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So it was a new thing for me, feeling like hanging around with Camille wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Then she was so weird in the parking garage. I couldn’t tell if she liked me or hated me, if she wanted me to touch her or didn’t. So I defaulted to what I always do with women, when I want them to shut the fuck up. I kissed her.
And here’s the weirdest part of all. The kiss was . . . good.
With a lot of girls, there’s a kind of mechanical routine to sex. They want to go through their list of tricks, like a show pony. And a lot of what they do is so fucking fake. When they ride on top of you, they’re posing the whole time, demanding you look at them and acknowledge their hotness. And they’re not hot. They’re needy and pathetic. I want to get what I want out of them, as quickly as possible, so I can be alone again.
Before the sex there’s the clumsy flirting. And after the sex there’s the whining and clinging. I go through the rotation of blondes, brunettes, and redheads. But in the end, they’re all the same, and I feel hollow afterward. Spent but not really satisfied.
Kissing Camille was different. She smelled like motor oil, gasoline, and soap—all my favorite scents. Her mouth wasn’t all slicked up with lipstick. I could taste her lips and her tongue. They had a mellow sweetness, under the spice of the malt liquor—like vanilla. Barely noticeable at first but lingering pleasantly.
The way she kissed was different, too. She seemed like she was exploring me, trying me out. At one point I saw that her eyes were open, looking at my face. Which should have been off-putting, but it wasn’t. Her eyes were big and dark and curious. Like we had invented something new, that nobody in the world had tried before, and she didn’t want to miss a moment of it.
All of those things were odd and confusing to me.
I don’t want to share any of it with Aida. But every millisecond I hesitate, she’s ferreting out the meaning behind my silence. So I have to say something.
“I’m glad to see that getting married hasn’t matured you any,” I tell her. “Except for the clothes.”
Aida grins. “Kinda seems like you’re trying to change the subject with a personal attack . . .”
“Aida,” I snarl, “If you don’t get off my ass, I’m gonna—”
We’re interrupted by Papa, who’s finished the small-talk part of this meeting.
“Coming inside?” he says to me.
I’m about to say, “Gladly.” Then I spot a man on the sidewalk, leaning up against a lamp post. He’s wearing sunglasses, but it’s pretty clear that he’s looking right at us. He’s got blond hair buzzed short on the sides, a square jaw, and an athletic build. He’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans. Still, there’s something in the arrogant posture and the clean-cut grooming that makes me think cop.
“Go on ahead,” I say to my father. “I’ll catch up in a minute.”
He glances over to the man, then nods.
“See you in a minute,” he says.
The others file into the restaurant. I wait until they’re inside, then I stride toward our Peeping Tom. I’m thinking he’ll spook and leave. Instead, he stays exactly where he is, arms folded, a little smirk on his face.
“How can I help you, Officer?” I say, as I draw close.
He grins. “Oh, I was just wondering how your car was doing after you put it through its paces last night.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “I was home all night.”
“You should get a less distinctive vehicle if you want to use that line.”
I shrug. “There’s a lot of Mustangs in the city. Do you have a plate number for the vehicle in question?”
I’ve already swapped my plates out. I did it the minute I got home. I’ve got dozens of spare license plates, none of which can be linked to my name.
“You’ve caught my attention a couple times this year,” the cop says, his sunglasses like blank bug eyes staring at me.
“Is this an interrogation, or are you trying to hit on me?” I say.
“That’s cute.” The cop’s not smiling anymore. “You Gallos think you can do whatever you want in this city. Your brother gets arrested for murder, breaks out of Cook County Jail, and then somehow gets his charges dropped a few weeks later? I’ve got news for you. Not every cop has their hand in the cookie jar. Some of us actually care about getting you greedy fucking gangsters locked up where you belong—in a cage, with the other animals.”
“Oh, you’re a clean cop?” I say. “Kinda sounds like a friendly mosquito or a gourmet Twinkie. I’m not sure it exists; I’ve sure as shit never seen it.”
He smiles again. It looks like a dog baring its teeth.
“Just know you’re on notice, Nero. I like a fair game, so I’m giving you a warning. I’m watching you. If you step one fucking toe over the line, I’ll be there to clap the cuffs on you. And you won’t be slipping out of them like your brother did.”
