Fool's Errand Page 5

  I believed him. I tend to do that a lot in life, believe what people say. It gets me into all kinds of trouble.

  “How’s your dad?” I asked. Aunt Mary had died a couple of years before and the last time I saw Uncle Vincent was at her funeral. It occurred to me that was the last time I’d seen Frank.

  “Good,” he told me. “He’s good.” Our drinks were served, he picked up his scotch and said, “Salud.”

  We touched glasses and tasted our drinks. Then we spent a while going through the family roster, comparing notes on how our sisters were doing, sharing the gossip we’d heard about various aunts, uncles and cousins, just generally catching up.

  An old friend once warned me that “catching up” is the death knell of a relationship. When all you’ve got to talk about is how other people are doing, it means you have nothing in common anymore. It happens a lot when someone moves away, then tries to keep in touch, and those telephone discussions are the worst. You’re each trying to think of things to tell the other, instead of saying what you really feel. Something like “You know Hank, you’re not actually a part of my life anymore and I’m not a part of yours. What do you say we eighty-six this crap, and if you’re in town some time we’ll get together and see a ballgame or get drunk or something, okay?”

  “Are you listening to anything I’m saying?” Frank asked me.

  “Sure, I’m listening. Just got a little distracted, that’s all.”

  “The letter, eh? Let’s see it.”

  “The letter?” I gave him one of those bobble head doll nods, as if once I started I might not be able to stop. “It was just a note.”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  “I didn’t bring it.”

  “You didn’t bring it?”

  Don’t you hate it when people repeat what you’ve just said as a way of expressing their disbelief? It’s so demeaning. Especially when you’re lying.

  “No, I didn’t bring it,” I said, then stared down at the little ivory colored onions in my glass, as if I should be embarrassed about not having the letter with me.

  “I thought you were going to let me read it.” He actually managed to sound hurt, although I knew—even well into my second drink—that I never said anything about letting him read it.

  “I told you what it said about Benny. Kind of cryptic, actually,” although why I added that last bit of information I’ll never know. Alcohol can be a sonuvabitch.

  “You see. It’s cryptic. That’s why I’ve got to read it if I’m going to be able to help.”

  Another thing I knew I hadn’t said, was that I wanted his help. All I wanted was to find Benny. Still, I was the one who had opened the door. “You know how my father sometimes talked about a big deal?” I shrugged, as if it wasn’t really important. “Just wondering if he ever said anything to you, about money he stashed away or anything like that?” I know, I know, I should have kept my mouth shut. Mr. Smirnoff and I couldn’t help ourselves.

  Frank smiled a genuine smile, which was rare for him. I think he ought to try it more often, swap it for that studied grin he favors, the one he probably uses when he’s about to sell you a car with the odometer turned back. “Blackie always had something on the back burner. You know that.”

  I nodded.

  “You remember the night of my sister’s wedding?”

  “When you took that swing at him?”

  “Forget that,” Frank said as he waved that thought away. “I’m talking about later that night. When we went to Jonesy’s.”

  “Of course I remember.”

  Frank pushed out his lower lip. “He was talking a big deal that night.”

  I shrugged. “He did that a lot.”

  “He did, but that night was different.”

  ”Different how?” I asked.

  “Don’t you remember, at the end, how Benny kept trying to shut him up?”

  I had not remembered that, not until he reminded me, not until he and I relived that night together.

  ***

  AFTER THE BRAWL AT LENA’S WEDDING, after my father crashed through the window and the four of us ended up standing in the driveway drinking scotch—my father, Frank, the bridegroom Ray and me—we eventually climbed into Frank’s car and drove to Jonesy’s Bar.

  Jonesy’s was a gin mill near Greenwood Lake, without tables, booths, menus or any other pretense about the singular reason for its existence, which was the sale of booze. It consisted of one long, narrow room, dominated by an oak bar with a worn, scarred top and a solid brass rail that runs just a few inches off the floor where you could rest your feet while you sit there getting loaded. There was a row of stools with shiny metal legs and round, red vinyl seats that spin all the way around if you had interest in facing this way or that. Behind the bar were shelves stocked with bottles of liquor. Not fancy cognacs or single barrel scotches like they feature in upscale places nowadays. Just scotch, rye, bourbon, vodka, an assortment of domestic beers. Behind the bottles was a large mirror, nothing etched or ornate, just an old looking glass that left you to stare at yourself, if that was your pleasure.

