| |
Eddie tipped his hat. “Mrs. Fortunato?”
“Sí.”
The plump, stocky woman wore her wiry gray hair pinned back, loose and messy. She smiled, her wrinkled, sagging cheeks turning pink with warmth as she waved him in.
“Come in. Out of the rain.”
Eddie wiped his feet on the mat at the foot of the door as he removed his hat and leather jacket.
“I’m Eddie Bracchio.” He palmed his hair with his free hand. “Primo Simonelli sent me.”
The subtle scent of garlic and sauce tickled his nose.
“Sí! Grazie, Signore Bracchio.” She waved her veined hand, ushering him in. “Please, entra, come in,” she said, in a thick Italian accent. Her cheery smile warmed her brown eyes, twinkling behind drooping lids.
Eddie smiled as he bowed slightly. “Thank you—grazie.” His Italian was rusty, but he enjoyed its musical lift. It reminded him of his family.
Her strong grip surprised him as she pulled on his arm drawing him to her for a quick kiss on his cheek. He caught a hint of soap that disappeared as he pulled away.
“Well,” he said, “I wasn’t expectin’ such a nice greeting.”
Micola clapped her hands and brushed them down a white marinara-stained apron. “Look at you. So handsome, Signore Bracchio.” She rubbed her chin. “I like this—how you say—?”
Eddie stroked his salt-and-pepper goatee. “This? My goatee?”
“Sí. Goatee.” She laughed. “I’m so happy you-here, Signore Bracchio.”
“Please. Call me Eddie.”
“Okay, Eddie. And you—call me Micola, okay?” She smiled as she put his jacket and hat into a closet near the door.
“Okay, sure. ‘Micola’ is it?”
“Mee-koe-la. Sí?”
“Sí,” Eddie said, smiling. Her charm was irresistible.
Micola guided Eddie across the tiny threshold of black-and-white-checked linoleum and led him down a short, dark hall, the old mahogany wood floor creaking under their weight. Photographs of smiling people lined the walls.
They turned left to the entrance of a decent-sized living room decorated with outdated furniture in a beige and rose floral print, worn and faded from years of sun and use.
Straight ahead was a massive picture-window overlooking Burr Street and the front yard and steps Eddie had just climbed. Facing him beneath the window, was an extended sofa. Across it, were two chairs and a mahogany coffee table. Under it all, was an oversized rug covering the worn wooden floor.
Micola’s house was brighter and cheerier than it had appeared from the outside, and it reminded Eddie of his grandmother’s house not too much further down the road.
Micola turned and asked him to sit. Eddie hesitated. Each seating option was covered in fitted, clear plastic. He chose the sofa, cringing at the sound of the stiff plastic under his weight.
Micola smiled. “You-like some coffee?”
Eddie nodded. “Sure. Thanks.”
“Okay. I’ll be back.” She turned with a quiet giggle and bustled out of the room.
While he waited, Eddie looked around the old-fashioned living room. To his right, sat a built-in mahogany cabinet pushed tightly against the wall. Above it hung a large mirror framed in shiny gilded metal.
Eddie stood and walked to it, frowning as it captured the honesty of his reflection. He straightened his posture and leaned in, fingering his hair where the hat had misplaced some of the strands, before standing back to assess his appearance. The sound of the old lady shuffling down the hall sent him back to his seat on the sofa.
Micola approached the living room with a silver tray holding a set of dainty China. Eddie stood to help her.
“Please,” he said. “Sit. Let me pour.”
“Grazie, Signore,” she said, taking her seat in the chair across from him.
Eddie held his gaze with a smile as he poured two cups of steaming coffee. Micola smiled nervously until Eddie handed her a cup and returned to his place on the sofa. He took a sip before beginning their conversation.
“Now, Micola.” Eddie smiled, pointing at her. “I notice you gotta’ bit of an accent.”
She nodded before he continued. “How long you been in the states?”
As Micola spoke, Eddie did his best to listen intently, grasping what he could from her thick accent. She told him about meeting her husband in Calabria, Italy, moving to St. Paul, and raising her family there for many years. She was sweet and jolly, and he instantly liked her.
