Respect Read online

  As two men carried a large chest of drawers wrapped in blankets out our front door and maneuvered down the steps, my stomach twisted. The night of Lennox’s birth came back to me. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget.”

  “You know,” Vincent said, “you think you know people. You think you can trust them...and then they turn, like Sammy. I’m not condoning what Gotti did. Hell no. It was wrong. I’m just saying that if Sammy was with him, then Gotti trusted him. There’s a lot of things I hate. Fucking rats top that list.”

  “Is there anyone who isn’t trusted? Is your father concerned?”

  Vincent shrugged. “I’m not sure he trusts anyone right now, me included. And he knows he can—trust me. It’s just a rough patch. We’ll get through it. We always do. That’s the thing with you moving away...I get it. Pop does too. But to the outside, it looks like you’re abandoning family.”

  Keeping my expression in check, I met him eye to eye. “If Carmine is worried about my loyalty, he can ask me himself.”

  “He just did. It just sounded like me.”

  “Our moving to Rye,” I went on, “hasn’t been a sudden decision. The damn house took nearly a year to construct. We’re having a housewarming party next Saturday. We’re not hiding. Every fucking person will know where we are. If I wanted to hide, I’d take Angelina and Lennox and flee the country.”

  “Doubt the feds would let you.”

  “Well, that’s comforting.”

  Vincent’s demeanor lightened as Angelina came into view, following closely behind a man with a box. While her lips moved, his head simply nodded.

  “Just keep up drinks each Thursday,” Vincent said to me. “Even if church here is only once a month...”

  I started to respond, to tell him there was a nice parish in Rye, but a slight shake of his head stopped me.

  “Keep Demetri clean and come when called. Make appearances with the family now and then. Pop knows where your heart is. He knows mine too. The fucker whispering in his ear is my concern at the moment. Gioconda is a snake—fucking anaconda. Pop won’t talk about it. Everyone is under a microscope.”

  “Vinny!” Angelina called our way. “How long have you been here?”

  Suddenly nothing but smiles, Angelina’s cousin leaned in and kissed my wife’s cheek. “I was just seeing if this was really happening.” He laughed. “And enjoying watching you take charge of the show.”

  She nodded as a small smile came to her lips. “I always do. It’s best you remember that.”

  Vincent looked my way, and my lips came together in a smart decision not to respond.

  “I mean,” Vincent said with a grin, “look at Oren. He’s the flower girl.”

  I shook my head. I’d completely forgotten I was holding Angelina’s daisies.

  She took them from me. “He’s holding them for me. And yes, the move is really happening. We’re going to Westchester County. It’s not like it’s the other side of the country.” She bounced with her excitement. “I can’t wait for the housewarming party next week. Bella and the kids have been up there. Luca and Lennox love the pool. You should see them. They’re like fish. I can’t wait for you and the rest of the family to see it, too. You know, Bella has a great eye for decorating. She’s been a marvelous help.”

  “Yeah,” Vincent said, “you’ve got her talking about how outdated our house is. Sooner or later we’ll be moving too.”

  “Not too far,” I said. “You don’t want to raise suspicion.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “What’s going on?” Angelina asked.

  “Nothing,” Vincent and I both said in unison.

  Angelina shook her head and turned to me. “Will you go tell the movers to be careful with the boxes from the dining room? I swear they’ve become immune to me. They’ll listen to you. That’s my mother’s china.”

  “Anything else?” I asked Vincent.

  “See you Thursday—drinks.”

  “Of course.”

  As Angelina and I walked into the house, leaving Vincent on the street, Angelina sighed. “I thought maybe us moving away might bring you home on Thursdays.”

  “Me too.”

  Chapter 20

  From the outside, the windows glowed with golden light. Cars lined the driveway to capacity as other cars parked along the street. Inside our new home, a variety of melodies rang out from the grand piano, infiltrating the air and combining with the din of conversation to add to the festive atmosphere. Most of the rooms on the main level overflowed with family and friends, all clustered in small groups, talking and laughing, each adding their own spice to the mix. People even spilled outside onto the patio around the pool.

