Chapter 7: It Hurts
Ranger’s POV
I’ve been gone from my Babe for 10 long days and I’m anxious about this 1730 call. I trust Tank to hold the fort while I’m gone but I’m wondering what is so important that he needs me to call in while I’m on assignment. It has to be Babe related.
This assignment is an interesting one. It’s also the assignment most likely to get me killed stateside, the assignment most likely to create lasting domestic enemies, and the assignment most likely to put me, and possibly my Babe, in permanent crosshairs if I’m not careful, which is why it’s costing the feds the big bucks.
The biggest.
This is without a doubt the single most expensive contract I’ve ever slid toward the government. $50 million plus expenses for one year’s work is expensive as hell to them which is why we’ve been here for 5 days “negotiating”. I’m the single hold-out on this project, the one reason the op hasn’t actually started yet. I keep reminding them that they have the option to bring someone else in but I know they won’t; I’m the best. I have my own sources of intel. I’m legendary here and abroad. And I’ve always been worth every penny they pay me.
So they keep me here in hopes they can wear me down to the usual $5-10 million but it won’t happen. The shit I have to do for this one, the intel they want, the cover I’ll need to maintain and the fuckers I have to work with demand every penny. And I’ll be without my Babe for an entire year? If they keep fucking with me the price will increase to $60 million. My one consolation is that I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the Cop is out of the picture too.
In short, there are an unknown number of rogue federal agents working with MS-13, the violent, sociopathic street gang that originates from LA. They are completely without fear as a gang and to even be accused as a snitch is to sign a death warrant. Human smuggling, drugs, contract killings, you name it, they’re involved in it and it’s been damn near impossible for the feds to get any sort of handle on them because they’re so insular.
They started Operation Community Shield a few years ago but as quickly as they cycle members into the task force they’re killed so someone on the inside is feeding them information. The fact that it’s MS-13 is well known; the gang’s calling card is the use of a machete. Hard to argue that someone got knocked off by the Crips or the Latin Kings when you see a bloody machete lying between the head and body of the victim. They’re so known for its use that other gangs won’t even attempt to replicate the machete calling card.
State and local task forces up and down the eastern seaboard keep losing members and the latest losers on the “We lost an agent!” roulette are the members of the New Jersey Street Gang Task Force, who recently found the bodies of 6 of their best agents right outside Newark’s airport. It was a particularly brutal crime. The female agents. . . best not to think about it. I’ve never seen that kind of carnage in my life, Special Forces be damned.
So that’s the assignment: to locate all the dirty federal agents and get them on tape for conviction. They also want the names of any state and local agents that have been working with them and any additional targets. This is OK. They proposed getting the MS-13 leadership but I turned that part down. I have my own reasons for not wanting to get involved with that.
I’ve been here in DC, MS-13 territory, trying to negotiate the contract and mentally prepare for the assignment. I need to make one final trip back to Trenton to update my will, kiss my Babe (I wonder if she’ll give me consent. God knows I need and want her again and I want more than a few kisses. . . I need a few hours), make sure that the family is safe and Tank is prepared for the possibility that I might not return from this one.
I’ve already started the prep work for the op, working with Silvio to create six additional fake IDs just for me, complete with all necessary papers and back stories, and setup bank accounts all over the Caribbean. I also need him to create 30 additional aliases, with the same setup. The DHS is providing aliases for each of the agents but the moment is op starts I’m handing them 2 more aliases to work under. If we are trying to find rogue federal agents the last thing we use is aliases setup by the government. Double blind man’s bluff and I’ll be the only person who can connect all the dots.
The past four days have been spent with a new special order task force answering directly to the Director of Homeland Security and this little “status” meeting with the members who are involved has been boring me silly. They have little info and no idea where and how to start. I already have more information than they’ll get in a month and good intel on a few of the possible rogue agents. We break for the restrooms and I’m forced to actually speak to the one member I’ve been ignoring the most.
“Aguilar?”
“De Luca.” I’m no more polite than I have to be. An entire year with this asshole? Jesús, ayúdame (Jesus, help me).
“How much longer you gonna jerk the government around? Everyone is ready to start this op but you. Why are you holding things up?”
