UNIVERSE: Always...

AUTHOR: Old Time Fan

EMAIL: lasfic@yahoo.com

PART: 1 of 1

RATING: PG (Adult thematic material, language)

PAIRING(s): L/L; S/C; R/S; F/E

DISTRIBUTION: To mine, so far; any other archives are welcome to ask, but disclaimers must be included, my email left intact. send a URL, and provide full disclaimers as well as credit me fully. Please inform me if you are going to submit my work to any sort of search engine.  Please do not submit my work to a search engine that picks out random sets of words and uses them as key words, such as "Google"

Please contact me in order for this story to be placed on an archive, or if you want know of a friend who would enjoy my works, please email me their address and I will mail them the stories, expressly for the purpose of link trading. MiSTiers are welcomed! Please do inform me that you'd like to do the MiSTing, however, and send me a copy of the finished product. I'd also love to archive any MiSTings that are made of my work!

CATEGORY: Romance

FEEDBACK: PLEASE?!

SETTING IN TIMELINE: California, Post-I Do, I Don't

SEQUEL TO: Ever After, Always A Bridesmaid, Always Prepared, Always a Mess, Always Apologize First, Always a Challenge, Always Too Much Lasagna, Always There For You, Always About You, Always Looking In Higher Places, Always Something Else, Always Hide Your Waterballoons, and Always Safe.  Fourteenth in this continuity.

SPOILERS FOR: The entire universe, I Do, I Don't.

SPOILLER/SUMMARY: A storm’s a’coming to Laurel Vista. Meanwhile, things in New York are not as rosy as Carmine’s allowed Shirley to believe.

NOTES:

***

Carmine Ragusa hung up the pay phone with a curse. He leaned back against the glass door of the booth and closed his eyes, reliving the events that had led him to this damned night.

It all started out so good. He’d secured a decent enough apartment, impressed at his audition, and landed the part of Lancelot’s understudy. All good, but none of it particularly enriching, at least as far as his wallet was concerned.

So he’d tried to do the right thing, the legit thing. He’d gotten himself a job as a busboy at the Carnegie Deli. Not too terrible hours, steady if not high pay. His father would’ve patted him on the back for doing the responsible thing, instead of going for the easy money, the shady payday, like he had more than once in the past.

Sorry, Dad, Carmine thought, his father’s weathered, yet kindly face flashing before him. I let you down again.

Then he had to go to Laverne’s family for dinner. They’d heard through Vernie that he was in town, and her grandma had insisted a nice, Italian boy should have a nice, Italian meal. Or two. Or every other night, so what was the big deal? And he’d gone, of course, because his parents raised him to have good manners, plus he was sick of his own, overboiled noodles and ketchup. And Laverne’s cousin, Anthony, had been there, and he’d had ideas.

I had to listen to him. His mind flashed to Laverne’s cousin, all cock-sure and hungry for the easy buck. I had to skirt that legal edge again.

He’d meant well. He just wanted to make sure he could keep up with the rent, maybe surprise Shirl with a little furniture, and keep on sending her the support she rightly deserved as his wife. So when Anthony DeFazio had pulled him aside and mentioned his Uncle Guido might need an errand or two run, it seemed as if his run of good luck in New York was continuing.

Stupido, why don’t you ever think these things through! The force of his self-disgust made Carmine wince. Didn’t you learn from the other sharks you worked for? It’s never as easy as it sounds.

He’d made one delivery. Simple, nothing to it. A wrapped package from one end of town to the next. Less than an hour, and twice as much as he’d made in a week clearing tables. He’d shaken Cousin Anthony’s hand and blessed him for the referral.

Fat lot of good my blessing did him. Carmine opened his eyes and looked outside. Through the dirty, distorted glass, he could just make out the nearby alleyway. A shiver went through him. He began another slow and agonizing search of his jacket pockets, until he found two bits. His arm felt like lead, but he managed to drop the quarters in and dial the first phone number of the person he thought might be willing, if not able, to help him out of this not-so-fine mess.

The phone on the other end rang. The line crackled with distant static. Carmine clung to the receiver. Please answer, he prayed, please let something go right tonight.

***

“There!” Lenny proudly stepped back from the table and studied his achievement with pride. The cake almost glowed, it was so pretty. All white cream frosting and little pink hearts and flowers – well, they were supposed to be hearts and flowers. Lenny frowned and drew closer. They kinda looked more like eggs and…scrambled eggs. Also, he realized as he circled the table, the chocolate cake underneath was kind of slanty on the plate. His shoulders slumped forward. Maybe he should’ve forked over some extra dough and gone to a bakery.

“Hello,” said Squiggy. He strolled out of the kitchen, his face smeared with leftover cake batter, still licking his fingers. He eyed the cake, and said, “Gee, nice lump of cake.”

Lenny sighed.

Squiggy clapped him on the shoulder. Lenny tried not to think about the cake smear undoubtedly left behind on his tee shirt. “No worries, my friend, no worries. We’ll just put a few candles on to, y’know, spiffy it up.” He cocked his head, contemplating Lenny’s handiwork. “Lots of candles. Like, fifty oughtta do it.”

Lenny rolled his eyes. “Squig, if I put fifty candles on Vernie’s birthday cake, she’ll lob the whole thing at my face. While all the candles are still lit.”

Squiggy snorted. “Dames are weird about their age, ain’t they.”

“Well, she is way far away from fifty. Although, I don’t think she’s overly happy about this birthday anyway.” Lenny closed his eyes and thought of his wife’s expression when he’d first suggested they throw a big party to celebrate her birthday. Splurge a little, he’d said, invite all our friends and family. Going by the look on Laverne’s face, you’d have thought he’d suggested inviting a horde of cockroaches to the party. At first, he thought it was just because she was afraid he’d invite her father, or Emmy – fat chance of that now – but then he’d realized it was more than that. Something else was bugging his beautiful fiancée, but he didn’t know exactly what. And she didn’t seem to be in any hurry to tell them.