  I’d never been much on parties. My forte was one-on-one. If given ten minutes of a person’s time, I could assess everything about them and determine my best plan of action. If I was in need of their assistance, I capitalized upon their strength. If instead, it was my favor the person wanted, I sought out their weakness. I’d found it beneficial to assess both.

  Truthfully, as I scanned the faces, I assessed that I’d been alone for ten minutes or more with most of the people in our home. I knew their strengths and their weaknesses.

  Standing near the periphery of the party, I swirled the melting ice in my Balvenie whiskey—an expensive single barrel scotch whiskey and one I knew Carmine enjoyed. He’d scoff at the melting ice detracting from the strong taste, but I admittedly wasn’t the drinker he could be. I found keeping my wits, especially in such company, was a good plan. Alcohol could be considered a weakness to many of those inside my home and outside of it too.

  As faces came in and out of view, I nodded to Albert and Julie. There were other people from the corporate offices. It was as I scanned that I realized that along with the normal crowd, there were a few I didn’t know. They were new neighbors and people who lived nearby, people who Angelina had come in contact with during the construction.

  My wife had that knack, the gift to make friends with simply a word or a smile. Allowing the small amount of whiskey I’d consumed to lighten my mood, I wondered how many of her new friends had any idea of the dark pasts and presents of their fellow guests. She no longer carried the name Costello. The neon sign of her connection was gone.

  Could these ‘nice’ people have any idea of the life-and-death deals the debonair men in tailored dark suits standing merely feet away made on a regular basis? Did they recognize any of their faces from the six o’clock news or perhaps from mug shots they’d seen in the newspaper?

  Inwardly, smirking at the diversity before me, I conceded that as a rule of thumb, no one looked their best in a mug shot. It wasn’t like the police photographer was trying to create a family heirloom. More likely, the opposite: a terrorizing image to influence jurors.

  Tonight, the men I’d come to know, both Costellos and associates, were dressed in their finest with their wives or girlfriends on their arms. The women whose high-pitched laughter infiltrated the drone, sparkled from their heads to their toes with shimmering dresses of all lengths and colors, high heels that tapped upon the tiled floor, and dainty clutch purses that they tightly held to their bodies. Their hair was styled and makeup done to perfection. It was as if, unlike the new neighbors, each woman on a Costello associate’s arm understood the significance of her hostess—the honor it was to be in Angelina’s new magnificent home.

  If an observer didn’t know the history of some of those in attendance as I did, perhaps it would be possible to see their fellow guests as simply friends gathered for a housewarming party. Even those guests who didn’t understand and were clueless about the power emanating from the rooms seemed to enjoy themselves, talking, drinking, eating, and laughing.

  About a half an hour ago, I’d left Carmine, Vincent, and Gioconda, along with a few other gentlemen, in my private office. There seemed to be a sense of proprietorship that accompanied Carmine. My office was his office. I’d stayed in the smoke-filled room long enough for niceties—cigars and the dr
ink still in my hand—and then I’d politely excused myself when the conversation exceeded my rank. Being the owner of the home and office apparently didn’t influence what could be said in my presence.

  I’d learned over the years that the lack of knowledge of some of the more intimate workings of the Costello family had its advantage. I had no desire to exercise my right as the homeowner in an attempt to cause a shift in the relationship that to this point was working.

  “Very nice, Oren.”

  I turned to the deep voice, my expression stoic, purposely not revealing my surprise that Gioconda was talking to me. “Thank you, Carl. I’m glad you could make it.”

  “I needed to see what would move you to take Angelina away from her home.”

  The tightness in my chest increased. “This is her home now. Ours,” I added with emphasis.

  “Yes, and very nice. Perhaps you could give me a tour of the outside?”

  I took a deep breath and placed the glass of watered-down whiskey on a nearby table. For the party, I’d convinced Angelina to hire a catering service to allow her to enjoy the guests. It took a little encouragement, but finally she gave in. Someone would remove the unattended glass, saving me from finishing the weakened concoction.

