back – long-legged in shorts and movie-star beautiful, walking a two-year-old hand in hand – then opens his eyes and it’s an hour and fifteen minutes later and he has a powerful desire for a blast of his drug of choice. Conte feels it’s time to switch off for a while, cut back to something lighter in impact. Beer, cold beer. He used to drink a lot of beer in college and even more in graduate school. No beer in the house.
On the way to purchase a Czech import, Conte considers alternatives for the meal he’ll make. It’s one of his chief pleasures, maybe number one on his life list, to envision meals to come. In detail. Driving home with twelve bottles of the Czech beer secured and looking forward to their utilization, Conte sees spaghetti
al dente
in a sauce of garlic and extra-virgin olive oil – sees himself not chopping but slicing, actually shaving the garlic with a razor blade into slivers so thin that they dissolve while sautéing in the hot oil – sees himself coarsely chopping the parsley, adding it, and sprinkling generously in at the end crushed red pepper and two pinches of salt – sees himself leaning over the pan, inhaling – how he loves the slicing and the chopping, more so even than the meal itself – and fresh from the crisper a salad of arugula and chicory to cleanse the palate in preparation for Ricky’s specialty, he’ll tackle a double serving of Ricky Castellano’s overwhelming Sicilian cassata … Ricky, the overwhelming Sicilian.
Kills two bottles while preparing dinner, another with dinner, and two more to fortify himself for the phone call he must make to Robert Rintrona because her number was listed nowhere and the Troy Police Department, as he knew, would not give it out, though he would ask anyway. He can’t imagine calling Rintrona and opening with, “Detective Rintrona, this is Eliot Conte – I was just wondering if you might be able to give me Detective Cruz’s phone number.” Of course, whatever diversionary prelude he’d invent would be seen through. At least, though, there’d be a decent delay and his romantic interest in Catherine Cruz wouldn’t immediately be out in the open. A little cover might (might) deterRintrona from sardonic retort. And since Rintrona, who was in awe of Silvio Conte, perhaps even in fear of him, had offered Conte assistance, if ever he needed it, he decides to ask him to run a background check on Jed Kinter through the various databases available to him as a law enforcement official, all the way up to the FBI. It couldn’t hurt to get the facts, if there were any facts of a criminal sort to get. Antonio Robinson could, of course, do him this favor, but he needed the Chief of Police to believe he was working full-time on Michael Coca. The bitter truth is that he can no longer trust his only friend.
At Rintrona’s home, a young woman with a sparkling voice answers and says, “Daddy, it’s for you.” After the exchange of pleasantries, Conte says, “By the way, there’s a pirated Pavarotti recording of
Ballo in Maschera
that I happen to own. It’s astonishing – better than the Decca issue.”
Rintrona replies, “Are you telling me the fuckin’ Bologna
Ballo
?”
Conte says, “Yes, that one, and by the way, I’ll be in Albany on business tomorrow morning and maybe I could stop by and loan you my copy, which you could burn if you like.”
Rintrona says, “Who do I have to kill?”
Conte laughs, then makes his Jed Kinter move.
Rintrona immediately responds, “Area code 518-555-1212.”
Conte says, “What?”
Rintrona says, “She doesn’t have a landline. That’s her cell. I’ll meet you at the Melville Diner, 1303 Front Street in Troy, not that far from the station.”
“Named after Herman Melville by any chance?”
“Is there any other fuckin’ Melville worth naming anything after? You know, he lived around here for a while, but they didn’t preserve anything because the authorities have their heads you know
On the way to purchase a Czech import, Conte considers alternatives for the meal he’ll make. It’s one of his chief pleasures, maybe number one on his life list, to envision meals to come. In detail. Driving home with twelve bottles of the Czech beer secured and looking forward to their utilization, Conte sees spaghetti
al dente
in a sauce of garlic and extra-virgin olive oil – sees himself not chopping but slicing, actually shaving the garlic with a razor blade into slivers so thin that they dissolve while sautéing in the hot oil – sees himself coarsely chopping the parsley, adding it, and sprinkling generously in at the end crushed red pepper and two pinches of salt – sees himself leaning over the pan, inhaling – how he loves the slicing and the chopping, more so even than the meal itself – and fresh from the crisper a salad of arugula and chicory to cleanse the palate in preparation for Ricky’s specialty, he’ll tackle a double serving of Ricky Castellano’s overwhelming Sicilian cassata … Ricky, the overwhelming Sicilian.
Kills two bottles while preparing dinner, another with dinner, and two more to fortify himself for the phone call he must make to Robert Rintrona because her number was listed nowhere and the Troy Police Department, as he knew, would not give it out, though he would ask anyway. He can’t imagine calling Rintrona and opening with, “Detective Rintrona, this is Eliot Conte – I was just wondering if you might be able to give me Detective Cruz’s phone number.” Of course, whatever diversionary prelude he’d invent would be seen through. At least, though, there’d be a decent delay and his romantic interest in Catherine Cruz wouldn’t immediately be out in the open. A little cover might (might) deterRintrona from sardonic retort. And since Rintrona, who was in awe of Silvio Conte, perhaps even in fear of him, had offered Conte assistance, if ever he needed it, he decides to ask him to run a background check on Jed Kinter through the various databases available to him as a law enforcement official, all the way up to the FBI. It couldn’t hurt to get the facts, if there were any facts of a criminal sort to get. Antonio Robinson could, of course, do him this favor, but he needed the Chief of Police to believe he was working full-time on Michael Coca. The bitter truth is that he can no longer trust his only friend.
At Rintrona’s home, a young woman with a sparkling voice answers and says, “Daddy, it’s for you.” After the exchange of pleasantries, Conte says, “By the way, there’s a pirated Pavarotti recording of
Ballo in Maschera
that I happen to own. It’s astonishing – better than the Decca issue.”
Rintrona replies, “Are you telling me the fuckin’ Bologna
Ballo
?”
Conte says, “Yes, that one, and by the way, I’ll be in Albany on business tomorrow morning and maybe I could stop by and loan you my copy, which you could burn if you like.”
Rintrona says, “Who do I have to kill?”
Conte laughs, then makes his Jed Kinter move.
Rintrona immediately responds, “Area code 518-555-1212.”
Conte says, “What?”
Rintrona says, “She doesn’t have a landline. That’s her cell. I’ll meet you at the Melville Diner, 1303 Front Street in Troy, not that far from the station.”
“Named after Herman Melville by any chance?”
“Is there any other fuckin’ Melville worth naming anything after? You know, he lived around here for a while, but they didn’t preserve anything because the authorities have their heads you know
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