So they’d compromised, which was, from what he understood, very good practice for marriage. They were going to enjoy their own, private little celebration. Nothing elaborate, she’d made him promise. After she’d clarified that “elaborate” meant “fancy and expensive,” he’d agreed. After all, it was her birthday. The birthday girl or boy should get to choose whatever way they wanted to celebrate, right? Right.

Plus, just maybe, he and Laverne would finally have the time alone together to explore each other in greater depth. He grinned at the thought, imagining more creative uses for the cake than simply decorating and eating.

“Quit daydreaming!” Squiggy snapped his fingers under Lenny’s nose. As if in response, a roll of thunder cracked outside. Startled, Squiggy snapped his fingers again. This time, nothing weather-related changed. He looked disappointed. “Laverne’s gonna be home from…er, Bardwell’s, right…in like three hours. You still got hot dogs to boil and a table to pretty up. And a shower wouldn’t kill ya.” He leaned in, sniffed, and wrinkled his nose.

Lenny shoved Squiggy’s face away from his chest. “You should talk, chocolate-boy. Where are you whisking Miss Rhonda off to tonight?”

Squiggy grinned wickedly. He’d been taking Rhonda out to every nice joint he could think of every night since she’d gotten the all-clear on her cancer. Lenny envied his buddy’s seemingly endless reserve of spending money. If only he were as smart with stuff. Then Laverne wouldn’t have to worry about preserving her small paycheck all the time and he could’ve taken her to the top of somewhere fancy for her birthday. Oh, well, some guys were blessed, others, not so much.

“We’re going to the Snuffy’s Silken Palace on Los Alamos Boulevard,” Squiggy said.

“Wow,” said Len. “That’s that posh new Chinese joint, right?”

“The same. I had to slip the manager a little something extry to get us a seat, but hey, how many times do you get to celebrate your girlfriend beating cancer?” He thought about what he’d just said for a moment or two and shook his head, as if confused by his own statement. “Anyway, it’ll be worth it.”

Lenny just smiled. He knew he should be purely happy for Squiggy. His best friend had gotten the girl of his dreams, and now, thanks to the miracle of modern medicine, it looked like he was going to get to keep her. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy for all Squig could do for Rhonda that he couldn’t for Laverne. Someday, he comforted himself.

As if reading his thoughts, Squiggy patted his forearm. “Don’t think I’m gonna forget you, buddy. I’m ordering extra duck dumplings and plum sauce and sticking ‘em in a doggy bag, just for you.”

Touched, Lenny smiled. “You’re a good friend, y’know that?”

“Yeah,” said Squiggy. A shadow passed over his face, disappeared as quickly as it came. “I’m a real prince.” He turned away. “I should get outta here, let you finish up.”

“Okay,” said Lenny. He wondered, briefly, if something was up with Squiggy now. It seemed like everyone had secrets from him these days. He didn’t like thinking that. It reminded him too much of being a kid, and how Emmy and his dad had made stuff up about where his mother was for so long. She had to get on the bus and leave, ‘cause she was joining the Peace Corps to help poor children in Africa. She meant to come back, but she caught the amnesia. And other, equally stupid stories that he’d clung to until he was just too old to be convinced, or convince himself, anymore.

“See ya,” said Squiggy. He strolled out the door, without even a parting jest about Len’s sex life. Not like Squig at all.

Lightning flashed outside and the rain came pouring down. It didn’t rain much in California, but when it did, it did so with all of God’s vengeance.

The doorbell rang. Lenny jumped about a foot, came down looking at his watch. It couldn’t be Laverne, it was way too early. So, who else would be bugging him this time of day?

“One way to find out, dodo,” he chided himself. He answered the door.

Emmy stood there, her hand resting on Mikey’s shoulder. Lenny nearly bit through his tongue to keep from telling his sister where to go, and how to get there, in front of his young nephew.

“Leonard,” said Emmy. She stared at the middle of his chest, which, considering her height, looked ridiculously unnatural. Anything to avoid meeting his eyes. Which was fine with him; he didn’t have much interest in staring back into hers, either.

“Em,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

She pursed her lips like she’d sucked a sour lemon. “Believe me, if I had another choice…but I don’t.” She squared her shoulders. “Lenny, I need a favor.”

Wow, he had to give his sister credit, she really does have the stones in the family, despite being a girl. “Oh-kay,” Lenny said. He kept his eyes on Mikey, who looked up at him with unhampered affection. At least his sister hadn’t poisoned her kid’s mind against his uncle, despite the fact that Lenny was, as Em put it, ‘a bad influence and marrying an even worse one.’ Just the memory of her words made Lenny’s stomach clench again. He forced the argument to the back of his mind, where he stored uncomfortable things.

“I’ve got to, um, run some errands, and with this storm,” she nodded toward the window. “I’d, ah, feel safer if Mikey weren’t in the car. With me. Alone on the rainy roads. So.”

Lenny waited. Finally, he sighed. “So you want him to stay with me for awhile? That’s kind of inconvenient, Em. I’ve got this thing planned for Laverne.”

Emmy flinched, as though just hearing Laverne’s name physically hurt her. Lenny resolved to use it as much as possible in her presence. “I promise I’ll only be gone for an hour. Please, Lenny, Shirley’s gone off somewhere and there’s no one else I…there’s no one else, okay?”

So I’m not mature enough to decide who to marry, or responsible enough to set a good example to a dog, but now I’m just fine as a babysitter? That made a lot of sense. Emmy must be really desperate to run those errands. “Sure, whatever, no big deal.” He plastered a smile on his face and rumpled his nephew’s hair. “I got some stuff to do for Auntie Laverne’s party. You want to help me?”

Mikey looked past him at the awkward cake on the table. His eyes widened and he licked his lips. “I think that sounds great,” he said.

Maybe he could feed the sideways cake to Mikey and then let the kid help him whip up a new one. He knew Emmy had taught Mikey a lot about cooking and baking. Girly stuff, yeah, but who else did Emmy have to keep her company, in the kitchen or anywhere else?