  The room was paneled in dark, rough-hewn wood, the kind that looked like they forgot to plane it down, very Adirondacks, and just the right touch to complement the view through the large windows, where you could see the lake sitting quietly beyond a stand of tall old trees.

  The bartender, Gus, was a burly guy who must have been in his mid-forties when I first met him, but who always looked around sixty and likely still does. He was the only bartender I had ever seen at Jonesy’s. Gus had a receding hairline, broad shoulders and a large tattoo on his left arm that proclaimed his service with the 102nd Airborne. I think he liked us, my cousins and me, because we enjoyed his stories, and because most of his other customers were older and burned out and never seemed to say much of anything, except “I’ll have another, Gus.”

  By the time we got to Jonesy’s that night it was nearly eleven and there were only four other people at the bar. As we came in, Gus greeted my cousin by name.

  “Hiya,” Frank replied happily, then extended his hand. “Gooda see ya, Gus.”

  Gus shook his hand.

  “Gus, you know my cousin.”

  He asked how I was doing, and I told him I was fine.

  “And you know Ray,” Frank said.

  “Sure,” Gus said. “How are ya?”

  “Married,” the young bridegroom muttered, followed by a short burp.

  “What’s that?”

  “He’s married,” Frank interpreted. “Married my sister Lena this afternoon.”

  “No kidding?”

  “No kidding.”

  Not allowing the obvious to go unspoken, Gus asked, “Shouldn’t you be with the bride?”

  “Married,” Ray croaked.

  My father, who had been quiet up to then, stepped forward. “Am I nobody here?”

  “Sorry,” Frank said. “Gus, this is my favorite uncle. Best guy in the whole world, my Uncle Blackie.”

  “I thought maybe you forgot me,” my father said.

  “Blackie?” Gus inquired politely.

  “That’s right,” my father told him. “Blackie.” Then, just to be sure there was no mistake about it, he said “Blackie” again, and asked if anyone had a problem with that.

  Gus shook his head. “You Vincent’s brother?”

  “You know my brother Vincent?”

  “Sure. Good guy.”

  “Good guy? Great guy,” Blackie said, wringing three syllables out of the word “great,” like Tony the Tiger. “Greatest brother in the whole fucken world.” He accompanied that proclamation with a sideward thrust of his right hand that caught Ray flush on the side of the head and almost knocked him to the floor. Frank helped his new brother-in-law regain his balance, as my father said, “Sorry, kid. I think you need a cocktail.�
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  Gus could see that none of us needed a cocktail, but he probably figured there was no way we were going to be able to find our way back to the car, let alone drive it. “What’ll you have?” he asked.

  My father ordered scotch for all of us, Johnnie Walker Black Label of course, then turned to survey the length of bar. The other four men were seated, quietly enjoying their drinks. Blackie called out to them. “You guys know my brother, Vincent Rinaldi?”

  The closest of the four looked up from his shot glass. “Sure, I know him.”

  Blackie pushed away from the bar and strode purposefully toward the man. Standing over him, he said, “Is he the greatest guy in the world or what?”

  The man had the look of a pipe-fitter or mason—thick arms, thick neck and a jaw that hadn’t seen a razor in a couple of days. He was wearing a heavy, blue flannel shirt and the mottled look of intoxication. If he had been a trifle less inebriated, he might have just agreed with my father and gone on drinking. Instead, he said, “Vincent’s a right guy, but the best guy in the world? Come on pal. Gimme a break.”

  “Give you a break? Is that what you want?” Blackie wasn’t in the mood to give him a break. Instead, he pulled a revolver from somewhere inside his sport coat and held it where the man could get a close look at it. “I’ll give you a break. I’ll break you so many times you’ll look like you went through a fucken wood chipper.”

