clouded what I wanted to be a day of relaxation for you.” I read her eyes; she’s not buying it. “Besides, I need to take care of some business.” I hate that phrase—usually translates into one of our crew getting ready to go play poker, whack some guy, or cheat on his wife—but it’s been programmed into me, ready for instant utilization. And here, in these few moments we have together, I can’t use it on Melody. I correct myself: “I need to make some phone calls and lie to my family.” She still doesn’t look convinced. “I need to buy us more time.”
She nods slowly, asks, “Why do we need more time?”
I look away. “We just do.” Then I move in quick and peck her just below her ear. “I’ll see you at five o’clock, okay?” I turn and step backward out of the spa. “Meet you in the hotel bar.”
She watches me walk out, half waves. “I’ll be there.”
I turn down the corridor that leads me back to the elevators. I fear leaving her alone in that spa, but I’m starting to fear her being with me even more. She needs a rock right now and I’m dirt turning to mud. I have to hope we’ve hidden ourselves well enough that no one could ever find us in this corner of the country. And now that Melody is safe—around other people and occupied—I can return to my room and begin the business of the day.
The first calls I make to Sylvia end up costing me an hour. I speak with my head chef. Ryan gives me the lowdown on how the restaurant performed last night, team members who are not coming in, an emerging plumbing problem in the ladies’ room, a change in appointment from a health inspector, and distributors who fouled up orders or failed delivering on time. I make several calls—livid ones—attempting to straighten things out from two hundred miles away. I call Ryan back and give him the updates, then we organize the menu, select the specials, attempt to figure out which servers we can ask to fill in, who will cover which sections. I ask if my family has been pitching in at all. Ryan tells me they’ve mostly occupied the kitchen, offered to consume free samples.
As I complete the restaurant-related portion of my call-making, I plug my cell into the rapid charger, gear it up for the dreaded conversations to come.
Around eleven, I try to get in touch with Peter but nothing comes of it. His cell, office phone, home phone: nothing. Having no information feels worse than having bad information. I drop lower on the probability scale and call my dad’s office line.
“Yes,” the person answers. There’s no doubting the owner of this cold, raspy voice: Eddie Gravina.
“Hey, it’s John. Where’s Pop?”
“Out.”
“When’s he coming back?”
“Later.”
I wait for details, don’t get them. “Meaning what? He go out for a morning jog?” I’ve always liked Eddie, but if his elevated stature in our crew means he thinks he can be vague with Tony Bovaro’s sons, I’ll escort the guy to the door myself.
“He’s taking care of some business.”
See what I mean? “Yeah, well, me, too. Where’s Pete?”
I hear him take a sip of something. “When are you coming home, Johnny?”
I close my eyes and drop my hand to my lap, and when I open my eyes, they immediately focus on my cell phone. The phone number is brightly displayed; for whatever reason, even though I’d just dialed it, seeing it triggers the memory of Melody’s story, the way she got the number for Pop’s office line. Suddenly, the improbability of my father so easily handing over my cell number to some girl on the phone transforms back to impossibility. I rush my cell to my ear.
“Eddie, how long have you been manning this line?”
“Eh, you know, I’ve been helping your father here a few days.”
“Did you give my cell number out to some strange girl who called yesterday?”
Silence. Eventually, Eddie speaks in an uncharacteristically articulate manner. “I do not know what you are talking about.” Good grief, I hope this guy never has to take the stand.
“Why would you give my cell number out like that?”
He breathes in slow and heavy, even the guy’s lungs produce a rasp. “Johnny, it’s probably time for you to come home.”
He’s acting an awful lot like my father, except I’ve got news for him: He’s not my father. “Why don’t you head on over to Sylvia and grab