Len started to feel a little softer toward his sister, until he saw the pucker of her mouth spread to incorporate all her features. Auntie Laverne. That got to ya, didn’t it? Lenny thought. It gave him a rush of mean satisfaction. “I won’t be long, Leonard,” was all she said. Emmy hesitated one more moment, just long enough for another bolt of lightning to flash and another peal of thunder to echo. Then she turned and left without another word.

“You’re welcome!” Lenny called after her. He slammed the door, a little harder than he’d intended.

Mikey looked up at him, over to the cake, and then back again. “Are you and mommy mad?” he asked.

The question hit a nerve. How many times had Lenny asked his father the same thing, back in the day? Only he and Emmy weren’t Mikey’s parents. Still, they were both part of Mikey’s life. It wasn’t good for a boy to worry about the grownups being angry. It made boys blame themselves for things undeserved, and that kind of guilt didn’t go away.

Lenny leaned over and hugged his nephew. He didn’t want the boy to see the sudden rush of moisture in his eyes. “Your mommy and I are just having a silly argument over dumb stuff that’s got nothing to do with you,” said Lenny. He was proud at himself for keeping his voice so steady and calm.

“You can’t get d-i-v-o-r-c-e-d, you know,” said Mikey, hugging him back and then wriggling free. He walked over to the table and focused on the cake. “You’re brother and sister. That doesn’t ever go away.”

Which was true enough. Lenny took a deep breath and let it escape, slowly. “I’m gonna run in and take a shower. Do me a favor, Mikey. Can you take that bowl in the kitchen and put more cake-stuff in the pan and bake it at,” Lenny concentrated, trying to remember the right temperature, “350 for, like, a half hour or something? The recipe’s on the table. Maybe we can take that and mold it onto the cake on the table and make it look…respectable.”

“No problemo,” said Mikey. He disappeared into the kitchen.

Lenny started into the bathroom, but remembered one more thing. “If the phone rings, don’t answer it,” he called after Mikey. “There’s a machine-a-majigger for that. Don’t answer the door, neither, okay?”

Mikey grunted in a way that Len took to mean he’d obey. Now he’d been a “responsible father figure.” Emmy could take all her insistence otherwise and stick it in her patoot.

Later, with the shower running, Lenny couldn’t hear the phone ring. And Mikey, being a pretty good boy overall, obediently ignored it.

***

Carmine let the receiver drop and stared at it, as it dangled from its chain. After another moment, he managed to hang it up properly.

From a distance, Carmine heard a siren. Did it even matter anymore? He might not be dead, Carmine thought. He pressed his palm against the side of the telephone booth. The blood on his palm left a smear on the inside glass.

He’d seen schemes go wrong before, but never this wrong. Another simple delivery, that’s all it was supposed to be. Or, at least, so Anthony had insisted. “No worries, Carmine,” the young man had laughed. “It’s just a drop-off. I ain’t even got to see no one. Just pick the package up here, and drop it off there.”

“But why an alley?’ he’d asked. “Doesn’t that seem a little weird to you?”

Anthony had only shrugged. “Keep me company then, if you’re so worried about me,” he’d said. “I’ll give you a cut, enough dough to cover the rent on those tuxes for your buddy’s wedding.”

Ah, yes, the tuxes. The ones he’d promised, the ones the manager at the Pantages had so generously offered to lend. Well, at least until Carmine had gone to pick them up. That’s when the manager had sprung the rental fee on him. “I’d lend ‘em for nothing if I could, Carmine, pal,” the bastard had lied, “but what if they get lost in transit, or stained, or something? I gotta have some sort of security, y’know, the theater insists.”

What was he supposed to do, tell Lenny, “Sorry, my friend, but we’ll have to wear jeans to the most important day of your life?” Was he supposed to ever look Laverne in her big green eyes again after letting her down? When he thought of how disappointed Shirley would be – “Okay, Anthony,” he’d agreed. “I’ll go with you.”

Besides, he owed it to Anthony for sharing this great-paying gig to go along. Safety in numbers, and all that.

Yeah, and how’s that worked out for you so far? He cursed Anthony’s stupidity, his own recklessness, for all the good it did them both now.

A glance at his watch told Carmine he’d been in the phone booth for only a couple of minutes. It felt like forever. It was also his time to call Shirley. Well, maybe he should. He owed her at least that.

He’d lost his quarters from his last call to Lenny when the machine picked up, so he had to scrounge in his pockets again. It would have been easier with two working hands, but he finally managed to find enough change and deposited it. The sound of the phone ringing on the other end seemed awfully, achingly far away.

***

“Shirl, thanks a lot for driving me to the interview,” said Laverne. She swung her legs out of the car, and waited.

“I’m sorry it didn’t go so well,” said Shirley. She came around the side of the car with an umbrella. Laverne rose and took it from her. They huddled close so that it shielded them both from the sheeting rain, then jogged into Laurel Vista.

“Yeah, well,” said Laverne once they were in the foyer. She smoothed down the wet wrinkles in her skirt. “That interview lady was real snooty. I don’t think I’d have been too happy there if I had to work for her.”

Shirley repressed the urge to point out the obvious: Laverne had to be a lot less picky about these jobs. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, after all, and she’d only gotten a handful of interviews since Bardwell’s let her go.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Laverne. She took out her mailbox key and stuck it into its slot in the wall. She swung open the small door and took out a pile of envelopes.

“I?” asked Shirley. She hoped she sounded as innocent as she intended.

“You.” Apparently not. “You’re thinking, ‘Laverne blew it again. She got all belligerent and made a bad impression, and when will she ever learn?’”

Close enough. “I wasn’t thinking any such thing,” Shirley fibbed.

Laverne just grunted. “Bill, bill, bill, ad -- oy.”

“Excuse me?” Shirley peered around Laverne’s shoulder. “Oo, is that a birthday card?” She clapped her hands. “Who’s it from? Who’s it from?”

“Calm yourself, Shirl,” said Laverne. She read the return address. “It ain’t like I’m turning twelve and looking forward to cake and ice cream and sprouting breasts.”

“You’re in a fine mood today.”