  As soon as Gus saw the gun he said, “Hey, hey, Blackie, let’s put that away. We don’t want any trouble here.”

  My father turned to Gus and told him to keep his hands on the bar. Then he asked, “Why do bartenders always say “I don’t want any trouble here?” You look like a smart guy, Gus, but that’s a dumb thing to say. Think about it. Where the fuck do you want trouble?” Blackie gave everyone a moment to consider that. Then he said, “There’s not gonna be any trouble, just everybody take it easy.”

  Taking it easy was apparently no problem for the three men seated further down the bar, who were so potted they didn’t even know there was anything to be troubled about. Ray had passed out by now, face down on the oak countertop. Frank and I were just standing there, watching.

  The man seated in front of my father, the one who had the nerve to suggest that my uncle wasn’t the greatest guy in the world, was staring at the barrel of the gun. When Blackie waved it closer to his nose, the man began to urinate down his leg, the pale liquid dripping onto the floor for everyone to hear in the momentary silence. “Look buddy,” he began to say in a frightened voice, but my father cut him off.

  “Shut the fuck up, all right?”

  The man nodded.

  “You don’t think too much of my brother, eh?”

  “I, uh, I didn’t say that.”

  “I told you to shut up,” my father snapped at him. “Because I’m gonna tell you something about my brother.” Brandishing the pistol for emphasis, he began pacing the length of the room. “Lemme tell ya what kinda brother Vincent’s been to me, all right?”

  Frank tried to say something, but my father cut him off. “You started this, you weaselly little fuck. You think I forgot that?”

  I had the sense to keep my mouth shut, at least for now.

  Working hard to sound as friendly as if two old pals running into each other on the street. Gus said, “Hey, Blackie. Why don’t we call Vincent and get him down here? Before someone gets hurt, all right? How’s that for an idea, huh Blackie?”

  My father stopped, thought it over and seemed to like the idea. Then his mouth curled into a vicious sneer. “Very good, Gus, you’re a smart boy. You figure I’m so stinkin’ drunk I’m gonna let you pick up that phone and calla cops, right? Come on, Gus.” Blackie started laughing. “I like you, Gus. You’re a smart boy.” He turned to Frank. “Call your father. Tell him to come over. Alone,” he added, snarling the last word for emphasis.

  So that’s what Frank did. He picked up the bar phone and dialed his father’s number, told him the situation and asked him to come over.

  There’s so much more I could tell you about my Uncle Vincent, but for now it’s enough to say that on the night of his daughter’s wedding, when he received a call from his son informing him that his brother was striding up and down Jonesy’s Bar, waving a pistol and extolling the many virtues of Vincent Rinaldi, the said Vincent Rinaldi did not jump in his car, drive over and take my father home. No, while my father paced up and down the room, regaling the group with tiresome stories of his childhood, his days in the military and all the family history that’s never interesting to a stranger unless he’s demented, my uncle responded to the call by hanging up and then calling Benny.

  You might wonder why Benny wasn’t there already, why he wasn’t invited to Lena’s wedding since he knew the whole family and had been Blackie’s best friend dating all the way back to the Second World War. There is no way for me to be sure, but maybe it was tough enough for my Uncle Vincent to retain his brother’s title of Best Guy in the World without unnecessary competition.

  Whatever reasons he had for not inviting Benny to his daughter’s wedding, it didn’t stop Uncle Vincent from phoning Benny to say that Blackie was in a jam. And Benny, being Benny, got out of bed, threw some cold water on his face, pulled on his clothes and drove up from the city to get my father before things got any uglier.

  By the time Benny and my uncle made their way into Jonesy’s, almost an hour later, Blackie had become less a lethal threat than a crashing bore. Everyone in the place was sick of hearing about Vincent and Blackie, so my father turned to the claim that he was sitting on the biggest deal since the building of the Suez Canal.

  He and Benny.

  “We’re gonna have more dough than I’ll know what to do with,” he proclaimed.

  Frank started to say something but, after the earlier dustup I grabbed my cousin by the arm and quietly convinced him to shut the hell up.