Really? You’ve called me a hired gun, a contract killer, and crazy for years and you wanna know why I’m holding things up? I’m holding them up because I can. Because my life is worth a helluva lot. Because if I get killed trying to keep your ass alive, I want to make sure my Babe never has another financial problem for the rest of her life, even if her life contains your sorry ass.
I’m tempted not to answer but I’ll have to work with him for a year. Why start off wrong? We already have enough issues between us and the main one is 5’7″ with blue eyes and curly brown hair. “It’s a contact negotiation, De Luca. I’m a businessman. The government is dragging their feet. They either accept the contract or they don’t. If they don’t, they can find someone else to do this.” Except they can’t and they won’t because this situation is uniquely suited to my skills, resources, and abilities. Even he knows this.
RangeMan isn’t a player in this contract negotiation, but there isn’t a person involved in the negotiations who isn’t aware that the reason why I’m the first, second, third, and all the way to tenth choice for this op is the fact that my company has offices in every single location on the eastern seaboard where MS-13 is most active except DC and Charlotte. I figure the feds can take care of their own backyard and Atlanta is close enough to Charlotte.
I can get intel through my company faster and it will be more accurate than anything anyone else can get. After all the years of being sneered at for hiring ex-cons and ex-gang bangers it’s now considered a blessing I have them.
Idiots. I always keep an eye on the long game.
Part of my requirements in this op will be that the company will not be directly connected or implicated in this in any way. That’s also a sticking point. The feds want to be able to suck intel directly from RangeMan. No. No way. The last thing I want is for the company, and my name, to be associated with the feds on the street. Part of my stature comes from the fact that I’m known for following my own code, which may or may not follow the law. Plus, it’s payback for all the years they wanted to double and triple check my men before allowing us to do our jobs. I hired them; that should’ve been enough.
1630 rolls around and the ICE agent in charge of “negotiating” with me has been blathering on and on about duty and service for 45 minutes. Fuck you. Special Forces. Mercenary. The government calls me enough to perform “patriotic” services for them and I’ve done my duty well, which is why they keep calling. And paying. I have 60 before I need to call Tank, so I walk to the door in the middle of his blather. It shuts him up.
“Signatures on the paper. Money in the accounts. I’ll return then.”
Everyone in there is stunned but I’ve made my point. My time is valuable and expensive. You’ve wasted enough of it.
I slide into the Mercedes and head to the hotel. I don’t want to be in DC traffic when I need to concentrate on the call and although the hotel is only 25 minutes away in light traffic, DC has a hellish commute. I’m in the hotel room, bathed, relaxed and awaiting room service when 1730 hits. I turn on the signal jammer.
“RangeMan? How’s it going?”
“Shitty. They’re stalling me on the contract but they’ll sign in the morning. I need to give you all the details and I need you to pull the XOs together for a confidential.” Silence. Oh shit, what’s wrong? “Report!”
“Yeah, I’m here.” I hear a sigh. A sigh? OH SHIT! “She’s fine. Had problems with a skip, has a fractured leg, been living on 7 for the past week. I repeat: She’s fine. She’s the reason I’m calling.”
I’m furious and turned on. Babe was injured and he said absolutely nothing to me for an entire week? She was living in my apartment? Sleeping in my bed? She’s where I want her? Fuck! You bastard! I would’ve left days ago. “Mats. 0500 the day I arrive.” Knock at the door. Room Service with dinner.
“HUA! Sit. Let me fill you in.”
I let room service bring my meal and tip the guy out. “Start from the beginning and don’t leave out any details.”
“Fine. First: Santos and Brown are here. You’re on speaker.” Not fond of that.
“Second, listen to the entire story before you comment.” OK, code for “you aren’t going to like this.”
And I don’t. For the next 60 they tell me everything that’s gone on in the past week. The problems Steph had with the skip. The fact that Tank divulged the real reasons behind some of my ops. The fact that they’ve been running a psy-op on my woman (Ella got her to eat a vegan meal?! Did anyone tape her reaction?). The decision they made to make the move now to San Antonio and how they plan to accomplish it. The week of allowing Ram, Manny and Hal run RangeMan Trenton. The rampant gossip surrounding Morelli’s disappearance and mine. And the fact that they are leaving my Babe behind defenseless, although they’ve offered her the CO position.