“Goes with the fine weather.” Laverne sighed. “I’m sorry, Shirl. You’ve been real nice about helping me with all this, driving me around, not telling Lenny about Bardwells.”

“You know I don’t approve of your decision not to share this downturn of fortune with your intended,” said Shirley. Laverne was so naïve sometimes. She didn’t realize how dangerous secrets and lies could be to a relationship. Thank goodness I always know where I stand with Carmine. Her heart fluttered at the thought, but she forced herself to believe it until she felt better.

“I know, and I will, once I can say that I’ve already found a new and better job to take its place. That way, Len won’t feel like I’m pressuring him to be the big breadwinner, like he’s all on his own in supporting us.”

“You mean the way Emmy insists he should be?” It suddenly struck Shirley that Emmy had a lot in common with her own mother. How odd, not to mention sad. She shook her head. “You’ve made this decision just to spite Em, haven’t you. Just so she doesn’t get the opportunity to be right.”

“I have not!”

Shirley could tell that she’d poked a still-fresh wound, and backed off. “Anyway, who sent you the card?”

“My grandma.” She opened the letter and read it. A faint smile lit her face. “Aw, everyone signed it. Anthony, Angie, Paulie, even little Sal.”

“How sweet,” said Shirley.

“Yeah. They’re mostly good people.”

They headed upstairs. “Mostly?” asked Shirley.

Laverne shrugged. “Well, nobody’s perfect, y’know. Angie married kind of a creep.” She pressed her fingertip to her nose. “If you know what I mean.”

Shirley frowned. Then she remembered that gangster movie she and Carmine had gone to a few weeks before he’d left for New York. “Oh,” she said. Then: “Oh!”

“Oh,” Laverne agreed. “And Anthony, bless his heart, he’s a good boy, a handsome boy – just not a bright boy, y’know? He thinks Guido’s world is so glamorous.”

Shirley nodded. She remembered dumb, pretty Anthony.

“Oh, damn,” Laverne suddenly exclaimed. “I left my unmentionables in the dryer downstairs!”

“Laverne,” Shirley chided, “how many times have I told you to hang those dry? Your scanties are going to shrink up too small to cover your – self.” She waved her hands to indicate Laverne’s curves.

“I don’t think Len’ll mind that too much.” Laverne grinned lasciviously.

Shirley rolled her eyes. “I’m going to go in and wait for Carmine’s daily call. I hope it comes in before the lines go down.” She flinched at a fresh peal of thunder that shook the walls of their flimsy building. “Come back here to fold, okay? You know I hate to be alone in a storm.”

Laverne gave her a sidelong look. “Ain’t Miss Thing and Mikey in there already?”

Shirley glanced at her watch. “Nope. Emmy’s slipping out to bring Lenny a little surprise.”

Laverne raised her eyebrows. “I don’t think I like the sound of that, all things considered.”

Shirley sighed. Family politics wearied her. She’d grown up with enough drinking and judgment and shouting to last her a lifetime. “Don’t tell Lenny, but their father’s coming in earlier than planned. Emmy’s picking him up at the airport and bringing him here to surprise Len.”

“Oh. That’s almost…nice of her.”

“She had it planned before that blowout on the beach. What was she supposed to do, tell their father not to come or that she wouldn’t be part of his surprise?”

“I’d expect that from the bitch, yeah.” Laverne handed Shirley her purse. “Fine, I’ll be right back. But then I’ve got to go meet Len for – um.”

Shirley raised one eyebrow. “Um?”

“We’ve got a little private party planned for tonight.” Laverne’s brow wrinkled. “Geeze, I guess that’s shot now, if Em’s gonna bring their father to Lenny’s tonight. Damn. I swear, I’m never going to get alone time with my fiancé again!”

“Relax,” said Shirley. It was her job to come to the rescue, again. “As soon as Emmy comes back, I’ll intercept her and Ivor and tell them you and Len are – er, unavailable tonight. She can spring her surprise tomorrow morning just as well as tonight, don’t you think?” She grinned and winked.

Laverne shot her a look of pure gratitude. “I think you’re the best, Shirl, y’know that?” She turned and skipped down the stairs. “Be right back! Give Carmine my love.”

“Will do,” said Shirley. She watched Laverne until she vanished from sight, then went into the apartment.

I shouldn’t be here, she thought, not for the first time, or even the tenth. She should be with Carmine, in New York, supporting him through his efforts and sharing the thrill of his successes. She could be waiting tables with him at the Carnegie, or helping him run lines. But no. Rhonda had needed her and frankly, Carmine probably needed time alone to focus on his career.

Rhonda was on the mend, though, and there wasn’t anything to hold her back from rejoining her husband. Except, that is, her husband.

Their last phone conversation had been odd. He’d been cagey about what he was doing, yet kept insisting he had plenty of money for their apartment and to send to support her. He’d said that busboys got hefty tips in New York, and that between that and what he got paid as an understudy, things were fine. It was all perfectly reasonable, believable.

So why didn’t she buy it?

It was what he didn’t say that bugged her. The strange little extra silences when they talked. Like he had to keep thinking through what he was going to say before he said it. It reminded her uncomfortably of conversations she used to overhear between her father and mother, before her father ceased to be a constant in their lives.

And then Carmine had told her to take her time in joining him. ‘Don’t rush,’ he’d said. ‘Do whatever you’ve got to do for Rhonda, for Laverne and Lenny’s wedding. I’m not going anywhere.’

Nothing about how being apart hurt him. Not even a mention of how horny she knew he had to be. Assuming…no. No! She wouldn’t go there. She wouldn’t think that. Those thoughts only led to feeling angry and betrayed without cause. He wouldn’t do that to her. He would not. No.

The phone rang. She started and grabbed for the receiver. “Hello? Carmine, hello?” But all she heard was a crackle of static. Then the line went dead. She slammed down the receiver, picked it up again, and listened. She had to talk to her husband, right now.

But God and His Heavenly bowling team wouldn’t have it. Another flash of lightning, another crack of thunder, and the dial tone vanished entirely. Shirley held the receiver away from her ear and cursed it like the sailor’s daughter she truly was. She hung up, defeated, and slumped down on the sofa again.

