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The following morning, Eddie opened the drapes to a view of the park. Rain continued to fall and the clouds cast a dark mood across the horizon. He fumbled in his pocket for Micola’s number. The phone rang twice before he heard someone pick it up.
A cough and then the low, quiet voice of an older woman:
“Hello?”
“Yeah. Is this Mrs. Fortunato?”
“Who is this?”
Whoa. Thick accent.
“This is Eddie Bracchio. Primo Simonelli told me to call you. I’m here−in St. Paul.”
“Oh! Sí! Grazie! You-here to help me with those boys a-shootin’ up my house?”
“Yeah. Ah, sí, Signora.”
“Bene! Grazie mille!”
“Can I come by your house this morning? I need more information on these punks—I mean—boys.”
“Sí. Grazie.”
“Um. And your address, Signora?”
“Oh! Sí! It’s-a 1667 Burr Street. You need directions?”
“No, Ma’am. I’ll find it. Eleven o’clock? Sound good?”
“Eleven o’clock. Grazie, Signore. You come. I make-a coffee, okay? I see you soon. Thank you for helping me, Signore.”
“No problem. See you soon, alright?”
“Sí, Signore. Arrivederci.”
“Yeah. Arrivederci to you too, ‘eh?”
Eddie hung up the phone and found himself smiling.
After a hot shower, he removed from his garment bag the one suit he’d brought with him. Suits displayed power and Eddie loved to dress the part. He adjusted his crisp white dress shirt and gray silk tie before donning the finely tailored black Italian jacket and matching slacks. He stepped back to admire the final look. This would certainly give him the attention he wanted. Nothing too over-the-top. These people were simple, laid-back. He didn’t want to stick out too much.
Subtle power. He looked perfect.
The ride to Bedford Street was a quick ten-minutes. As the young Somali cab driver weaved through downtown and crossed over to Seventh Street, Eddie looked out at the rainy city. It was older, drab; more rundown than he’d remembered. As they passed an old, tan brick building on the corner, Eddie sat up.
“The Gopher Bar? That dive still open?” he asked the driver.
“I guess so,” said the kid. “Never been there.”
“They got the best Coney Islands in town. Not as good as the ones in Coney Island, but really good. Boy does that take me back. Been there forever.”
“I don’t know what that is,” said the kid. “Coney Island?”
“You don’t know what a—? Oh my God. You kiddin’ me?” He looked across the front seat at the driver’s face in the rearview mirror. “It’s a hotdog with chili, cheese and onions. You should really try one. They’re fuckin’ delicious.”
The kid laughed. “Hotdogs? No. I don’t eat those.”
“Too bad. Ya-missin’ out.”
Eddie felt a twinge of nostalgia as they moved along. Turning left onto Payne Avenue, Eddie noticed the Minnesota Music Café on his left, a small music venue known for attracting big acts, like Minnesota’s own superstars: Prince and Bob Dylan. The slight gray building wore a sign painted directly onto the brick in red and white:
“Where the Food’s Great & the Music’s Cookin’!”
As they continued their way down Payne, Eddie saw only nondescript single-story buildings with worn and faded paint, obviously untouched for decades. Across on the right, however, Eddie noticed what looked to be a new townhome development. Its clean, updated look and landscaping gave the area a fresh feel. Past the development was a row of trees that lined the east side of the street. Eddie knew Swede Hollow Park was just beyond those trees.
Despite the new development, little had changed. The Asians he saw walking down the street, and in cars driving alongside the cab, were new to the ethnic mix. If there were any remaining Italians, they were hiding on this bleak day.
The cab approached Tedesco Street and stopped for a red light. Morelli’s, a small Italian Market and Liquor Store, stood across the street on the corner to their left.
Eddie sat up. “Jesus. Morelli’s? That place is still open?”
“Yes sir. Still open.”
He looked out at the old building. The Italian flag was prominently displayed above the door of the once-white brick exterior, now faded and chipped. Hand-painted green vines crawled upward as though reaching for its last bit of heritage. He sat back in his seat.
“I used to shop there with my grandmother.”
The light changed to green and the driver turned left. Eddie kept his eye on Morelli’s, now on his right. A beautiful woman in a fitted navy dress and tan high heels walked out of the market struggling with two bags of groceries.
“Hey,” Eddie said to the driver. “Slow down here.”
The cab slowed as Eddie rolled down his window. The woman’s long brown hair flowed behind her as she caught sight of the slowing cab.
Eddie called out to her. “Hey gorgeous! Ya’ need any help with them bags?”
She gave him a hesitant smile as she looked around and behind her. When she realized he was speaking to her, she shook her head.
“No thanks. I’m good. My car’s right here.” She crooked her head toward a white sedan.
Eddie waved. “Alright. Keep doin’ what ya’ doin. Ya’ lookin’ real good!”
He watched the woman laugh as she called back to him.
“Thanks!”
The cab picked up speed and Eddie turned to watch her until she was out of sight.
He sat back. “You should never pass on a chance to talk to a beautiful woman. Know what I mean?”
The driver chuckled.
Eddie continued to look around as the cab slowly traveled up Tedesco Street. He recognized the rundown apartment complex to his left; the petite old clapboard houses on his right looked exactly as he’d remembered, each the same as the next.
As the driver turned right onto Burr, Eddie closed his eyes and pictured his old house on Desoto, a few blocks away. He was anxious to see the old place and made a note to drive by before flying back home.
He looked side-to-side through the rainy windows of the cab, noting the strange, nostalgic emotions stirring in his gut. He never would have guessed the old neighborhood would have affected him this way.
He looked up at the passing branches of mature maple trees draping overhead. They formed an arch—almost like a roof—across the deserted road. Cars parked on both sides left barely enough room for the cab to pass.
He couldn’t help feeling disappointed, though. The old neighborhood looked like shit—rundown houses, yards littered with old toys, trash cans and crappy lawns. It destroyed his fond memories.
A faint thump of rap music muffled by the cab’s closed windows jarred Eddie from his thoughts. The cab passed a group of five young Black men in baggy jeans and sweatshirts standing near a parked car. Oblivious to the rain, but not the approaching cab, they stopped their business and turned to stare at Eddie, snarls on their faces as the cab passed.
No one else was out on this cool, rainy morning. This encounter further disillusioned Eddie. No more old Italian ladies laughing as they walked along the sidewalk. No old Italian guys sitting on their porches playing pinochle. The neighborhood of his childhood was definitely gone.
The cab continued along, crossing Minnehaha Avenue and slowing to a stop three houses down on Burr Street. To Eddie’s left, loomed a dark brick house sitting high on a hill. Extravagant and grand, it dwarfed its neighboring homes with its two stories and roofed front porch. The grandiose mansion appeared to be in pristine condition. Eddie guessed it was built in the twenties. The lush, emerald grass appeared freshly mowed, in stark contrast to the dumpy yards on either side.
He paid the driver, tipping generously.
“Thank you,” said the kid.
“Yeah. See ya’ ‘round.”
Eddie pulled down his black fedora as he exited the cab, rain pelting its fine fabric. The cool, damp air moistened his lungs as he hurried across the street and onto the cracked sidewalk. He looked up at the house for a second before jogging up six cement stairs and then started on the next four leading to the heavy wooden front door, its roof protecting him from further drenching.
A slight motion from the curtain to his left caught his attention as he pressed the yellowed doorbell and waited. He heard the click and release of the deadbolt as the hinges of the heavy mahogany door creaked open, revealing a short, heavy-set woman of about seventy. She smiled.
“Buongiorno.”
