The security guard waved him through the gate, and Michael parked in the circular driveway at the Barrington house. Instead of going in through the front door, he walked around to the side and slipped in through the kitchen. The scents of sauteed onions, garlic, and cumin came at him before he closed the door. His mother loved to cook, especially on Sundays when the chef was off. She was a great cook too, and Michael had memories of delicious Caribbean meals like langosta rellena, frijoles negros, and platanos en tentación. She often sang when she cooked. In fact, Michael realized, cooking was the only time his mother seemed content. She was humming now.
He hung his jacket in the mud room and headed into the kitchen. The white walls, splashed with swaths of bright red, blue, and green, took him back to his childhood when he’d spent hours in here with his mother. His father never joined them; in fact, he’d usually complain she was spending too much time in the kitchen—that’s why they paid a small fortune for a chef. Which only made Michael and his mother whisper and laugh like members of the Hole in the Wall gang.
“Hi, Mom.”
Her face lit when she saw him. It always did. He went to her, and she hugged him fiercely, as if it might be the last time. She did that a lot. Which puzzled him. She was over fifty, but she looked years younger. She’d kept her figure, colored her hair, and did whatever other wealthy women did to preserve their youth. On her, though, it all looked natural. He was proud to squire her around when they went out for the occasional brunch or drink. Her behavior was somehow younger, too, when they were together. She was more talkative, girlish, and often funny. Pretty much the opposite of how she was around the house.
“I got you out of bed, didn’t I?” she said.
“Guilty.”
“Who was it? No. Actually, I don’t want to know. We’re supposed to respect each other’s boundaries. Isn’t that what they say these days?”
“I don’t know what they say, but I say my mother is a busybody.”
She slapped him playfully.
He changed the subject. “It smells great.”
“I’m making a Havanaise. With lobster.”
“Fancy.”
“Burhops had a sale. And your grandfather is coming when he’s finished working.” She turned back to the stove. “He wants to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“He didn’t tell me. But you know how he—”
“Fran? What are you doin’?” A voice with a Brooklyn accent broke in from another room. Michael tensed. A moment later the kitchen door swung open and a tall man with styled but thinning gray hair entered. He wore a leisure suit, but he was impeccably groomed.
“I thought we were going to grill steaks.” He stopped when he saw Michael. “Oh, hello, Mike.” He nodded, his voice noticeably cooler. “I didn’t know you were here.”
Michael nodded back, equally cool. His father knew he hated to be called Mike.
His father turned to his mother with a frown. “This doesn’t look like beef.” He gestured to the food on the stove.
“I found lobster on sale at Burhops yesterday, so I thought I’d make a Havanaise.”
“Fran, you know I don’t like seafood.”
“Carmine, Papa is coming tonight and he does.”
“What’s wrong with pasta? He likes that, too.”
His mother didn’t answer. His father watched his wife break the shell of a lobster. With his sharp features and flat expression, he looked like someone who could break a man’s neck as easily as his mother did the lobster. Which, as a former capo for the Mob in New York, he’d undoubtedly done, Michael thought. Before he came up in the world and stripped the dirt—and blood—from beneath his fingernails.
His father turned back to him. “You find work yet?”
Carmine DeLuca had the unique ability to engage and insult at the same time, especially his son. If you didn’t know him well, you might gloss over the words, not realizing his insinuations and how deeply they cut. But Michael knew him well and had developed strategies to deal with their passive-aggressive warfare. He gazed at his father.
His father kept his eyes on his mother. “Oh, I forgot. You’re still waiting for the right opportunity.” His smile was as insincere as his words.
Michael managed a tight smile in return.
His father wheeled around and left the kitchen.
Michael fought back the bile in his throat. This was why he hated to come home. Every time he stepped across the threshold, he was not the skilled military officer who took little at face value and trusted no one. Instead he was the little boy he’d once been, desperately—unsuccessfully—seeking his father’s approval.
He stole a glance at his mother. Her lips were pursed. She turned back to the Havanaise. She wasn’t humming any more.
An hour later Michael helped his mother clear the table. The Havanaise was delicious, but it had been an awkward meal. His mother tried to make small talk with his father and grandfather, but his father left the table when they finished the main course.
“You don’t want dessert, Carmine?” Michael’s mother asked. “I made rum cake.”
“Please bring it to me in my office.” He motioned toward his den, a room off the living room where he spent most of his day, and, increasingly, his evenings.
“Of course.”