Until Laverne came back she’d have to wait alone, with nothing but the storm outside and the storm inside to distract her.

***

Laverne fished the last of her underpants out of the dryer and tossed them atop their fellows, already haphazardly stacked on the nearby table. She could hear Shirley tsk-tsking in her head over her failure to fold each item into envelope-sized packets of cloth. “She’s a tight-butt, that girl, but I love her anyway,” Laverne said to herself, with a smirk.

She realized that she didn’t have anything in which to carry her unmentionables back upstairs, so she opened her purse and shoved them inside. A couple of bra straps hung out, but hey, at least she wouldn’t be waving everything in front of the other tenants’ faces. A girl had to have some modesty. “Emmy would say that was a first for me,” she addressed her underwear-stuffed handbag, “showing any sort of decency. Like she knows me!”

It had been years since that wench knew her, and even then, they’d only really observed one another from a distance. How dare she judge me, and my feelings for Len! Who does she think she is?

She thinks she’s Lenny’s sister, Laverne answered herself. Despite it all, she had to suck it up and accept that. Emmy was there for Len after his mother split, after his accident. She’d taken care of him, stuck up for him, given him love and guidance. It pained Laverne to admit it, but that gave the woman certain rights where Len and his feelings were concerned. Maybe even more rights than she had.

“Bullshit,” said Laverne, whacking her purse against the table. “I’m the woman Len chose, the one he loves. If he can leave all the nonsense between us in the past, then so should she.” She glared at the purse, daring it to contradict her. It hung in her hand, silently.

“Geeze, I’m losing my mind over here.” Laverne smacked herself in the center of the forehead with the heel of her hand. Between Rhonda’s health scare and the wedding and all the other craziness since Shirley and Carmine got married, it was little surprise that she was talking to handbags in empty laundry rooms. It was time to get out and go upstairs to spend a little time with Shirl before meeting Len for a night of romance that, she fervently hoped, would finally end in some serious consummation. As for Emmaline Kosnowski – screw her. Screw her right to the wall.

Laverne hoisted her stuffed bag and flung the door to the laundry room open wide. And bumped right into Emmaline Kosnowski.

“What’re you doing here?” they said, in unison.

“What do you think I’m doing here?” Again, they spoke as one.

Disgusted, Laverne took a step to the left and Emmy barreled past her into the laundry room. The door banged shut behind her. “I thought you were off picking up your father at the airport,” said Laverne.

“I did. I’m back.” Curt, to the point.

“Did you forget something?” asked Laverne.

“As a matter of fact, I did. Mikey’s jacket got some mud on it earlier, and I washed it, but forgot to put it in the dryer.” Emmy went over to the washing machine and flipped open the lid. “If it’s any of your business,” she added.

Yep, still a bitch, thought Laverne. “Actually, I was referring to your father. You leave him in baggage claim, or what?”

Emmy let out an exaggerated groan. “Real funny. I sent Daddy upstairs to surprise Leonard.”

Laverne imitated Emmy’s snooty response under her breath, then stuck her tongue out at the other woman’s back. “So much for Shirl running interference,” she sighed.

“Excuse me?’

Afraid I can’t. Aloud, Laverne said, “Yeah, well, Len and I’ve had this evening planned for awhile now, so after your dad says his hellos, you’ll need to collect him and go elsewhere.” She waggled her fingertips at Emmy.

Emmy arched one eyebrow. “Selfish as ever, aren’t you.”

“It’s my birthday,” said Laverne.

“Oh. Oh, forgive me!” Emmy pressed one hand against the left side of her chest, the right to her forehead. “It’s Laverne’s birthday. Oh, I didn’t know that on this exalted day, we mere relatives of Lenny’s must stand aside. God forbid we should draw his attention away for even a moment!”

Laverne assessed the damage a purse full of underwear swung very hard and fast into a human face might do. Not enough, she decided. “Lady, just…put a sock in it. You know, like the ones you stuff in your bra?”

Emmy thrust her chest forward proudly. “Nothing here but me, String Bean.”

Laverne bit her tongue. Just leave, she imagined Shirley’s sensible voice advising, be the bigger woman, turn and walk away. Since arguing with her fiance’s witch of a sister wasn’t getting her anywhere, she decided to give being bigger a shot. She turned, went to the door, and gave it a yank.

It didn’t open.

Laverne tried again. She put down her purse full of undies and used both hands. The door wouldn’t budge.

“Excuse me,” said Emmy, coldly. She had Mikey’s jacket slung over one arm as she tried to reach around Laverne and open the door. It wouldn’t obey her, either.

Oh, God, please. Laverne prayed like she hadn’t since Rhonda had been declared cancer-free. I’ll put extra charity in the plate on Sunday. I’ll stay a virgin until my wedding night – probably. Just please, don’t let me be –

“…stuck in here,” Emmy was saying. Laverne turned her head slightly and met Emmy’s wide, angry eyes. “With you. Lord help me.”

Laverne banged her forehead against the jammed door. “I think He might be too busy laughing at us to care,” she said.

***

Carmine pressed his hand lightly against his left shoulder. It all happened so fast in reality, but now, in his memory, the events of the night unfolded slowly, with plenty of time to spot clues and make different choices:

Anthony trotted into the alley like the dumb pup that he was. He put the suitcase down beside the dumpster. “There. That’s it,” he said.

Carmine kept his eyes moving, darting up to the solid brick wall that blocked one end of the narrow passage and then down to the opening to the street. “Yeah, great. So how do we get paid if no one’s here to pick up the drop?”

“You worry too much, paisan.” Anthony jabbed him in the ribs with a fingertip. “Check’ll be in the mail, you’ll see. Want to go over to DiLucca’s for a slice?”

That sounded good to Carmine. Anything that didn’t involve being here would be an improvement. “Yeah, sure. Let’s go….”

He saw them as soon as he turned around. Four big goons, coming down the alley the same way he and Anthony had entered. Leaving no means of escape except through them.