At a pause in their conversation, Micola excused herself to the kitchen. She returned with two small plates holding generous pieces of lemon cake with a light lemon glaze.
“Mangia’,” she said. “I make-a this cake for you today, Eddie.” She returned to her seat, crossing her arms.
“You did? Well ain’t that sweet-a you’se? Thanks.”
She watched with a smile as Eddie took his first bite.
He raised his brows. “Mmm, that’s good.”
“You like?”
“Like? You kiddin’ me? I love.”
Eddie took another bite and wiped his mouth with the elegant cloth napkin. He flipped his fork up-and-down as he spoke. “One thing about me,” he said. “I never lie about food—especially homemade sh—” he caught himself—“cookin’.”
Micola beamed. “You come tonight, Eddie. I make you something. What-you like?”
Eddie took a gulp of coffee and said, “Well, my favorite is eggplant parmigiana. You know how to make that?”
Micola nodded, a proud look on her face. She waved her hand. “Sì. You come tonight. I make-a you eggplant parmigiana. You come?”
“Yeah, sure. I got no plans. Six o’clock?”
“Sì. Six o’clock. Bene.”
Eddie set his coffee cup and plate onto the table and sat back, crossing one leg over the other. “Now, tell me about these punks shootin’ up the fuckin’ neighborhood.”
Micola’s eyes widened as she put her hand to her mouth.
Eddie wiped his mouth and leaned forward. “Oh my God. ‘Scuse my language, Mrs. Fortunato. I gotta’ work on that, ya’ know?”
She chuckled as she pointed her finger. “Nessun problema. It’s okay, Eddie.”
Eddie stroked his goatee. “Thank you.” He started again. “So, do you know who they are? These guys?”
Micola frowned. “There is a Black kid, Dario. He—” she frowned and looked toward the ceiling—“maybe twenty years old.” She pointed toward her left in the direction of the stairs and front door. “He lives over there. In the house next door.”
She then pointed toward the front window at Eddie’s back. “And the other kid, Tau. Same age—twenty, I think. Hmong. He live across the street.”
She stood and walked toward the picture window, pointing furiously, getting angry.
“There.”
“Oh yeah,” Eddie said. “‘Hmong.’ Primo mentioned that. I ain’t never heard-a that before.” Eddie stood to look out the front window and across the quiet street.
“That house, right there?”
She nodded. “Sì. That is Tau’s house.”
“So, what happened the other night?” Eddie asked.
“Okay, Eddie.” Micola pointed to the sofa. “Sit. I-tell you.”
Eddie eased back onto the plastic, hoping, but failing, to keep the noise at bay. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Let’s hear it.”
Micola moved to the other side of the coffee table, but remained standing. She began throwing her arms around as she told her story.
“It was the other night—like I tell Primo. But—,” she shook her finger, “—this-no-is the first time, Eddie.” She shook her head.
Eddie frowned. “No?”
She raised her fingers. “Two other times this happened.”
“I go upstairs in my bed, sound asleep. I think it was—maybe two-three o’clock in the morning. I hear noises—on the side of my house by my bedroom window. The side by Dario’s house.” She raised her hands toward the sky. “Molto forte!”
“Loud?”
“Sì.”
“The bullets—they hit my house.” She clapped her hands. “Bam, bam, bam! I sit up fast. The house was cold, Eddie. I keep the heat down real low at night. Too much money.”
Eddie smiled as he recalled Primo saying she had millions. He nodded. “Yeah, I hear ya’. Go on. Then what?”
Micola continued. “I hear many shots and I think to myself, why-they hit my house? These boys, they need shooting lessons, no? I don’t think they know how to do it.”
Eddie chuckled and Micola stopped talking. “Why-you laugh, Eddie?”
He raised his hand. “Sorry. Go on.”
She nodded. “Then, it’s quiet. I wait. Then—” she clapped her hands again as her usually low voice went into a high shrill— “they shoot my house some more. Almost break my windows. Oh, Eddie, I was so afraid!”