I don’t like a thing I’ve heard….except for the success that Manny, Hal and Ram have had running the office. I’m actually pretty proud of that. And that they think Babe should step in as CO while I’m in the wind and they’re the San Antonio. I’m glad to see they have that kind of faith in her abilities, the same faith I do. And, although I don’t want to admit this, having an office in San Antonio will help during this op. MS-13 is huge in Texas.
I sit back and consider what I’ve heard. If I know Lester he’s run a great psy-op on her. I’ll have to get the details tomorrow but I already know what I’m going to do. I’m driving up tonight. If I know my Babe, she’ll want to talk to me, if possible, before she gives them an answer. She’ll be hurt; she has been hurt. I have to remember I don’t know about the panic attack, that I’m not aware that she’s been crying. I have to pretend that she hasn’t been curled up holding onto my pillow, a poor substitute for me. I have to walk in and do what I never do to her: I have to lie.
I have to pretend I don’t know anything and that I left DC without a signed contract because I need to talk to the XOs about an op that I’m not legally obligated to yet. I’m pleased that I can’t be implicated in this psy-op in any way and I’m thrilled that Lester has her, by all indications, nicely boxed in. I hate that they manipulated her but the way they did it and what they did (and if I’m completely honest, why they did it). . . I might have to buy Santos an Aston Martin if it works. If she finally chooses me. Perhaps I should tell Lester about our conversation two weeks ago? Yeah, I think I will but that is an in-person conversation. I’m still not sure if I believe her. I want her to make the decision to walk away from Morelli without my having to coerce her and it looks like Lester has really stacked the deck in my favor.
The line has been silent for about 5 minutes before I hear Les. “CO?”
“Yeah.”
“Do we have your support?” He shouldn’t have to ask that; he’s my cousin and Tank and Bobby are my brothers. We have had each other’s backs for more than a decade. Even if I don’t like your moves, I’ll still support you. You will only do what’s right and when I’m not there I have to trust that’s what you’re doing. All day. Every day. Especially where my Babe is concerned. If I can’t trust you when my back is turned then expect to find a blade in yours.
“Yeah. You do. You know what you’re doing. I don’t like that you ran a psy-op on her without my knowledge and you’ll pay for that shit on the mats at 1200. Tell your buddy he’s got 1700. Call the XOs up. Monday 0900. I’ll back this order up in person and I need to talk to them anyway. Secure a room and get ready. I’m coming in.”
I pack my bags, step across the hall and knock. I’m dredging up the very last of my ‘decent’.
“Yeah?” Morelli, De Luca for the duration of this op, is shirtless and has a pizza. Does he eat anything else? The constipation and heartburn would kill me. His phone is open so I’ve either interrupted his nightly call to his mother or to Terry. He thinks I think he’s calling his “Cupcake.” Fucker. I’ve had your phone tapped for two weeks. And I know what’s up.
“I have to head back home. Remember to watch yourself and try not to get killed while I’m gone. Take this.” I hand over the signal jammer.
“Thanks. Fuck you.” How nice. He’s remembering his manners. I pick up my bags and leave. This is going to be one long ride.
Joe’s POV
I hear Mañoso moving down the hall and for the first time in a week, I feel I can relax. Knowing that I’ll have to trust this nut job for the next year is unnerving me. The fact that he came in already moving around under an alias freaks me out. Everyone else had their aliases assigned. Mañoso took one look at the alias assigned to him and passed it back. “I have my own papers.” I have my own papers?! Who the fuck says that?!
My mother is on the phone updating me on the neighborhood gossip. “I’m serious, Joey! The entire town thinks you’re out of town, getting drunk and crying over her! And of course, since you swore me to secrecy, your grandmother and I can’t say anything in your defense. My only consolation is the fact that her mother is working just as hard to kill the rumors but you know Edna is crazy! Running around, flapping her mouth about black wangers and hard bodies—” Oh geez….words I never ever wanted to hear come out my mother’s mouth….black wangers….I prefer to think she’s untouched. She’s as close to a fucking saint as I’ll ever know.
“Ma? Ma!”
“What!”
“Look, I know that it’s not what you want, but just ignore it. It’ll die down soon enough.”
“No, it won’t! It’ll get worse! When it takes you more than a month to return people will start to think that thug threw you in the river!” No chance of that Ma. Mañoso wouldn’t chance me being a floater. If he kills me you’ll never find enough of me to bury. Please Jesus, if I have to die, can you let MS-13 get me? Then my mother can bury me, closed casket please. And perhaps ban Edna Mazur from the services. My ass, and wanger, can rest in peace.