“Boys,” said the lead goon, a guy with oil-slicked black hair and a lot of gold around his neck. “You got something for me?”

“Yeah, sure, boss. Here ya go.” Guileless, clueless Anthony. He picked up the case and shoved it at the lead goon without a second thought.

Carmine felt his heart rate kick into high gear. “Anthony,” he said through gritted teeth. “I thought you said no one was supposed to meet us here. Remember?”

Anthony just rolled his eyes. “Plans change sometimes. No biggie.”

Carmine wished he could believe that. But he saw the glint in Mr. Oil Slick’s eyes, and the bulges under the jackets of his buddies, and his street sense told him otherwise. Something was going wrong.

“Thank you,” said Oil Slick. He took the case, bushy eyebrows raised in what Carmine read as surprise. His buddies smirked behind him.

Fuck it, Carmine thought, whoever he is, let him have the case. His instincts told him that this was not the intended recipient of the suitcase. But he and Anthony could lie later on that they’d dropped it off as ordered, and had no idea what happened to it afterward. Leave it up to Guido and these bozos to duke it out after the fact.

“All righty,” said Carmine. He forced himself to stay relaxed, at least on the outside. He tried to smile, but barely managed a grin. “You got what you want, we’re all done here, have a good –“

“Hey,” said Anthony, “you got our scratch?”

Carmine’s mouth went dry. Shut up, you dumb goombah!

Oil Slick looked at Anthony like he’d just scraped him off his loafer. “Really,” he said. “You’re expecting payment. From me.”

“Well, I assumed, since you bothered to show up in person, that you might have our cut.” Anthony shrugged.

Oil Slick’s muscle elbowed each other and guffawed. Apparently, they couldn’t believe how stupid Anthony was any more than Carmine could.

Carmine clamped his hand on Anthony’s shoulder and dug his fingers in. Hard. He addressed Oil Slick, “Sir, please excuse my friend here. He’s…um…young and…ah…excited. We understand, of course, that any payment arrangements are between us and Gui – the sender of the item.” He nodded at the suitcase, inwardly cursing himself for almost giving up Guido’s name. He didn’t know how much Oil Slick knew. Moreover, he didn’t know how much Oil Slick knew they knew, and he preferred to let the goon believe they were just witless errand boys. Which was pretty much the truth.

“Ow, let go of me,” said Anthony. He peeled Carmine’s fingers from his shoulder. To Oil Slick, he said, “That’s fine, that’s fine. My Uncle Guido’ll take care of us.” He hesitated, grinned. “Unless, of course, you’d like us to give him something in return?”

That’s it, thought Carmine, we’re dead.

Oil Slick stared at them. Carmine could see the wheels turning under his greasy scalp. I bet I could outrun Anthony, he thought. Roll under the guy on the left’s legs and hightail it down the alley while they tear the big dunce apart. Then he felt ashamed for the flash of cowardice. A little.

“Yeah, kid,” said Oil Slick. He set down the suitcase. “I got a message you can deliver to your Uncle Guido.” He reached for the inside of his jacket.

Carmine grabbed Anthony and flung him backward, launched himself right after him. They fetched up behind the dumpster just as the first shot was fired.

“Holy Mother of God!” cried Anthony. His eyes were wider than his grandma’s tea saucers. “They’re trying to kill us!”

“No shit, you bumbling maroon!” Carmine couldn’t help snarling; he was out of patience and scared to death. I can’t believe that I’m gonna die in an alley in New York before my first anniversary, with my first big break finally within reach. Right then, he hated Anthony, Guido, and Oil Slick more than he’d ever hated anyone in his life. Except for himself. Himself he hated most of all.

He heard footsteps coming closer. He shoved Anthony into the thin crack between the dumpster and the brick wall of the tenement against which it rested. “Cut it out, there ain’t no room!” Anthony hissed.

“Make room,” Carmine said. Oil Slick and his men were walking around the dumpster to get them. And why not, it wasn’t like he or Anthony had any means of returning –

“Get down!” Anthony pulled a small gun out of the back of his waistband, from under his checkered shirt, and started firing.

“Jesus!” Carmine threw himself to the ground as Anthony’s bullets whistled past his ear. He found a small niche between the bottom of the dumpster and the ground, and wedged himself into it. Maybe Anthony wasn’t as stupid as he’d thought. At least he’d had the sense to bring a weapon, just in case.

Carmine revised his opinion as he realized the small caliber of Anthony’s weapon. He’d brought a pea shooter into a gun battle, yet he was standing there, all proud and tall, firing away like John Wayne facing down the Indians.

At least it was enough to convince Oil Slick and gang to take cover themselves, instead of strolling up and blowing their brains out, as they’d no doubt been about to do. That was something.

Carmine reached up and yanked Anthony’s shirt. “Take cover! Don’t just stand there like a big bull’s eye!”

Anthony glanced down at him. A bullet zipped by, close enough to rip through the dangling tail of Anthony’s shirt. Convinced, he shrank down next to Carmine, but kept his weapon aimed out into the alley. “You ain’t carrying?” he asked.

“Carrying what?” Carmine said. “You told me we were dropping a package off in an alley and going home. Why would I have brought a gun, even if I owned one, which I don’t!”

“Don’t get so snippy.”

Carmine seriously considered slugging him. Instead, he said, “Help me push this thing in front of us. If we stay behind it, maybe they won’t be able to shoot us full of holes. Maybe they’ll get bored and go home.” He knew how desperate he sounded, but didn’t care. He was desperate, damn it.

“Yeah, okay.” Anthony grabbed the edge of the big dumpster. Carmine slid his hands up behind it, and together they heaved it forward about two feet. It wasn’t much, but enough to wedge themselves behind it and half-stand, half-crouch.

“Now, boys,” called Oil Slick, “come on out. We was just kidding.”

“Kid this!” shouted Anthony. He fired wildly.

Carmine groaned. “Don’t waste bullets! He’s just trying to rattle you.”