  As Gioconda and I walked toward the open glass doors at the back of the house, I turned in time to see my wife’s blue eyes meet mine. Without a word, she asked if everything was all right. In the same silent language, I replied that I didn’t know.

  With each step, the weight of my revolver reminded me of its presence under my suit coat, in a holster in the waistband of my trousers. I’d taken Carmine’s advice from years ago to heart. The holster was as commonplace in my attire as my shirt, jacket, or tie. Rarely did it make its presence known, yet undoubtedly, it reassured me.

  I wasn’t without practice. I went to the shooting range. I was proficient. Yet in a shoot-out with Gioconda, I’d probably never have the chance to remove it from the holster, and if I did, I doubted I’d have time to hit the safety. And if by some miracle I succeeded, I would ultimately fail.

  Gioconda was made. Without a threat to Carmine, Angelina, or Lennox, I couldn’t kill a made man. I wasn’t looking to kill anyone. The concern lurked in the back of my thoughts. Yet so far, I’d made my mark in the Costello world as an earner. An earner could be made if the books were opened.

  While it was an honor, it wasn’t my goal. I was content where I was, as long as Carmine found my services worthwhile

  As we walked beyond the guests gathered about the deck and lighted pool, the piano music coming from within faded. With each step out into the large yard, the atmosphere cooled. I wasn’t sure if it was brought on by the actual temperature as we neared the water, or if it was that since Gioconda’s request for a tour, not another word had been uttered.

  The night air filled with noises of Long Island Sound. Soft waves splashed upon large stones on shore and echoed as distant foghorns reminded water vessels of potential obstacles in their path. Above us the sky was dark and peppered with stars, so much more vivid than in the city, yet not nearly as bright as they could be. The moon was a crescent sliver accenting the water’s waves with a silver hue. Across the sound, the lights of Long Island illuminated the horizon.

  When we came to a stop with our shoes on the pebbles and sand, I finally decided that as host, it was my right to question. “Did you want to talk or simply see the water?”

  He turned toward the Long Island Sound. “It’s dark and deep.”

  “Yes, it can be.”

  “Do you ever wonder what’s hidden under the depths?”

  “It hasn’t crossed my mind.”

  “More important things to think about?” Gioconda asked as he removed a cigar from the inside of his jacket, flicked the paper ring to the ground, and produced a silver lighter from his pocket. The lighter ignited with a spark as he lit the thick stogie. With the smoke quickly dissipating into the breeze, the orange glow bounced with each word, bobbing up and down. Before I could respond, he asked another question. “Why did you do it?”

  I wasn’t sure what he was asking. “You need to be a little more specific.”

  “Make the move. You had a good thing living close to the boss. Your hands are relatively clean, and he’s gone out on more than one limb for you. You repay him by taking his niece to fucking Connecticut.”

  We were still in New York, but I doubted Gioconda needed a geography lesson. “She’ll always be a Costello. It’s in her blood.”

  “Lennox’s too.”

  “True,” I replied through clenched teeth. I turned back to the house. It truly was spectacular all lit up and filled with people. “Don’t you think that my wife, the boss’s niece, deserves this? Do you think I should have denied her?”

  “There’s talk that it’s more. Lots of rats these days. The way to fight them is with solidarity. You moving, that’s the opposite.”

  “I’m loyal to my wife’s uncle. If he doubts that, he can ask me.”

  “Maybe he just did.”

  I didn’t have a response. It was the same thing Vincent had said only a few days ago. But Gioconda wasn’t Angelina’s cousin. He had no personal stake in my success or longevity for that matter.

  “We can go back up to the house and get you another drink,” I suggested.

  Gioconda blew smoke into the breeze. “He’s not worried about the subpoena. I think it can be taken care of. He’s solid. But the feds are going after everyone. I’m not confident that you can take the pressure.”

  I wasn’t about to plead my case. I’d stated my loyalty. We stood surrounded by the foghorns and waves for what seemed like minutes. Finally, he asked, “I give you time, yet you don’t take it?”

