The End of Brooklyn, page 5
Since John Gotti, supposedly the Last Don, was sentenced to life in prison in 1992 the Mafia had fallen on hard times. They were no longer the crime power they had once been. Other so called “mafias” had popped up, most notably the Russians.
“Maybe it wasn’t the Italian Mafia who did this,” I said.
“You mean the Russians?”
“Or the South Americans. Or the Koreans,” I said. “Who knows?”
“Well,” Blaine said, closing his notebook, “let Homicide worry about it. They’ll question Barracuda when he’s ready to talk.”
“Well it ain’t gonna be tonight,” I said. “Can I go? I’ve got arrangements to make.”
“Sure, go ahead,” Blaine said. “You’re not bein’ any help to us. If we patted you and your buddy down would we find you both heeled?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Would you?”
Hart stood up but Blaine put his hands on his partner’s chest.
“I’m givin’ you a pass, Delvecchio, because your dad was killed tonight. Don’t count on the same pass from Homicide. Those guys are a little more hard ass than I am.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, then as an afterthought said, “Thanks.”
I wasn’t being any help to them because I couldn’t be. I didn’t know squat. The Don hadn’t told me anything, and Benny didn’t know anything helpful. Once I could talk to the Don, and ask some questions around Sheepshead Bay, maybe I’d get some answers.
But right at that moment all I could really do was try to deal with the death of my father.
Fourteen
Hours later it was just us in the emergency room. Me, Vinnie, Maria and Benny. There was nothing else the police could do until the Don was able to talk. There was one cop upstairs, waiting to take a statement.
Other emergencies had come in, been taken care of, and either admitted or released. There were still a few people sitting and either waiting to be seen, or waiting for someone being treated. One person was cradling an arm, another was holding a handkerchief to his nose. Even though the E.R. had been crowded for a while, it had been a relatively slow night for Victory Memorial’s emergency room. And for Brooklyn. Odd.
An odd night, all around.
“Can we take him home?” Maria asked.
“What?”
“Dad,” she said. “Can we take him home?”
“I doubt it,” I said. “They’ll want an autopsy.”
“Autopsy? What for? He was shot.”
“Mandatory for homicides,” I said.
“What about the Don?” Benny asked. “Are they gonna let me go up and see him?”
“Probably when they put him in a room.”
“Private room,” Benny said. “It has to be a private room.”
“We can arrange that.”
Father Vinnie was quiet, head bowed. I thought he was praying.
“Sir?”
I looked up. It was the reception nurse—a different one from before. I hadn’t seen her or spoken to her, yet. This one was older, gray-haired, very businesslike.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry, but I need to have you fill out some papers.”
“Papers?”
“Yes, for billing?”
“Billing?” Maria asked, appalled. “You want to talk to us about billing . . . now?”
“I’m sorry,” the woman said, “but it’s my job.”
“Listen, lady—”
“Nick,” Benny said. “I’ll take care of it. The Don would want to take care of it.”
“Benny—”
“I got it,” Benny said. He stood up, towering over the woman, who stared up at him in awe. “Come on, dear.”
He took her elbow and led her back to her desk. Another oddity. Benny, being gentle, and even charming.
“The Church has medical insurance,” Vinnie said.
“Uncle Dom will take care of it,” I said.
“I haven’t heard you call him that in a long time,” Maria said.
“I know.”
The double doors opened and Doctor Ramirez came out. I stood up and went to meet him.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
“Sure.”
He looked past me at Maria and Father Vinnie, and said, “Away from the others.”
“Anything you want to say to me you can say in front of my brother and sister.”
“I think maybe I’ll leave it up to you, if you want to tell them later,” he said.
I studied his face for a few moments, not really getting anything from him. I turned and said, “I’ll be right back.”
I followed him through the double doors and into a treatment room.
“What’s goin’ on, Doc?”
“Your blood.”
“What about it.”
“When I took the sample I checked it for compatibility.”
“Yeah, so?” I stared at him. “Oh great, you’re gonna tell me you found something in my blood. Am I sick?”
“No, no,” he said, “you’re not sick. But I did find something.”
“What?”
“I gave it a lot of thought before deciding to tell you,” he said.
“Tell me what, Doc?”
“Well . . . your blood type.”
“Yeah?”
“It, uh, doesn’t match.”
“Match what?”
“Your father’s blood type—you weren’t a match. We would not have been able to use your blood on him, just your—just Father Vincent’s.”
“Doc,” I said, “you’re gonna have to spit this out in plain English for me.”
“Well,” he said, “simply put . . . your father is—was—not your father.”
Fifteen
Was it odd that of everything that had happened that night, this was what hit me the hardest? I felt like I’d been hit square in the belly. I couldn’t take a breath.
“Mr. Delvecchio?” Doctor Ramirez said. “Are you all right?”
I couldn’t answer.
“Come over here, sit down.” He led me to a chair and lowered me into it.
I looked up at him and said, “Wha—what?”
