Chapter Two
The nagging questions about Vince’s sexuality lingered even a few days later, and he blamed them for his desire to stop by his family’s restaurant without so much as a guilt trip from his mother.
Emilio’s Cafe had been on the corner of Taylor and Morgan since 1952 when Vince’s grandfather had kept his promise to give his wife a “little place to show off the best Italian cooking in Chicago” as soon as he got back from the war. He’d been back from the war for several years by then, obviously, but Giorgio Fierro had forgotten to check the price of Little Italy real estate before he’d made his bold vow. Which was why the cafe hadn’t been named Marisa’s Cafe as he’d planned but Emilio’s, after his great uncle who he’d finally persuaded to lend him the money on the condition of free meals for life and his name emblazoned on the sign above the roll-out awning. And the placemats, and the napkins, and the matchboxes and even on the glasses and coffee cups, the latter two which were still stolen by college students wanting to take home a souvenir of their favorite hangout.
Plenty of University of Illinois students littered the restaurant when Vince stopped by, most taking up the big curving booths in the back, but a group sat at the big circular table in the middle and several dotted the bar as well. Uncle Frank was manning that station, his wild salt-and-pepper (though mostly salt at this point) hair sticking out in at least seven directions, further solidifying his legend as “the crazy old man who puts hot sauce in your drink if he thinks you gave him a fake ID.” If only the kids knew how later Frank would go home and get teary over Lifetime Movies of the Week.
When Frank saw Vince come in, he stopped glowering at his customers long enough to give his nephew a nod.
“Vinnie!” The cry was the only warning Vince got before his cousin Vera tackled him from behind in a hug. Then she whapped him on the arm with a dishtowel. “What do you think you’re doing, not coming by the cafe for so long?” She’d moved in front of him now, her dark eyes narrowing beneath her wild mane of soft-permed hair. “You been eating at that Greek place again? Is that it?”
“He comes in,” Frank said as he wiped out a glass. “Just not when you’re working.”
Vera hit Vince with her dishtowel again.
Vince held up his hands and backed away. “Easy, easy! I been on a job up in Skokie. A complete refit of six condos. Had a call in Lakeview Tuesday too. I barely get anywhere these days.” Vera mellowed somewhat, and he pressed his advantage. “How are the kids doing? Does Davy have a game coming up I could go see?”
“Saturday.” Vera beamed. “You should have seen him last week. Hit a home run and a triple in the same inning. And in the last he nailed a line drive so hard it knocked the shortstop on his ass.”
“Well, tell him Cousin Vinnie expects to see somebody go to the hospital on Saturday.”
Vera laughed and bussed a kiss on his cheek. “It’s good to see you, Vin. Don’t you be a stranger no more.”
He barely sat down at a table before the door to the kitchen burst open and more family came out. This one was his niece and goddaughter, Marcie, wearing her waitress uniform and a shy, pretty smile that hid her braces. “Hi, Uncle Vinnie.” As she passed a group of college kids, a straw wrapper hit her in the side of the face, and she staggered back, blushing as red as the placemats.
Every male member of the Fierro family acted at once. Frank was bellowing from behind the bar and shuffling arthritically to the pass-through as Marcie’s older brother set his busboy tub on a table and started weaving through chairs, but Vince, only two tables over, beat them all and moved to loom over the well-groomed and tanned blond idiot.
“You got some sort of problem?” Vince asked, his voice making it very clear, that yes, the blond idiot did.
Predictably, the idiot went for machismo. “It was just a stupid gag. Jesus.”
An angry gasp from behind Vince told him that his Uncle Marco had come out from the kitchen in time to hear the blasphemy.
Vince leaned over the empty chair at the great circular table and glared at the blond idiot. “Apologize.”
The idiot blinked. “What?”
“Apologize,” Marco said, angry where Vince had been quietly threatening. “To Marcie and to the Son of God, you lousy son of a bitch!”
“Marco, Vincent—what on Earth are you doing?”
