The Blue Line to Wonderland

By Robert M. Joost

Fictionalized version of criminal life in New England during the Twentieth Century. It follows the life of "Donato 'Danny' Pastore, who virtually grows up on the streets beginning as a young boy after he is seriously and irreparably traumatized by a tragic murder in his family. He struggles with his psychological problems while also being conflicted about the life he is leading and his tragic search for a meaningful relationship with several women that come into his life at various crucial times. The entire gauntlet of emotions come to pass in the story as Danny struggles with his guilt and emotional imbalance. It is a tale that both genders can relate to, and which is strewn with scores of characters that come to life as they weave their way through the criminal life or attached to those that do and there is much to laugh and cry about in their lives. 213,872 words.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781387756490

Book preview

The Blue Line to Wonderland

The Blue Line to Wonderland

by

Robert M. Joost

Copyright © 2018 by Robert M. Joost

All rights reserved.  This book, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

ISBN: 978-1-387-75649-0

For Carl Angelo, Carl Angelo

1

(Twentieth Century New England)

The donut was stale, the coffee tepid, and the newspaper too thick.  Besides that, Alfred noticed that he was wearing two different shades of blue socks.

He sat at a table in the coffee shop where he could peer through its glass partition into the airport’s main waiting area.  His gaze fell on four men in dark suits, about a hundred feet away, conferring near the revolving door leading to the short-term parking lot.  There was something disconcerting about the men.  Alfred occasionally had been glancing at them, turning away from his frustration with the Journal, the coffee, and the donut.

Alfred Santoro realized that he should have known better.  Boredom had made him buy the coffee and pastry, although long experience cautioned against such purchases in airports.  Buying the Providence Sunday Journal was an act of sheer desperation, since it was virtually just a bloated stack of advertisements and inserts with little interesting news or substance.  That resulted from a lack of competition.  Fortunately, they had never offered him employment years before, when he was beginning his career; he might have taken it and ruined what little fame he had garnered in the New England newspaper world.

Alfred looked down his long legs tucked under the table, chuckling as he saw the socks once again.  There wasn’t much he could do at this stage of his life about his color-blindness, living with it for 58 years.  His solids recognition was passable, but the shades remained questionable …

He suddenly realized that there was something vaguely familiar about one of the men in the group, the one with the thin, silvery hair.  While the man’s back was to Alfred, his stance, his mannerisms, the way the other three deferred to him, teased Alfred’s memory.  He shook his head in frustration, pushing the disorganized sections of the newspaper further down the table.  He wiped the crumbs from the donut with a paper napkin, scooped them into a palm and dropped them into the cooling coffee.  The crumbs floated a second, expanded, then sank under the black, oily surface.

Alfred pulled in his outstretched legs and subconsciously tucked them under his chair.  Why advertise his color-blindness, he thought?  The flaw with shades and tones had caused him enough anguish in his psyche during his career, since he had been programmed to leave unearthed the subtleties underlying the basics—those hidden, dormant facts that could make a simple story come alive with color. Just the facts, ma’am, an old forgotten editor at the defunct Record American used to drum into him, mimicking the character Sergeant Joe Friday from the TV show, Dragnet.  At the time that had suited Alfred’s developing style, his general slant on life.   Facts, however, didn’t always matter back then at the old rag, because editors would routinely distort fledgling reporter’s stories until the truth would be totally distorted.  But the tutoring had resulted in Alfred just telling the facts in his reports and allowing the readers to color his pictures with their own hues.  This kept him out of trouble with his employers and earned him a trustful reputation with his peers and most of his followers.

Alfred was distracted by a young couple heading for the food line.  He silently wished them luck, then turned his gaze back to the group of men huddled near the airport entrance.  A grim emanation surrounded them.  They shifted their positions momentarily, and that enabled Alfred to finally see the pudgy face that had been alluding him.  He knew instantly who it was:  John Abatemateo, owner of the most prominent funeral home in the Silver Lake section of Providence.

This was a Sunday morning nightmare—far worse than finding the airport’s newsstand sold out of the Boston Globe.  Alfred had visited three late friends in the last year or so at Abatemateo’s, and now here was the funeral director at an inopportune time.  Was he following Alfred around for business?

