street, was a long-standing patron of Cap’s. He had approached my dad following our latest debacle and offered to front the money we needed to get the business back up and running. It was a loan, of sorts, but not without a catch. Rich Beresdorfer naturally wanted ownership in the business as recompense for his generous contribution to the “Cap’s Clean-Up Fund.” Once my dad got our business back in the black, he’d purchase Rich’s shares, plus interest. The whole thing sounded a bit squirrelly to me, but Dad had been acting a lot more optimistic—cautiously happy, even—as a result of this arrangement.

“Speaking of that whole nightmare, I finally heard back from our
Zwaggert
’s critic,” Mom said. “His leg’s in a cast, and he’s not exactly a bucket of sunshine, but I don’t get the sense he’s going to take legal action or anything.”

“Okay,” Dad sighed, “but what about our
Zwaggert
’s rating?”

“Well, I didn’t go there with him, obviously,” answered Mom, who tended to handle things with more delicacy. Though no one voiced it aloud, we were all thinking about the fact that a cable foodie network had just crowned our rivals’ restaurant, Monte’s, as having the best deep-dish in the city. It was another foreboding indication of our eatery’s dwindling cultural relevance.

“So, Gigi,” said my Aunt Val, changing the subject, “is there anything special that you want for your birthday?”

“A restraining order against Perry,” Ty suggested. I couldn’t help but smile and nod in agreement at my favorite cousin’s quip. As different as he and I were, he always looked out for me—though I got the sense that, like an overprotective big brother, Ty didn’t want me interacting with
any
potential suitor, dolt or otherwise.

“You be nice to that boy, Gigi,” Mom snapped. “His dad is holding our purse strings.”

“No pressure, or anything,” Enzo said with a snort. “You’re lucky they’re not planning your wedding to that sledgehammer.”

“ …
yet
,” Frankie said. As usual, getting a word in edgewise among this crew was an exercise in futility. I often wished I could just say what was on my mind as effortlessly—callously, even—as my cousins did, but this family didn’t seem to have room for me, the youngest, to be as outspoken as the rest. I finally piped up when everyone else at the table was officially mid-chew.

“Can I at least assume I won’t have to cover tables the night of my party?” I asked. Nights off were a rare treat for me. My sorry social calendar would make cloistered nuns look like party girls by comparison. Of course, I had a few close friends from the all-girls Catholic school I attended, but as confidantes go, I was tighter with Cap’s “fifty and fabulous” head chef than with most people my own age, which only goes to show how much time I actually spent in our family’s restaurant. God, I needed a life, but sadly, it seemed nowhere on the horizon. As for prospects in the boyfriend department, well, notwithstanding the dreaded advances of Perry Beresdorfer, my options were sadly limited. Aside from the occasional cute boy who came in with his friends or family (and what was I going to do—leave my number on the check?) the only guys I knew worked at Cap’s, meaning they were related to me or may as well have been.

“Waiting tables, no—but you’ll need to work the room,” Dad responded to my question. “Make sure you chat up everyone, especially the adults. And for God’s sake, plaster a smile on your face. No Cranky Pants pout like the one you’re giving now.”

Even though I was annoyed that my parents were inviting scores of random business acquaintances and their kids—people I’d barely met or even knew existed before the guest list had been drawn up—it would at least fill the restaurant and keep me from looking like a total charity case, socially speaking.

“This is a day we want you to enjoy, Gigi,” Mom said. I could tell she was being completely sincere. “Wow, it’s like just yesterday you were my baby, and now, you’re practically a woman.”

I waited for my cousins to crack some joke about my bra size and was relieved when they failed to do so, each too distracted by the slabs of Aunt Val’s cheesecake on their plates.

“You’re going to have a wonderful night,” Dad promised, “and just remember, this is all for you.” He wasn’t just talking about my birthday, and I knew it. Time and again, he had reinforced this assumption that I’d someday follow in his footsteps as proprietor of Cap’s. It was a baton I didn’t want handed off to me, but saying so would break his heart. Watching the way this business had left him exhausted, bitter, and financially broken, only a masochist would volunteer to be his successor. Yet, I couldn’t be the one who ushered the family’s legacy into extinction after four generations. There was a time I hoped that one of my three cousins might carry the torch, but my dad considered them complete knuckleheads (not entirely without reason). I, on the other hand, was the “anointed one” who made my parents certain, with each straight-A report card I received, that I was born to carry on Cap’s tradition. As if sensing my thoughts, my dog, Sampson, settled his warm muzzle on my knee in sympathy. I stroked his velvety-soft ear under the table and gave my dad a small, but sincere, smile of appreciation. He meant well. Although hopes and dreams not centered around the yeasty aroma of baked pizza dough certainly flourished in my brain, they would never take root in reality. No number of birthday wishes could change that.

