CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“VINCE, THE GUY’S AN FBI agent,” Alex tells me. “We have to concede that he’s got the skills to at least figure out who his own daughter’s boyfriend is.”

It’s after school and we’re in my Mazda, Alex at the wheel. I’m too distraught to drive. I’ve got the passenger seat in full recline, so I’m flat on my back, staring up at the sky through my leaky sunroof. The clouds are dark and lowering, just like my mood. A K-Bytes cassette plays on the tape deck, and every note from that throaty voice is like a piece of shrapnel in my abdomen.

Just the thought of no more Kendra has put a spring in Alex’s step, and I hate him for it.

“You’ve got to be philosophical about this. With a girl like Kendra, you never should have had a chance to begin with, considering who your dad is. Face it, any action you get off an FBI agent’s daughter is pure gravy, so you’re way ahead of the game.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

He’s offended that I would even think such a thing. “When you bleed, I bleed,” he insists. “It’s my love life too, remember? You think I’m not feeling the pain?”

I know he’s not feeling the pain.

“You’ll never have a friend as supportive as me,” he goes on. “As of today, I’m imposing sanctions on Kendra out of solidarity with you. She and I are finished as friends. She is a great singer, though,” he adds, as my ex belts out “My Heart Will Go On” over the Mazda’s tinny speakers.

“Yeah, I remember what a big fan you are,” I snap. “Especially when you overdubbed her tape with ‘Sounds of Bodily Functions.’ That was a nice tribute.”

Suddenly, there’s a popping sound, and the song changes in mid-word. Now she’s crooning “Yesterday.”

I smile in spite of myself. When Kendra has something she wants to record, she’ll pick up the nearest tape, jam it in the deck, and start singing. All the K-Bytes cassettes are like that, songs taped over songs, in the middle of songs, songs interrupted, and songs resuming partway through. Most people would take the time to put in a new tape, or at least forward to a blank part. But when Kendra wants to sing, it has to be now. For a girl who’s normally logical to the nth degree, it’s an attractive impulsiveness. At least it was in the good old days, before 8:06 this morning.

There’s another clunk, and now she’s halfway through “Hit the Road, Jack.”

Alex brays a laugh. “Yeah, that’s funny.”

“You’re supposed to be bleeding,” I mumble.

Finally, we pull up in front of Alex’s house. I get out and come around to the driver’s seat.

Alex enfolds me in a bear hug. “We’ll get through this, Vince.”

“Let go of me before I kill you.”

But when he scrambles inside, I realize that even Alex’s company is better than being alone right now.

I start the car, but make no move to put it in gear. Going home isn’t a good idea. I couldn’t deal with Luca headquarters, with seeing Dad and Tommy.

But to be honest with myself, it wasn’t even Dad and Tommy who sunk me this time. Kendra already knew about the family business. No, I did it to myself by getting involved in the seedy lives of Jimmy Rat and Ed Mishkin. I broke my own rule, and it cost me.

Savagely, I hit the eject button on the tape deck. K-Bytes pops out and lands at my feet. That cassette has something I could really use in my life: a rewind/erase function.

I replay it in my mind a hundred times: Jimmy Rat approaching me in the school parking lot, and me telling him to shove it.

But even knowing what I know, how could I have turned my back on Jimmy and Ed when they needed me? I wouldn’t turn my back on them now if it wasn’t for the fact that I have no choice. Thanks to Dad, those guys don’t even dare talk to me long enough for me to warn them that the Platinum Coast is a sham.

After all my scrambling, my frantic phone calls, my trip to the city, those poor guys are in every bit as much trouble as they were before I started “helping” them. And I’m out six hundred dollars and one girlfriend for my troubles. Not to mention that the FBI is investigating me as a loan shark.

In the golden age of screwups, this will make the top-ten list. And the sad part is I’m sitting here like a spectator, watching it all unfold, and there’s still nothing I can do about it.

