You're very good at what you do, Gabe. There might not be anything more to it than that.
About a year ago I was bidding on a job at Nissan, I told her. It came down to two companies, mine and Tom Hannibal's agency. Two nights before the final bids, I came into work and found a packet on my desk. Inside I found Tom's proposal and projected campaign. It was everything Nissan was looking for and as fresh and clever as anything that was out there. Hands down his was twice as good as mine. He was a lock to land the account.
And did he?
No, I said. He dropped out the night before the presentations were due. He claimed his agency was overworked and couldn't handle the extra workload.
Then why go to all the trouble to do the proposal to begin with? Janet shook her head and finished her coffee.
I reached across the table and held her hand. I promise I won't ever let him hurt you, I said.
Me? she asked. Why would he want to hurt me?
If he's going to make a move, it'll be against you. I was well aware that my words were making her nervous. You'll be the target to get to me.
How can you know that for sure? She took a deep breath as she spoke.
Because I know Angelo, I said.
How much longer will he wait? Now a trace of anger moved in alongside the fear.
I got a call from one of his men yesterday, I told her. Angelo wants to see me.
What did you say?
Nothing. I listened, put down the phone and came home to you.
I stood and walked over to the window, staring down at the traffic. Janet stepped up behind me and wrapped her arms around me. When do you go? she whispered.
Tomorrow night, I said.
THE DRIVER, A burly young associate named Gino, brought the car to a stop next to a fire hydrant across from the Duane Reade on Broadway and Seventy-first and watched as I slid into the passenger seat. He nodded at me, then shifted into gear and pulled the dark sedan back into the traffic to begin the slow ride downtown. I was wearing dark slacks and a dark button-down shirt, clothes I hadn't touched in years, but figured appropriate for this meeting. I leaned my head against the soft leather and realized what troubled me the most was the unknown. I was unsure from which direction Angelo's final attack would come. While I knew it would not be fatal, I still wondered if, by its end, I would be able to escape from it intact.
Any gangster can rid himself of an enemy with a bullet. A great one seeks to conquer the mind of his opponent as well as his body. In my case, my war with Angelo would not be one of turf but of control. He was prepared to pit his will against my love for Janet. It was a match I was sure he looked forward to as much as I dreaded.
How long since you've seen the old man? Gino asked, weaving his way through street traffic.
How long have you been working for him? I asked.
Five years, going on six now, Gino said.
And have you ever seen me before?
I heard about you from some of the other guys in the crew, Gino said. But tonight's the first I laid eyes on you.
You ever drive Angelo? I asked.
He shook his head.
Let me give you some advice then, I said. Never talk to people you don't know. And if you really want to go far, it'd be better not to talk at all. That's especially true if Angelo's ever sitting in the back. It might let you live a few years longer.
I'll try to keep it in mind, Gino said with a shrug.
You can start practicing now. I turned my head and stared up at the lights of the empty buildings that lined the streets.
ANGELO SAT ON the couch, his feet stretched out on a handmade stool, the ever-present large glass of milk resting, half empty, on the coffee table. He had aged a great deal in the years since I'd last seen him, his fine facial features beginning their inevitable surrender to the advances of time. His right hand shook slightly and the rasp that rose out of his lungs had grown worse, the scars of birth often forcing him to breath through his mouth and become more dependent on his spray medication.
I stood in the middle of the well-lit den. It was a room where I had spent so many of my younger days reading the books stacked on the shelves while Pudge scanned the day's racing sheet, tracking the bookmaking take. There was a desk near the large window in the corner with yellow folders stacked high on top of it. Next to the desk lamp were two packages, wrapped and tied together with string.
We were both looking at a corner of the den, watching a two-month-old pit bull try to lockjaws around a thick bone-shaped chew. Did you get yourself another Ida? I asked, nodding toward the white puppy.
This one's a Pudge, he said, turning away from the dog to look at me. And he goes his own way. Just like the guy he's named after.
I stared down at the empty cup of coffee in my hand, thinking of Pudge and how much I missed having him in my life. He looks like he'll be good company for you, I said.
It's an interesting business you've chosen, Angelo began, his hands resting flat on his legs. You come up with the right words and pictures and people go out and buy what it is you tell them to buy.
Something like that.
Still, it can be treacherous. A big agency sees a little one doing well, it makes a move to buy it and swallow it up. The little guy ends up with some cash in his hand and his company in somebody else's pocket. That almost happened to you last year. I forget the name of the agency that tried to buy you out?
The Dunhill Group, I told him, although I knew it was unnecessary. There was no way he had forgotten the name.
That's right, he nodded. They own a couple of construction companies, too. It was the wrong time for them to make a move. Their finances were stretched a little thin.
I would have handled it, I said.
Who said you didn't? Angelo feigned a casual indifference, but I had seen that hard look in his eyes many times and it never reflected a happy mood.
What did you want to see me about?
A woman you know, he said.
Why?
What is she to you? he asked, ignoring my question.
Someone I love, I said. Someone I'd like to marry.
How much does she know about you? About your life here?
I've told her what she needs to know, I explained. If she's going to marry me, it's only fair.
And what do you know about her!
I looked down and watched the puppy gnaw on the edges of my desert boots, his small teeth sinking into the soft heel. I leaned over and petted the top of his head. That when she tells me she loves me she means it, I said, looking at Angelo.
Do you know her well enough to trust her? he asked.
More than anyone I know, I said.
