Son of the Mob
Most kids have to worry about acne, studying, and trying to find a way to get a car -- high school isn't an easy time for anybody! But what do you do if you've not only got to worry about high school, but a father who is a mobster, as well? Trust me, complicated doesn't even begin to cover it!
Vince Luca is as straight as they come, a positive throwback in a family of mobsters. He and his dad get along great, when his father is able to keep the family business away from the family ... unfortunately, that isn't an easy thing to do! So Vince is actually sort of used to having to worry about the police and the FBI causing him minor inconveniences.
But it isn't the worry of mobsters showing up at his school, or teachers afraid to give him low marks for fear of a contract being put out on them that causes Vince the most headaches, but trying to figure out how to keep the Feds out of his lovelife, especially when the girl he wants to date is the Daughter of the FBI!
From the Book:
CHAPTER ONE
The
worst night of my life? My first -- and last -- date with Angela O’Bannon.
Here’s how it goes down:
Five o'clock. I'm already
nervous by the time Alex drops by to go over the checklist. Alex is always pretty
skittish around my family because of what my father does for a living. Especially
since my older brother Tommy, who works for Dad, is hanging around. Tommy's
on the warpath, storming through the house like a caged tiger, and ranting about
how Benny the Zit is supposed to be here to pick him up for some business or
other. Real pleasant.
Once I shut the door
to my room, though, Alex is all calm efficiency.
"Car keys?"
he barks.
"Check."
"Money?"
"Check."
"Blanket?"
That's for Bryce Beach,
where, if all goes well, and with a little help from above, I'll be able to
maneuver Angela at the end of the night.
"It's in the trunk,"
I assure him. "Everything's going to be fine."
"Don't get cocky!"
he snaps at me. "This is my love life we're talking about!"
That's Alex's new thing. Since he has no love life, he wants to score vicariously
through me. Except I have no love life either. Until tonight, maybe.
Alex's probing eyes fall
on the neatly folded sweater on my bed. Every article of clothing in my closet
has the same preppy look -- my mom’s idea of what I should appear to be.
Appearances are big with her. Understandable, under the circumstances.
“Vince, you're
not wearing that?”
"Yeah. Why?"
He slaps his forehead.
"It's wool! Scratchy! Vince, you're taking her to a horror movie! She's
going to be all over you! We need 100% cotton, or maybe a nice linen-silk blend
..."
By the time we pick out
an appropriate outfit and go over the last few of the rules of engagement --
("Don't order the chili! All our hard work falls apart if your stomach's
gurgling with swamp gas!") -- it's almost six. Alex takes off, and I run
down to the basement for a quick workout on the Universal gym. Don't get me
wrong. I'm no musclehead. But I kind of enjoy working on the machine when I've
got something on my mind. Your brain shifts down, narrowing its function to
the tiny task of lifting the weight from here to there. It's like therapy. And
it wouldn't hurt to grow myself a pair of shoulders, for God's sake. The Lucas
are built like trucks. How did I come out a beanpole, especially when Mom cooks
from the How To Feed An Army And Still Have Leftovers
recipe book? Once, I tried to get her to admit I was adopted. After all, wasn't
I the only Luca male with no interest in the family business? But she assured
me I was legit -- which is more than she could say for the family business.
Not that she ever admits to that.
Anyway, I shower up and
hit the road. Even from the driveway I can hear my windbag brother inside in
the den tearing a strip off Benny the Zit, who finally showed up, I guess. What
I don't know at that point is that while I was working out, Tommy got sick of
waiting for Benny, borrowed my car, and went to attend to that business on his
own. That's why he's yelling -- because Benny stood him up.
With Alex's advice and
my brother's tantrum ringing in my ears, I go to pick up Angela. She looks awesome
-- even better than at school, with a little extra makeup, and a low-cut sweater
and skin-tight pants instead of the baggy shirts and jeans that have turned
into almost a uniform at Jefferson High. We go to eat at the Coffee Shop, which
is actually a really cool restaurant designed to look like an old-fashioned
diner. I order the chili. Yeah, I know Alex warned against it, but things are
going great, and my confidence is growing by the minute -- another Luca family
trait; maybe I wasn't adopted after all. I mean, the food's great, Angela seems
to be into me, and the conversation is really flowing. Alex spent the last day
and a half surfing Internet chat rooms and prepping me with dozens of topics
I could bring up if the table ever got uncomfortably quiet.
