41

“This is crazy, you know that?” said Angelina Amato, strolling down the Boardwalk. “In broad daylight.”

“You love it,” said her lover.

“Love it? I’m scared to death. I wish we could just stay home. If only Mikey didn’t have the house watched.”

“What are you scared of, honey?”

“Him, Mikey.”

“Afraid of your son? I don’t believe that.”

“Not for me. It’s what he’s going to do to you I’m worried about.”

Angelo Carlo smiled. Ma wasn’t going to do nothing to him—except reward him when Ange delivered the Miss America crown to his girl, Miss New Jersey, compliments of Billy Carroll. He reached over and took Angelina’s hand. “That’s why we play our little games, so he won’t catch us. Besides, they’re fun. Didn’t you love the one when we put me in the wheelchair with the dark glasses and cane, you in the nurse’s uniform? I think it really turned you on.”

“Ange!” she warned.

“Relax, hon. Why are you so nervous today?”

“This is sacrilege. Besides, we can’t walk hand-in-hand. People are staring.”

She had a point. He let her hand go.

They were almost there anyway, the Centurion, a casino hotel way down past Convention Hall toward Ventnor. It was an older place that was licensed in the name of someone named Phillips with the New Jersey Gambling Commission but was owned by a close personal friend of Angelo’s.

“I can’t wait.” He gave her a big wink.

“Don’t start, you.”

“I already have.” He brushed himself against her as they made their way through the crowds. The Convention-Hall drones were already setting up the bleachers for the parade. The Boardwalk was jammed. And Angelo was half-hard.

“You’re a dirty old man,” she snapped. But he saw the twinkle in her eye.

“Not bad, huh, for a guy of seventy-one.”

Beside him, Angelina came to a dead stop. Alarmed, Angelo turned. “You okay, hon? Did you trip? I know, that thing’s too long. I’m sorry, it was the best I could do—”

“You’re Seventy-two,” she said.

“What? Angelina, I know how old I am. I’m seventy-one this past Fourth of July.”

“Seventy-two.”

“You’re right. I’m seventy-two.” Angelo was exasperated. Here he was feeling like a colt, like a sixteen-year-old walking down the Boardwalk with his girl, sea breeze on his boner up under the black robe, and she’d made him lose it. “Jesus Christ!”

A passing couple stared at Angelo, shocked.

“Forgive me,” he mumbled. They were right. He shouldn’t be taking the Lord’s name in vain. Not in this getup.

“You’re right,” Angelina was saying now. “Seventy-one.”

“What difference does it make, hon? Seventy-one, seventy-two? We ought to be glad we’re still around. And have each other.” And I can get it up, he added to himself, wondering if he could again when they got upstairs.

A black kid dressed in evening clothes pushing a rolling chair gave them the high sign. “Beautiful day, beautiful day.” Then a gaggle of old ladies stopped. “Hello, hello. Great day for a stroll.” He turned to Angelina. “This is fun. Let’s do it again tomorrow.”

“No way. You come up with something else.”

“Oh, hell. I love this robe. Gives me a lot of room. You know what I mean?” He did a little bump and grind.

“Fifty Hail Marys, Ange. I’m going to do fifty, at least.”

“Honey, you do fifty every time we kiss. Don’t you think this number is gonna be a little more expensive? Especially when I get you in that Sinatra suite, the one they decorated special with the mirrors on the ceiling?” Then he leaned over and whispered in her ear. Or as close as he could get to it with the wimple.

“Angelo, stop it!” But she couldn’t help blushing.

“I told Ricky to put the full spread on for this friend of mine who was coming. I already picked up the key.” He pulled it out and showed her. “We’ve got the champagne, the fruit, the canapés, the hot-and-cold dancing girls.”

Angelina gave him a look.

Just teasing. The tub for two, bubble bath. Nothing but Sinatra on the stereo.”

“Nothing but me and you,” Angelina said, getting in the mood.

“Nothing between us.”

“Nothing now except this outfit,” she said, running her fingers lightly across the black gabardine that draped down her full bosom. “Not a stitch under this.” Then she smiled demurely as Sister Mary Catherine at St. Anthony’s.

“Oh, Angelina,” he breathed.

Thank God, they were finally there. Naked statues struck poses all around the entryway. Angelo couldn’t wait to get like that. Not that he had the body he once had, but—

“Father, Sister,” the doorman threw the doors wide. “Welcome to the Centurion.”

“Bless you, my son,” Angelo said. “Bless you.”

“You’re laying it on pretty thick,” Angelina said as they crossed the wide lobby.

“So I’ll do a thousand Hail Marys. Two thousand. It’s gonna be worth every one of them.” And then he patted her rear as they turned face-front in the elevator behind the operator. “Penthouse, please.”

“Certainly, Father.”

“And, Angie,” he leaned into her wimple again, “I always knew you took a couple years off your age. But it’s okay. Older broads turn me on.”