Chapter 7
MARLENA
“Igot the job!” my friend Rebecca screams at me over the phone.
“Congratulations!” I say, excited for her even though her success dredges up feelings of personal failure.
“We have to go out to celebrate,” Rebecca insists.
I’m sitting on the couch, painting my toenails.
I’ve got a towel wrapped around my head, and I thought I was in for the night.
It’s been a long day, and all I want to do is curl up with a pint of Rocky Road and watch something mindless on TV.
I want to forget about Frankie and his intimidating father for the time being.
But duty calls. I can’t leave my best friend hanging.
“Give me an hour,” I say.
“Okay,” she agrees. “I’ll pick you up.”
“No,” I reply quickly. I never accept rides from anyone.
It’s too important to be able to leave whenever I want to.
No matter where I am or what I’m doing, I need the security blanket of my own vehicle.
It’s yet another thing that life with my father taught me.
You can never rely on other people, no matter how close they seem. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Okay,” she says, not picking up on any of my neurotic subtext. “The Parakeet, don’t be late.”
“I won’t,” I promise. “Congratulations again.”
I hang up and continue working on my toes.
After I’ve given them fifteen minutes to dry, I throw on some clothes.
I’m not going to make the same mistake I made this morning.
This time, I’m going to dress the part. I find one of my slinkiest club dresses in the back of my closet.
How long has it been since I wore this one? It feels like ages.
I pull the dress on and go look at myself in the mirror. Something is missing. I try on a few necklaces and settle on a rhinestone choker. Very shocking. I apply some makeup and manage to make it out the door in under an hour.
The Parakeet is one of my favorite bars.
It doesn’t have any of that mafia vibe that gave me the willies over at Frankie’s place.
It’s brightly lit and fun, with happy music and a clientele that draws from the yuppies downtown rather than gamblers or thugs.
But still, I have to be cautious. You never know when danger will strike, even in the most innocent of circumstances.
I say hi to the bouncer as I walk through the door, spotting Rebecca at a table in the corner.
There’s a band on stage playing covers of Led Zeppelin songs.
The singer is a little too clean cut to pull off a Robert Plant, but I give the drummer credit.
I’m feeling way better than I did just hours before, and I’m glad I decided to come out tonight.
“Hey, girl,” I say, kissing Rebecca’s cheek.
“Hey, glad you could come out,” she responds, shimmering in her pearl-colored dress. “I’m looking to pick up one of these guys.”
“Which one?” I ask, glancing around the bar. There are a couple of college kids up front, and a guy who looks like he just stepped off a construction site near the door.
“Him,” Rebecca says, pointing at the construction worker.
“More power to you,” I say.
“Here, do you want to order?” she asks, handing me a menu. She’s already got a drink in front of her.
I look around and spy a single waitress at the other end of the room. It feels like it’s going to be a while before she gets around to our table again. No matter, I’m in no hurry.
“What, you’re not looking for someone to spend the night with?” Rebecca prods.
“No thanks,” I say, thinking about Francisco. “My life is complicated enough.”
“Or maybe,” Rebecca cuts in, harpooning my nighttime fantasies, “you’re thinking about a certain cute law student.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Actually, no. He’s sweet, but not really my type.”
“Tell me about him,” Rebecca demands.
I’m excited to share some of my thoughts, but I’m careful not to say too much. I know Francisco wouldn’t appreciate me spreading the word about all his money. But I decide that a little bit of detail can’t hurt.
“He’s rich,” I say.
“How rich?” Rebecca asks, leaning forward.
“Very,” I answer. “And he’s a little bit unfocused. I kind of get the feeling that becoming a lawyer is just the latest in a long line of attempts to please his father.”
“Ah,” Rebecca says. “That kind of guy.”
“Exactly,” I respond.
“And how did you meet him?” Rebecca pushes me for information.
“Like I said,” I reply, referencing an earlier conversation. “We ran into each other on the street. I was having a bad day, and he offered to buy me a cup of coffee.”
“Girl, I can’t believe you got a job offer thanks to a meltdown in public,” Rebecca teases.
“I didn’t have a meltdown,” I object.
“I wasn’t there,” she allows me a bit of dignity, “but I’m pretty sure that you did.”
“You’re the worst,” I declare, but I don’t mean it.
“Hi there, my name is Mandi,” the waitress introduces herself, looking harried yet pleasant all at the same time. She’s about my age and thin as a rail. “What can I get for you?”
“I’ll have a vodka martini,” I say.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asks Rebecca.
“No thanks,” Rebecca says.
“Another glass of wine?” the waitress insists.
“Sure,” Rebecca caves. “And the phone number of that guy over there.” She points at the construction worker.
“You’re on your own there,” Mandi says, perking up. She walks away to get our drinks, leaving me and Rebecca to hash over our respective careers together.
“So tell me about your job,” I say.
“It’s not nearly as exciting,” Rebecca scoffs. “All I did was go in for a regular job interview.”
“Yeah, but you got the job,” I remind her. “That’s the important part.”
“Yeah,” Rebecca says wistfully. “I just wish I had some time off before it starts, but I’ve got to be in the office on Monday.”
“Lucky you,” I say seriously.
“Lucky me?” Rebecca bounces my words back. “Lucky you! I would kill to be tutoring some rich kid in a mansion.”
“Keep your voice down,” I exclaim, looking around.
I’ve already said too much. I can practically feel the eyes of Francisco’s men bearing down on me, and I glance over my shoulder.
There’s no one there but the patrons of the bar.
The same group of college kids are getting rowdy, and the construction workers move up to the bar and are chatting up an older woman.
The staff are just doing their thing, and there’s nothing that would indicate I’m being followed.
But still, I can’t shake the idea that someone is paying attention.
