Fresh Kills (20 page)

“Hey, Artie,” a voice called. It was Stellene Anastasiades, Mary Provone's niece. We had dated for a while. I had been crazy about her. She was a great-looking woman, now pregnant with her fourth kid.

She waddled in my direction, still gorgeous, blonde hair pinned up on top of her head, belly sticking out, gold flip-flops crunching the gravel underfoot. In my hand was my phone. Come on, Johnny. Just call me, I kept thinking: call me!

“Artie.” Stellene kissed me, and tapped her belly. “Say hello to the new boys.”

“Boys?”

“Triplets. Can you fucking believe it? I got three boys, I said to Stas, let's try for a girl, and we get, hello, triplets, boys. I'll name one for you.”

“I'd really like that.”

“Come on,” Stellene said to Billy. “You should meet some of the other kids,” and before he could protest, she had his arm and was steering him towards the pool, Stellene like a blonde Greek cruise ship, Billy in tow.

From a distance, I watched him with a couple of other boys about his age. A few girls in those “wife-beater” undershirts you saw everywhere, their boobs hanging out, circled around Billy. He accepted a hot dog from one of them and bit into it. He seemed a little awkward, but he joined in and before long he was swept up in the teenage action.

“Artie, let me get you a beer or something,” Hank said, heading for the table that was covered with food, meat ready for the barbecue, bowls of potato salad and potato chips, boxes of pastry, rows of beers and sodas.

From the cooler I took a bottle of Corona and it was wet and cold against my hand. I was thirsty. The crowd in front of the TV dispersed, some of the women peeling off towards the house, maybe to go fix stuff in the kitchen, a few of the guys settling in at table with a pack of cards. One of them was a black guy I didn't know. He got up from his chair.

“I can't stand watching this stuff,” he said. “I'm going inside to catch a game.”

I thought about the black guy I'd seen at the pizza place with Sonny Lippert.

Hank, who saw me look, said, “Yeah, yeah, we got everyone out here now. A cop's a cop, right? We're very PC these days. And me, I never gave a shit what color anyone was.” He nodded towards the house where the black guy had gone. “Dave Green's a good guy, he's from Guyana, they got a whole community out here and they're real smart.” Hank pulled down his T-shirt. “The old men are dying off, them and their stupid racist rage with them. I remember when my pop used to sing me a song about the Latin from Staten Island with his
guile and his smile, can you believe it? American is American, I told my grandfather, and we were all immigrants. My grandpa is ninety-two and all he wants is to suck on his rage.” Hank looked back at the TV.

“Bastard sons of bitches terrorists,” he said. “I'm thinking of offering to go over to London, see if I can help or something. We know what it fucking feels like. We look at that fucking hole in the skyline every day. Seventy-eight firefighters we lost, you want to call that a holocaust you could do that. We got 9/11 widows, we got 9/11 kids, look at Stellene's nephew on her husband's side that lost his uncle who was a fire captain, and saw his own dad jump out of a window. They ID'd him in some photograph as a ‘jumper'. That's going to take a generation to fix. How's your Maxine?”

“Good,” I said. “She's out in California for a few days.

“You guys should come out more often, now you got a life, man. We're so happy for you that you and her got married, you know. Me and Mary both.”

My cell phone was ringing and I saw that Sonny Lippert had called four times. He was leaving messages, saying it was urgent for me to get my ass into the city. Urgent, he said. Make it fast.

“I should probably go,” I said to Hank. “Lippert's been calling me on something. I don't want Billy getting upset, with his parents being in London.”

“Lippert said it's urgent?”

“Yeah, it's probably nothing, I mean Lippert sometimes calls when he wants advice on taking a piss or because he heard someone speaking Russian. Other times it matters. He calls four times, I try to pay attention. You know.”

“I know,” Hank said. “So Billy will stay here,” Hank added. “We'd love to have him. Like I said, I'll get on the phone if you want. I have plenty of favors I can call in. I know this guy in Scotland Yard, how cool is that? I know him pretty good.”

