Chapter 3 #2
LaPorta had actually been checking with his partners.
The results were not promising. The croupier, under questioning, had denied any involvement.
And the video of Alfie’s winnings only showed him sitting down at the roulette table and stacking his chips early on those single numbers.
A cheat wouldn’t do that. He would more likely wait until late in the roll, lay several bets, or skip a roll to throw off suspicion.
Alfie had looked relaxed, casual. Only on the third number did he seem to hesitate, before pushing all his chips on 28 black.
Since he’d been building his stack with each success, that was the biggest payout.
More than two million dollars. He gathered his winnings, rose from his chair, and cashed out.
LaPorta was certain others were in on it. But the croupier insisted he’d never seen Alfie before. His colleagues from the casino were now being questioned. Meanwhile, LaPorta had only Alfie’s wild notebook story to work with. Keep him talking. Maybe he’ll slip up.
“So where were we?”
“Gianna Rule,” Alfie said.
“Right. Your beneficiary.”
“Excuse me?”
“The bank transfer? The money?”
“Ah. Yes. The money.”
“Ah, yes, the money,” LaPorta mocked. “What’d you think I was talking about?”
The Composition Book
Things my mother said she loved about me:
“The way you get down on the floor to explore the small things.”
I went to college for love. That’s the truth of it.
Every step at Boston University, from picking my classes to moving into the dormitories to buying the books to waiting in line at the dining halls, was all in hopes of being with Gianna.
Our reunion at the zoo had sparked an attraction I’d never felt before. I needed to see where it went.
Of course, she didn’t know any of this. And with almost twenty thousand undergraduates milling about, finding her took some effort.
The student directory had only her photo, no housing information.
She wasn’t at the orientation events. I even went to the first meeting of the photography club, hoping she’d show up.
It would have been easier—-much easier—-if I’d traveled back to that day in Miami and asked Gianna for a phone number, which I’d stupidly neglected to do. But that encounter was one of my favorite memories, and I didn’t want to risk changing any of it.
So I spent mornings hanging outside dormitories and afternoons walking laps in the cafeterias.
I even snuck into freshman literature classes to search for her.
Some of those lecture halls were so large that I just walked to the front of the room and shouted, “Excuse me! Is Gianna Rule in here?” Everyone stared, but what did I care?
Once I saw she wasn’t, I tapped out and tried another class.
I even thumbtacked large notes with my dorm phone number on the community poster boards, under the words: gianna rule: call alfie. Still no luck.
Then one night I went for a swim at the university’s indoor pool. About twenty minutes into it, I noticed a woman doing laps alongside me. I thought I saw her look at me and wave, but it happened so fast that I couldn’t be sure.
I tried to keep up, but she was a much faster swimmer, so I waited until she passed me going the other direction.
Sure enough, she waved again. She was Gianna’s size and shape.
But because she wore a bathing cap and goggles, I barely got a glimpse of her face.
Still, it had to be her. Who else would be signaling me?
I made the turn, flipped around, and anticipated her coming my way. But the lane was suddenly empty.
I rose to the surface, gasping air, and spotted her walking toward the locker rooms. I slapped through several lanes, nearly smashing into a guy doing the backstroke, and yanked myself out of the pool.
From behind, her body looked more curvy than I remembered it.
Just before I caught up, she pulled her swim cap off to reveal a mop of red hair.
Then, whoever this woman was looked at me and shook her head, as if I were pathetic.
She disappeared into the women’s locker room.
I turned to go, dripping, totally embarrassed, when I heard a familiar voice.
“I was right. A guy will follow any girl who waves at him.”
I spun to see Gianna, in a green bathing suit and shower togs. The redhead stepped out behind her. They both grinned.
“This is my friend, Laura,” Gianna said. She put her hands on her hips. “So. I hear you’ve been looking for me.”
?
You know that expression “bowled over”? That’s how I constantly felt around Gianna back then.
From that moment at the pool onward, every encounter, every brief conversation, left me off--balance.
Being able to do things twice may have sharpened my confidence with other people, but around her I felt awkward in how I stood, how I slouched, even where I put my arms. It was as if my body were constantly auditioning.
They say the strongest kinds of love make you feel that way, right?
Sort of dizzy? I was dizzy around Gianna all the time.
Still we never started a relationship. Quite the opposite.
A few weeks later, I saw her on the campus lawn, lying on a blanket, reading a book.
She wore a cropped blue top and tight yellow shorts.