"This is my love
life here," he reminded me. "I can't risk you getting dissed because
she thinks you've got nothing to talk about."
"Maybe if you didn't
spend all your time on the Internet, you'd have your own love life," I
shot back at him.
I feel kind of bad about
that later at the movie, with Angela locked on to me like a boa constrictor
in spandex. I won't admit it to Alex, but I barely even notice she's there.
What kind of a sick, demented screenwriter could ever dream up a story like
Harvest of Death? There are seventeen main characters, and by the thirty-minute
mark of the film, they're all dead, including the killer. He, as near as I can
tell, is a cross between a vampire and a hay-baling machine. Just when I'm thinking
there's no one left to be in the rest of the movie, along comes a troop of girl
guides menaced by the vampire's evil twin -- yes, the first killer was the good
guy, or the good hay-baler. Take your pick.
Well, the movie must
have done the trick, because when I suggest we hit the beach, Angela's back
in the car before I can finish stammering out "B-Bryce B-Beach." So
much for the extensive begging, cajoling, and negotiating Alex prepared me for.
I'm a little worried
by all the other traffic going our way. Bryce Beach is a popular spot for the
high schools in our area. Will we be able to find any privacy?
"Park over there,"
Angela says decisively, pointing to a spot shielded by two outgrowths in the
dunes.
I can't help but suspect
that she's been here before. She's a woman with experience. We get out of the
car and stand silhouetted in the moonlight as the surf pounds against the shore,
and a whispering wind -- you get the picture. I'll never describe it right.
I'm a Luca. Anything more than a series of grunts is considered eloquence from
us. The point is, everything's perfect, like the Supreme Power has stepped in
to set it all up for me.
She kisses me -- the
kind of kiss you feel in the tips of your toes. The kind of kiss that conveys
the promise of everything that comes along with it.
"Got a blanket or
something?"
"Everything is provided
for your comfort," I manage to croak. I'm not proud of that feeble attempt
to be suave. But after that kiss, I'm amazed my mouth works at all.
I pop the trunk, reach
in, and freeze. I almost choke on my lungs, which have leaped up the back of
my throat. There's the blanket, all right -- wrapped around the unconscious
body of some guy! To be honest, my first thought is that he's dead -- which
isn’t such a stretch; I told you about the family business. But when I
suck in air in a resounding wheeze that echoes in both directions down the beach,
his thin-lipped mouth lets out a little moan.
"I'm wait-ing,"
Angela teases in a playful singsong voice. She holds herself lightly, chilled
by the sea breeze.
"Be right there,"
I rasp. I know this person. James Ratelli -- Jimmy Rat. He owns a sleazy nightclub
on the Lower East Side. Borrowed money from my father to get it started up.
My father. They call
him Honest Abe Luca instead of Anthony because he's so straight in his business
dealings, no matter how illegal they may happen to be. Never rips anybody off.
Never breaks a promise. Except one: Honest Abe just can't seem to make good
on his word to keep his line of work completely separate from my life. And now
I'm stranded on Bryce Beach with a red-hot and revved-up Angela O'Bannon in
my arms and an out-cold Jimmy Rat in my Mazda Protégé.
It looks like my brother
worked him over pretty good, too. Tommy's going to pay to dry-clean that blanket,
but there's no time to think about that here.
Now, this doesn't exactly
put me in the mood for love, but I've got to stall for time, and I can only
think of one way to do it. I clamp myself onto Angela like there's no tomorrow.
I guess she misinterprets my desperation as grand passion and starts kissing
me -- I mean, really going nuts at it. There's a strategy I'll bet Alex never
considered for his checklist.
So here I am, getting
the best action of my life. But I can't even enjoy it, because six feet away,
the trunk is open and Jimmy Rat is snoring softly and bleeding all over my blanket.
At this point, I'm committed
to a course of action. I try to ease Angela down to the beach, but she pulls
away. "Get the blanket!"
"The beach is nice
and soft -- "
"I don't want sand
all over me!" Furthering my suspicion that she's an old hand at this, she
realizes the pitfalls of a blanketless interlude at the beach. She dances around
me, and before I can stop her, she's staring into the trunk at the blanket and
its current occupant.
Well, don't even ask
about the screaming. I thought Harvest of Death was bad, but this is
in a whole other league. I guess being mauled by a vampire/hay baler is nothing
compared to finding a body in your make-out blanket.