Then he got a second shock.  One of the men left the group, and now returned from outside with a woman in her mid-thirties.  A young boy accompanied them.  And a third person:  Dominic D’Angelo, a man Alfred had known for most of his adult life.

But D’Angelo was from Boston.  Alfred wondered not only why he would be with Abatemateo, but what was he doing in Rhode Island on a late Sunday morning?  No one came to Rhode Island if they could avoid it.  Either you were born here and realized your bad fortune as life progressed, or you put up with the trauma as you passed through the State for Cape Cod or the northeastern slopes.

Alfred watched with a stunned gaze as D’Angelo made introductions all around.  The woman lamely shook hands with Abatemateo and his associates.  All the while Dominic kept a protective hand around the boy’s shoulder. 

The group finally broke up.  The undertakers walked off into different directions in two groups.  Dominic said something to the boy, who nodded, then to the woman, who shook her head and walked off towards the lady’s room.  Alfred followed her with his eyes for a moment, her demeanor producing a knot in his stomach.  It was evident that something was amiss with the group.

Alfred suddenly realized that Dominic and the boy had just entered the coffee shop.  There was perhaps a half-dozen other customers sitting at the tables, Alfred near its entrance.  It wasn’t difficult to miss him.  But then, Alfred knew that Dominic D’Angelo wasn’t one to miss details.

Although quick and subtle, difficult to pick up, Alfred discerned the changes that came over Dominic’s face: hesitant glance, recognition, flash of hostility in the dark eyes, instant recovery, genuine smile.  The old boss nodded politely at Alfred, then steered the boy towards the cafeteria’s line.

Alfred considered the boy—who Dominic obviously cared about—as he slid a tray down the food line.  There was something strikingly manly about him, although he couldn’t have been more than ten years old.  The boy had a head of black, curly hair and a handsome, bright face.  His countenance was assured as he scanned his options behind the counter.  He wore an immaculately tailored dark-blue suit, white shirt, tie, black slip-ons.  Ninety-nine percent of the people Alfred worked with and knew didn’t dress half as well as did the boy.  Alfred, of course, chiefly associated with reporters and editors, which explained why.

The boy put an orange juice on the tray, Dominic a coffee.  The older man encouraged the boy to buy food items, but fussy shakes of the head settled each suggestion.  D’Angelo paid the cashier, forsaking any change.  They had to pass Alfred’s table.  Dominic’s usual expressive face was now lit with a wide, but appropriately subdued, smile.

Pokey, what a surprise, said Dominic, his voice mellifluous.  He extended a hand.

Alfred stood and shook the extended hand.  No one has called me that in years, Dom, he said.

How come?  It surely fits you.  Always poking around somewhere.

Alfred searched for hidden animosity, but Dominic’s pleasant countenance hid any if it was there.  Not much nowadays.

Oh?  You retired?

Semi.

And which half are you today?

Strictly personal, Dom.  My sister is flying in from Florida to help out with mom.

An instant change came across Dominic D’Angelo’s face, showing deep concern.  I’m sorry to hear that, he said.  How is she?

Not as bad as one would think for someone eighty-five.  But things appear to be deteriorating more rapidly.

Is there anything I can do?  Is she in a nursing home?

No.  I live with her, and my sister and her husband stay in the in-law apartment.  It’s only been the last year or so that things have been going downhill.  Before that mom did everything herself.  She’s real independent.  But now it’s one thing after another.

I’m sorry to hear that, said Dom, sincerely.  Would you like to get professional help to take care of her?

We couldn’t do that.

The older man nodded.  He still held Alfred’s hand.  He now patted it in an understanding gesture, then let go of it.  If there’s anything I can do for you, just let me know.  Don’t hesitate, Alfred.

I appreciate that.  Alfred knew that the offer was a powerful one.  Friends of Dominic’s controlled some of the most prominent nursing homes in Massachusetts, where there were long waiting lists to gain residency in, and still it took connections to get a bed. 

The boy had been watching the exchange with a perceptive eye.  Now he turned to D’Angelo.  Can we sit here, Comp? he asked, indicating Alfred’s table.

Alfred immediately waved towards the empty chairs.  Please do.

Dominic nodded to the boy, who took the chair across from where Alfred was sitting.  The old man sat next to the boy.

