Chapter 27 #2
I opt for a pair of slacks and a white shirt.
I know the dress code at the golf club only applies to some people.
I could arrive in blue jeans and an undershirt, and they wouldn’t care.
Everyone knows who my father is, and they wouldn’t risk offending the Corello family by demanding that I change.
But I’m too well trained to push that boundary.
I arrive downstairs dressed and ready to go golfing. It’s not my first choice, but maybe it will grow on me. I can use this time to consider what I want to do about Sofia. My father is waiting for me in the foyer, along with Marlena. I feel like I’m about to ship off to war.
“You didn’t have to come down here,” I tell my stepmother.
She puts a hand on her belly and gives me a sympathetic smile. “I can occasionally make it downstairs for an important event,” she teases.
I give her a kiss on the cheek, trying to keep my frustration in check. She’s just being kind, and my sour mood isn’t going to help. “I doubt this rises to the level of an important event.”
“Frankie,” Marlena says, grabbing my arm.
“What?” I snap.
“I’m sorry,” she replies.
“It’s not your fault,” I say.
Dad gives me a slight nod. I know that he has a ton of things he would like to say, but he’s being respectful of my situation. I can see pride in his eyes, which hurts. I don’t feel pride in myself. In fact, I feel just the opposite.
I’m the one who introduced a reporter into the family. I potentially opened up the entire business to danger. I need to come up with a way to remedy the situation, and that’s going to require some extensive thought.
I get into the car with Gio, allowing him to drive. I think I’m going to use the time to mull over my problem, but Gio has other plans. He talks nonstop about golf, as if I’ve never accompanied him to the club before.
“When we get there, we’re going to want to go to the driving range first,” he says.
“Why?” I ask. Since there doesn’t seem to be much of a choice, I decide to play along.
“We can see who’s there,” Gio replies.
I can’t tell if he has a specific person in mind, or if this is just something that he does.
My father drilled into me the fact that the golf course is a great place to do business.
I know he’s talking about networking, but I also suspect that there are times when formal meetings are conducted over the green.
So which one is it today? Are we going into a regular meeting, or are we just there to talk to anyone?
Not that it matters. I’m in no mood to enjoy myself. The whole thing is going to try my patience anyway, so I decide to just keep my head down. Gio pulls into the club after driving for a little more than fifteen minutes. Instead of parking, we aim for the valet.
Gio gets out, handing his keys to a high school student. “Take care of her,” he instructs.
“Yes, sir,” the kid says.
I follow my uncle through the clubhouse, past the welcome desk. Before hitting the driving range, Gio decides to get some complimentary breakfast, even though it’s past the time for breakfast. I’m not feeling very hungry anymore, so I limit myself to fruit.
The place is a social person’s paradise.
We’re instantly surrounded by men who want to talk to us.
I plaster a smile on my face and do my best not to give my thoughts away.
I tell myself that it’s likely some of these other people have equally stressful things going on in their lives, although mine seems more threatening.
Maybe they aren’t worried about their entire family going to jail, but maybe they are.
I don’t know what kinds of deals these people are involved with, and I don’t care.
We talk about the stock market and the weather on the golf course, nothing more.
“Ready to go play some golf?” Gio asks after about half an hour.
“Please,” I respond.
He leads the way to the driving range, where we stand among other pairs and singles to hit balls off into the distance. I use the time to practice my swing. That’s the whole point of the exercise anyway. I’m surprised when no one else joins us. I guess we aren’t meeting anyone officially after all.
“The problem with women,” Gio begins, “is that they’re really attractive.”
I feel my heart sink. This is not the kind of conversation I want to have at the moment. I screwed up; it has nothing to do with how pretty Sofia is. Or does it? Gio continues talking without waiting for a response, leaving me with only one viable option. I listen.
“One time I was in Costa Rica,” Gio says. “Doing something down there, I won’t say what. And this girl comes up to me, a beautiful woman, big tits. And she says that she’s having a problem with her ex and asks if I can help her.”
Against my better judgment, I’m interested in hearing the rest. “What did you do?”
“What could I do?” Gio replies with a laugh. “So, I go to see this guy to tell him to back off.” He pauses to drop a golf ball onto its tee and launches it into the air. “It turns out this guy is deep into politics. He’s got a whole police squad with him.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“I got arrested,” Gio says with a shrug.
“How did you get out?” I wonder.
“They have this big argument,” Gio goes on. “I can hear it from my jail cell. She tells him a whole bunch of stuff about how he’s lousy in bed and he’s disrespecting her mother.”
I picture Uncle Gio locked in a jail cell, listening to a woman he wants to sleep with argue her way back into a relationship with another man.
It’s absurd. Uncle Gio isn’t what you would call stud material with his gruff exterior, but I know he has a way with the ladies.
Even though he looks a little scary, he always manages to find someone when he wants to.
“What happened then?” I ask, curious to know the outcome.
“Next thing I know, I’m hearing different kinds of sounds if you get my meaning. Apparently, this was something she did often,” Gio says. “After they let me out but told me I could never go back to that city again.”
“Have you ever been back?” I wonder.
“Hell no,” Gio says with a chuckle.
I laugh. It feels good to laugh. Trust it to Uncle Gio to find a situation worse than my own. I’m not in jail, and with any luck, I can avoid that scenario altogether. I just have to figure out how to approach Sofia. My anger takes a spot on the back burner, and I begin to think logically.