"He's dead! He's
dead! Oh my God, Vince, he's dead!"
"He's not dead."
For some reason, the only thing I can think of is that old parrot skit on Monty
Python. "He's -- resting."
Angela spares me the
tough questions. She just gets in the car, arms folded, face like stone. "Take
me home, Vince. This minute."
What can I do? I slam
down the trunk lid, climb in behind the wheel, and put the car in gear.
"I'm really sorry
about this, Angela."
Her silence is even more
deafening than the screaming a couple of minutes ago.
That's when I see the
traffic jam. Oh, no! The cops have set up a roadblock on the causeway. They're
searching cars coming off the beach, looking for booze and drugs. I haven't
got any of that stuff. What I do have is Jimmy Rat in used condition.
I throw the Mazda into
reverse, but by that time, there are a couple of cars in line behind me. Besides,
this is the route off the beach, period. The only other escape is by submarine.
I have a giddy vision
of Alex, continuing his checklist: "Snorkel mask?"
"Snorkel mask? What
for?"
"For when you get
caught with a body in the trunk, and you have to swim for it. Don't get cocky,
Vince. This is my love life we're talking about!"
The guy three cars ahead
of me gets nailed with a bottle of vodka, but he passes the breath-alyzer. They
chew him out and confiscate the booze, but he doesn't get arrested.
No such hope for me.
They're not likely to confiscate Jimmy Rat and send me off with a warning. Especially
not after they see the name Luca on my driver’s license. My family has
quite a reputation in law enforcement circles.
"Let me do all the
talking," I whisper to Angela. Like there's anything to say.
She nods, petrified.
At least our predicament has scared her into forgetting how mad she is.
The roadblock is two
cars away. Now one. Beside me, Angela's lips are moving. I think she's praying.
The Nissan in front pulls
away. It's our turn.
And then -- an act of
God.
Horn honking wildly,
an out-of-control Cadillac weaves down the causeway from the other direction,
doing at least sixty. All at once, the driver slams on the brakes. The wheels
lock, sending the big car into a spin. It sideswipes the divider in a metal-on-metal
shower of sparks, and lurches to a halt. There, hanging onto the wheel for dear
life, sits Benny the Zit. He's looking straight at me through the crack in his
windshield.
The cops all leap the
divider and run to the scene of the accident.
Hey, I'm not going to
wait for an engraved invitation. I stomp on the accelerator and get out of there.
About fifteen other cars peel off after me.
I get the real story
later. When my dad found out that I was on a date with Jimmy Rat in the trunk
of my Mazda, he gave my brother a major earache. Well, Tommy passed all that
pain on to Benny. It was Benny's punishment for being late, thereby forcing
Tommy to take my car to lean on Jimmy Rat. So it became Benny's job to get me
out of this, no matter what the cost. The cost turned out to be one Cadillac.
In my family, this counts
as justice.
Our thrilling escape
does nothing to thaw Angela's icy attitude towards me. When I drop her off at
her house, she says, "If you promise not to call me, not to talk to me;
if we pass each other in the hall, you don't even look in my direction; then
maybe -- maybe -- I'll forget what was in your trunk tonight."
I nod sadly. "I've
never seen you before in my life." And I drive away.
From the trunk of the
Mazda, I hear pounding. Jimmy Rat wants out. I know I'm going to catch hell
for this from Tommy, but I pull over and free the guy. I notice for the first
time that he isn't wearing any pants, so I let him keep the blanket. I even
give him a quarter for the phone so he can call a cab.
He looks disdainfully
at my Mazda. "Damn foreign cars. No trunk space at all."
I have to keep myself
from telling him, hey, blame Benny the Zit. If he hadn't been late, you could
have been beaten up and imprisoned in the back of a Cadillac -- the Hilton of
trunks. Would that have been suitable?
So that’s the whole
story, the post-mortem, you should pardon the expression. It’s the right
one, though. A post-mortem is done on a dead body. And nothing is deader than
the relationship between Angela O’Bannon and me.
According to Alex the
next day, all this is my fault.
"Face it, Vince.
You screwed up. You had a golden opportunity, and you blew it. This isn't doing
my love life any good, you know."
Think what it's doing
to mine.
Copyright 2001 by Gordon Korman, used by permission