Or is there? The idea hits me with such force that my whole body jumps, and I bang my knee against the steering wheel. It isn’t even my idea, technically. It came from Jimmy and Ed. They wanted me to talk to Boaz and use my name to convince him that I speak for my dad. Well, I can’t get through to Jimmy and Ed anymore, but there’s nothing to stop me from going to see Boaz myself as a “representative” of Anthony Luca.

I love the plan so much so fast that it’s almost scary. Is it the recklessness brought on by getting dumped, the way some guys drive too fast when their love lives go toiletsville? I really don’t think so. Boaz may be a thug, but he’d have to be a suicidal thug to lay a hand on Anthony Luca’s son. I’m like a walking insurance policy. I could go to the White House and give the president a wedgie, and when the Secret Service comes at me, I just flash my driver’s license.

The only downside I can see is that Dad will hit the ceiling if he ever finds out. But frankly, that relationship is not a priority with me today. And anyway, Dad told me to stay away from Jimmy and Ed. He never said anything about Boaz.

If I can go head to head with Boaz and use my dad’s name to get Jimmy and Ed their money back, then they can pay off their debts and start fresh. That could save those guys’ fingers and bones and great-aunts, even their lives. I may be a washout as a boyfriend and a Web master. I may be under federal investigation for loan sharking. But surely there’s no more worthwhile achievement than helping people in trouble.

I put the Mazda in drive and point it at the Southern State Parkway. Thunder rumbles. If it’s supposed to be an omen, I ignore it.

I don’t relish another hour-and-a-half creep into the city, so I flip from station to station, getting traffic reports. All anybody seems to care about on the radio is a line of violent thunderstorms that’s heading our way. It seems somehow fitting that this weather apocalypse is unleashed on the very day that Kendra and I break up.

All the other drivers must be heeding the forecasters, because there’s practically no one on the road. I make it through the Midtown Tunnel in forty minutes. By the time I hit Thirty-Ninth Street, it’s so dark that I’ve got my lights on, and the wind is blowing newspapers and candy wrappers all over the place. I’m worried that the Platinum Coast might be closed up, with this big storm coming. But no, there’s the pink neon, tasteful and urbane as ever.

I park (leave it to Jimmy and Ed to invest in a business on the only street in Manhattan where you can always find a spot) and head for the mirrored door.

Once inside, my eyes are instantly drawn to the stage, but there are no dancers. And anyway, the biggest guy in the world materializes in front of me within a second or two.

“Beat it, kid.”

I give him what I hope is my father’s stare. “I need to talk to Boaz.”

The welcome wagon is unmoved. “When your zits clear up. Take a hike.”

“The name’s Vince Luca.”

And the mountain is suddenly a molehill. “He’s with Rafe over at the bar.”

I take a couple of steps and freeze. Two men are perched on bar stools, deep in conversation. Boaz is a Middle Eastern–looking guy with curly hair and a dark tan. The reason why I know it’s him is because I recognize Rafe. I know him as Rafael. Remember Johnny from my one and only football game? Well, Rafael is his dad. He also happens to be a member of Uncle Uncle’s crew. And Uncle Uncle is under Uncle Carmine. And all of them are under Anthony Luca.

The kick in the pants sizzles all the way up my spine and rattles my pituitary. The Platinum Coast—the scam—it’s a Luca operation!

I turn tail and run out of there before either man sees me. I feel dazed, as if I’ve taken a physical blow. I don’t know what I expected, but it definitely wasn’t this. I turn it over in my mind, but it always comes up the same way: Jimmy and Ed are falling behind in their debts to Anthony Luca because their money is being drained by a con game sponsored by Anthony Luca. Talk about a lose-lose situation!