“Yeah, well, it’s working.”  Anthony looked at him and Carmine was suddenly reminded of Squiggy, of all people. Young Squiggy, when he was just Andy, surrounded on the playground by bullies. He’d had that same look on his face of terror and bravado, innocence and righteous fury. Just kids, both of them, in over their heads because of silly mistakes and their own, goofy natures.

Carmine felt a protective urge wash over him. “Give it to me.”

Anthony eyeballed him. The goons were shooting again, the bullets pinging off the metal dumpster and pitting the brick wall dangerously close to the tops of their heads. “You know how to shoot?”

“Do you?”

Anthony cleared his throat. “I seen movies,” he finally admitted. “This here’s my dad’s rat-shooter.”

Carmine forced himself to swallow. “Yeah, well I’ve done a little shooting. My grandfather, he used to take me out to this abandoned lot to shoot bottles off the wall.” So long ago, he’d just been a teenager then. But as panic surged through him, the mechanics involved came back. Anthony handed him the gun – only a .22 for Christ’s sake, what had he been thinking – and Carmine quickly checked the chamber, then the site. He had three bullets left. He’d better make them count.

Stand still, support your firing arm. He recited his grandfather’s directions in his head. Center the target in your site, take a deep breath and hold it, then squeeze – don’t pull, squeeze – the trigger.

He leaned out awkwardly from behind the dumpster and forced his eyes to focus through the dim night at the four men across the way. They were crouching behind a few trash cans. Before each took a turn firing, he popped up to aim, like a mole in a whacking game at the fair.

Humans ain’t exactly bottles, thought Carmine. But it was them or him and this dopey kid. He forced his breath to slow and concentrated; waiting, watching.

A fat guy with a shaved head took his turn. As soon as he started to rise, Carmine stepped out from behind the dumpster. Center, breath, squeeze. He aimed for the goon’s chest and fired.

The .22 carried little kick, but even a small bullet in the chest is still a bullet in the chest. The goon staggered backward and slapped a hand over the small hole on the left side of his chest. Not exactly dead center of where I aimed, Carmine noted with a strange sense of detachment. But it’ll do the job.

The guy went down. Immediately, his buddies rose as one and started blasting away.

Carmine dove back into the wedge of space between wall and dumpster. He pulled Anthony’s head down and flung an arm over his own head. One down, too many to go. “You got any more ammo?” he asked.

Anthony shook his head. His wide-open eyes were glistening. “I didn’t really think I’d ever have to use what I had. Oh, God, they’re really trying to kill us, aren’t they? Why? What’d we do?”

Carmine didn’t know whether to pity him or punch him in the nuts. “We’ll discuss the philosophy of it later,” he snapped. “Right now, we gotta figure out how to get out of here.”

“Unless you’re Batman and can climb up this wall here, I think we’re boned,” said Anthony.

Carmine eyed the brick wall. Up above, a good seven feet high, was the edge of a fire escape ladder. Not far from it was a drain pipe, about four feet to their right, and it went all the way to the ground. He felt a rush of hope; his first of the godforsaken night. “Hey, you remember that pole climb at the festival a few years back?’ he asked.

“You mean the one you won, then got us disqualified?’

“Yeah.” Carmine jerked his chin in the direction of the pipe. “If we can shimmy up that pole and get to the fire escape, we got a shot at getting out of here.”

“Are you nuts? You think those goodfellas are gonna just stand there and applaud while we show off our climbing skills?” Anthony’s voice cracked like a teenager’s.

He had a point. Carmine heard muttering and clicking sounds. The goons were reloading, at least a couple of them. Two bullets. All that stood between them and a slim chance of living through the night. Oh, Shirl, he thought, I’m so sorry.

Aloud, he said, “Get ready. When I say go, you run to that pole and shimmy up it like Satan’s pitchfork is jabbing your ass.”

“But what about…?”

“Just do it!” Carmine stood up, took a deep breath, and crossed himself. Then he walked out into the alley.

Two of the three still-moving goons looked up at him in shock. Oil Slick was too busy shoving fresh ammo in his cannon to notice his approach, until one of the goons said, “The hell…?”

Carmine didn’t let him finish. He aimed at the guy’s forehead and fired. Then, without waiting to see the result, he targeted the other goon’s eye and fired again. Then he yelled, “Now, Anthony! Run!”

He scarcely had time to assess the actual damage he’d done. Oil Slick was up on his feet, his half-loaded gun swinging toward Carmine’s chest. He only had time to process that his first bullet had ripped the first goon a new part in his hair, while the second had left a hole in the other’s cheek. Again, not exactly as intended, but good enough.

Then he was diving back for the safety of the dumpster. He felt something tug his left sleeve as he disappeared behind it, and searing heat washed down his arm from shoulder to fingertips. But he was breathing when he landed, which was frankly more than he’d expected.

“Son of a bitch!” screamed Oil Slick. “You rotten – you killed Vince!”

“Boo-hoo!” Carmine shot back. He looked up and saw Anthony vanishing over the edge of the fire escape’s first landing. He’d made it. Now, if he’d only bring back a little help, that’d be real nice.

Carmine assessed his situation, his pulse thrumming in his ears. The gun was empty and he was alone. Oil Slick was still standing, still armed, but at least his associates were down. One permanently.

Oh, my God, I killed a man. I took a man’s life! Me, the former altar boy, the guy who checked on every pug he knocked down in the ring to make sure they were okay. He gagged, but forced down the urge to vomit. Time enough later, if he lived, to throw himself on the mercy of the Church and cry self-defense to the police. And to Shirley? A priest would be easier to face; hell, Jesus himself would frighten and shame him less.

Right now, he had to concentrate on living long enough to face the consequences. He cleared his throat and called, “We can stop this, right now! You’re men are hurt and my guy’s –“

He weighed his options. Oil Slick hadn’t seen Anthony bolt, having been distracted by the firefight. “Is dead,” he continued. “You and I both took our lumps; we can call it a draw and walk away.” He held his breath, waited.