“Nobody knows anything about Billy, about that stuff back when, you know,” I said. “I mean the whole story, only you and me.”

“And Lippert,” Hank said.

“Yeah.”

“Billy looks fine to me,” said Hank. “Look at him; the girls are loving him being here, guys too. Billy seems like a real nice boy.”

“Thanks. Hey, you didn't hear anything about some Italian guy a couple miles from here over by Fresh Kills that just disappeared like that, walked out of the house and nothing?”

“Laporello, something like that? Married to a Russian woman?”

“Yeah.”

“I think I heard something. Why?”

“I got asked to take a run at it by Sonny Lippert. It doesn't matter.”

“I mean Staten Island is still pretty small town when it comes to gossip,” Hank said. “I feel like I remember the whole deal was somehow connected to a beauty parlor where they thought somebody was laundering some cash or something, ring any bells with what you heard? Queen of something, the beauty parlor, one of those cockamamie family businesses. The Gorbachev woman's brother-in-law's sister owned the place and someone said Gorbachev was sleeping with the sister's husband. I didn't pay attention. You want me to find out?”

“Only if it's easy.”

“You want to eat something.”

“Later. You think we're going to get hit again, I mean the London thing?”

“I don't know,” Hank said. “I wouldn't go in the fucking subways if you gave them to me, you know, but that's just me, I'm a fat old cop, and what do I know? I missed you, buddy.”

“You know any good places to fish around here, Hank? I told
Billy we'd go later, we tried one place, but it was pretty lousy fishing.”

“Plenty,” said Hank. “I'll write them down. Wait a sec.” Hank went into the house, came back, handed me a piece of paper with some addresses and a set of keys.

“I got a rental property out at the north end of Staten, up almost opposite Jersey, end of Fresh Kills, I started buying after they closed the dump,” he said. “House is empty next couple of weeks, the new tenants don't move in until then, in case you want to get away from the city, with the boy, whatever. You could always use it. It's close to the beach, everything you need.”

“I probably won't need it,” I said.

Hank pressed the keys into my hand. “So return the keys. That way I get to see you again. OK?”

Hank Provone was one of those guys who was not formally educated but whose instincts were stainless steel. He had a built-in emotional compass. I thanked him and again I looked over at Billy.

He was talking to a girl with long brown hair. She was wearing a flouncy white skirt, and a red shirt tied up at her waist. She was about fourteen, like him, and she reminded me of someone. She kicked the toe of her sandal against a cracked paving stone, talking to Billy as they stood together near the edge of the swimming pool, holding their soda cans and eyeing the booze set out for the grown-ups on a table near by.

“Who's the girl?” I said to Hank.

“That's Katie, my youngest,” he said. “Don't you remember?”

“She's grown up a lot.”

“Yeah, they do that.” He looked at the two of them. “They seem good together, don't you think, my Katie, your Billy. They look good together, Artie.”

“You getting ready to walk her down the aisle already, Hank?” said Stellene, who was listening.

“I'm not talking marriage, for chrissake. Katie's only fourteen,” Hank said. “I'm talking in general. It's just nice, seeing them like that.”

I saw Katie twist a strand of hair around her finger, and Billy looking at her, and the two of them shifting from foot to foot. He moved closer to her, and she didn't pull back. I thought I saw Billy smile.

I waved at him, and he whispered something to Katie and walked across the patio.

“Hey.”

“Yeah, Artie,” said Billy.

“You having a nice time?”

He nodded.

“Is it OK if I leave you here for an hour or so? I have to go into the city and you can come, but we'll just have to turn around and come back if we're going fishing some place later. What do you think?”

“Did you ever notice how people are always leaving kids or parking them or dropping them off like sacks of laundry, or garbage for recycling or something?” said Billy. “Hey, it's fine. I'm joking. Don't get so worried. I'm having fun and it keeps my mind off London. You don't have to watch me like I'm an egg about to hatch. Go away. Go.”

“So you like Katie?”

“Artie, pulease!”

He punched my arm lightly, and without looking back, sauntered over to the kids near the pool.