Michael’s father had always “worked” from home, but he wasn’t one of those stay-at-home dads people talked about. In fact, Michael never understood why his mother married him to begin with. He guessed she’d become pregnant—Carmine had once been handsome, Michael had to admit—and in those days, it was a sin to be unmarried and pregnant. But times were changing, and Michael wondered why she stayed married when it was clear there was no love between them. Was it because she was Catholic? He didn’t think so. Was it simply habit, honed over thirty years of living together? He wanted to ask but knew the topic was prohibido.
As soon as his father left the table, the mood lightened, and his mother and grandfather started to chat. Tony Pacelli wasn’t a tall man, and at eighty, he was stooped and gnarled. But he still had the same round face, olive complexion, and lots of thick silver hair. His mother once told Michael they’d called him Silver-Tongued Tony, but Michael thought it should change to “Silver-Haired Tony.” His mother got a good belly laugh out of it.
Michael cleared the table while his mother brewed coffee. “Get the red plates for the cake, the ones from Grandma Marlena, would you darling?”
Michael took four dessert plates out of a cabinet. Made of red beveled glass in an Art Deco style, they were so old they were new, his mother said. He brought them out to the dining room. His mother served cake and coffee.
His grandfather took a bite of cake and chewed slowly. A beatific smile spread across his face. “Delizioso, Francesca.”
“Grazi, Papa.”
He sipped his coffee. “This too.”
The joy of simple things. That must be what comes with age and a life well-lived, Michael thought. He wondered if he’d ever feel that way. He smiled at his grandfather.
“What’s so funny?”
“I enjoy watching you.”
His grandfather raised his fork in Michael’s general direction. “Good cake, coffee, and family. What more could a man want?”
His mother rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “This, from the busiest eighty-year old man I know.”
“What else am I gonna do, Francesca? Your mother’s gone, you’ve got your own life, and our young man here is in his own world.”
“You could retire. At least slow down.”
“And do what? Play cards all day?” He pointed his finger at Michael’s mother. “All those years at La Perla, and I never gambled. Not once. I should start now?”
“Well in that case, we need to talk about the supplies for the restaurants. Prices have skyrocketed, and it’s because of the Teamsters. They keep hiking their rates. They’re killing us.”
Michael started to tune out. Although his mother had her “own life” as his grandfather put it, she was shrewd, and as a formidable cook, she enjoyed working around food. She’d stepped into the Family’s restaurant supply business and was now running it. Two of the nonfood operations, as well. When his grandfather allowed her to. He was still coming to terms with the idea of a woman—even one who happened to be his daughter—managing his business.
“Francesca, I’ve told you before. We can’t force them. They are our friends.”
“They may be, but there’s got to be a limit. How can we charge ten dollars for a damn salad?”
But Tony Pacelli was old school. “Pick your battles, Francesca. You need to know when it’s time to mount an offense, and when to go along. There are times when loyalty trumps all.”
Michael caught his mother’s exasperated expression.
But Michael couldn’t care less about Family business. “Grampa, Mom said you wanted to talk to me,” he cut in.
His grandfather waved his fork. “Later.”
That was code for “I want to talk to you in private.”
His mother kept bickering about the Teamsters, and his grandfather parried. Michael decided he might as well go home. Finally, his mother noticed his disinterest, ducked into the kitchen, and came back with a plate of cake. “Here. Take this to your father.”
Michael took the plate and headed into the den. With dim lighting, oil paintings of the Italian countryside, and a silver pen and pencil set his mother had given his father years ago, the den was an imitation of a respectable WASP’s room. His father was on the phone, talking quietly. Probably catching up with his bookies, going over the spreads of the Sunday football games, sorting out who lost what. The noise from the TV blared, covering the conversation. Curious that his father had never become an integral part of the Pacelli Family business, Michael thought. Had that been his father’s decision or his grandfather’s?
Michael cleared his throat. “Here’s your dessert.”
His father looked up but didn’t reply. Michael set the plate down and flicked his eyes to the TV. A James Bond movie. Timothy Dalton, the new Bond, was on some Caribbean beach while a beautiful woman worked her wiles on him. Dalton wasn’t nearly as appealing as Sean Connery, whom his mother declared was the only Bond worth watching. Michael was heading back to the dining room, when his mother’s voice rose above the TV. She sounded angry.
“You can’t be serious. I won’t permit it.”
At first he thought they were still discussing the Teamsters.