“And why would I do that?” asked Oil Slick. “Seems to me, I’m the guy with the big gun and plenty of big bullets to pump into you. Whereas, if I counted right, you ain’t got a pebble left to lob in my direction, boyo.”

Carmine shifted. His arm still burned, and when he tried to lift it, it wouldn’t obey. Must’ve scraped it against the metal when I dove behind the dumpster last time. “I got pockets,” he said, “don’t you think I brought extra ammo? And size don’t matter – it’s how you use it.”

Oil Slick grunted in response.

“Look, man, here’s the thing,” Carmine continued. “We were dumb, my buddy and I. But all we were doing was a drop for his uncle. We’re not made men, we’re not anyone. Hell, I’m a busboy in real life.” His thoughts came in a rush. Words bubbled out of him as if of their own will. “I just got married, is the truth of it, and I’ve only been in New York a little while. My wife’s supposed to be joining me soon, and I just wanted to have enough money to give us a start. I was stupid, yeah, and I was sucked in by a fast talker making big promises. You really think I should have to die for that, though? Will killing me really make or break your plans? Take the damned case and go have a beer and a laugh over pulling one over on Guido. But please, man,” Carmine took a ragged breath, “just let me go home. Let me carry the message to Guido that his nephew’s dead and you won. What do you say?”

Silence. Carmine held his breath. He’d never talked so fast in his life, so fast he wasn’t sure what he’d actually said, only that it was heartfelt. Maybe Oil Slick can relate, he thought. After all, he had to have started out young, probably screwed up a few time himself along the way.

Carmine heard a click.

He looked up and saw Oil Slick standing over him, gun leveled at his head. Time stopped, and all Carmine could hear was his own rapid, shallow breath.

“Sorry, kid,” said Oil Slick. “That ain’t the way this works.”

He’d have died then. He was sure it was the end – what other, possible outcome was there? He remembered raising the .22, as if wishing would put one more bullet in the chamber. He remembered seeing Oil Slick’s finger tense on the trigger of his .38. Hold breath, center, squeeze….

Then Anthony landed on Oil Slick’s head.

The bullet meant to splatter Carmine’s brain all over the wall went into the dumpster’s side instead. A cry caught in Carmine’s throat, where it strangled and died. Mouth hanging open, entire body ice-cold except for his burning left arm, he watched Anthony wrestle Oil Slick to the ground and reach for his gun.

Move it, help him! Carmine forced his body to obey. He shifted into a crouch and flung himself on Oil Slick’s chest. His left wouldn’t work right, but there was nothing wrong with his right, the hand that had won him the Golden Gloves title three years running. He drew back and smashed the goon’s broad nose.

Oil Slick screamed a curse against Carmine and his mother. Carmine clenched his teeth and slugged him in the jaw. He was vaguely aware of Anthony struggling to pry Oil Slick’s fingers off his weapon. He saw Oil Slick’s eyes roll with the last uppercut. One more ought to do the job, he thought, with a surge of relief.

A gunshot filled the night. Then another.

Carmine flinched and looked up. He saw Anthony suddenly sit bolt upright. He looked down at his stomach. Something seeped between his fingers, soaked his checkered shirt. “Oh, no,” Carmine whispered.

He returned his attention to Oil Slick. Putting everything he had into it, all the fear and rage and regret of the evening, he punched the bastard in the face – once, twice, three times. He was out.

Carmine slipped off Oil Slick’s chest. He just managed to catch Anthony as the young man toppled over.

“Ow,” said Anthony. His wide eyes met Carmine’s. “That really hurt.” Then his eyes went blank.

Carmine felt his weight double in his arms. “Oh, God,” he said, again and again. He wasn’t sure if it was a prayer or a curse. “Anthony, you big, dumb…no.” He slumped, laid Anthony on the ground carefully, though is left arm screamed in protest at the movement. He pulled back his hands, covered in the blood from Oil Slick’s nose and Anthony’s gut, and who knew what else. He stared at them without recognition, his mind unable to process the reality of his situation for a good five minutes.

He heard Oil Slick groan. His mind still paralyzed, Carmine reached mechanically for the goon’s .38. He picked it up, pressed the muzzle against the Oil Slick’s chest, and fired. He didn’t bother to hold his breath, center, or squeeze. Just point and fire. It wasn’t like he could miss from right on top of the bastard.

Oil Slick’s body jerked. He stopped groaning.

Carmine swallowed. He laid the .38 down and rose to his feet. He was shaking so hard, he had to hold the dumpster’s side to keep from falling.

That’s when he’d walked out of the alley. He’d found the pay phone, had looked up an ambulance in the attached phone book, and called for help. The whole process had been accomplished as automatically as killing Oil Slick, with as little feeling or thought behind it.  It wasn’t until he’d hung up with the ambulance that it all became real again. Then he’d sunk down to the floor of the pay phone booth, hugged his knees to his chest, and screamed until his voice nearly gave out.

Now here he was. He was a murderer and he’d watched Laverne’s cousin die. Probably die; he wasn’t a doctor, but Anthony sure hadn’t looked good. All the people he’d ever counted on were across the country, but he couldn’t think of whom else to call on, assuming he wasn’t beyond help already. But Lenny hadn’t answered the phone; Shirley’s line had gone dead. He didn’t dare contact Frank, who would rightly spit on him and call a blood vendetta for his going along with Anthony and not saving his nephew from getting shot.

That only left one person. One not-so-bright or generous person. Carmine laughed weakly at the thought, but he was out of options.

He pulled himself to his feet. He glanced at his left arm. The sleeve was soaked through with blood. It dripped from his fingertips. Bullets really do make a mess of things, he thought. A strange sort of calm settled over him. He was out of change, so he dialed the O on the phone and waited.

“Operator,” the tinny voice at the other end said.

“Yeah, I’d like to make a collect call.” He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “To Mr. Andrew Squigman.” and gave the operator Squiggy’s number.

He listened to the distant ring. A passage from a book he’d had to read in high school wafted through his muddled thoughts. Ask not for whom the bell tolls, he recited. He fought down a maniacal urge to laugh and didn’t finish the rest.