B
Y THE TIME
I
GOT BACK TO THE FRONT STOOP
of the humble apartment building where both my family and Benny’s lived, my feet were throbbing more than my shiner. I’d spent all day and half the night looking for Stella, but it was hopeless. When I’d arrived, breathless, at the arcade, the cacophony of bells, whistles, kids’ screams, and barkers’ baritone yawps made me feel disoriented. Maybe I was still reeling from Benny’s knuckle sandwich. Once my brain adjusted, it was pretty obvious: there was no trace of her.

At the shooting gallery, a grizzled man with a face like a wild boar gave me the once over. He looked relatively in charge, so I asked him if he’d seen a girl fitting Stella’s description.

“Yeah, I seen her,” he said, reaching with a hook for a stuffed purple cat, a prize for someone who’d just hit the bulls-eye. “She was standing around here looking like some lost sheep that stumbled into a pack of wolves. She circled the place for about fifteen minutes, till my boys started razzin’ her. I guess she got spooked.”

“Did she say where she might be heading?”

The man laugh-snorted, spit a chaw of tobacco onto the ground, and turned away. The only other place I could think to look for her was at the Paris pavilion. I walked and rewalked every faux cobbled
rue
, past the sidewalk cafés and beret-bedecked accordion players. Around every corner were suggestive nude drawings and lewd novelties for sale. This was where Sally Rand would be performing later, I realized, mortified that I had actually asked Stella to let me bring her to this den of iniquity. If she’d come this way, she’d surely have already run off, horrified. I spent the rest of the day combing the crowds, my eyes peeled for any sign of her, but my search was pointless. Trying to find her among the teeming throngs was like trying to wish the dead miraculously back to life. I scoured the children’s Enchanted Isle and the Hall of Science, toured futuristic model homes, and even the two dozen yawn-inducing corporate pavilions. I double-checked the incubator display on the off chance she’d reconnected with her sister. No dice. I’d seen the World’s Fair, all right—every square inch of it, but it had been a fruitless search, not a day of amusement. I’d fallen in love (yes; I’ll say it) only to let it slip through my fingers. My best friend had belted me as if he were heavyweight champ Primo Carnera (Ma was going to shriek when she saw my face). Benny and I had banked on this being a banner day, and instead, well, it basically belonged in the crapper.

I dreaded the climb up three flights of stairs to where I knew my mother was waiting. Depending on her mood, she’d either skin my hide or giddily demand a second-by-second account of my day. I couldn’t stomach either, so I collapsed onto the wooden stairs in front of the building. Scrutinizing my shoes to see how much damage they’d incurred over the course of the day, I heard the sound of a can being kicked down the street. The clattering object came to a stop near my feet. I looked up and saw Benny leaning against the iron fence post. In the moonlight, the front of his white T-shirt appeared drenched in blood.

“Any luck?”

“With what?” I muttered.

“Finding her.”

“What do
you
think?”

He leaned in to get a gander at where his fist had landed.

“Yowza. Can you even see out of that eye? That’s going to leave a mark.” Leave it to him to crack wise about having pummeled me.

“Congratulations. The world finally has evidence of your brute strength.”

“So, whaddaya say we do it all over again tomorrow?” More jokes. I wasn’t buying.

“Whaddaya say you shove a sock in it?”

“Geez, Nick. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. You look kind of mobster tough with it, if you ask me.”

“I’m not mad about the black eye.”

“The girl?” he asked. I nodded, glumly.

“I had no idea, honestly, how much it meant to you. Now I do. But, hey, you met a cute girl who thought you were the cat’s meow. There will be loads more where she came from.”

“But not
her
. She must think I ditched her, that I’m just some louse who lied to her.” Benny sighed and kicked the tin can across the street with the flair and flourish of a professional placekicker. Then he turned back to me.