On the sidewalk outside of Mancuso’s, Casali tells Antonio to get himself squared-away, get his hair styled, take some pride, dress like an adult. He palms Antonio two bills and a card with the address. “They massage your scalp,” Casali says. “They rub your temples.”
That’s way uptown, Sali.
So you take the fucking subway.
Casali lights a cigarette, says he has things to do, starts away, ramping his swagger, blowing smoke in the air, saying over his shoulder, “eight-thirty tomorrow, business attire.”
***
Antonio lying back at the shampoo sink, Jasmin without the e, lathering hibiscus, rinsing, repeating, explaining her complicated relationship with an ex-boyfriend. Jasmin, blond and busty leading him to the chair, blow drying and running her fingers through it, asking him how he would like it. Antonio with his eyes closed, suppressing something vulgar, saying, “short on the sides and tall on top.”
Carla calling.
Go ahead and take it.
No, it’s all right.
Snip-snip small talk, Antonio breathing in female, snip-snip giggle, comb snip-snip, the sleeve of her fuzzy sweater brushing his cheek.
Carla again.
Feel free.
It’s all right.
Running gel through it with her fingertips, talking to him in the mirror. “This is the best gel. We sell a lot of it. It’s called Fortitude.”
Why?
Because, it’s the best gel we sell. Oh, that rhymes. She giggles.
Antonio nodding, nervous about tomorrow, hoping the gel will help.
At the cash register she asks who sent him.
Sal Casali. You know him?
Oh my God, I love Sali. She giggles. I would literally date him if only he wasn’t old enough to be my father. He’s so cool.
Yeah, he’s cool.
And he’s so funny. How do you know him?
He was a friend of my father’s but he’s dead.
Your father, not Sali.
Right.
***
Back on the 5 train, rattling dank, clunking metallic, dim tunnel lamps in metal cages, Antonio marking the intervals in his head, Light, 2, 3, 4, light 2, 3, 4, light. A lurching corner jerking him back to this morning when Casali texted:
Mancuso’s 9:00 AM, Regrets Only.
Casali with a double espresso, holding court for three old guys in cardigans, laughing, table slapping, coffee rings, dried yolk plates with toasted crusts and crumbs, Casali holding up a palm, deadpan swearing “God’s honest truth” to laughs all around. Now, Antonio standing beside the table, hands in pockets, looking down at the floor.
Casali excusing himself, telling the seniors he has business with the young man in the sweatpants and hoodie and the buck-fifty sneakers like he’s the next point guard for the Knicks.
Casali walking him to another table, looking for the waitress, asking, “If you don’t mind sweetie?” The waitress smiling and tilting her head.
Casali speaking deep and quiet, “the reason I asked you to meet me” but not getting to the reason. Antonio nodding. Casali baritoning vaguely about family, honor, justice, living a man’s life, a man’s duty. Antonio nodding, his knee bouncing under the table. Casali going on about responsibility to God, to family, understanding the difference between retribution and vengeance.
Antonio nodding, not knowing the difference, not sure why it mattered.
What’s it gonna take to light a fire under you, Antonio?
I’m not sure what you mean.
You’re being offered an unusual opportunity, Antonio, an unusual honor.
A unusual gurgling, a sudden urgency, Antonio sitting straighter, holding it in, his gut ahead of his brain.
Yes, But…
But what, Antonio?
***
Flatbush, cadaver gray in chilled March twilight, auto-walking the two blocks east, left onto Secondi, up the back stairs without saying hi to mom, the kitchen light on, she would hear him above.
Carla buzzing in his pocket, three unread messages.
Sorry, been busy. Call you soon.
Lifting the suit bag from the closet rod, laying it on the bed, unzipping it slowly, anticipating wafted scents of tearful perfumed faces, cologne embraces, sprays and billows of flowers, bitter incense, sweat of righteous anger, pheromones of fear. Breathing shallow, then deeply, finally holding the jacket to his nose, the scent faded faint, blended bland, the stale smell of grief.
A white Oxford shirt, a narrow black tie, the kind that Sali would wear, narrow-legged trousers and slim-fit jacket, standing and smoothing, threading a belt, stepping into shoes, black calfskin, his fathers, one size too big, paper towels stuffed in the toes since his funeral, one way to fill them.
