I spent the weekends at La Vita. I’d moved on, but things hadn’t changed much for Pop over the years; he’d spent his time watching me or watching Sal.
He wouldn’t be watching him now.
Pop would have gone home after he left Shimmy’s. Thursdays and Sundays were his nights off. The two Tonys—Fat Tony and Tony Sticks—took shifts driving and guarding Sal when Pop wasn’t with him.
Fat Tony wasn’t really fat. He was just big, and next to Sticks, everyone was heavy. Pop had brought the Tonys into Sal’s organization when they were young—maybe eighteen or nineteen. He’d worked with both of them at Enzo’s way back before I came along, and Pop was of the opinion that Fat Tony could have been a contender. I’d overheard him telling Sal once, “He’s big and quick, and he doesn’t feel a punch. He didn’t want it, though. And if a guy don’t want it, it doesn’t matter how good he could be.” I remembered it only because I thought he’d been talking about me. I hadn’t ever wanted it either.
Sticks had wanted it, but he wasn’t built for it. He was all sharp edges, hooded eyes, and stamina, but he had no natural ability and no meat on his bones. Sticks’s thinness made him even more intimidating. His eyes were flat and dark, his face skeletal, and he didn’t say much.
The Tonys had become a team at some point. Maybe it was their time at Enzo’s or the fact that they worked well together. Maybe it was simply fate or the whims of their boss, but they were the Tonys, and they always would be.
Sal, if he’d been at the club the night before, would have gone home by now too, but unlike Pop, he probably wouldn’t be crawling into bed. Sal slept in the afternoons when he slept at all. He ate breakfast by the pool in the summer and in his sunroom in the winter. After breakfast he golfed or went to the track or conducted meetings in his office at La Vita, but he would be at home now.
Sal’s paper was on the front walk, and I snagged it before knocking on the front door. Theresa might not be up, but Sal would be, I was certain. I knocked again, a little louder, and waited.
The woman who answered was simultaneously strange and familiar. She wore a black dress, a white apron, and a frilly white cap over her dark hair. She was too sexy to pull off the demure maid act, even with the stupid hat, and I wondered if Theresa had insisted on the silly uniform to dull her appeal. It didn’t work. She looked as though any minute she would break into a naughty cabaret.
And then I recognized her.
She’d been a showgirl at Due Vite in Havana. The last time I’d seen her, she’d been naked in my bed. Apparently, Sal had decided to bring her home. Poor Aunt Theresa.
“Hello, Carla,” I said.
“Hola, Benny.” She smiled like I’d bestowed a great compliment on her by remembering her name. Poor Carla. I didn’t smile back. It was too early for Carla. I’d regretted the indiscretion the moment I’d made it and had hoped to never see her again.
“I need to speak to Mr. Vitale,” I said as gently as I could.
“It’s been so long, Benny. You look good.”
“Let my nephew come in, Carla,” Sal’s voice rang out behind her.
She jumped as though we’d been caught doing something wrong. She immediately moved out of the way, and I stepped past her and walked into the house. Sal stood at the foot of the large staircase, his hands shoved into his pockets as though he’d been waiting for me to arrive. He looked rested and unruffled, his graying hair brushed straight back off his brow, not a strand out of place. He favored black shirts, black slacks with a crease as sharp as the blade of his nose, and a thick gold watch. Salvatore Vitale made the men around him look underdressed, even when they wore their best, even at six on a Friday morning. I still wore the suit I’d donned the night before, but I’d known enough to check my hair, shake the wrinkles from my suit coat, and tuck in my shirttails before I approached the house. I was more than presentable, but he still commented.
“You look tired, Benito,” he said. “Give Carla your hat.”
I took it off but shook my head when she reached for it.