I’ve had issues with my father’s business before. I’ve seen him accused of a notorious homicide, for God’s sake! But this has to take the prize. To steal someone’s money, and then be coldhearted enough to send enforcers over to inflict vicious harm when he can’t pay you, that’s…

Tears are streaming down my cheeks. I couldn’t cry over losing Kendra, but this has me blubbering like a baby. I guess it’s just that I never saw my father as a bad person. Sure, I knew he was behind a lot of criminal activity, but I never thought he was intrinsically rotten. Until today.

I’m out of options. I’ve got to go home and face down my father over this. I don’t know if it’ll do any good, but my plan is to keep screaming until I get my point across. Luca communication skills.

But first I have to warn Jimmy and Ed not to hand over one more cent for the beautification and support of the Platinum Coast. That might be the hardest task of all, because both those guys have been threatened to stay away from me.

The rain starts on the way down to Java Grotto. This adds a ticking clock to my mission. If this storm is as big as the weathermen say, I’ve got to get my Mazda into some kind of shelter before Noah’s flood comes through the cracks in my sunroof.

Bad luck: Ed isn’t there. Even the bimbo hotline has been left unattended.

“Listen,” I ask the girl behind the counter, “I need to find this club. Have you ever heard of a place called Return to Sender?”

She hasn’t. I get blank stares from the customers too, until one guy waves me over to his corner table. Mohawk, pierced tongue, fish scales tattooed on his arms and neck. A real fashion statement. He gives me directions to Jimmy’s club on Norfolk Street, finishing with a single piece of advice: “Bring a bodyguard.”

When I get there, I can see what he means. Return to Sender is a basement; dungeon might be a better word. The stairs that lead down into the bowels of New York City are littered with broken glass. The smell is a mixture of vomit and cigarettes. On the door is scratched something that, if anyone ever said it to you, you’d have to go into therapy for years. There are no windows, no signs; just a piece of paper covered in grubby Saran wrap nailed into the brick wall, reading WE CARD.

The rain picks up, puddling in the garbage at my feet. I can see flashes in the western sky, lightning over New Jersey.

I push open the heavy door and step inside. There are a few customers at the dingy tables—bikers, punks, and some of the stranger goblins from The Lord of the Rings.

Business is slow, and Jimmy Rat is sitting with one bare foot up on the bar, clipping his toenails into a cracked cup marked TIPS. When he sees me, he pitches a fit. “Jeez, Vince, get the hell out of here!”

“I need two minutes, Jimmy. That’s all.” But when I take a step toward him, he bolts. It’s a funny hopping gait since he’s only got one shoe on, and there’s glass on the floor in here, too.

“Hear me out!” I cry.

He scrambles headlong into the bathroom. I try to follow, but he’s holding the door against me.

“One minute!” I plead.

“You got something to say that’s worth my life?” he snaps back. “’Cause that’s what it’s gonna cost!”

Suddenly, the door flies open, and I burst inside, just in time to see him disappear into a stall.

“Fine!” I exclaim. “We’ll do it this way. You don’t have to see me.”

“I’m not listening!” he shouts, his hands covering his ears. Then, when I start talking, he sings “The Star-Spangled Banner” at the top of his lungs.

It’s a Cirque du Soleil experience. I’m in the toilet of a club that’s a toilet to begin with, so it’s actually more like toilet squared. I’m yelling at a stall door that’s singing the national anthem back at me while the storm of the century approaches from the west.

I climb up on the sink and stare down at this cowering singing idiot. He won’t look at me, and he won’t shut up, so I just say my piece at top volume right through the rockets’ red glare.

“THE PLATINUM COAST IS NEVER GOING TO TURN A PROFIT BECAUSE IT’S NOT A REAL CLUB! THE WHOLE THING’S A CON, JIMMY! YOU AND ED HAVE TO STOP PAYING BOAZ! I DON’T KNOW IF I CAN STRAIGHTEN IT OUT WITH MY DAD, BUT I’LL TRY!”

“‘O, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave…’”

Outside, a deafening crash of thunder. I can hear heavy rain pounding at the single window.

