moved to Sonoma—and had simply disappeared. Mom hired a private detective to find him, someone not connected to our ever-growing family, but we never saw him again.
Not that this was anything new to a mob family, but my dad had always tried to steer clear of “family” matters so I never had the impression he was actually connected, at least that was the innocence of my childhood. Somewhere during my late teens I finally realized the truth, everyone around me was connected.
Still, he was different than Uncle Benny or Uncle Ray who were Made Men since they were in their twenties.
My dad loved to make people happy, and loved to cook. Almost every Sunday afternoon he’d boil up a few pounds of pasta, fry about fifty meatballs, throw them in a rich tomato sauce, then make a mountain of salad and invite everybody he knew over for dinner. Those were some of my best memories, and most likely where I got my love of cooking.
I took out the ring and the papers Mom had asked me to fetch, put everything back into the box, slid the box back into its slot, turned the key, and Liz stepped forward and did the same. I told her thanks and to have a nice day. She threw me a tepid smile, never uttering another word, thank God, and I walked out of the bank.
I still had a little time before I had to be at the bookstore for Lisa’s book signing, so I decided a stop at Maya, a Yucatan restaurant off of the Plaza. Maya’s was located on the historic Sonoma Plaza on the corner of East Napa and First, a stone’s throw from Readers bookstore. I felt actual hunger pangs and thought I’d stop in for one of their prawn enchiladas in a cream sauce with sweet peppers, onions, cilantro and rice. It had to be one of my favorite lunches. That and a Maya Margarita made with agua fresca (whatever juice the bartender squeezed that morning . . . guava was my absolute fave) served in a chilled martini glass. I drank it sans the tequila, a concession I’d made with myself months ago.
When I stepped inside the colorful restaurant with the stone walls and polished cement floor, the hostess greeted me with a friendly smile and asked if I would be sitting at the bar or a table. I opted for a table. The bar, better known as the Temple of Tequila, was far too much of a temptation. I’d spent many a night worshiping at the Temple with tequila flights lined up in front of me. All I wanted now was a quiet spot to read.
“A table would be fine, thanks,” I told her. She picked up a menu and I followed her to the table next to the front window. I could see my pickup parked curbside. Someone in a monster black Tundra was busy trying to parallel park in the tiny space behind my pickup and was having one hell of a time getting into the space. I just hoped he didn’t hit my bumper. I wasn’t in the mood to exchange info.
As soon as I pulled the wooden chair out to sit, my waiter appeared and I ordered. I didn’t need to look at a menu. When he left, I began reading the documents. I wanted to see if I could find anything that might indicate a problem for my mom. I didn’t understand her urgency to get the documents, and I was curious about what they said.
My food and drink arrived before I finished reading, and the Tundra had apparently given up and moved on when I glanced out the window again. I was grateful no damage was done. My plate of food smelled wonderful and I couldn’t wait to dig in.
For the moment, all was right with the world.
I took a big gulp of my margarita, and a bite of a perfect enchilada, the taste a complete delight.
Everything in the document seemed fine, except for the last page. It was signed by my cousin Dickey, my mom, Uncle Benny, and notarized by somebody named Peter Doyle.
I took another sip of margarita. I would have liked it better with a shot of Don Julio tequila or perhaps El Tesoro, but I told myself this was much more refreshing.
Yeah, right.
To summarize what I was reading, and if I was understanding the legalese correctly, it stated that in the event that Dickey Spia was cleared of