My mother continues her angry rant for another 10 minutes before she dies down. In that time I realize that if Cupcake’s living in RangeMan and Mañoso is headed back there tonight….no, I’m not going to think about that. Thinking about that will lead to thinking about that night and I don’t need my head there tonight.
Flashback, ~3 weeks ago
I roll off Steph, happy, sweaty, and finally limp. The woman is a wildcat in bed, even if she’s a pain in the neck everywhere else. I pull her close and listen to her breathe. The sound is relaxing and I can feel all the stress melt away. She’s almost asleep.
“I love you, Steph.” I can feel her smile against my chest. “Cupcake, will you marry me?”
“No.”
Shit. Even half asleep she won’t say yes. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t love you, Joe,” she mumbles. I feel the exact moment that she registers what she just said which is a miracle because I’m pretty sure I just had a heart attack and died. “I mean, I don’t love you enough to get married right now…I don’t want to get married right now…I’m not sure I ever want to get married again.” Shut up. Just shut up. You said what you meant. Shit. If I can’t get you to say you love me, if I can’t even get a sleepy “love you too Joe” out of you, then what the hell are we doing?
She’s sitting up now, sheet clutched to her chest (why do women do that? I’ve just been sucking there. I’ve seen it all) and staring at me with wide, fearful eyes. I don’t remember moving, but apparently I’m now half dressed. If I could find my shoes and my…ha, there’s my shirt. If I put my shirt on you can’t see the massive gaping hole you just tore in my chest. I know you love me, I’ve heard you say it, but it’s like rain in the desert: not enough and not often enough.
I want to be married to you. I love you. I want you to fly, to live your dreams, to be happy. I just want you to be safe. You aren’t safe. You don’t do the job properly. You don’t do it safely or as safely as you could. And even though I’m still kinda proud and embarrassed that I was your first big FTA, you haven’t progressed doing the job. Hell, even capturing me was a lucky break because I was already cuffed. But I want to give you all of me and have all of you in return.
And I know that won’t happen.
It won’t happen because Mañoso exists.
I don’t have all your heart because he has half, even though he won’t claim it. I’m well aware that I’m on borrowed time with you, waiting for you to choose, waiting for him to walk away and for you to accept it. And he’s waiting for me to do the same. It’s become a standoff, me versus him. The only difference is my clock is ticking. He has a child. He’s been married and divorced. He’s had and given up every fucking thing I want with you so desperately. And he’s just circling around you, waiting for me to give up.
And what I can’t understand is why? He’s never going to quit going “in the wind”. You’ll never tame him. Hell, Tank may even call you one day and say he won’t come back and you’ve waited for what? What is he offering you that is so tempting it keeps you running between us? I don’t see it. I don’t know. I can’t fight it. And I’m angry. I’m really really angry. I’m boxing shadows. I’m a good boxer but I need something solid to hit. Tell me, please, what I’m fighting against.
Fuck the shoes. I take one last look at you, still sitting in the bed stunned, and I’m out the door and in my Jeep. I’m headed. . . no, I’m headed to my mother’s. I need my Momma tonight. I need the woman who loves me unconditionally to tell me it’s OK. It will be OK. You haven’t broken me; you’ve just bruised my heart and maybe broken my spirit a little. It’s hard to keep putting myself out there with you and getting little or nothing back in return. She’s surprised to see me at 1AM but one look at my face (and one less than discreet sniff of my body) and she propels me to the bathroom to wash up. I get in the shower, as hot as I can stand it, and I’m scrubbing you away. Your scent, your feel, I don’t want it on me right now. Not until I determine what the hell I want to do next.
Momma is downstairs. She’s warmed up some leftover manicotti and opened the wine. You don’t cook so I’m hungry. I burned off everything I ate earlier. Momma feeds me. She gives me seconds. I have two glasses of wine and she tugs me back upstairs into bed. She strokes my hair as I fall asleep. I’m too old for this but I won’t stop her. She gives me what I need.
