Carmine paused. "How much did the insurance company pay you, anyway?" he asked suspiciously.
"One hundred and forty thousand. And after fifteen years married to you, let me tell you, I earned every red cent."
"Goddamm it! I want my fuggin' cut!"
"Not a chance. Good-bye!"
The line clicked in his ear as Carmine Imbruglia heard the roar of the racetrack crowd as the fifth race ended.
Carmine grabbed a passing bettor.
"How'd Bronze Savage do, pal?"
"Broke her legs."
"I hope that fuggin' nag ends up as glue," Carmine muttered.
"That's no way to talk about an unfortunate animal."
"I was referring to my fuggin' wife, thank you," grumbled Carmine Imbruglia. "This is what I get for marrying a broad from Jersey. I should have listened to my sainted mother, may she rest in peace."
Little Italy had changed since Carmine Imbruglia had skipped town. It had shrunk. Chinatown had practically swallowed it whole. Still, the street smells were the same. The fresh baked bread, the sauces, and the pastries that hung sweet and heavy in the warm air enveloped him like a fragrant fog of welcome.
"Ahh, heaven," said Carmine Imbruglia. He felt his life poised before a turn for the better. At age fifty-seven he was about to embark on a fresh start. Maybe even make capo regime one day.
Carmine walked into the Neighborhood Improvement Association. Two unfamiliar men came out to greet him.
"How're yous guys doin'?" he asked guardedly.
"Who're you?" one growled.
"Don't yous guys know me? I'm Cadillac."
"Cadillac?" they said, tensing. One fingered his sport-coat buttons close to the bulge of his shoulder holster.
"Carmine Imbruglia."
One of the goons called over his shoulder, "Hey, boss, Fuggin's here!"
Carmine's expression collapsed like a brick wall before a wrecking ball. He forced a smile onto his brutish face as the rounded brown shape that was Don Fiavorante Pubescio stepped out of the familiar black walnut alcove wearing a white shirt open to his bronzed sternum and revealing gleaming fat ropes of gold chains.
"Fuggin!" cried Don Fiavorante. "It is so good to see you!"
Carmine allowed himself to be gathered up into a fatherly bear hug, patting the big soft man on the back as his cheeks accepted the capo's dry lips and he returned the gesture of respect in turn.
"Come, come, sit with me. How has Florida been?"
"Hot."
"Not as hot as Brownsville, am I not correct, Fuggin? I am given to understand that it is to you I owe my good fortune."
As they sat, the waiter poured some kind of sweet-scented tea into a cup before Don Fiavorante. The service was repeated for Carmine.
Carmine Imbruglia could not help but wrinkle his nose at it all. Don Fiavorante looked as California as a cheap Hollywood producer. Carmine had expected as much. But tea?
"Drink up," said Don Fiavorante. "It is good. My personal physician, he insists that I drink tea. This is ginseng."
"Chink tea?"
"Ginseng," said Don Fiavorante politely. He was a polite man. Unctuousness exuded from his bronzed skin like suntan lotion. He was unfailingly genteel.
"Maybe you have been wondering about Don Pietro," he inquired.
"Sometimes," Carmine admitted. In fact, he had nightmares about him. They all involved Carmine being stuffed with cod and consigned to a watery grave.
"Don Pietro resides at Mount Sinai, not living, not dying. He is a how you say . . ?"
"A vegetable," a bodyguard growled.
"Such a crude word," said Don Fiavorante. "He is a melone. A melon. I do not know what kind." The don allowed a wan smile to wreathe his healthy features. "He eats through a tube, and drinks through the same tube. He excretes through another tube. He has more tubes coming out of him than Frankenstein the monster. And from what? Eating a piece of fish."
Don Fiavorante smiled like an ivory-toothed Buddha. He leaned closer, his dark eyes glittering.
"You ever bring me a piece of fish, my friend, I will bring the fish a piece of you. Capisce?"
"Never, Don Fiavorante," promised Carmine solemnly, touching his heart.
"From today, you are with me."
"I am with you."
"I am protecting you. You are now a sottocapo under me."
"Sottocapo?" blurted Carmine Imbruglia. "Me?"
"Starting now. While you have been away, we have had many troubles. Here in New York. In Chicago. Up in Providence and Boston. It is Rico here and Rico there."
"Those damn Puerto Ricans!" snarled Carmine Imbruglia. "I knew they would get too big for their breeches one day."
Don Fiavorante reared back his head and laughed good-naturedly, his teeth as polished and perfect as piano keys.
When he had control of himself, he sobered.
"Up in New England, we have troubles. Patriarca senior is dead. Junior is in Danbury. We have no one we can trust up there. All is disarray. I am making you my underboss in New England. You will pick up the pieces. You will put them back together. You will make Boston hum again."
"Boston? I just got back to fuggin' Brooklyn! I don't know from Boston. Where is this Boston, anyways?"