He likes you, Al, said D’Angelo.  Probably because you take care of your family.

I see.  Alfred eyed the boy.  Do you take care of your own family?

The boy had punched a straw through the juice carton.  He took a sip, nodded, opening his eyes for emphasis.

Was that your mom who came in with you? asked Alfred.

Again, just a nod in response.  But the boy stopped sipping, eyeing the reporter with a more piercing look.

Dominic grunted.  "So, Pokey still fits?"

Sorry, Dom, said Alfred.  Old habits are hard to break.  You of all people should know that.

The smile returned to the old man’s face.  But Alfred noticed that it was a little forced, perhaps strained.  He now realized that all of D’Angelo’s expressions had been the same.  Did this have something to do with the reason he was off his home turf on a Sunday morning?  Which reason was what?

The boy took another sip of his juice, then asked Alfred, "Is that your real name?"

No, it’s Alfred.  Alfred Santoro.

"How come they call you Pokey?"

Because I ask a lot of questions.

The boy twisted his facial features as if he didn’t see anything wrong with that.

"You know, poking around, said Alfred.  I used to be a reporter."

The boy grimaced, his face reddened.  His eyes went down into the carton of juice.

What’s your name? Alfred asked.  He could sense the sudden tension, so he made his tone extra solicitous.  He waited, watched.  But there was no response from the boy, no eye contact.  He looked over to D’Angelo in question.  But the old boss appeared to be enjoying Alfred’s discomfort.

It seemed to Alfred that hours passed in discomfort, but it was actually only seconds.  Finally, Dominic D’Angelo had mercy on him.  He turned to the boy.  It’s all right, Comp.  Al’s not one of the bad guys.  Ain’t that right, Al?

I wasn’t the last time I checked with my psychiatrist, said Alfred, displaying a big grin, hoping it would slice through the sudden tension.  But it didn’t appear to phase the boy.  Of course, some of the people I run into disagree with my doctor, he added, mostly for Dom’s sake.

That’s because of the general company you keep, said Dominic.  But I know you’re really okay under that establishment veneer.

D’Angelo’s dark, penetrating eyes appeared to project sincerity.  But then, they always did.  It amazed Alfred that Dominic D’Angelo, perhaps the most powerful and respected of all the dons in New England history, could appear so downright pious when he wanted to be, and turn on and off his high educational background when apropos.

"I’ll take okay to mean an okay guy from my side of the street," said Alfred, punctuating his statement with a grin.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.  D’Angelo bowed his head for emphasis.

Alfred eyed the boy inquisitively, then turned back to the old man.  He was now very curious about the boy’s name.  But he knew he wasn’t going to ask again, because it didn’t seem appropriate to do so this time.  So, he turned to Dominic. Perhaps it’s none of my business what his name is?

D’Angelo shrugged.  It’s up to my Comp, he said.  If he wants to tell you his name, that’s his business.  He raised his brow to the boy, apparently an esoteric signal.

Alfred didn’t miss the reference to Comp.  In the Italian slang it was a shortened reference to compare, used by many male street people signifying that one party was a godfather or godson to the other party.  The connotation was that a strong connection existed between the two.

It’s Dominic, said the boy, quietly.

Your name’s Dominic also? asked Alfred.

The boy nodded.  But there was still a little suspicion remaining in his gaze, as if the reporter was a snake coiling for a strike.

Alfred waited for more.  While he did so, a garbled announcement came over the loudspeakers, breaking the silence, commanding Mr. Somebody to call 317.  The faint, throaty roar of a jet engine vibrated through the building.

Well, I’m happy to meet you, Dominic, said Alfred, realizing that the boy wasn’t going to be forthcoming.

The boy acknowledged nothing, just continued to stare at Alfred.

The old don sipped his coffee, grimaced, put it back on the table and pushed it away.  His name is Dominic Pastore, he told Alfred.  I don’t want to see you exerting yourself at your age trying to track it down.