His grandfather’s voice was soft, and Michael had to concentrate to make it out. But his tone was conciliatory. “Francesca, you’re being unreasonable. You said yourself he doesn’t have any plans. He needs to do something until he’s ready for the family business.”
Michael stopped.
“He’s never going into the family business. Don’t you realize that?”
There was a long pause. “Never is a long time. But we don’t need to discuss that now. What we do need to discuss is this—this proposition.”
“I won’t let him go. Is your memory so short?”
“Is yours that long?”
Michael knew his mother and his grandfather had been estranged when he was a little boy. They didn’t speak, and when they were forced to be in the same room, they avoided each other like the plague. When Michael asked his mother why, she’d say it was something that happened a long time ago and she wouldn’t discuss it further. It was only after the death of his grandmother, Marlena, that his mother and Grandpa Tony reconciled. Still, it was an uneasy truce, as he could sense.
“Someone has something on you, don’t they?” his mother said sharply. “You’re in trouble.”
“You know better than to ask that.”
“Why not? You’ve always sacrificed family for business.” His mother sounded bitter.
His grandfather’s voice rose. “Don’t talk to me like that. I am still your father. And the head of this Family.”
But his mother refused to back down. “I swear to you, if you raise this with him, I will never speak to you again. I can’t believe you have the nerve to suggest it after all we’ve been through.”
Michael ran his tongue around his lips. What the hell were they talking about?
“You live in the past, Francesca.”
“That’s a joke, right?” His mother’s voice quieted, but it was thick with tension. “It’s not me who’s living in the past. I’m moving forward—with or without you. That part of our lives is over. If you bring it up, I guarantee you’ll regret it.”
Michael decided whatever they were arguing about had gone on long enough. He strode purposefully back into the dining room. “What are you talking about?”
Both of them started, as if they’d been caught red-handed. Each flashed recriminating glances at the other.
“What’s this about me going somewhere?”
His mother said nothing.
“Mother, whatever is going on, don’t you think you ought to talk it over with me, rather than Grampa?”
“You—you…” His mother stared at his grandfather, so angry she couldn’t make her lips form words.
“You see?” Michael’s grandfather snorted.
“You have no idea what you’re doing,” his mother finally spat out.
“If one of you doesn’t tell me what’s going on, I’m out of here.” Michael didn’t intend to make good on his threat, but it sounded good. Forceful.
His grandfather pushed himself back from the table. “All right. Here it is. I got a call from an—associate. He has a job I think you might be interested in.”
“Papa—”
“Silencio!” Tony Pacelli yelled. “Go into the kitchen.”
His mother flared her nostrils but didn’t move. Michael expected her to defy her father. Then, after a long pause, she rose, stomped into the kitchen, and slammed the door. Michael could hear her throwing pots around. Noisily.
There was still a difference between women of his mother’s generation and his, he realized. His mother’s generation was caught between two worlds: the world of the obedient wife and daughter and that of the independent woman. It was clear his mother didn’t like it, but ultimately, she obeyed her father. At least this time. Was it because Tony Pacelli was still the Don? Was it because she knew her father wanted to talk to him in private? Didn’t matter. No way a woman in Michael’s generation would do that.
Michael cleared his throat and turned to his grandfather. “Now… what’s this all about?”
His grandfather drew a cigar out of his pocket and held a match to it. “I hear you turned down the job at the Agency.”
“It’s not the kind of place I want to work.”
An Ivy League graduate, fluent in four languages, Michael had drifted around Europe and Asia after college. Much to his mother’s chagrin, he ended up in the military and was sent to the Persian Gulf as an MP. Now his tour was over, and his mother, alarmed at his lack of direction, had asked his grandfather for help. Michael had few illusions. He knew Tony Pacelli’s history; the man had practically been best friends with Meyer Lansky in the Fifties.
Still, when Tony set up a meeting at the Agency for him, Michael realized his grandfather’s contacts ran deeper than he’d thought. Maybe all the way back to the Second World War when the Mafia helped the OSS plan the invasion of Sicily. History had proven there was a thin line between the hunters and the hunted.
His grandfather puffed on the cigar. Wisps of smoke corkscrewed up, turning the air milky. “Maybe it’s better. Your mother hated it when you went to Iraq. It drove her crazy.”
“Except the Agency wanted me to be an analyst. Sit in an office and translate articles. I can’t think of anything worse.”
“Still the buccaneer.”
