care of me by looking after you,” he shot back. “Who do you think paid for that fancy school? For your room and board and books and things? Who do you think is paying the mortgage on my apartment while I’m here? That’s all Sal.”
“What?”
My father winced, and his shoulders fell.
“I got a scholarship,” I cried, horrified.
“Benny . . .”
“I didn’t get a scholarship?” I whispered.
“Yeah . . . you did. But Sal’s a big donor. He made sure the board knew what he wanted in return.”
I was going to be sick.
“Oh, Benny. They don’t give scholarships to people like us. Don’t matter how good you are, son. We’re the kind of people who have to pay—pay extra—to get into places like that.”
I covered my face with my hands.
“I shouldn’t have told you. I just didn’t want you thinkin’ bad of Sal. I don’t want you talkin’ bad about him.”
“How could you do that to me?” I asked, the words whispering between my fingers. I had loved school. I had worked my ass off. And I had excelled in every way. I’d made great connections, and I’d played with some of the best musicians in the world. I’d composed. I’d toured. I’d even learned how to conduct and had led the orchestra my senior year. Now it was all ruined. Tainted. I didn’t know what I’d earned and what had been purchased for me.
“I don’t want no favors, Pop. I want to make my own way. I want to earn what I get.”
“He may have got you in. But you earned the grades. You graduated. And I earned every dime of that endowment.”
The idea that Pop had earned my tuition was even worse. Gino’s bloody hand had risen like a specter from my childhood. I’d worked at La Vita from the time I was ten years old; I don’t know why that hadn’t ever struck me as profiting from my family name. Maybe it was because I hadn’t made more than anyone else. I worked, I got paid. I washed dishes when I was ten, bussed tables when I was twelve, and by the time I was fifteen I was playing the piano during band breaks. I was big for my age, and people just assumed I was old enough. The folks who knew better didn’t say a word. Plus, I stayed out of trouble and didn’t mess with the junk. Pop and Sal made sure of that. I saw more tits and tail than a kid should see, but I didn’t touch, and I sure as hell didn’t take part. At least not at the club.
I quit at La Vita the day Pop was released from jail. I took my tainted diploma and all my considerable contacts and experience, and I played for everyone, everywhere. I lived out of a suitcase, plunked out songs, and knocked on doors. I didn’t want to be a star. Maybe that was what won people over. I didn’t have dreams of Hollywood or Broadway. I wasn’t in love with my own voice or my reflection in the mirror. My dreams were of a humbler variety. I wanted to make music, not mayhem. I was happy on the bench and felt no need to be behind the microphone, and in an industry of pretenders and has-beens, of addicts and narcissists, I stood out for my rare mix of talent and dependability. And I never used Sal’s name. For the last eight years, I’d just been Benny Lament. Not Pop’s son. Not Sal Vitale’s nephew. And I’d made a name based solely on what I could do. Those who knew my family connections didn’t bring them up. If it gave me an edge, I didn’t ask, and they didn’t say. Somebody had clued in Berry Gordy at Motown, but it wasn’t me.
“Why do you care so much about Esther, Pop?”
“I told you.”
“Nah. You really didn’t.”
“Bo Johnson was my friend,” he said. But he pushed his plate away like he couldn’t take another bite. So much for his appetite.
“I saw Enzo yesterday,” I said. “I walked by the gym. Went up, he was there. He still has a picture of you on the wall. A picture of Bo Johnson too. I could see her in him.”
“You haven’t seen these, I don’t think.” Pop pulled two pictures from the inside pocket of his suit coat and placed them on the table between us. One picture was of Bo Johnson and my father together, their arms slung around