In the reflection of the darkened picture window, buttoning the jacket and squaring his shoulders, unbuttoning and turning sideways, hand in pocket, practicing confidence, managing only sheepish. Facing the window again, left thumb hooked in belt, right index finger jabbing at the reflection, warning it not to fuck with him. Something Casali would say. Something Casali would mean.
Back in sweats, suit hung from the top of the bathroom door, shoeshine kit from under the sink, Antonio buffing black calfskin at the kitchen table.
Carla calling, Antonio answering apologetic and distracted, rubbing a shoe like a genie’s lamp.
What the actual fuck Antonio? I’ve been trying you all afternoon.
I’ve been busy. I have something in the morning. I’ll call you after.
After what?
When we’re done, I’ll call you.
Who’s we?
Antonio, silent, regretting that he answered the phone.
Who Ton?
Me and Sali.
Oh, no Ton. No. Sali don’t own you. You don’t owe those people nothing. He’s been trying to suck you into that business for four months, ever since what happened to your father, God rest his soul. You need to…what’s the word?…disassociate your ass from them.
They’ve taken care of mom and me. They don’t ask us for anything.
And once you’re in, they don’t let you go until you’re in a box. Do you want to end up like your father? Is this the life you want for your future children?
Antonio, not sure who hung up on who, opens a beer. Be cool, he tells himself, cool like Casali.
***
Antonio, dirge-walking in black funeral suit, black shoes with paper padded toes, tall hair proud with salon-bought fortitude, five minutes early but Casali already on the corner, looking out at traffic, taking slow drags on his cigarette, raising his chin to blow the smoke over people’s heads, smiling at pretty girls, saying good morning to little old ladies.
Antonio regretting now that he had never learned to smoke, to take a puff, cough a laugh, point the hand with the cig and say “fuck you,” stick it in the side of the mouth, tell a joke with it dangle-dancing up and down, laugh again, slap a back, everyone happy, everyone laughing, alive and laughing and blowing smoke.
Casali, frowning, dropping a heavy hand on Antonio’s chest.
You’re nervous, Antonio, I can tell.
No, I’m fine.
I wanted to let you do it but you seem a little shaky.
You haven’t told me what we’re doing.
And yet, somehow you know, Antonio.
So, this is the man responsible?
Yes, Antonio, you know that.
Antonio, hands trembling, shoving them into tight pockets.
Look, Antonio, this will happen today with or without you. Retribution is required in a situation like this but you will not know vengeance if you are only here to watch.
Does this man have children, Sali?
Two adult sons, around your age.
Good.
Good?
Can I have a cigarette, Sali?
Of course.
Casali shaking one up from the pack and flicking the lighter. Antonio leaning in to cup the flame, lifting his chin, exhaling a cloud.
Do you get nervous, Sali?
I get excited, Antonio.
Do we go in now?
Soon. He comes at nine every Thursday. We follow him in.
Antonio pointing with the cigarette hand, “but it’s a fucking jewelry store.”
Jewelry in the front, short term loans in the back. Thursdays he goes over the accounts, takes his cut.
Will we take anything?
No, the purpose of this must be clear.
Antonio, taking a long, slow drag on the cigarette, raising his chin to exhale, smiling at a little old lady coming up from the crosswalk.
So, Antonio, are you still nervous or will you do your father this honor?
I’m not nervous.
Do you feel the excitement, Antonio?
Antonio nodding, taking a last drag and exhaling, dropping the cigarette on the sidewalk, crushing it under a buffed, black, calfskin leather shoe.
Many thanks to my most trusted beta reader, editor, spiritual advisor and friend, Sharron Bassano, author of the Substack Leaves for her suggestions on how to keep this strange unusual use of continuous present tense on track. Please click the link below to read Sharron’s elegant fiction, tales from her extensive travels and occasional musings on life.
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Enviable writing, Jim.
The present tense is masterful, keeps the reader ‘present’. I’m sure I held my breath for several minutes along the way. So many fine lines. Great to find fiction this good here … makes me want to raise my own bar.
Now that’s a story. I was completely immersed. I could feel the tension in the first paragraph/that first dialogue exchange, and man, it did not let go all the way through. By story’s end I was literally sitting on the edge of my seat, hand over mouth—didn’t even realize I’d moved!