“It’s not that. Since Iran-Contra, everyone in the business is looking over their shoulders, covering their asses, wringing their hands.”
“Not your—what do they call it—your M.O.” His grandfather puffed on his cigar.
Michael nodded. Both his grandfather and mother wanted him to join them in the Family “business.” Michael had mulled it over, but he knew he could never be a part of the Outfit. It wasn’t simply a youthful rebellion, although he’d been told countless times he was a cliché straight from The Godfather. All he knew was that the path they wanted for him was too easy. Too orchestrated. Whatever he ended up doing, wherever he ended up going, he wanted to do it on his own. Not inherit it. Plus, the fact that he’d been on the right side of the law in the army didn’t exactly square with the Family business.
“So.” His grandfather sucked on his cigar. “I have a—friend. Actually he’s a friend of a friend. He has a job that needs doing in Cuba.”
“Cuba?”
“It has nothing to do with the time we lived there.”
Michael had always been curious about his mother’s life in Cuba. She’d told him stories about growing up in Miramar, an affluent suburb, before they moved into La Perla. Her stories made him want to see the island. But every time he suggested a trip, perhaps through Canada or Mexico, she’d shake her head and say, “Not while there’s an embargo. Anyway, from what I hear, Cuba has changed. The life I knew is gone.”
Now Michael focused on his grandfather. “Your ‘friend’ is with the Agency?”
“He was. He went private. So did his friend, I’m told. Has a client near Boston.”
It was happening more and more. Recruits no longer stayed in intelligence organizations for their entire career. Instead, they used the CIA, FBI, and the other alphabet soup security groups as stepping-stones for more lucrative jobs. Some started their own companies, hiring themselves out to lobbyists, corporations, and international conglomerates. Others went freelance, picking up surveillance and undercover work for foreign governments. He’d heard a few former MI officers were involved with a couple of law firms in D.C.
“Where did this friend of a friend come from?”
His grandfather threw up his hands. “I’m an old man. I don’t keep up anymore. But I trust my friend. He says his friend, name of Walters, needs a man to go down there.”
“To do what?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s not another one of those crazy-ass plots to kill Castro, is it?”
Tony chuckled. “Not this time.”
“How long will I be there?”
“I don’t know that either.” He tapped the end of his cigar in the ashtray. “But if you’re interested, I’ll give you his number.”
“Is that why you and mother were arguing?”
His grandfather furrowed his brow and raised his eyebrows in the Italian way that meant maybe, maybe not.
Although Michael hadn’t wanted to use his family connections, deeming them tainted, he hadn’t been called back for second interviews except at the Agency. And despite his experience, he doubted any police force would willingly hire a mobster’s son, except as an informant, which he had no desire to be. He was, in a word, stuck.
“Okay. Give me the number.”
Tony was digging into his wallet when his mother stormed back into the dining room. Her cheeks were red, her eyes black as coal. Her body language was rigid, and her breath came so fast and shallow Michael thought she might start to hyperventilate. Michael had never seen her this worked up. Not since he was seventeen and he’d wrapped his car around a telephone pole on Christmas Eve.
“I won’t allow it, Michael. You go to Cuba over my dead body.”
“Francesca,” Tony said, “the revolution ended thirty years ago. And despite Fidel, Cuba is one of the safest places in the world. Now that the Soviet Union has collapsed, there’s a good chance relations with the U.S. might warm up. I don’t—”
His mother planted her hands on her hips. “Cuba is in the middle of a severe depression. Even Castro calls it a ‘Special Period.’ No one has enough food. Or oil. Or anything. People are dropping dead in the streets. You won’t—”
Michael cut in. “Both of you, stop it. Right now. I’m going. And that’s the end of it.”
He turned to his grandfather. Pacelli was looking at his daughter with pity, as if he felt sorry for her and wanted her to know it. Michael looked back at his mother. “Mom, I make my own decisions. Besides, I want to see where you lived. So I’m going.”
Whatever he said or didn’t say, his attitude wrought a marked change in his mother. Like a pin piercing a fat balloon, the fight suddenly went out of her. Her body slumped, as if she was Atlas with the world on her shoulders. She seemed about to speak when his grandfather cut in.
“You see, Francesca? Let him make his own way.”
Michael prepared himself for a fresh burst of temper from his mother. Something about undue influence. Or forcing someone to bend to his will. But when he looked over, her anger had dissipated. Now she looked scared. More scared than he’d ever seen her.