I’m screaming with frustration. “JUST NOD YOUR HEAD OR WAVE YOUR HAND IF YOU HEARD WHAT I SAID! I’VE GOT TO GET HOME! THERE’S A BIG THUNDERSTORM ON THE WAY!”

A sudden silence. Jimmy looks up at me. “With lightning?”

I have no patience left. “No, with ketchup! Of course with lightning! It’s a bad storm! The whole city’s talking about it! If you’d climb out of the sewer once in a while, you’d know that!”

He looks up at me, his face intense with excitement. “Gotcha, Vince! Thanks a million! I’ll pass the word to Ed!”

I just naturally assume he means my business advice, and not my weather report.

How the hell was I supposed to know?

By the time I get home, I might as well have been riding in a convertible. I’m drenched, and there must be three inches of water on the floor of my Mazda.

Mom sends Dad into the hurricane to move one of the Mercedes out of our quadruple garage to make room for my car. Two seconds on the driveway and he’s every bit as wet as I am.

Wet or dry, I’m revolted by the sight of my own father. The word is out before I can bite my tongue: “Bastard!”

He freezes, and we stand glaring at each other in the downpour.

“Honest Abe Luca!” I growl in disgust. “What a crock!”

His response is measured. “As a parent, I never thought I’d say this, but I sure hope you’re drunk.”

“You know who’s ripping off Jimmy and Ed so they’ve never got the money to pay you? You are!”

His eyes shoot sparks. “You’ve got some set of balls!”

“I saw it with my own eyes! One of the partners is Rafael! Uncle Uncle’s Rafael! Which means some of that money trickles upstream to you!”

He’s in a fury that the rain is doing nothing to cool. “Do you know how many guys I’ve got under me? Maybe you expect me to make notes every time somebody takes a whiz, but that’s not how it works! These people have to make a living. And how they do it is their problem, not mine!”

I can get just as mad as he can. “Don’t tell me you didn’t sign off on this!”

“If it’s Rafael and his guys, then Uncle signed off on it. Or maybe Carmine. You think they call the Pope every time there’s algae growing in the holy water at St. Bart’s?”

“Fine,” I growl, flipping my wet hair out of my eyes. “You didn’t know. But you know now. What are you going to do about it?”

A flash of lightning illuminates his face, and I can see what everybody else is so afraid of. Anthony Luca, mad, makes the storm of the century look like light rain.

“What I do or don’t do is none of your business!” he roars. “Why should I have to take my cues from an overprivileged puke who looks down his nose at me and how I put bread on the table? Oh, Vince doesn’t approve of The Life. Alert the media.”

“I accept what you do,” I throw back at him. “But what’s happening to Jimmy and Ed—illegal isn’t the half of it! You don’t rob a guy and then break his legs because he’s got no money. Surely there’s some kind of honor code out there, even for people like you!”

He goes ballistic. “For someone who doesn’t want any part of my business, your little nose is in pretty deep! I’ve got captains who put in less time than you!”

“I thought you wanted motivation,” I say bitterly.

He seems genuinely anguished now. “What am I going to do with you, Vince? You’re like crabgrass! Every time I turn around, you’re in another part of the lawn!”

The next shot is mine, but I don’t take it. All of a sudden, I’m completely spent, soaked to the skin and exhausted by a day that started in front of Kendra’s locker, long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away.

Twenty minutes later, we’re both in dry clothes, and my mother is stuffing us full of lamb chops, warning, “A good dose of double pneumonia will put you totally out of commission.” Agent Bite-Me, wherever he’s listening from, will never guess that Dad and I were just at each other’s throats. He can’t see that Mom has placed us at opposite ends of the table, and is patrolling the demilitarized zone with a meat fork.

It’s only now, when I can’t say it because the walls have ears, that I realize what I should have told Dad out there. That this isn’t same fight, new day. This is different. A line has been crossed, and I can never look at my father in quite the same way again.