no answer. The sleet
had blown over, and the sun was out. It was nearly forty degrees, and
I felt a little warm in my overcoat.
One of four men talking in front of the bakery next
door broke off and walked toward me. He was short and stubby, wearing
a heavy blue knit sweater over black dress slacks. He appeared to be
about my age, and he neither frowned nor smiled.
"Who you lookin' for?" he asked me.
"The D'Amicos," I said.
"Which ones?" he replied. —
"Mr. and Mrs. Joey and Marco's parents."
"The D'Amicos," he said. "They had a
lotta heartache this week. Maybe they don't wanna see nobody just
now, y'know."
"I know, and I can understand it. That's why I
want to see them."
He squinted. "You ain't a cop, are ya?"
"No," I said. "If I were a cop, I
would have ignored you and kept pressing their button."
He rubbed his nose. Then he leaned in front of me and
gave their button three quick taps. He looked me square in the eye.
"My parents and the D'Amicos come over together. The parents are
good people. I went to school with Marco. I don't know which of the
sons give 'em more trouble, Marco or Joey. Just don't add to it."
"I'm here to prevent trouble for them."
My emissary broke eye contact as the downstairs door
opened. Mr. D'Amico poked his red-eyed head outside. He recognized me
and snarled something in Italian to my companion that contained
Joey's name. My companion stiffened and started, "Mr. D'Amico
says you're—"
"I'm not here about Joey," I interrupted
sharply.
"I'm here about Marco, and I need to talk with
Mr. and Mrs. D'Amico." I lowered my voice. "Please tell him
it's important."
Mr. D'Amico spoke. "He don't need to tell me no
thing. I understand English. If you about Marco, we will talk.
Upstairs."
Mr. D'Amico turned and I stopped the spring-held door
as he started up the narrow staircase.
As I stepped across the threshold, my emissary caught
my arm. Not hard or threatening, just a firm grip.
"When you come out, nobody up there better be
cryin'."
I looked over his shoulder at the knot of men he'd
left. They were all staring at us. I looked down as steadily as I
could at my emissary, who bobbed his head once and released my arm. I
followed D'Amico up the stairway, the closing door darkening the
passage.
Their living room was clean, dry, and awfully warm
with all the windows closed. The sofa and chairs were overstuffed,
with elaborate crocheted doilies on the arms and backs. Religious
scenes dotted the walls, and I could make out photos of younger
Marcos and Joeys in triptych brass frames standing on the end tables.
D'Amico sat stiffiy on the couch. I was in a
flower-print chair across from him. He wore an old, narrow-collar
white shirt and brown sharkskin pants. I could neither see nor hear
Mrs. D'Amico.
"I have no desire to add to your grief, Mr.
D'Amico," I began, "but I would like to speak with your
wife as well."
D'Amico swallowed twice. He barely unclenched his
teeth. "She too upset from the . . . from the trial. You tell me
what you want."
I frowned and spread out my hands. "Look, Mr.
D'Amico, like I said downstairs, I'm here about Marco, not Joey, but
in order for me to do any good here, you have to accept something
about Joey. You have to—"
"I don't need to accept no thing," D'Amico
cut in tremulously.
"Yes, sir, yes, you do. You have to accept that
you've lost Joey. You have to accept that if you want to save Marco."
"Save Marco?" said a little, tired voice
from a corridor we'd passed. "What save Marco?"
D'Amico got up with a pained look on his face and
walked toward his wife, who stood small and trembling with her hand
clutching a black bathrobe at her breast. Her hair, more gray than
black, was askew, and the hem of a white nightgown or slip hung out
under the robe. Her face looked sunburned. In February.
D'Amico spoke soothingly in Italian but his wife was
having none of it, wagging her head and stomping into the room and
toward me.
"What save Marco?" she demanded. "What."
Then
had blown over, and the sun was out. It was nearly forty degrees, and
I felt a little warm in my overcoat.
One of four men talking in front of the bakery next
door broke off and walked toward me. He was short and stubby, wearing
a heavy blue knit sweater over black dress slacks. He appeared to be
about my age, and he neither frowned nor smiled.
"Who you lookin' for?" he asked me.
"The D'Amicos," I said.
"Which ones?" he replied. —
"Mr. and Mrs. Joey and Marco's parents."
"The D'Amicos," he said. "They had a
lotta heartache this week. Maybe they don't wanna see nobody just
now, y'know."
"I know, and I can understand it. That's why I
want to see them."
He squinted. "You ain't a cop, are ya?"
"No," I said. "If I were a cop, I
would have ignored you and kept pressing their button."
He rubbed his nose. Then he leaned in front of me and
gave their button three quick taps. He looked me square in the eye.
"My parents and the D'Amicos come over together. The parents are
good people. I went to school with Marco. I don't know which of the
sons give 'em more trouble, Marco or Joey. Just don't add to it."
"I'm here to prevent trouble for them."
My emissary broke eye contact as the downstairs door
opened. Mr. D'Amico poked his red-eyed head outside. He recognized me
and snarled something in Italian to my companion that contained
Joey's name. My companion stiffened and started, "Mr. D'Amico
says you're—"
"I'm not here about Joey," I interrupted
sharply.
"I'm here about Marco, and I need to talk with
Mr. and Mrs. D'Amico." I lowered my voice. "Please tell him
it's important."
Mr. D'Amico spoke. "He don't need to tell me no
thing. I understand English. If you about Marco, we will talk.
Upstairs."
Mr. D'Amico turned and I stopped the spring-held door
as he started up the narrow staircase.
As I stepped across the threshold, my emissary caught
my arm. Not hard or threatening, just a firm grip.
"When you come out, nobody up there better be
cryin'."
I looked over his shoulder at the knot of men he'd
left. They were all staring at us. I looked down as steadily as I
could at my emissary, who bobbed his head once and released my arm. I
followed D'Amico up the stairway, the closing door darkening the
passage.
Their living room was clean, dry, and awfully warm
with all the windows closed. The sofa and chairs were overstuffed,
with elaborate crocheted doilies on the arms and backs. Religious
scenes dotted the walls, and I could make out photos of younger
Marcos and Joeys in triptych brass frames standing on the end tables.
D'Amico sat stiffiy on the couch. I was in a
flower-print chair across from him. He wore an old, narrow-collar
white shirt and brown sharkskin pants. I could neither see nor hear
Mrs. D'Amico.
"I have no desire to add to your grief, Mr.
D'Amico," I began, "but I would like to speak with your
wife as well."
D'Amico swallowed twice. He barely unclenched his
teeth. "She too upset from the . . . from the trial. You tell me
what you want."
I frowned and spread out my hands. "Look, Mr.
D'Amico, like I said downstairs, I'm here about Marco, not Joey, but
in order for me to do any good here, you have to accept something
about Joey. You have to—"
"I don't need to accept no thing," D'Amico
cut in tremulously.
"Yes, sir, yes, you do. You have to accept that
you've lost Joey. You have to accept that if you want to save Marco."
"Save Marco?" said a little, tired voice
from a corridor we'd passed. "What save Marco?"
D'Amico got up with a pained look on his face and
walked toward his wife, who stood small and trembling with her hand
clutching a black bathrobe at her breast. Her hair, more gray than
black, was askew, and the hem of a white nightgown or slip hung out
under the robe. Her face looked sunburned. In February.
D'Amico spoke soothingly in Italian but his wife was
having none of it, wagging her head and stomping into the room and
toward me.
"What save Marco?" she demanded. "What."
Then
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