Alfred wondered what lay hidden in those words?  He knew that Dominic had a habit of coming at people in a circumspect manner.  Thanks for thinking of me, he told the older man.  In my shape, exertion is positively dangerous.  He patted his growing girth.  Must have gained twenty pounds in the last two years.  He enviously eyed the older man’s trim, small frame.  In 30 years he was sure Dom hadn’t gained or lost more than a few grams.  That was surprising for a person who was legendary for wining and dining with the best of them.  Alfred recalled one night in Boston’s North End, after the Celtics had beaten the Lakers in a wild game at the Garden a few streets over, he had run into Dominic and his entourage at—

Pastore?  We used to have a well-known United States Senator in Rhode Island named Pastore? noted Alfred.  He wouldn’t have put it past Dominic to have a connection into any family.  Any relation? he asked, looking from the silent boy to Dominic.

That’s the guy this airport is named after? asked Dominic, his face puffed up in question.

Knowing that Dominic was from Boston, the question could have been sincere.  "The airport is named Green, replied Alfred.  The airport’s named after the late Senator Green.

Dominic shook his head.  No, Dominic’s not related to Senator Green.

Alfred emitted a sardonic smile.  Very good, Dom.  I’ll just mind my business.

Suddenly, however, he couldn’t.  It struck him like a slap in the face.  He glanced down at the table at the discarded Journal.  There was a descriptive piece in it about a Pastore.  An unflattering piece.  Set off in a column beside the obituaries, with their occasional American flags and cold, terse details.  Donato Danny Pastore.  R.I.P.

Alfred blushed in embarrassment.  The obit had stated exactly who had survived the late Danny Pastore.  He wished that the callous obit editor was now sitting in his place, staring into the sad eyes of the boy across from him.

He turned to the old don.  I didn’t know, he said, apologetically.  He turned to the boy.  I’m very, very sorry about your loss, Dominic.

The boy nodded, then said politely, stoically, Thank you.  The newspaper was close to where he sat; he reached over and pushed it further down the table.  He compressed his lips and fixed his gaze onto his lap.

Alfred knew he wasn’t any good in dealing with situations surrounding death.  It was rough enough to console adults, but what can be said to a young boy whom fate had conspired against?  The only thing he could hope for was that the boy didn’t read newspapers.

So, I see you’re not writing much these days, said the don, apparently recognizing Alfred’s discomfort and having mercy on him.  The last piece I recall with your byline was that series about last year’s elections.  Alfred and a Globe reporter had teamed up and virtually destroyed a questionable candidate for mayor of Boston.  It wasn’t that hard for Alfred to do, since he had more connections than a silicon chip when it came to the dirty, but informed, sources, developed after many dedicated years of cultivation.

Yes, I’m slowing down, said Alfred.  Jaded, I guess. He snuck a look at the boy, whose gaze was still lowered.  Those were the last major stories I worked on.

They were good, said Dominic D’Angelo.  Fair, too.  You did a good job on him.

Alfred bowed his head in acknowledgment.  Thanks.  He noticed that the boy had now looked up and was considering him with new interest.

Of course, added the don, I know a few people who were upset about the result of the articles.  He tried to suppress a chuckle.

Alfred would have liked to probe that comment.  At another time, another place, not after his faux pas.  Dominic had told him some interesting stories in the past, when it suited the don’s purpose.

Again, the loudspeakers blared, announcing an arriving flight.  The don listened to it, then told the boy it was the flight they awaited.  They stood.  Alfred shook hands with the old man, then once again offered condolences to the boy.  Young Dominic sized him up for a moment.  He finally took the extended hand and shook it once.  The old man and boy walked off.

The pair stopped when they reached the coffee shop’s door. The boy said something to the old man, who in turn looked back to Alfred.  The don nodded, then watched as the boy returned to the table where Alfred was reseated.

Did you know my father? asked the boy.

Not personally, replied Alfred.  I never met him personally.  I believe I saw him a few times, though.  Up in Boston.

Did you write things about my father in the newspaper?  Now Dominic tilted his head, as if watching closely for any lies in the response.

I don’t recall any, Dominic.

The boy reached into his jacket pocket.  He brought out of it a folded piece of newspaper.  He tossed it contemptuously on the table before Alfred.  They lied about my father, he said, fighting back his emotions.

Alfred didn’t have to look at the article unraveling on the table like a snake.  He knew it was the same one he had read in the Journal, what it said.  He nodded sadly at the boy.  I’m sure it was a lie, Dominic, he said, as kindly as he could manage.

The boy’s eyes clouded.  A thin tear began rolling down his flushed cheeks.