The phone ringing wakes me. I hear Momma on the phone, it’s my boss, and she’s telling him that I’m at her house. That I’m not well. Angie Morelli is a force of nature, a ‘Burg institution, and if she says her Joey is not well that’s the end of the discussion. I don’t have to go to work today. I smell the bacon and eggs, the coffee. Is that a steak sizzling? I hear the front door close and Grandma walk into the kitchen. I’m betting she went for pastries. There will be a feast for breakfast. I just have to go get it.
My cell phone is vibrating. Cupcake. No. Not until I know what my next move is. Besides, what in the hell could you have to say to me right now? ‘Sorry?’ Fuck your sorry. You’re in trouble? Call Mañoso. Hell, if you can hang on for 2 more minutes, I’m sure he’s about to pull up.
I was right. Steak, eggs, pastries, coffee. Bacon too. I eat my fill and Grandma gets up to make me more eggs. I’m finally full. I’ve reached the cholesterol limits for the month, if I gave a damn about that sort of thing. My mother and Grandma share a look and Grandma’s out the door muttering….I know more Italian than I’ve ever let on.
“Tutto questo piangendo e piangendo per una puttana pazza … lei discende da zingari … nessuno di loro conosce il significato di fedeli … La sua nonna è un folle … e shes diventare una prostituta nella sua vecchiaia. Cristo …, ragazzo, andare avanti. I suoi figli, i vostri figli con lei sarebbe folle!” (All this crying and weeping over a crazy whore…she’s descended from gypsies…none of them know the meaning of faithful…Her grandma is a loon…and she’s become a whore in her old age…Christ, boy, move on. Her children, your children with her would be insane!)
Thanks, Grandma, for the vote of confidence. Then again, she’s been cursing Cupcake’s womb for years. Maybe I should’ve paid more attention. Momma refills my coffee. She won’t say anything. She waits. Years with my bastard father taught her patience and restraint.
“Why did you stay?”
She doesn’t pretend to not understand the question, but she does look at me, alarmed. I shake my head; no, I did not hit her. I’m not my father. She calms down and refills her own coffee. I wait.
“The love that exists between two people is not something that can be easily understood by others looking on, Joey. You saw an abuser, a man who hit me, hit you and your brother, ignored your sister, who drank himself into a stupor and died too young for me and not soon enough for the rest of the world. You didn’t see the man who courted me, the man who wrote me letters from Vietnam, the man who asked me to continue to safeguard his heart. You didn’t see the man who returned from Vietnam emotionally bruised, seen horrors he couldn’t forget, dropped home and despised by his fellow citizens and forgotten by his country. You didn’t see the man who fought for years to keep his demons away while putting food on the table and clothes on our backs.
You saw the man who lost the fight and who used alcohol to medicate. You knew the man who existed after Vietnam, after the alcohol and the womanizing. The man who became what he had despised most: his father. I stayed because I loved the man who asked me to love him for the rest of his life and I did. I did and still do love your father Joey. He was a good man before he lost the fight. The rest of the world didn’t see that and the ones who did quickly forgot.”
We sit in silence and sip coffee. I consider Momma’s words.
“Do you love her?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. That I can answer easily.
“With your whole heart?”
“Yes.”
“Will you love her in 10 years if nothing between you changes?”
Silence. Shit. Caught. “I don’t know.”
“Then the answer, Joey, is no. You won’t. The only question now is, how long are you willing to wait for her to change?”
With that, my mother stands to leave. I stand up and pull her close and hug her like I haven’t hugged her in a long time. I think the last time I hugged her like this was right after the charges were dropped, right after Cupcake proved I was innocent. As usual, Momma has made everything clear. I’ve been avoiding this talk with her for this reason.
I move to the couch and watch my mother for the rest of the day. She’s doing her ‘Burg housewife bit and I’m thinking. I don’t have your heart. I’m sharing it with Mañoso and as long as you don’t have to make a choice, you won’t. You’ll wait until my sperm is defective or you’re in menopause and then you’ll want to get married. But not because you truly love me; you’ll marry me so you won’t be alone. You don’t want to be ‘Crazy Aunt Steph’ at the Kloughns’ family get-togethers.
Meanwhile, I’m stuck wondering if Mañoso’s in your bed when I’m not. I’m sick of it. I could accept the two of you being friends, if that’s all it was. But he’s not there for friendship; what he’s there for I don’t know, but it sure as shit isn’t friendship. He’s waiting for me to leave; I’m waiting for him to leave. Neither of us is moving. You’re getting all your needs met and we look like your fucking harem, only I’m the pathetic side and he’s the cool side because he gets to go “in the wind” and disappear and when he reappears everyone looks at me with pity and sadness because they know my girlfriend is in the alley with the one man none of us can arrest, pin a crime on, or even ticket.
