Free Hot-Wired in Brooklyn by Douglas Dinunzio Page B

become a chore. My mood went from foul to fouler,
     and when Tony and Angelo arrived at noon, I barely grunted a hello. They were arguing about polar bears, but I didn’t care.
    Gino arrived half an hour later. He hit me with Mr. Pulaski’s troubles the minute he walked in, and I hit right back with
     my own.
    “You wanna know somethin’, Gino?” I growled, stirring the sauce pot like a devil over a cauldron. “I don’t give a rat’s ass
     about Mr. Pulaski or his Polack prick of a son. Whaddaya think about that?”
    “What the hell’s wrong with
you!”
    “Lay off.”
    “Okay, okay. Be a big jerk if you want.” He turned and walked briskly into the living room, where Tony and Angelo were waiting
     for an umpire. He quelled their argument about polar bears and started reading them the Sunday comics, like Mayor La Guardia
     on the radio during the newspaper strike.
    I put the lasagna together as if I were assembling a weapon. The big stewing pot between my ears finally reached the boiling
     point when Sal and Frankie came in. Sal had his wife’s fresh garlic bread tucked under his arm, and Frankiehad a case of beer on his hip. It’s supposed to be Schaefer, but it wasn’t. I stopped him with my arm as he passed me in the
     kitchen.
    “What’s
this?”
I asked.
    Frankie grinned. “It’s beer. What’s it look like?”
    I pushed him, the case fell to the floor, and a couple of bottles broke. “What the hell is
this?”
    Frankie’s grin vanished. “It’s beer. What’d you push me for?”
    I pulled out an unbroken bottle and shoved it in his face, the label side showing. “This say ‘Schaefer?’”
    Frankie pulled back. “What’re you talkin’ about, Eddie? What the hell’s wrong?”
    I pushed it back in his face. “This say ‘Schaefer?’”
    He pushed it away. “They were out.”
    “Who was out?”
    “Fanucci’s, the liquor store. They were out. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
    “You ever see any other beer but Schaefer in this house?”
    “No, but…”
    I pushed him again. “You’re an idiot, Frankie. Take this bottled piss outa here.”
    “Screw you!” Frankie snapped as he pushed me back. I was ready to deck him when Gino filled the space between us.
    “You wanna hit me, too, Eddie?”
    “I’m thinkin’ about it.”
    “Well, think about this. Number one, you and Frankie ain’t hit each other since the sixth grade. Number two, you’re scaring
     the hell out of Sal. You really wanna do that?”
    I glanced at Sal, an Al Capone look-alike with the temperamentof a kiddie show clown. It didn’t take much to frighten Sal. Watching two of his
goombahs
actually come to blows would be more than he could bear.
    “Well, Eddie?” Gino prompted when I didn’t answer.
    I brushed my hand lightly across Sal’s chubby face and forced a smile. “Sorry, Sal.”
    Frankie was still looking testy. His face was set in a scowl, and his fists were ready. I made another consoling gesture.
     “No offense, Frankie. It’s that ill wind, not you.”
    Frankie nodded, and I turned to Gino. “The lasagna’s ready. You just gotta put it in the oven at 425 degrees.” I grabbed my
     coat and headed for the door. “Take it out when it bubbles.”
    “Eddie?”
    “See you later, Gino.”
    “But, where ya goin’?”
    “Back to see Arnold. If I’m gonna do some hurtin’, it oughta be somebody I don’t like.”

CHAPTER
17
    I t was regular hours at Raymond Street. The visiting room hummed like a hive in midsummer, but not all the bees were industrious.
     Or contrite.
    Arnold walked in flashing his movie star smile, upping the wattage when he saw me. That meant he hadn’t heard about Jimmy
     Hutchinson, or so I hoped. As much as I hated the little prick, I still didn’t figure him for cold-blooded.
    He sat down on the other side of the divider, keeping up the grin.
    “I take it you’ve seen Charlotte,” I said.
    The grin waned. “No. You said you’d talk to her.”
    “That I did. She