My father was the greatest father anyone could have! he blurted out, then quickly turned and walked back to the old man awaiting him in the doorway.

Alfred watched numbly.  The don had an arm around the boy’s shoulder as they walked away, consoling him with gentle pats and words. 

Alfred sat at the table, stiffly, a little dizzy now.  The old incident surfaced to haunt him, perform its danse macabre in his soul.  It had begun as just another routine exposé. Hanky-panky in the workplace, promotions for sexual favors the theme.  Widespread in a certain electronics firm in the Silicon Valley of the East, the Route 128 ring-road around outer Boston.  Alfred had gotten out his brushes and began painting with wide strokes.  Sources—several disgruntled employees—hinted at names.  Attention was focused on the company’s Personnel Department.  No specific name there, but the head of it was Richard Harding, Jr., a 35-year-old rising star rumored to be in line for the next vice-presidency in the giant corporation.  Every personnel move in the company had to go through Harding’s Department.  Several people, mostly woman, were promoted where they didn’t belong, without the proper qualifications, and others had been taken down a rung or two, left in limbo, perhaps dismissed for dubious reasons.  Nothing new in the world of business.  But in this case Harding was a prime suspect because he had to put Personnel’s stamp of approval on all moves.  Called for comment just before the story was to break, Harding professed shock at the innuendos.  He said he wasn’t aware of any illegal activities, that he had interoffice memos explaining the reasons for each move and the requests for consideration of the promotions, the documentation supporting the recipient’s qualifications.  He said that he would check with his superiors to see what information could be made available, then he would get back to Alfred within 24 hours.  But the deadline passed and no Harding.  That was all Alfred needed to confirm the accusations in his mind.  Moreover, Harding’s silence would make better copy.

The exposé ran.  No matter how the story was written, all roads led to Personnel.  Personnel was Harding, and he had to be the ogre of the story.  Within days the corporation canned him, his career ruined.  He began drinking heavily.  One rainy night, on Route 128 of all places, he became another DUI statistic.  Two small daughters, one distraught wife, left behind.

The truth began showing its ugly head later, after the widow sued.  A few righteous employees in the corporation knew the real story.  Harding had merely been the scapegoat.  A cabal of company officers were the real culprits in all the sexual favors moves, filtering false or altered documents into personnel files, then discreetly pressuring Harding to make the changes they suggested.  It was learned that the company hierarchy wouldn’t allow him to release the falsified records, and thus he had been flushed down the drain.

The corporation settled out-of-court with the widow before the case came up for trial.  This effectively suppressed the entire truth from being exposed.  Alfred’s newspaper, of course, had also been named as a defendant.  But astute lawyers got the suit dismissed against them on technical grounds.  Correctly so, all the legal experts agreed.

Alfred Santoro didn’t agree.  Nor did he feel exonerated in the least.  His thoughts about it were strained …  And he always wondered about those little girls.  What had become of them?  Had they survived?  How did their father’s death affect their lives?

The memory of it all now wearied Alfred once again.  He tiredly arose, retrieved the crumbled article, then walked out of the coffee shop.  He turned left, climbed the stairs to the sky-view overlooking the airport.

The newly arrived flight had its accordion ramp in place.  Its passengers had disembarked, for Alfred had passed many of them in the waiting area below where they were embracing family and friends.  The airline service staff were moving around the large jet, baggage handlers unloading its belly.  Alfred watched silently, alone in the sky-view, struggling with his own thoughts.

The men in the dark suits appeared, the ones he had first spotted near the revolving doors.  The old don, the wife, the son, weren’t far off.  A breeze arose along the runway, then swept along the tarmac.  It whipped the wife’s hair, made the boy’s jacket flap, pushed the don’s thinning hair hither and yon.  None of them moved.  They stood frozen in silence.

Finally, the casket was lowered from the belly of the jet.  It descended on the arms of a forklift.  Slowly.  Slowly.  The young boy was crying now.  His mother bent to comfort him, pulling him tightly into her side, tears rolling down her own cheeks.

*

Alfred had discreetly followed the procession of cars to the Veterans’ Cemetery in Exeter.  He lagged behind, waiting for the service to begin in the small open-air chapel.  Only then did he slip in behind the two-dozen people and listen with half an ear to the service.