I can’t even prove Abruzzi went any way other than what the coroner reported. We’re all too fucking afraid of him and he’s pretty much untouchable. Fuck, the streets know you as ‘Mañoso’s woman.’ Not ‘Morelli’s woman.’ Mañoso’s. Whether he’s there or not, you can cruise Stark Street in relative peace, one of the few women not in police blues or working a corner who can.
So I can’t trust you. I can’t trust you with Mañoso because he has your heart or at least part of it. I certainly don’t have all of it. You keep his secrets. You did not, would not and never will go after him if he were an FTA. He trusts you with everything he has. That’s clear to everyone. The person whose home is constantly broken into, whose cars are stolen or bombed, and who trips over dead bodies like children over shoelaces has a key fob to the most secure building in town. She has access to cars worth more than my annual salary and a job, part-time or full, whenever she needs money. She can have men assigned to her assistance and protection with nothing more than a vague hint of a threat to her.
And I’m not as stupid as you think. I constantly have the feeling I’m being watched. I know he has men on me; I just can’t find the bastards.
And you’ve proven you don’t trust me. The unwarranted jealousy over Terri? For Christ’s sake, she’s a mobster’s niece! Career suicide since she’s so close to him! She’s a friend and occasionally an unnamed source but that’s all that’s ever going to be. But I need someone to talk to, someone who knows the gossip so I don’t have to explain this shit, someone who understands that this is only friendship and nothing more. Someone who won’t talk. Terri is my Mañoso without the sexual tension and the secrets. She doesn’t tell me any. I don’t tell her mine. And she doesn’t have a piece of my heart, just a place in my emotions as a good friend and in my memories as a great ex-girlfriend.
I think what hurt me most, even though we’ve never really discussed it, was the Zook thing. Knowing how I felt about marriage and kids, you assumed I would just ignore a child that could possibly be mine? Fuck, did you confuse me for Mañoso? If I’d thought, for a single moment, that Zook was mine he’d be living with me and be watched by my mom. There would be child support and visitation in place. He would never have been ignored. And you said nothing to me about it the whole damn time! You simply assumed. You took the word of someone who told you he wanted to kill me over mine without asking me a single question.
If nothing changed between us, then I would hate you in ten years. No. Just, no. This is over. I don’t need this in my life. I’m with you because of desperation, not contentment. I’m desperate to have you and love you and give you my heart and have yours in return and you’re desperate to remain independent. You want to remain independent but what does that mean? You don’t want marriage, you don’t want kids, you don’t want a steady job, what the fuck do you want? Do you know? I know Dickie did a number but that was years ago and I feel as if I’m paying for Dickie’s mistakes. You refuse to do anything that might even hint at a life beyond starving college student and I don’t understand why. I have no interest in Joyce and we don’t have to buy a dining room table if that’s what you’re afraid of.
I stay with my mother for two days, calling in sick. I’m fed and cosseted and put back together. Neither my mother nor my grandmother says anything else about Cupcake again, for which I’m grateful.
When I finally leave I’m whole again. It’s over. I won’t go back. I’ll only go back to her if she tells me I have her whole heart, the way two people in love should be, and that Mañoso is firmly in the “friend” category and nothing more. I’ll only go back if she proposes to me this time so I know she’s chosen me and is not settling for me. I’ll only go back if she’s ready to talk about kids because I want them and I need to know when, not if, we’ll ever have some. That’s all I want, her heart, her loyalty, a life with her and children. I won’t settle for less. I won’t wait around to see if she offers Mañoso first right of refusal.
I return to the scene of the massacre and look up at her window. She’s home. Good. I see the black SUV in the parking lot. Two inside. A watch is on. No other cars, no Porsches, in the lot. Excellent. Let’s make this quick.
I knock on the door and it opens. Her eyes are bloodshot and she has tear tracks down her cheeks. “Joe, I…I…” Yeah, what can you say?
