Free Son of the Mob by Gordon Korman Page B

“The mother’s a sophisticated robot. See? Her eyeballs are rotating camera lenses.”
    How am I supposed to keep up with that?
    One time we pass a mild-mannered guy carrying a violin case, and she says, “Oh, please. There’s no violin in there. That’s a machine gun. I can spot a gangster a mile away.”
    God, I hope not.
    I doubt she could ID my father or any of his associates. The fact is, we’ve all grown up with so many TV mobsters that when you see the real thing, it’s always a letdown. Dad could be the Pricewaterhouse representative who guards the ballots at the Academy Awards. Ray is a dead ringer for one of the priests at St. Bart’s. Uncle Exit looks like exactly what he is, an aging hippie, complete with beads and tie-dye. He got arrested once for a homicide because the police found the impression of a peace sign in the strangulation marks on the victim’s throat. He turned out to be innocent, but I can appreciate the cops’ thinking process. The only difference between now and Uncle Exit’s Woodstock days is that his shoulder-length hair is streaked with gray.
    Uncle Puke is American Gothic without the pitchfork. Primo, this guy from his crew, is so into fishing that he walks around with a hatful of lures. And Uncle Carmine, who is a volunteer fireman in his other life, is just as likely to show up in a bright red fire-chief’s car as in his Mercedes Kompressorwagen.
    I pull over in front of the Y, and Kendra gets out.
    â€œNeed me to wait for you?” I ask. “I mean, this is a pretty tough neighborhood with all these wiseguys around.” I indicate violin man, who, incidentally, is wearing a tux.
    The truth is, dating someone who’s busy is just as exhausting as being busy yourself. I may be just a moth to a flame, but every time the flame moves, I end up following it. And at least the flame has a purpose; I’m just flapping around.
    Schoolwork gets done at midnight or not at all. But then, midnight has always been a busy time at the Luca house. Uncle Uncle has been underfoot lately, which usually means that a huge shipment of TVs or VCRs is about to fall off a truck at Kennedy Airport. It’s almost like a plague of locusts when this happens. For a few days afterward, every drawer, every closet is packed with stolen goods. Swag, they call it. Around the time of the big Japan Airlines heist last year, I opened up my locker at school, and sixty brand-new Palm Pilots fell out. That’s the last time I trusted Tommy with my combination.
    Speak of the devil, Tommy’s home too, peering over my shoulder and bugging me while I try to work on iluvmycat.usa.
    â€œHow do you know all these cat owners?”
    â€œI don’t,” I reply, keyboarding steadily. “But anybody with Internet access can get on my site.”
    â€œAnybody?”
    â€œAll you need is a computer and an Internet service provider. AOL. AT&T. My hookup is with the cable company. You just log on to my site and read what people have to say about their cats. You can post a message on my Cat Tales bulletin board and even e-mail a picture to go with it. Or if you’re buying or selling a pet, you can place a free ad in Meow Marketplace.”
    I steel myself for his eruption of ridicule. Tommy isn’t the most diplomatic guy in the world. But he’s fascinated. “What’s this ZIP-code thing? Why would you care where a bunch of strangers live?”
    â€œThat’s for this other function,” I explain. “Feline Friends Network. If you give me your ZIP code, I can match you with other cat lovers in your area who are interested in getting together to discuss their pets.”
    â€œJeez, Vince,” he says in genuine admiration. “I always knew you were smart, but I never thought you could do anything like this.”
    â€œIt’s not really as hard as it looks,” I assure him. “You just have to work out the