  While Blackie went on about all the money he was going to have, he ordered round after round of drinks for everyone. Everyone, that is except for Ray, who remained face down on the wooden bar, snoring loudly out of his mouth and into his own nose. The other customers downed the free booze as Blackie continued his sentinel’s pace, up and down the length of the narrow room, the revolver a prop now, while Gus the bartender kept a watchful eye to gauge when the soliloquy might wind down enough for him to talk my father into giving up the gun.

  When the door to the bar opened, letting in a gust of cold night air, Blackie spun around, not quite leveling the pistol at the intruders, but certainly waving it in their general direction.

  “Lower the gun, Blackie,” his friend said in a composed but firm voice.

  My father took a moment, then said, “Benny! Vinny! Hey everybody, it’s my brother and my best pal.”

  It was a fucking Norman Rockwell homecoming.

  The faces of the four strangers at the bar wore mixed expressions of curiosity and relief. Perhaps the lunatic with the gun would be subdued, or at least they would shut him up long enough for them to get out of there and go home.

  Throwing his arms into the air, my father said, “Benny, you sonuvagun. What the hell are you doing here?”

  Benny was shorter than my father, a cherubic guy with a round face, very little hair, a dark complexion and an easy-going manner belied only by his reptilian gaze. He stepped toward my father, taking him by the shoulders and staring into his bloodshot eyes. “What am I doing here? I was in the mother lovin’ neighborhood and I decided to stop by.” Benny, unlike my father, almost never cursed. Mother lovin’ was a strong statement coming from him. “Whadda you think I’m doin’ here?”

  My father stared at him blankly, as if it might be a trick question.

  “Gimme the gun,” Benny said and, without waiting to debate the request, deftly pulled the revolver from my father’s hand and shoved it into his own coat pocket. “Now siddown and tell me what thi
s is all about.”

  Benny led my father to a stool and sat him down beside the sleeping Ray. Blackie asked Gus for a drink and Benny gave the bartender a nod. As Gus poured yet another scotch, Blackie said, “They don’t believe me, Benny. They don’t believe we got the biggest deal in the world right here.” He held out an unsteady hand and pointed to his own palm. “Right here. Blood money is what we’ve got. Go ahead. Tell ‘em. Tell ‘em the truth.”

  “Do me a favor,” Benny said. “Shut up, okay? I’m sure you’ve already done enough talking tonight.”

  The man at the bar who knew my uncle clearly agreed. Figuring it was safe now, he stood up and said to my uncle, “Vincent, okay for me to go?”

  Uncle Vincent had remained near the door, his posture stiff, his expression a mask of restrained anger. He hadn’t even noticed the guy until then. “Joe, yeah, sure,” he said. “Sorry about all this.”

  Joe got to his feet with some difficulty. “Your brother’s an interesting guy,” he said.

  “Yeah. He sure is.”

  Joe cautiously made his way past my father and headed out the door, but the other three strangers sat right where they were, willing to wait for whatever would happen next. Free drinks are hard to come by that hour of the night.

  “Hey,” Gus the bartender called out to them. “Show’s over. We’re all clearing out.”

  Benny agreed. “We got a tab here? Any damage done?”

  Gus managed a short laugh. “Damage? Only thing that got shot was my nerves.”

  Benny said, “No trouble, then.” Gus told him what was owed and Benny pulled out some large bills and paid three or four times the amount. Then he helped Blackie to his feet and led him toward the door, where my uncle was waiting.

  When they came face to face, Vincent said, “Jesus Christ, John. I live around here, you understand that? Isn’t it enough that you ruined my daughter’s wedding and broke my goddamned kitchen window? I have to face these people. They’re my neighbors, for Chrissake.”

  Blackie stared at his brother for a moment, his eyes struggling to focus. Then he turned back to the three strangers who were trying to make it to their feet. “Look guys, this is him. My brother Vincent. Best fucken brother in the whole damn world.” None of the three men said a word, probably less afraid of Blackie pulling out another pistol than making another speech.