Some shirtless guys were playing soccer on the nearby grass, and Gianna was watching as I stepped up behind her.
I couldn’t help but stare at her bare, tanned legs as she loosely kicked them up and down, her small feet moving like flippers.
“You know it’s creepy to stare at a girl’s butt,” she said. She spun her head around. “You’re not a creep, are you, Alfie?”
I felt a flame of embarrassment shoot up my spine. As her eyes locked on mine, I actually yelled the word “Twice!” and was instantly back in my earlier class, breathing so hard, the guy next to me whispered, “Hey, man, are you all right?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Fine.”
When class ended, I exited the building and reminded myself that Gianna knew none of my previous behavior. I saw her again on the lawn. I took a deep breath. This time I approached from the front, determined to be aloof. I stared at a book as I passed by her.
“Hey, Alfie,” she yelled. “What are you reading?”
I looked up as innocently as I could fake it.
“Oh. Hey, Gianna.”
“What’s the book?”
I had to flip it over. I didn’t even know.
“The Divided Self.”
“Any good?”
“You know. So--so. It’s for sociology so I—-”
She turned away to smile at someone, one of the shirtless soccer players who was jogging her way.
He had thick black hair and dark stubble on his cheeks.
He dropped to his knees and kissed Gianna on the forehead while resting a hand on the small of her back, just above the yellow shorts that had gotten me in trouble minutes earlier.
“Hey, Alfie, do you know Mike?” Gianna said.
“Hey, man,” Mike said, smiling. His teeth were perfect.
“Twice,” I mumbled under my breath. “Twice . . . Twice . . .”
But I had already redone this moment. There was no going back again.
“Hey, man,” I finally croaked back, a weaker version of Mike’s words, befitting a man who was obviously, to Gianna, a weaker suitor.
?
For the rest of our freshman year, I got no closer than friendship would allow.
Gianna was popular with a wide swath of people who all seemed to adore her.
I’d see her laughing in the student lounge with a group of Filipino classmates, or doing morning exercises with a tai chi club, or working in the cafeteria where she had a part--time job, chatting up some older kitchen staff who seemed to treat her like a peer.
Whenever there were others around us, she would introduce me as “Alfie, a guy I used to ride elephants with in Africa.”
Now and then, I would see her arm in arm with Mike, whose last name was Kurtz, and who, it turns out, was a star goalie on the university’s soccer team.
And a senior. This made me feel young and clumsy around them, and I found myself undoing so many moments—-times I said something lame, or she caught me staring—-that I must have added a semester’s worth of second tries.
One time I was playing piano in a practice room (despite my dad’s objections, I was majoring in music) and Gianna passed by the open door and saw me. I was in the middle of singing “Try Me” by James Brown, a wailing, plaintive ballad that my mother used to play on her old turntable.
“Try me, try me,
Darling tell me, ‘I need you.’”
“Alfie?”
I stopped playing. My face went red.
“Wow, Alfie. You’re really good.”
I shrugged. But inside, I was happy with the compliment. I’d gotten to sing those words to Gianna without having to say them. Maybe she’d take a hint.
“Do you want to hear a song?” I asked. Then I added, “Any song?”
“You can play any song?”
“Try me.”
She smiled. “You were just singing that. ‘Try me.’ ”
“Yeah.”
She made a deep--thought face. “OK. You’ll never know this one. It’s called ‘Blue Room.’ Ella Fitzgerald sang it. My father used to play that for my mother.”
I’d never heard of it. But I zapped myself back two days, found it, studied it, and had it ready to play the second time she came down the hall and caught me singing.
“Wow, Alfie. You’re really good.”
“Do you want to hear a song? Any song?”
“You can play any song?”
“Try me.”
“You were just singing that. ‘Try me.’ ”
“Yeah.”
“OK. You’ll never know this one. It’s called ‘Blue Room’—-”
“By Ella Fitzgerald?” I interrupted.
“Wow. Yeah. You’ve heard of it?”
“Uh--huh. I think it goes like . . .”
Just as I put my hands on the keys, Gianna turned her head and yelled, “Mike! Hey! Down here!”
I swallowed. Suddenly Mike appeared in the doorway. He was carrying a guitar.
“Alfie is going to play this great old song,” Gianna said.
Mike smiled. “Oh yeah? Which one?”
“ ‘Blue Room.’ I love it. Go ahead, Alfie.”
I looked at their happy, waiting faces. My shoulders slumped.