“Paranoid much?” Rebecca asks. “What does this guy do for a living?”
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“You don’t think it’s anything illegal?” Rebecca asks suspiciously.
“No,” I snap. It’s a knee-jerk reaction. I don’t actually know that Francisco is into anything illegal, but I suspect he is. And that suspicion puts me on edge. “Just keep your voice down.”
“All right, Ms. Double Oh Six,” Rebecca teases.
“Your guy is over there talking to someone else,” I inform her, hoping to change the subject.
“I see,” she observes. “Maybe he’s not the one for me after all.”
“You’ll meet someone,” I predict.
“Nice dodge. But really, why are you getting so defensive?” Rebecca prods.
Mandi shows up with our drinks, so we pause the conversation just long enough. After she’s gone, I lean forward. Rebecca is my best friend, and she’s not a fool. I don’t have to spill all the gory details to explain what’s troubling me.
“I don’t know if I want to keep this job,” I admit.
“Why not?” She asks, her eyes searching the room for another eligible hunk.
“I don’t know,” I say with a sigh. “They kind of remind me of my dad.”
“Your dad?” Rebecca asks, suddenly focusing on me. “Gosh. That must be painful.”
“It is,” I agree.
Rebecca doesn’t know everything about my father.
No one does except for my little brother.
The most I’ve told her is that he made some poor decisions, and it cost him his life.
That’s the truth without painting a stark picture of his mafia contacts.
I know Rebecca’s curious, but to her credit, she doesn’t press me for more information.
“Is the guy cute at least?” she wonders.
“Yes,” I respond, “he’s cute.” It’s the truth, but Frankie’s physical appearance is completely irrelevant. I wish I had someone I could really talk to, but that’s not going to happen. My instincts are right about Francisco. I know it. And I wouldn’t put it past him to have me followed.
“What?” Rebecca asks, noticing that my mood has soured.
“Nothing,” I say, shaking it off.
“They must have really gotten to you,” she observes.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, here you are in your favorite bar, talking to your favorite friend, and you’re sulking,” Rebecca describes the situation as she sees it.
“I’m not sulking,” I defend myself.
“You’re sulking,” she counters, flashing me a brilliant smile.
I hate that kind of blanket proclamation when it seems like there’s no way out.
She’s right. I am sulking. But I have a good reason.
The gig with Frankie and his father is dredging up old memories.
I can feel their eyes watching me from every angle, and I’m wondering which of the innocent-looking partygoers is in league with the devil.
It could be anyone: the conveniently drunk girl who’s flirting with anything that moves, or the studious-looking yuppie at a booth by himself. Any of them could be on Francisco’s payroll, here to spy on me and bring information back to their boss.
When I was a kid, my father was in deep.
I have a strong flashback to his funeral.
That was another time when I was sure there were spies in our midst. My mother died giving birth to my brother, and I was so young, I barely remember her.
There was no one there to hold my hand, to tell me to look on the bright side and that it would be okay.
Instead, a bunch of burly, linebacker-looking men folded their hands into the pockets of their trench coats and stared at my father’s coffin with disdain.
It was barely five years ago, and I was an adult, but their presence made me feel like a scared little child.
I held onto my brother for support. He had just started high school at the time, but he was almost fully grown.
We had no other family, and Dad had no regular friends or coworkers.
The priest said a generic blessing. He didn’t know my father any more than we knew him. He was just saying things he thought the family would find comforting, but the mood of the funeral was even more sedate than what I assume funerals are meant to be.
I knew Dad was into some very dangerous things, but I didn’t know how deep it ran. I still don’t. Except for that single black rose that someone laid on his coffin, I wouldn’t have had any clue.
I remember picking up that rose all those years ago and feeling a chill wash through me. The priest approached me at the gravesite and put his arm around my shoulder. I allowed myself to cry for a moment, holding that macabre flower as if it was the last piece of my father.
“Why is this rose black?” I’d sobbed. It seemed as if the color was trying to tell me something, as if death itself was caked into every petal.
“It’s a sign from the mafia,” the priest shared, his voice low. “Your family is marked. Be careful.”
Shortly after the funeral, I changed my last name, moved into a new apartment, and let go of everything I ever loved about my old life.
My brother came along with me too, and for a while we shared a two-bedroom apartment.
But then he went off to college and left me alone.
Thank goodness I found Rebecca, or I would have been completely alienated from the rest of the world.
The thought of the past is making me sick. I can feel the vodka stirring uncomfortably in my stomach. I haven’t even had half of the drink and already I’m feeling nauseous.
“I’m sorry,” I say abruptly.
“What for?” Rebecca asks.
“I have to go,” I explain, standing up a little too quickly.
I start to teeter, and Rebecca reaches over to steady me.
I know I’ve got to get out of this enclosed space, back to somewhere familiar where I can lock the door and keep the ghosts out.
I barely say my goodbyes before racing away into the night.
Maybe it’s best that I’m all alone. I can’t afford to get too close to anyone.
I’ll always have a mafia target on my back, no matter where I go.
I’d only put Rebecca in jeopardy if she knew the whole truth.
I manage to make it to my car without turning into a basket case.
Checking the backseat for any suspicious figures, I lock all the doors behind me.
I sit still and breathe for a moment. It’s times like these when I feel so unsafe that I wish things could be different.
I wish I didn’t have to look over my shoulder all the time.
I wish I had a regular job, a regular life, and a regular family history.
I’d even settle for one of those three, but the reality is, my life will never be ordinary.
When I finally calm down enough to drive, I open the car door again before turning on the ignition.
That way, if there’s a bomb, I stand a fair chance of being blown free and surviving.
You can never be too careful when you’re marked by the mob.