I said goodbye to Hank and made for my car when I heard someone on the gravel behind me.

“Hi,” Billy said.

“You changed your mind about staying?”

“No.”

“What?”

“Nothing, never mind.”

“What?”

“I love you,” Billy said.

Before I went home, I stopped by the mall where the Queen of Hearts beauty salon was. Filled up the car at a gas pump there, then went over to the salon.

In the window, along with a price list for various beauty treatments, were pictures of Russian pop stars. Inside were two guys – I could see them through the window – getting their hair cut. Three women sat under dryers, one of them getting her nails done. I went in. I tried to remember how it felt not just to talk Russian but also to feel like one.

The girl behind the desk who was reading a copy of a Russian magazine, and eating candy out of a glass dish, glanced up at me as I came in, ran her hand through her platinum hair, and looked bored.

I asked if I could make an appointment to get my hair cut.

Slowly she put down the magazine, and finished chewing on her candy, then opened a large appointment book and slowly looked through the pages. It took me back to Moscow, the girl's sullen expression, her chipped nails, her disdain.

In the background was the buzz of women yakking loudly in Russian at each other over the hairdryers. I didn't know what I expected to find, but Vera Gorbachev had mentioned the beauty salon; so had Hank Provone.

On a shelf over the desk in the salon was a TV. On it were pictures of London, the bombings, the dazed people, cops, medics.

I made an appointment for a haircut for the next week, then asked if I could use the bathroom. The girl pointed towards a curtain at the back of the shop. Behind it were two doors, one partly open. It led to a small room, table, some chairs, a couple of men sitting in them, talking, smoking. The room was filled
with smoke. One guy looked up, saw me, and closed the door. Nothing else. I used the bathroom.

An older woman was coming through the front door as I was leaving, a young guy, maybe fifteen, sixteen following her. He caught your attention. Very slim, very blond, he wore some kind of Latin shirt, with puffy sleeves, and tight black satin pants.

The woman introduced herself to me as the owner of the salon, admired my shirt – to her I was a potential customer – and introduced the boy as her son. She said he was a champion ballroom dancer, especially in the cha-cha and salsa, and he had been away to dance camp, but was back to help out in the studio she and her husband owned. It was very popular with Russians, she said, and gave me a card with a coupon so my wife and I could attend a class.

In Russian, I thanked her and told her I'd just moved to Staten Island and had heard about Queen of Hearts from Vera Gorbachev. She didn't say anything, just went out to the street and beckoned me to follow her.

“Gorbacheva, she's a friend of yours?” the woman asked.

“Not really. An acquaintance.”

“She's trouble. She messes in people's business, she does favors for not so nice people, you understand? Don't get involved, OK? I mean, my advice, not my business to stick my two cents in, but just my advice.”

I thanked her, and we shook hands again, and I kept her card. I didn't think I was going dancing any time soon, but maybe I'd get my hair cut after all. I ran my hand through it. It was probably too long.

On the way home, I tried Johnny again on my phone. No answer. Circuits jammed. As I got near the city, I glanced up automatically at the empty space where the Trade Center towers had been. A silver airplane flew through the gap.

“Sonny Lippert's looking for you. Call me.” I picked up Lily's message from my answering machine even before I got home from Hank Provone's place. Lily's voice was tense and in the background I could hear the TV and the news coming in from London. Sonny Lippert had called her. Said to pass me a message. Why was he calling Lily?

At Lily's building on Tenth Street, the doorman was off. I buzzed the intercom and went up to her apartment.

“Is Beth here?”

“She's out on Long Island with friends,” said Lily. “I didn't want her in the city after last night and the business at the toy store.” She looked at the TV. “Now this. Is it starting all over again, Artie?”

“I hope to God not.”

The scene from London played over and over on the screen: bombs in the subway; people smashed from one train into another; the red bus ripped open; London in gridlock first, then empty; weeping people; flowers in cellophane cones, letters, teddy bears on the street to mark the dead.

Bastards, I thought and put my arms around Lily. London
was her second home. She had lived there on and off for decades. It was the city she loved most of all.