Frankie has a sit-down with Peter.
“Do you know what history is?” Peter asks.
“History?”
“Yeah.”
“I dunno,” Frankie says, “it’s things that happened.”
“No,” Peter says, “it’s what people say happened. So let me tell you the history on Sal. He wasn’t queer, he was a loving father and husband, the moolies killed him in revenge for Marvin Jones.”
“Liam killed him.”
“See, that’s you not understanding history,” Peter says.
“I don’t get why, though.”
You dumb fuck, Chris thinks. If Liam killed Sal, then Peter would be expected to respond, and the war goes on. And we don’t want the war to go on, not like this, anyway. If it was some moolie, then you can spend months looking for him and no one cares. Or you whack one of them and call it a day.
“You don’t need to know why, Frankie,” says Chris.
“But I already told a bunch of people that Sal was a fag.”
“And now you’re going to tell them that he wasn’t,” Peter says. “And they’re either going to believe you or pretend to believe you, because it’s history. Capisce?”
“Capisce.”
Frankie gets up and leaves.
“You trust him?” Chris asks.
“No.”
“Sooner or later we’re going to have to do something about him,” Chris says.
Thirty-One
The word “diagnosed” never meant much to Danny.
People got diagnosed with all sorts of things—sinus infections, pneumonia, mental illness. But now he learns that the word has a very specific meaning—you have cancer.
It was like creeping bad news, a wave you couldn’t stop. First there was the discovery of the lump. It could have been benign. It wasn’t, it was malignant. Then there was the surgery. It could have been a lumpectomy but it wasn’t, it was a mastectomy. Then it could have been stage one, even stage two.
It wasn’t, it was stage three.
Every crossroad took a turn toward the darker place.
Life turns into a monotonous round of chemo, vomiting, fatigue as he watches helplessly. All he can do is hold Terri’s head, bring cool washcloths, watch Ian while she rests, make meals as best he can.
Meals that Terri picks at.
He watches her get thin.
She makes bad jokes about it. “Hey, look, I finally lost that baby weight.”
Danny says all the things you’re supposed to say. “We’re going to beat this thing.” “They’re coming up with newer treatments all the time.” Everyone says what they’re supposed to, the usual clichés like “She’s a fighter.”
Yeah, Danny thinks. There are two fighters in any fight, and one of them loses.
He tries to “stay positive,” though.
One good thing is that the war with the Morettis has come to a stop. Not officially, there’s been no sit-down, no negotiation, but Peter didn’t hit back for Sal and there’s been no aggression of any kind from the Italians.
It seems like they’ve fought to a standstill.
Liam takes credit for it.
Fills the back room of the Gloc with his bragging. “Without Sal, they’re done. Whoever took Sal out . . . and I’m not saying who it was, mind you . . . won the fucking war. They’re finished.”
Privately, especially when he’s high—and he’s always high—he goes around telling everyone, “in the greatest confidence,” how he killed Sal Antonucci. “He comes walking across the street at me, gun in his big fucking hand, and BAM!”
“Yeah, it was High Noon,” Pam says to Danny one night, overhearing this. “Gary Cooper over there.”
“Even if it’s true, he should keep his mouth shut about it,” Danny says.
“How’s Terri?”
“She’s okay.”
“She’s a fighter,” Pam says.
“How much coke is he doing?” Danny asks, looking over at Liam.
“Full employment act for the Colombians,” Pam says.
“Why do you stay with him, Pam?”
“I don’t know,” she says. And that’s the truth. She has options. Just the other day, she was out grocery shopping, an FBI agent approached her.
“A woman with your background,” Jardine said. “From a good family. What are you doing with a piece of shit like Liam Murphy?”
She didn’t answer.
“And now you’re doing coke?” Jardine asked. “I can see it in your eyes. What I can’t see is you in the joint. Pretty girl like you? Whew.” He shook his head.