Forty-Nine

“Tucker, you put the fun into funeral,” said Hugh Graxton.

“Shut up, Hugh,” said Sal.

“Yeah,” Uncle Walt said. “We just buried the guy’s mother.”

Graxton gave Walt a hard glance, but he shut up.

The fire was dying in Antico Forno’s brick fireplace, my family’s traditional post-funeral restaurant. Attending funerals as a child, I would sit in front of that fireplace, watching the shifting logs reduce themselves to ash while my mother and her family transitioned from mourning to eating to drinking to laughing; returning to life after spending the day wallowing in death. At my father’s funeral, the owners of the restaurant had ignored my ID and let me drink wine along with my family, while a younger cousin watched the fire. My mother’s funeral was no different, though instead of me, my first cousin-once-removed Maria Rizzo sat in front of the ashes. The funeral was over. Only six of us remained, sitting around the table.

Death, the great leveler, makes for strange table companions. The FBI man Bobby and the alleged Mafiosos Sal and Hugh Graxton ringed the table alongside Walt, Jael, and me. Uncle Walt drank a Pabst Blue Ribbon. Sal and I drank limoncello, an unholy matrimony of lemonade and grain alcohol that Sal had made in his apartment. Jael, Bobby, and Graxton drank Scotch.

The limoncello slurred my speech. “Yeah. Shut up, Hugh.”

Sal said, “Though I have to admit, that was the most fucked-up eulogy I’ve ever heard. I thought Father Dominic was going to fall off his chair.”

I said, “It’s true. I’m going to get whoever killed my mother.”

Sal said, “Hey, don’t get me wrong. I understand the urge. Burning? That’s a fucking horrible way to go. Still, having fifty witnesses who can say that you promised to kill the fucker looks bad in court. It’s even worse if one of them’s a priest and the other is an FBI agent.”

Graxton said, “They don’t teach you this stuff at MIT?”

“How to get away with murder? No. Must have been a Zoo Mass elective.”

Bobby said, “I didn’t hear anything incriminating.”

Sal said, “There you go, Tucker. The FBI’s got your back.”

“We live to serve,” said Bobby.

Jael leaned forward. “The problem is not getting away with the revenge. The problem is taking revenge on the right person.”

Graxton said, “Yeah, Tucker, listen to Jael. You had better be absolutely positive that you’ve got the right person.”

Sal said, “I say fuck revenge. It’s a sucker’s game.”

Bobby said, “Really, Sal? Never thought I’d hear that from you.”

Sal said, “The first step in revenge is to dig two fucking graves.”

Jael finished her Scotch. “If you find the right person, it is not revenge. It is justice.”

Sal said, “If you find the right person.”

I had a plan for that. It was time to put it into motion.

I drained my limoncello. “The right person is going to come
to me.”

Sal finished his limoncello and poured us another. “Why?”

There are all sorts of lies. There are lies that keep trouble from starting: No, that doesn’t make you look fat. There are lies that smooth over missed appointments: Stupid BlackBerry! There are lies that hide your second family: Honey, I have a meeting in Pittsfield. Then there are the lies that can get you killed. I was about to tell one of those.

“I have my dad’s notebooks,” I said.

Bobby said, “What?”

I continued the lie. “They were in a shed in the back yard.”

Sal said, “Shred them.”

“I’m not going to shred them. I’m going to use them to find my mother’s killer.”

Sal said again, “Shred the fucking stuff. Get out of the revenge business. It’s dirty.”

Bobby said, “Sal’s right about that. But don’t shred them, give them to me. You gotta let it go.”

I looked at Jael and asked, “Should I let it go?”

Jael said, “Were you serious about what you said in the church?”

“I swore to God, didn’t I?”

“Many people swear to God. Few of them know what it means.”

Bobby said, “So you think the person who killed your mother will want the notebooks? Do you have any idea who it is? If you do, give me the notebooks and let me do my job.”

I drained my drink and reached for the icy blue bottle that contained Sal’s hooch. I poured myself a glass and drank. It was really good. The lemons were the perfect dessert flavor. The sweet end to the spaghetti dinner, though Antico Forno was also unable to replicate my mother’s gravy.

I looked straight at Graxton, said, “I have no idea who killed my mother.”

“Don’t look at me when you say that,” said Graxton. “I had nothing to do with it.”

Outside the window a young couple examined the menu, trying to decide whether to eat here or at one of the hundred other restaurants in the North End.

I pointed. “You see those two?”

Everyone looked. Graxton said, “Yeah?”

“They had nothing to do with it.” I finished my drink and stood. “As for the rest of us, we played our parts.”