It was Lisa, Vince’s mom. She came out of the kitchen and stared at them all with her hands on her hips. “Well? Answer me!”
“This punk was picking on Marcie,” Marco said.
“I was not! It was an accident!”
Lisa reached out and smacked each one of them on the side of the head, one after the other. Vince, then Frank, then Marco. “What are you, a bunch of Fierro hooligans again, running around the neighborhood, beating up anybody who looks at your sisters twice?”
“But, Ma—” Vince started to say.
“Enough. Go sit down.”
Fierro men may have been tough, but nobody was going to question Lisa. The men all hung their head like boys and backed up a step. The blond punk started to laugh.
Smack.
Vince was pretty sure his mom had smacked the kid far harder than she’d smacked him.
“What the hell?” the kid yelled.
“You don’t get off the hook so easy. Just because I kept them from beating you to a pulp doesn’t mean you don’t owe my granddaughter an apology.”
The blond blushed. “Sorry.”
Lisa’s hand slapped him squarely in the back of the head this time, almost pitching him into his lemonade. “Stand up, boy, and say it like you mean it.”
The boy did, scooting his chair back, his face now much redder than Marcie’s. “I’m very sorry, miss. I was rude, and it won’t happen again.” A grunt from Marco had him adding quickly, “And I’m sorry, Jesus, for taking your name in vain.”
“Good boy,” Lisa said, patting him on the head. “Enjoy your meal.”
She turned and left. Marco and Frank nodded. Marcie hurried back to the kitchen. She was mortified, Vince knew.
Tough. Nobody messed with Fierro girls. Nobody.
The Fierros dispersed, all of them casting independent warning glances as they returned to their previous positions. On his way back to the table, Vince grabbed a newspaper and hid behind it as he sat down, pretending to read while he listened intently to the heated whispers. He caught “Holy shit!” and “What the fuck was that?” and “Jesus, I’m never coming here again,” and then a familiar voice, much louder said, “What the hell did you guys do while I was in the bathroom?”
Vince lowered his paper enough to peer over the top of it. Yep. It was Trey Giles slipping into the empty chair Vince had been leaning over.
The chair beside him scraped back, and Frank sat down in it. “What’s a nice boy like little Trey doing with that pack of baboos?” He glowered at the table. “I should go call his grandma right now.”
“Hush.” Vince settled firmly behind the paper again. “I’m trying to listen.”
Someone was just wrapping up a retelling of the scene. “God, Trey, I thought you said this was a good place.”
“It is. And I hope you haven’t screwed it up, because I want to come back here again.”
Frank clucked his tongue. “Like we’d ever keep Sophia’s grandson away.”
“Hush,” Vince hissed.
“But you did apologize, right?” Trey was asking. “And they seemed satisfied?”
“I guess.” That was the blond idiot.
“Listen, man. You’re going to leave a huge tip. I mean huge. I won’t have the Fierros thinking I’m hanging with schmucks who are rude and cheap.” The idiot gurgled a protest, but Trey ran over him. “You’ll do that, or you’ll be finishing this project on your own. Got it? Because you all know I’m the one carrying us on this anyway.” The rest Vince couldn’t catch, as Trey was murmuring it under his breath, but it was clear he was pissed.
Vince smiled and lowered the paper.
Frank nodded, looking satisfied. “Such a nice young man. So good to his granny.” He pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and dabbed at his eye. Then he frowned at the empty place in front of Vince. “Marcie didn’t take your order.” He rose, slowly, his creaky joints making the task a chore. “You want a scotch? Yes. Yes. I’ll get you a scotch.”
“Thanks, Uncle Frank,” Vince said, wishing he could give the older man a hand. He wasn’t even old. Not old enough to hurt like he did. But he’d been rheumy since Vince had been the one getting dressed down for being a baboo in the cafe, and now Frank practically had a ninety-year-old body instead of the sixty-five-year-old he should.