“I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “Obviously, you didn’t know you were . . . adopted? Some parents don’t ever tell the child . . .”
“Adopted?” I said.
“That’s the only explanation I can think of.”
Of course, given the business I was in, I could think of another possibility.
“Your blood type is O positive. It’s the most common type. Your father was B positive, not the rarest, but still rare.”
“And . . . my brother?”
“Father Vincent is also B positive. Do you know what your mother’s blood type was?”
“N-no.” If I didn’t know mine before that night, how would I know my mother’s?
“I’m sorry . . .”
I stared at the floor, my mind racing. I didn’t like where it was going, though, so I tried to shake it off.
“Can I . . . get you anything?” he asked.
“No,” I said, “no, I’m fine. How’s the Don—how’s my godfather?”
“He resting easy,” Ramirez said. “We moved him to Critical Care.”
“Can we go up?”
“Sure,” Ramirez said, “it’s the eighth floor, but there’s a policeman up there.”
“I’ll talk to him,” I said. “Thanks, Doctor.”
“Mr. Delvecchio,” he said, “you had more than one shock tonight. Perhaps you should go home, get some rest.”
“I will, Doctor,” I said, “soon.”
“I . . . I hope I did the right thing in telling you,” he said, with concern.
“You did, Doctor,” I assured him, “you did.”
“Everything okay?” Father Vinnie asked when I returned to the emergency waiting room. People were moving around us very quickly.
“Yeah, what’s happening?”
“Some kind of accident. They’re bringing in a lot of casualties.”
“Then we better get out of here.”
Benny came over.
“What’s going on, Nick?”
“The Don is in Critical Care,” I said. “We can go up. When we get there I’ll have to talk to the police officer.”
“Let’s go!” Benny said.
“Get Maria, Benny.”
He went to where she was sitting and helped her to her feet.
“Is everything okay, Nick?”
“Nothing’s okay, Vinnie.”
“No, of course not. I know that. I just meant . . . with you. Are you all right?”
“I don’t think I’ll know until I get home,” I said. “All of this has to . . . process.”
“I don’t think any of us should be alone tonight, Nick. We can all go to Maria’s.”
“Or Pop’s,” I said.
We all had keys to my father’s house. After all, we used to live there.
“Let’s go,” Benny said, with Maria looking on.
l
When we got out of the elevator we came face-to-face with the police officer, a young guy with “Deaver” on his chest.
“Officer Deaver.”
“Who are you people?”
“Delvecchio,” I said. “I’m Nick, this is Maria, and . . . Father Vincent.”
“Oh, hello, Father,” Deaver said.
Good, I thought, a Catholic.
“And this is Benny. We’d like to see Mr. Barracondi.”
“Are you family?”
“Yes,” I said. “He’s our uncle. Our father was killed in the attack on both of them.”
“I’m supposed to take a statement when he comes to,” the cop said.
“No problem,” I said. “We just want to see him, and one of us will be staying all night.”
“I’ll have to okay that with my boss.”
“Talk to Detective Blaine, Six-One Squad.”
“Six-One?” He looked confused. “But we’re in the Six-Eight.”
“Talk to Dr. Ramirez,” Vinnie said.
“Dr. Ramirez?”
Another elevator opened and Ramirez stepped out.
“I’m sorry,” he said to me. “I was delayed.”
“Hey, Doc, these folks wanna see Mr. Barracondi—”
“Yes, yes, it’s all right,” the doctor said. “They won’t stay long.”
“They say one of them will be staying all night.”
Ramirez frowned.
“Is that right?”
“Vinnie,” I said, “take Benny and Maria in to see . . . Uncle Dom.”
“Oh, I’m afraid that won’t be—” Ramirez started, but I cut him off.
“Doctor, do you know who you have in there?”
“Uh, Mr. Barracondi? Your uncle.”
“Let me tell you a little about Dominick Barracondi,” I said.
Sixteen
When I entered the room, Vinnie turned to look at me.
“All right?” he asked.
“The doctor now knows who he has here,” I said. “He said ‘oh, that Godfather.’ He understands the need for Benny to stay. He also thinks that a bunch of mafia foot soldiers are gonna storm the hospital at any moment.”
“Did he see The Godfather?” Vinnie asked.
“Yeah, he did,” I said. “He also saw Casino this year. But I assured him that Uncle Dom is not Marlon Brando and Benny’s not Al Pacino and there are no Joe Pesci’s on the way. But I also convinced him that there was a need for Benny to stay, even if it was Benny’s need.”
“I wouldn’t want to be the one to tell Benny he couldn’t stay,” Vinnie said.
“Me, neither,” I said, “and the doctor doesn’t want to be that man, either.”
“What about the cop?”
“I think the doctor convinced him for us,” I said. “Of course, when the detectives come back in the morning that’ll change, but until then . . .”
“I talked to Maria about all of us going back to Pop’s, and she agreed. She doesn’t want to be alone tonight.”
“Okay.”
“There’s somethin’ else on your mind, isn’t there, Nick?”
