Leo nods.
“Give me one of those,” I say. “Surprise me.”
Leo looks at his brother again. “What do you want?”
“Rum.”
Rum. Of course.
“Glass of our best rum,” Leo says.
“Cheapest rum,” Lorenzo says. “And the whole bottle will be nice.”
“Glass of our worst rum,” Leo mutters. “Whole bottle, my ass...”
Leo walks away, while Lorenzo glares at him.
My drink doesn’t come with a little umbrella, it turns out, but instead is decorated with some fancy orange peels in curly shapes. I pluck one out, looking at it peculiarly while I take a sip of the whatever-it-is. Sweet and fruity and strong.
“Those are my oranges,” Lorenzo points out as he takes a swig of his rum from the small glass Leo brought him. No bottle.
I eye the peel. “Straight off the Gambini groves?”
“Yes.”
“Huh, isn’t that something,” I say. “Must make you proud, having such a successful business.”
“It’s all right.”
“It’s all right,” I say, repeating him. “Geez, man, contain your enthusiasm.”
He smiles slightly. “Forgive me for not squealing like a little bitch about it. It’s a lot of work for not much pay off. It’s kind of depressing, having spent over fifteen years working sun up to sun down, busting my ass to keep the family business going, and not banking even a fraction of what I’ve made since coming to New York. And I don’t even break a sweat here, you know. It pays to be a non-sentimental asshole.”
“But yet you keep the groves,” I point out.
“They’re my home.”
That response surprises me. Home. “You think of that as home?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Uh, I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe because of what you went through there, with your stepdad and your mom and—”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, cutting me off. “My father built the place and left it to me. Nothing they could do would ever ruin that. I refuse to let it.”
“So why are you here?”
“I already told you why,” he says. “Same reason as you... I saw a movie.”
I know he’s bullshitting. How do I know that? Because I was when I said that to him on the roof all those weeks ago, that I’d come to Manhattan because of the Muppets.
“There are, what... eight million people in New York City?” I ask.
“Something like that.”
“I just thought, you know, that many people, I was bound to find somebody to give a shit about me. So that’s why I came. I was young, and lonely, and sick of being ignored and overlooked. I wanted to matter to someone.”
Lorenzo stares at me, like maybe he doesn’t know what to say to that. It starts to get weird again, with him not speaking, so I’m damn grateful when the food starts to arrive. Thank god. Leo drops off two plates, and I make a face when he explains what it is—some kind of cream sauce with oysters and caviar.
It looks more like art than something to eat.
I try it, though, because fuck it. I don’t like letting food go to waste. It’s salty, and fishy, and ugh... no thanks. It gradually gets worse, with more fish and some artistic-looking artichokes, some funky beef in strong-tasting broth, before there’s even more seafood. And more. And more. And more. There’s a salad with dressing that tastes like sweet and sour sauce and a fucking celery and leek something that’s been grilled with truffles.
Truffles.
The only truffles I eat are the chocolate ones.
Lorenzo, though, devours it all.
We don’t talk.
The last course arrives, and I breathe a sigh of relief that the dessert looks like dessert and isn’t some weird fish shit. Cookies and ice cream and chocolate, oh my god... I shovel it all in, no hesitation at all. I’m still starving.
“I got bored,” Lorenzo says eventually, not touching his dessert.
I glance at him, brow furrowing. “What?”
“That’s why I’m here,” he says. “I know that sounds like bullshit, but it’s true. I got bored, and I wanted a change. Oranges weren’t my father’s only legacy. He grew up in the mob, ran these streets for years, until the Genova family drove him out of town... that’s how he ended up in Florida. But even then, they wouldn’t let him be. So I thought, you know, why not pick up where he left off? So I showed up, took them all out, and here I am, bored again... or at least I was.”
“Not bored anymore?”
“At the moment, no.”
“That’s good to know,” I say. “What happens when you get bored again?”
“I go back home.”
Leo shows up again before I can respond, dropping off the check, which I promptly pick up. It’s damn near eight-hundred bucks. For lunch. “Whoa, buddy...”
Lorenzo snatches it from my hand and tosses it back on the table before standing up. “Come on.”
He starts walking away, and I just gape at him, because he’s legitimately leaving, like we’re actually dining and dashing, because he’s not paying the check, and I certainly can’t do it. I don’t have that much money. I shove up out of the chair, following, keeping my head down and not making eye contact with anyone, while he looks people dead in the face.
He’s fucking insane.
The second he steps outside, he pulls out his tin and grabs a joint, flicking a match to light it, smoking it right here on the sidewalk as he looks around. “So, where to now?”
“Jail, probably,” I say, pausing beside him, scowling as he blows smoke in my face. “I don’t know how the hell you’ve evaded lockup so far, because you’re terrible at flying under the radar.”
“Who says I’m trying to fly under the radar?” he asks. “I mean, come on, baby... look at my face. There’s no point in me sneaking around.”
I look at him, not because he just told me to, but because of the word he used. Baby. It does the kind of thing to my chest that makes me feel uncomfortable—the squeezing, tightening, pitter-pattering bullshit. Ugh, knock it off, heart. You’ve got no business reacting to him.
I point at his face, waving my finger around. “Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean you have to flaunt it.”
Lorenzo grabs my hand, pulling it away from his face, still holding onto it as he says, “But that’s what makes it all so fun.”
I roll my eyes. “There’s something wrong with you.”
“I know,” he says. “So, where to?”
He’s looking at me like he wants an answer, but I just shrug, because I’m not sure. I didn’t really leave the house with a plan, you know?
Besides, he’s touching my hand. Holding my hand. Weird.
Lorenzo sighs, finally letting go and continuing to smoke, motioning with his head down the street before he starts to walk. I don’t know where he’s going, and he sure as hell doesn’t tell me, but I follow along regardless.
“So your Broadway story was bullshit?” he asks. “The Muppets didn’t make you want to join the chorus line?”
I smile. “It wasn’t bullshit, per se. I did fall in love with Broadway.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I wish I had that kind of talent... the kind where someone would pay me to dance around with my clothes on... but I don’t, so I leave it to the professionals.”
“What’s your favorite play... musical... whatever?”
“The Lion King.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He laughs, like he finds my answer funny. “I saw the cartoon a few times.”
“Me, too.” More than a few times. “Never actually saw the musical, though.”
His footsteps falter so much that I almost run right into him. “How is it your favorite if you’ve never seen it?”
“I’ve never really seen any of them,” I say, “but I heard it’s good, and I’ve seen clips.”
“You’ve seen clips.”