Thirty-Seven

“Where did you get this?” asked Sal.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said.

“Did you get this from that son of a bitch Miller? Does the FBI have this picture?”

“How should I know? I got it. I assume they could get it.”

The photo glowed on my Droid. It was from happier times, a wedding celebration. Four men, each with a cigar in one hand. Oscar Sagese wore a tuxedo. His arm draped across Hugh Graxton’s shoulder. Hugh held a similar cigar, his arm around Sal. Sal wore a big smile, held a cigar, and used his other arm to sideways hug a smaller man into the frame. The smaller man was Teardrop, the guy who had beaten me in the toilet.

I said, “You lied to me, Sal. You said you never met this guy. Looks like you’re best buds.”

Sal said, “You know what, Tucker? Fuck you.” He turned to Jael. “This guy ignores his fucking family all his life, then when the shit goes down, he wants me to trust him.”

Sal’s words stung. I dug back through my memory. He’d chosen his word well. Ignore. Actually, I had done worse than ignore my mother’s family, I had rejected them and their worldview—a worldview that ended at Cross Street.

My mother never escaped the North End. Her mind remained trapped in the area bordered by Prince, Hanover, and Commercial Streets. My father, on the other hand, had been a citizen of the world. He read The New Yorker, listened to NPR, talked to overseas friends. He had been an engineer, a man of science who built weapons. My mother had been a housewife, a woman of cooking who boiled pasta.

Over the breakfast table, my mother would gossip about what Auntie Rosa had said about Auntie Contessa; my father would speculate about the Iran-Contra affair. My mother gabbed about Nonna’s bunions; my father extolled the MX missile. My mother talked about people; my father talked about ideas. At the age of thirteen, presented with a choice between Battery Street and the world, I had chosen the world. I was the guy George Bailey would have been if he had escaped Bedford Falls.

I didn’t have anything against my relatives. They simply didn’t interest me, just as they didn’t interest my father. When he was home he’d let himself get dragged down to Boston for the endless string of birthdays, christenings, weddings, funerals, holidays, and feasts. He never looked comfortable. He sat next to my mother, smiled when required, and spoke when questioned.

For their part, the North Enders never warmed to my dad. The dinner table served people named Gianelli, Testa, Rizzo, and some guy named Tucker. The only name that didn’t end in a vowel. They viewed my father as some sort of strange Englishman from a foreign country called Minnesota.

Still, while my father had given me a worldview, he hadn’t given me a family. He was an only child and there were no other Tuckers. I was alone in the world except for my mother and her family, and I had turned my back on them. Sal was right not to trust me.

We were silent.

Sal said, “I need to know where you got that picture.”

I slumped in my chair. “I’m so tired of this shit.”

“What?”

“You say I ignored my family, and maybe I did, but I was better off alone.”

“That’s fucking stupid,” said Sal. “You don’t even know how to be in a family. I never see you at holidays. You never come around. You never say hello. It’s a fucking sin that this is the first time you’ve had a drink with me. You blow off all the good stuff, then show up, dig into everyone’s shit, and bitch about how it stinks.”

“Hmmph.”

“This is a fucking good family, Tucker. You turned your back
on us.”

I pointed at my stitches. “Yeah. This is what my good family gave me.”

“Hey! I had nothing to do with that,” said Sal.

I was silent, not wanting to enrage him again.

“I swear on my father’s soul,” said Sal. “I don’t know how that happened.”

“Fine,” I said. “I believe you.”

“You gotta tell me where you got that picture. If the FBI ever gets that picture, they’ll make you testify about where you found it. You want to be on a witness list?”

“You’re threatening me now? After your little family speech?”

“You are so fucking stupid. There are four guys in that picture who don’t want to go to jail. You gonna be the one to put them there? I need to know where you got that, Tucker. I need the negative.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Sal!”

“Hey. Watch your mouth.”

I said. “There is no negative. I got this off the Internet. There could be a million copies. We’d never know.”

“The Internet? Some asshole posted this on the Internet? Anyone can see it?”

“Not exactly. It was on Facebook,” I ducked my head. “I hacked Oscar Sagese’s account.”

“What? Hugh’s guy?”

“Yeah.”

“You hacked his account?”

“Yeah.”

“You know, you got a lot of fucking nerve to come in here and judge me.”

“I didn’t hurt anyone.”

“No. You just hack a guy’s account and steal a picture that could get him killed. Then you parade it in front of me. You’re an asshole.”

“I needed information.”

“Get the fuck out of my face.”

“I can’t. I need your help.”

“You need my help?” Sal crossed his arms across his chest. “Why should I help you?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll tell your mother. I’ll go tell Auntie Rosa that you won’t help her sister.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Lieutenant Lee from the Boston Police wants to search my mother’s house. He wants to know how my father got the money to buy that house in Pittsfield.”

“So? Let him search.”

“Sal, you know my mother’s a hoarder. She can’t have police moving her stuff. She’ll freak out. She could even kill herself.”

Sal said, “I told you, I don’t know where your father got the money for that house.” He turned to Jael. “This guy never listens.”

Jael said, “Perhaps your mother has information.”

Sal said, “My mother, huh?”

My Droid said, “Droid.” I pulled it out and looked at the number. It came from a 413 area code—Pittsfield. I said to Sal, “I gotta take this.”

The voice at the other end said, “Tucker? This is Dave Patterson. We need to talk.”

I said, “So. Talk.”

“Not like this. I need to meet you. There’s a spot on the Pike. If I send you a map link, will you meet me there at ten tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

The line went dead.

Sal asked, “Important call?”

I asked Sal, “You ever hear of a guy named Dave Patterson?”

“No. Go ahead. Ask me if I’m lying. I’ll punch you right in the mouth.”

“Okay. I won’t ask.”

Sal stood. “Look. I gotta go. But I remembered something my mother told me. She said that Auntie Angelina had saved all the stuff from your dad’s office.”

Jael and I stood to leave with Sal. “That figures. She saved everything.”

“Yeah, but there was something weird about the way she saved it. My mother didn’t tell me anything else, wanted to keep it hush hush, so I didn’t dig.”

We walked out of the cafe onto Hanover Street and started to go our separate ways when Sal called out, “Hey, cousin!”

I turned. “Yeah?”

“Watch your fucking back.”