“Got a moment?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I’ll make this quick.” I walk in, sit on the couch. The place is spotless, which means she cleaned to avoid thinking. Never met a thought you couldn’t avoid, huh Cupcake? She closes the door and joins me on the couch, looking at her fingers. Ah, there are my shoes. “I went to my mother’s. I needed time to think.” She looks up, opens her mouth to say something. “No, just listen. I don’t need you to respond. My mother asked me, ‘If nothing changed between us, would I still love you 10 years from now?’ and you know, Steph, the answer was no.”
She goes pale.
“I’ve been clear about what I want. Marriage, kids, commitment. I accept your job and that you love it but I want you to get better at it. Armed, competent, I don’t think that’s too much to ask. I could even accept Mañoso, if it were very clear to him and the rest of the world that he was only a friend and the alley visits stopped.”
Now she looks ready to pass out. Damn, did you really think I didn’t know? Everyone in fucking town knows, Steph!
“So here’s where I am. I’m out. I love you and will probably love you until the day I die, but it isn’t enough. I feel I’m marking time waiting for you to decide that you’re ready, so I’m giving you the decisions here. There will be an us when you propose to me, but when you do, I expect a discussion about when, not if, we will have children. That’s what I want. Your heart, your loyalty, marriage, and children. In the meantime, while you’re making up your mind, I will see other people. You can consider this an off-phase and take the time to decide what you want in life. Call it an ultimatum if you want, but I won’t settle for anything less than what I’ve just asked for.”
With that, I stand up to leave. “Any questions?” She looks stunned and breathless and she’s crying again. If I hold her I’ll stay the night and I’m not ready for that yet. I grab my shoes, walk to the door, turn around and say “See you later, Cupcake” and walk out. I stand outside the door for a moment and I can hear her sobs. I walk out the building and over to the black SUV.
“Morelli.” Tank. Good. All the benefits of speaking to Mañoso without the temptation of wanting to deck him.
“Tell your boss to come comfort her. By the way, I know you have men on me. I can feel the watch. You can call them off.”
I leave. It’s over.
The next day, I get the call I’ve been expecting. Because I know that Cupcake is both a people pleaser and a coward, I decide to handle this for her.
“Joseph? Helen Plum here. I’m calling to invite you to dinner tonight, 6PM. We’re having stuffed cabbages.”
Well, I’m dodging a bullet there. Cabbage gives me horrendous gas. I’ve farted “Camptown Races” after cabbage. “Mrs. Plum, perhaps you should sit down.” I wait a moment and I hear the chair scrape across the floor. “Mrs. Plum, Stephanie and I are no longer together.”
“What?! Why?! Joseph, dear—”
“Mrs. Plum, I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I want you to understand something. I love your daughter. I love her deeply and I always will. But she isn’t ready to have a serious relationship and I’m tired of begging her for one. Stephanie and I have had a discussion about our relationship and where we are and she knows what the next steps are. I’m asking you, as her mother who I know loves her very much, don’t push her on this. Leave her alone to make her own decision. Don’t keep pushing and nagging and begging her to marry me. I want her to marry me because she loves me as much as I love her, not because she wants you to stop nagging her and criticizing her life every time you see her. So, can you do that for me? Can you leave her alone about our relationship and let us handle it?”
There’s silence on the other end of the phone. This makes two days in a row that I’ve silenced Plum women.
“Thank you very much for the invitation to dinner, Mrs. Plum. Hopefully, I’ll see you again sometime soon.” Well, that’s over. The upside in all this: I don’t have to worry about Edna Mazur pinching my ass anymore.
“Joey?”
“Yes Ma?”
“Take care of yourself. Is it possible for you to make a stop here anytime soon?” You want to kill the rumors I’m off crying somewhere. Sure, no problem. Hell, I’ll up the ante. I wonder if Nancy is free. I’ll call her tonight.
“You know what I’ll come home this weekend. We’ll go to dinner, Rossini’s OK? I know nothing is as good as your food but you deserve a night out. And I’ll bring a friend, OK, is that OK? Me, you, Grandma, and a friend.” I can feel her delight through the phone. It takes so little to make my mother happy. I should do this more often.
“Wonderful! I’ll call Rossini’s and make a reservation. I’ll see you this weekend, Joey and be safe, OK?” We disconnect, I finish my pizza and call Nancy. Yes, she’s free Saturday night, so I invite her to dinner. She’s happy to meet my mom, looking forward to it. Wonderful. That handled, I turn in for the night.