Eddie leaned forward. “No cops? Nothin’?”
She shook her head. “I get outta’ my bed—my feet-so cold on that floor. I get to the phone on the nightstand. I call la polizia.”
“And how’d you know it was those two boys?”
“Because, I look out the window. I gotta’ big light on the side of the house. It shined down—right on Dario! I see him! And he—he look-up at me and he do this to me.” Micola gestured the finger to Eddie who shook his head.
“Micola. You should never go to the window when you hear gunshots. Never.” He shook his head. “Very dangerous. You coulda’ been shot, ya’ understand me?”
Micola pursed her lips. “Sì, Eddie. I know this. But Dario—he never do that to me. His mother. She’s a nice lady.”
Eddie shook his head. “I don’t give a sh—” He paused. “S’cuse me. I mean, I don’t care about his ma’.” He waved his hand for her to continue. “Go ahead. What happened next? Did you see that other kid? What’s his name, Tar?”
Micola smiled. “No. Tau. Like ‘cow’ but with ‘t.’”
“Tau. Got it. You see him? This Tau-guy?”
She shook her head. “No. I can’t see his house from uppa-my bedroom window. But Dario—he shouted his name when he shoot his gun over to Tau’s house. Those two boys—they no-like each other.” She folded her arms and shook her head. “Never did. Maybe is-because Dario is black and Tau is Hmong?” She shook her head. “I don’t know too much about this, but I think this is how it is in this neighborhood. There are gangs now, Eddie.” She jammed her finger toward the floor. “Right here in this neighborhood.”
Eddie shook his head. “What-a shame. I used to live here—long time ago.”
“Oh, Eddie, really? Here?”
“Yeah. Do you know the Sabatinos?”
She put her hand to her chin, thinking. “Sabatinos? I think so, sì.”
“Yeah. That’s my family. My grandparents—my ma’s parents.” He waved his arm across the room. “We all lived here. Right down on Desoto.”
Micola’s eyes widened as she smiled. “You-kiddin’ me, Eddie. That’s so nice. You remember the neighborhood?”
Eddie nodded. “Sure I remember. Great old Italian neighborhood.” He frowned. “Gone now though, am I right? Swede Hollow? The Italians? We used to have a lotta’ fun. Nobody shot nobody. Everybody got along—well, mostly. Too bad it’s all changed.”
Micola sat back in her chair and shook her head. “It’s bad, Eddie. But I no-move.” She jabbed her finger into the arm of the chair. “I’m here in this house forty years. I die here.”
Eddie chuckled. “Understood. Now, Let’s get back to these kids. So you did call the cops?”
“Sì. The policeman—he come to my house. He go outside with a flashlight. He say, ‘yes, there are bullet holes.’ He say ‘yes, he-talk to those boys.’”
Eddie stood to leave. “Well, I’m gonna’ talk to ‘em, too. Time fa-me to take care-a business. That’s why Primo sent me. I’ll go straighten-em out right now.”
“Eddie, please don’t hurt them. They-boys—causing a little trouble.”
He put his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t you worry ‘bout nothin’. I’m gonna take care-a this problem. And those two boys? They won’t bother you no more. Capisci?”
“Okay, Eddie. Grazie.” She walked him to the front door, retrieving his leather jacket and hat from the closet.
Turning toward the front door, he said, “Do you know if these guys are home right now?” He looked at his watch. Eleven-thirty a.m.
“Dario—he’s home. He leaves at night. Tau, I think he works. I see him go in the morning.”
Eddie tipped his head toward Dario’s house next door. “I’ll start with this punk and take it from there. Be back soon, ‘eh?”
“Okay, Eddie. Grazie. Be careful.”
He laughed. “You ain’t gotta’ worry ‘bout me.”
Micola gave him a nervous giggle. “Okay.”
He waved his hand. “Alright. See you’se later.”
As Micola shut the door behind him, Eddie walked down the steps to the sidewalk, plotting his moves with the two idiots who liked shootin’ up the old lady’s house—and the neighborhood. Afterward, he’d call Primo with an update.