“Yeah, there is, Vin,” I said, “but we’ll talk about it later. I’ve got to talk to Benny. Why don’t you take Maria out into the hall?”
“Okay.”
Vinnie steered Maria out and I went to stand next to Benny.
“Ben.”
“He don’t look too good, Nicky,” he said.
“The doctor says he’ll be fine, barring complications.”
“Don’t they always say that?”
“Yeah,” I said, “it kinda covers them. Look, you can stay tonight.”
“Damn right, I‘m stayin’!”
“No, I mean I got you permission,” I said. “Don’t get into it with the cop outside. If the Don wakes up it’s his job to write down whatever he says. You gotta let him, you hear?”
“I hear ya, Nick.”
“And if the detectives come back early and kick you out, don’t argue,” I said. “It won’t do the Don any good for you to get yourself tossed in jail. Got it?”
“I got it,” he said, “but what do I do then? If they kick me out?”
“Go back downstairs and wait for me,” I said. “I’ll be back in the morning.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll bring you some breakfast.”
“Thanks, Nick. Hey, about your dad—”
“It’s okay, Benny,” I said. “I know, okay?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll see you in the morning,” I said. “And look, don’t pull that gun unless you absolutely have to, okay?”
“I ain’t stupid, Nick.”
“I know that, Benny,” I said. “Believe me, I know it.”
I slapped him on his broad back, took one more look down at the Don—who was still hooked up to tubes and monitors—and then went out to grieve with my brother and sister.
Or whoever they were.
Seventeen
My Dad’s house—the house I grew up in—was in Bensonhurst on Ovington Avenue, between Fourteenth and Fifteenth Streets. The thing I really enjoyed about my childhood—apart from my mother’s cooking—was that we were walking distance from pizza, bagels and Chinese food.
As we entered the house Maria went into mother mode, which was good for her.
“I’ll make coffee.”
She went into the kitchen with the bag of bagels we had stopped to pick up around the corner at the 24-hour shop.
Vinnie and I stood for a moment in the hall. I knew we were both thinking the same thing: What do we do now?
Only I was wrong. That wasn’t what Vinnie was thinking.
“What’s wrong, Nick?”
“What do you mean?”
“Something happened tonight. Something other than Pop and Uncle Dom being shot. What is it?”
I peered down the hall to the kitchen, where Maria was keeping herself busy.
“Come into the living room.”
He followed me there. I turned to him and kept my voice down.
“Did you know what your blood type was when they asked you?”
“Not really,” Vinnie said. “I guess I should have but—”
“Never mind,” I said. “Here’s my point. The doctor told me my blood was the wrong type for Pop.”
“Well,” Vinnie said, “they had mine, and given what happened I guess it really didn’t matter—”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “The doctor said there’s no way I could be related to Pop.”
“What?” Vinnie looked puzzled.
“We don’t have the same father, Vin.”
He stared at me with his mouth open, then said, “That can’t be.”
“That’s what I said.”
“It’s gotta be a mistake, Nick.”
“The doctor said he double-checked it.”
Vinnie sat down heavily on the sofa. Maria startled the hell out of both of us by appearing and asking, “You guys want the bagels in here.”
“Yeah, that’s good,” I said.
She nodded and went back to the kitchen.
I sat down on the sofa with Vinnie.
“What does this mean, Nick?”
“The doctor thought it meant I was adopted.”
“Adopted? Why would you be adopted? Mom and Pop had Joe, then me. Why adopt you, and then have Maria?”
“Didn’t make sense to me, either.”
“Then what’s the explanation?”
I hesitated, then said, “You won’t like it.”
“What?”
I shrugged. “Maybe Pop didn’t know.”
Vinnie stared at me for a few moments until the meaning of what I was suggesting set in.
“Oh, no . . . Mom?”
I shrugged again. “The doctor’s got no reason to lie, Vin.”
“I know, but . . . Mom? And somebody else?”
“I know,” I said.
“I don’t believe it,” Vinnie said.
“Don’t believe what?” Maria asked. She entered the room carrying a tray with coffee cups and a platter of bagels and butter.
I looked at Vinnie, who just stared back at me. How would Maria react to this after everything that had happened that night?
She walked to the coffee table and put the tray down on it.
“The coffee will be ready soon,” she said. “What’s goin’ on? You don’t believe what, Vinnie?”
Maria hadn’t had an easy time of it for the past few years. She had gotten divorced, was on a hijacked plane, and had to live through—as we all did—the time that Father Vinnie was suspected of having an affair with a parishioner, and murder.
Now this. Pop was dead, and apparently, he wasn’t my real father.
“Nick? Vinnie? What’s goin’ on?”
“Sit down, Maria.”
She sat in one of the armchairs, staring at both of us warily.
“You guys are scarin’ me,” she said. “What could be as bad, or worse, than what happened to Pop?”
“Well,” I said, “Apparently—the doctors were taking blood from Vinnie, and wanted to take some from me, except . . .”
“Except what?”
“I didn’t match.”