But he had enough pride for ten Italian men, so Vince said nothing, just let Frank get him a double. In the time that had taken, Marcie had come back out and asked if Vince wanted the special or his usual. After glancing at the board and seeing the special was spinach ravioli, he ordered the special. Marcie went back to the kitchen, and Vince read a few sections of the paper before Frank came back with his scotch. He sat down once again, settling in for a chat.
“Vera’s right,” he said, leaning back with a shot of his own. “You don’t come by often enough. And I know you ain’t eating at the downtown place, because they think you’re coming here.”
Vince suppressed the urge to sigh. “Neither of you are in my neighborhood, and I work in Northbrook.”
Frank made a face. “You work for a fool. Why don’t you come work with your family?”
“Jack’s my uncle too.”
“Bah.” Frank waved the idea away with his hand. “The Parinos. They don’t know what family is. They all live in the suburbs, and none of them the same one. You should live here, Vinnie. Here with your family.” He gestured to the round table. “Like little Trey Oscar, taking care of Sophia and his mother.”
Vince said nothing, only took a sip of his scotch.
Frank kept talking. “Four generations. Four generations work here, Vinnie. How many families can say that, eh? How many families stay that close? You should come back. There’s a condo opening up down the street from your grandmother, bless her heart. Live there and work here.”
“I have a job,” Vince pointed out.
“A job that works you too hard. And I know you’re thinking of leaving. You’re always thinking of leaving. You should. Come back to the restaurant. You could take over the books from your cousin Lou. God bless him, but he can’t add worth a damn.”
Vince didn’t do the books anymore, because he knew damn well what should have been simple accounting also came with being the organizer-in-chief and being everyone’s errand boy. He also knew from long experience that this conversation wouldn’t get any better, so he changed the subject. “How’s Amanda and the new baby?”
Frank’s eyes lit up. “Ah. He’s a feisty one. Never wants to nap. Drives his mama crazy.” He launched into stories about his daughter and her third baby, the first boy, and Vince listened, generally interested.
As Marcie came out with his order and Frank’s stories drifted into the more mundane retellings of what neighbors had come to the cafe for breakfast, his mind began to drift back, as it had so often this week, to the Lakeview job, to the couple again. The same feelings of confusion and longing filled him, and he realized that instead of curing them, being in the den of his family only made them worse. He felt lonely. He felt cut off.
He felt wrong. Like everything he was doing was wrong.
His eyes slid over to the round table, where even the blond idiot was carrying on about how good Marco’s cooking was. He saw the boys leaning on the girls and the girls flirting with the boys. He saw them all laughing and talking, all connected. All happy.
Well, they were all hooked up except for Trey, but then Trey was never hooked up with anyone. If he did hook up, Vince doubted it would be with one of these girls, who were all clearly rich kids from the suburbs. No, it’d be with that girl from that group he always came in with.
Though as Vince thought about it, there were more guys than girls in that group, and the guys were always hanging all over each other. He’d figured it was just being friendly.
What if it wasn’t? What if Trey were…?
Well, what if? What the hell would it matter to you?
Vince didn’t know. He felt embarrassed, then felt foolish for being embarrassed. He needed to get out more. He needed to get laid.
Gaze drifting back to Trey, Vince took in Trey’s shining blond hair, which fell into his eyes as he reached over a book in his lap to take a bite of ravioli.
Vince blinked hard, almost alarmed at where his mind had been going.
Laid by a girl. An adult woman. Jesus, Trey was just a kid.
No, he’s twenty-two at least. He might even be older. And really, if you think about it, he’s as pretty as most girls…
“You come back more often,” Frank said, interrupting Vince’s thoughts. “And you think about what I said. I know you’ve had your troubles with the women, and I know you don’t want to get married again. But that doesn’t mean you need to go live like a monk up on LaSalle. We don’t need another Hank, hiding out and being gloomy. Come back to us, Vinnie. Come back to your family, where you belong.”
Vince watched Trey Giles’s sandy-blond hair fall as he bent his head and laughed at something someone at his table had said. “I’ll come by more often, Uncle Frank.” Vince’s gaze stayed on Trey’s hair. “I promise.”