  I turned to face him. “I’m not sure what you thought I’d take.” That ability to assess people, the skill I possessed, was working overtime. Something told me that Gioconda was fishing and doing his own assessing. A man who babbles on to prove his point accomplishes the opposite. “I told you and I told Vincent that the Costello family is my family. I’m loyal. If taking care of Angelina and lending assistance when asked isn’t enough, then your decision is made. Nothing I say will dissuade you or him.”

  The orange glow bobbed up and down in what I hoped was Gioconda’s understanding of my position. “I’ll take that drink. If we know you’re solid, the boss may have some new requests.”

  “He knows where I live,” I said as we turned and walked back up the lawn toward the house.

  If I became a stool pigeon and one day was asked to explain the meaning of our conversation, I wasn’t completely sure I could do it. Over the years I’d come to the conclusion that it wasn’t only Costellos who spoke in riddles.

  As we stepped up the stairs to the patio, the music grew louder, and couples emerged onto the concrete, their bodies coming together as the dancing began.

  I looked up to see Angelina and Carmine watching our approach. My wife’s expression grew too joyous, her mask for hiding her fears. One more step and her voice came into range.

  “Forgive me, Zio. It’s time to dance.” She turned my way. “Tesoro.”

  I reached out until her hand was in mine. Nodding to the two men, I allowed Angelina to lead me onto the concrete dance floor. My hand surrounded her petite waist as the fingers of our other hand intertwined. Her cheek moved close to mine as her sweet perfume filled my senses. Our feet moved to the music, waltzing about the patio with others.

  From a distance we appeared the happy host and hostess, yet her grip upon my hand told me there was something more. As the music grew louder, I leaned toward her ear and whispered, “What’s happening?”

  “I’m not sure,” she replied, her tone also soft. “Uncle Carmine was looking for Carl. He seemed agitated that the two of you would be alone.”

  It was then I remembered Vincent’s comment about the snake whispering in Carmine’s ear. “Gioconda asked me for a tour.”

  Angelina leaned back, our feet never missing
a beat. Her blue eyes met mine. “He asked you?”

  “Sì, why would I ask him?”

  “I don’t know, Oren. Something doesn’t feel right.”

  A lady’s hand landed upon Angelina’s shoulder. “Wonderful party, Angelina.”

  My wife’s demeanor instantly returned to the perfect hostess. “Thank you, Melanie. Melanie, this is my husband, Oren Demetri. Oren, Melanie Thomas. She and her husband, Jim, live three doors down...”

  The next day we made the trip to Brooklyn, sitting in our assigned pew. It wouldn’t happen every weekend, but Rose had asked. Once we got back to the Costello home, I approached Carmine with the subject that had been eating at me.

  The ability to do so was the honor of being real family, having the boss’s attention on a Sunday afternoon. I wasn’t much for volunteering information, yet I didn’t like the idea of suspicion directed my way.

  Carmine, Vincent, and I were in the office when I spoke. “It was a nice party last night.”

  “Your house is lovely,” Carmine said. “Of course, I didn’t see it from the water.”

  I sat taller. “Gioconda asked for a tour.”

  “He asked you?”

  Vincent shifted slightly in his chair as Carmine’s question hung in the air of his office like the smoke from his cigar.

  “Yes, sir. He asked for a tour of the outside. Once we were at the water’s edge, he spoke about loyalty and our move to Rye.”

  “And you told him, what?”

  My eyes darted to Vincent. “I told him that if you questioned my loyalty simply because I provided your niece with a new home, then you should ask me.”

  Carmine’s chin lifted. “Are you now telling me what I should do?”

  “No, sir. I was assuring Gioconda that I would never lie to you. If you ask me, I’ll always tell you the truth.”

  He leaned back against his leather chair as his fingertips came together. The silence created a hum. Finally, he looked at Vincent. “Did you see Luca and Lennox swimming?”

  The knot in my stomach unwound. His response was my kernel of hope. By not asking me about my loyalty, Carmine Costello had told me without words that he trusted me.