Angelo picked up two sheets of paper that were resting on the coffee table. Her name is Janet Wallace and she's thirty years old, he said. She comes from a successful, upper-class family in Dearborn, Michigan. Her father was a full partner in a small accounting firm and died when she was in college. Her mother works for the local city council and is active in a variety of civic groups. Janet is an only child and graduated with honors and earns $55,000 in a good year. She smokes a pack of Marlboros a day and drinks wine with lunch and dinner.
I know all that, I told him, my eyes never straying from his face.
Now let me tell you what you don't know, Angelo said.
I could feel sweat break out against the back of my neck, my eyes looking at the folders and the two wrapped packages, the room around me suddenly feeling smaller. My mouth was dry and my face felt hot. I can stop now, he said, walking slowly toward the desk.
I shook my head. Finish it.
He stood behind the desk, picked up a folder and opened it. This woman you love and trust so much has had many lovers before you, he said. These folders will tell you all about them. They're from all over. One's a writer, one an actor, a few lawyers, a plastic surgeon, a cop, even a drug dealer. Three years ago she got pregnant with one of them, only she wasn't sure which one. But she cleared up that problem. She was into drugs pretty heavy, cocaine and grass mostly, and drank a lot more than she does now. This guy she just divorced is an AA dropout who dropped back into cocaine.
He put down the folder and picked up the two wrapped packages. She's posed for nude photos, he said, looking up at me. One of her old boyfriends was fond of cameras. He sold the photos to some people in Michigan; that's how I got them. Most are your standard T and A shots. The ones in this package give you a little more. The other package is a video. She went out with an actor for a few weeks, some guy who was in a commercial she was putting together. She spent most of the nights in his place, not knowing he'd hidden cameras all around the rooms. He likes to make films of himself having sex and show them at parties. I bought those, too. You want the full details, you'll find it all in the folders.
I looked at him and took a deep breath. How?
She keeps a diary, he said. Some of the pictures were even there, up on one of the bookshelves. Once I found that, the rest fell into place.
I glared down at Angelo and walked closer to the desk. You would never have done this if Pudge were still alive, I said to him.
Neither would you, he said.
Angelo stood up and walked over to me. You can stay the night, he said. Read the folders or throw them away. They belong to you. When morning comes, you can go back to her or stay here, where you belong. She's wrong for you. That world, out there, is wrong for you. This is your place. This is what's right. You can't turn your back to it anymore.
I'm already where I belong, I said.
This woman ever say she loves you? Angelo asked.
I nodded.
Do you believe her when she says it? he asked.
Again I nodded.
Do you think all those other men believed her, too?
I believed you when you said you loved me, I said. Was I wrong to do mat?
Nobody's ever going to love you like I do, Angelo said.
Was it love or was it just business?
We've both thrown away a lot of years if you don't know the answer to that, he said.
Then why are you doing this? I asked.
To save you, he said, lowering his head and walking toward the door.
What about Nico? I took a step closer to him. Was that really a takeover? Or was he another piece of the plan to save me and keep me here with you.
He was whatever you think he was, Angelo said, glaring at me.
I have something in my life now that you don't have, I told him. Something you can't ever have.
What? he growled.
Someone to love, I said. And someone who loves me.
I had that. His lips barely moved as he spoke. You know I had that.
Then let me have it, too, I pleaded. Let Janet be my Isabella.
She can never be that, he whispered.
You lost her. It was you. This life of yours cost you all the years of her love. I won't let that happen to me.
Does that make you the better man? he asked.
I shook my head and said, No, just a lucky one.
He turned to look back at the desk filled with folders. Luck runs out, he said. For all of us.
Angelo opened the door and left the room.
I WALKED AROUND the desk and sat down, my hands stretched out across the folders. I picked one up and opened it, resting it on my lap. I tossed aside a head shot of a middle-aged man with dark hair and a thin beard and began to read through the neatly typed, double-spaced information. I sat there well into the morning hours and read through each folder. I then opened one of the wrapped packages and looked at the fifteen 8x10 black-and-white photos. Next, I grabbed the video and slid it into the VCR resting under the TV next to the desk. I sat back in the leather chair and stared at the twenty-five-inch screen and watched Janet make love to a thin man with short hair and a wiry body.
I sat in the chair, in a room that held so many warm memories and watched the screen go blank, the photos strewn about the floor around me. I stood up and turned off the television. I picked up an open folder, stared down at it and then tossed it against the farthest wall. I picked up another and did the same. I kept going until I had thrown every folder across the room, all the pages landing on the floor and on top of furniture. I then walked over to one of the bookshelves and picked up a framed photo of Angelo standing in front of the bar with me sitting on a stool next to him, my arms on his shoulders, a big smile on my face. I was twelve in the picture and had been living with him for two years. I wiped at the tears running down my face, lifted the photo and smashed it against the wall.
In that room, hidden behind all those folders and photos and video, Angelo Vestieri had lost his battle.
He had left in his wake a free man.
And even then, even after the brutality of what he had just done, I couldn't help but wonder if all of it had been part of an even bigger plan. That this was his way of opening a final escape path, convinced that I had found a love that was as strong as what he had himself once felt. There was no way for me to ever know the truth.
Such is the mystery and power of Angelo Vestieri.
I NEVER WANTED Janet to have to defend her life choices to me. After all, the man holding her in judgment had killed and stolen and lived off the blood of others for most of his life. I could not denounce her morally, for I, too, had done much worse than she ever had. She sought out love and romance to quench her lonely desires while, for many years, I looked only to revenge and quick money. She was also a product of the world she knew and in such a place she did not commit a wrong. I was a product of a violent society that held others up to an unforgiving code of honor. We were two different people who met at a point in our lives when each filled a void in the other. From a brief spark of passion a blaze of love had bloomed.
I went back to Janet two nights later and have stayed with her for sixteen years.