Alfred by then had convinced himself that this was an interesting story and that is why he was following up on it.  Dominic D’Angelo was recognized throughout the country in both mafia and law enforcement circles.  Rumor had him retired.  Alfred knew better, since his sources had told him that Dom was still very active as counsel to the Family and had his fingerprints all over political backsides.  Alfred figured the latter would protect him at all costs, loath to test the domino theory.

What puzzled Alfred was what a man of that caliber was doing in a relationship with Danny Pastore?  He had contacted one of his underworld sources and they had confirmed the well-kept secret that Dominic was godfather to Danny Pastore’s son.  Why?  Danny hadn’t been a made member of the New England mob.  No one even knew of any concrete relationship between the two men—other than a casual one that was to be expected in the small underworld communities of Rhode Island and Massachusetts.  Moreover, Danny was from Rhode Island, Dominic from Boston, and yet it appeared that Dom had arranged the burial of … What?  What could Danny be called?  A low order criminal? … No, it had to be something more than what appeared on the surface.  Compares.  Dominic would never expose himself to such a degree over an ordinary acquaintance or friendship, even one covered in pseudo religion or tradition.  Especially exposing himself after such a violent death.

While Alfred’s conscious thoughts purportedly were convincing him that he was hovering around this potential story because it appeared bizarre, he knew that in the nether regions of his mind something else was pushing him along.  One thing was the animosity over the obit article, rehashing Danny’s record, stale allegations, the horrible details surrounding his death that his innocent son had also read.  Many newspapers practiced this cheap shot, including those he had worked for.  But that didn’t mean he condoned it; it was just tantamount to tossing salt into the family’s fresh wounds and he thought it reprehensible and irresponsible.

Another thing tugging at his conscious was his long-standing guilt over his part in the Harding story.  That tragedy had made him temper his approach to stories, factoring in human repercussions resulting from his investigations and writings.  The nib of his quill had been softened.  He liked to believe that he now strived for a fair perspective.

But there was a more compelling reason that had drew him to attach himself to the burial party.  It flowed out of the absolute despair and sadness he had seen in young Dominic’s eyes.  He couldn’t see the boy now, for he was hidden between the adults near the flag-draped casket laying on the bier, but nonetheless they were burning Alfred’s soul.  Those eyes also represented the eyes of two young girls as they had watched their father laid to rest.  He could see all these eyes in his dreams.

And Alfred still had the reporter inside him.  Why was the boy so adamant about who his father really was?  Most times kids have a better sense of people than do adults.  But surely past stories made the boy’s assessment doubtful?  Yet, the boy seemed so sure, so convincing, in that one brief statement.  Could it be—

Gunfire erupted.  Alfred was startled.  A squad of soldiers had fired a salute to a former comrade.  A bugler played taps.  An honor guard smartly took the draped flag from the coffin and folded it precisely.  It was handed to the wife.  She placed an arm around her son, pulling him into a hip.  The boy rested his head there.

Alfred withdrew from the chapel area.

The mourners drifted away after condolences, headed for their cars.  Alfred did his best to remain inconspicuous, well-away from the dozen or so vehicles.  But the old don had nevertheless spotted him.  Perhaps he had known Alfred would insinuate himself into the burial?  Regardless, he now nodded curtly at Alfred, signed for him to wait, then escorted Danny’s widow and son to an awaiting limousine.  People hovered nearby, final condolences again exchanged, then the wife and son were helped into the limo and it drove off.  The remaining cars followed.

Dominic walked over to Alfred.  He pointed to the only nearby car.  I hope that’s yours, Al, he said.  If not we’re both going to be stuck out here in the boondocks.

It’s mine.  Alfred interjected a little contrition into his tone, although doubting that it would fly with Dominic.  Not that he felt much embarrassment at invading, however subtly, a grieving family’s privacy.  He was long past that after decades of intrusions.

Dominic stared at him a moment, as if awaiting something.  Alfred appeared dazed for once.

Well? said Dom, finally.  You don’t mind giving me a ride back into town?

"Oh!  Alfred blushed.  Excuse me, Dom.  Of course I wouldn’t mind.  I was adrift for a moment."

They remained silent until Alfred drove out of the cemetery and took a left down Route 2 towards Providence.  Only then did Dominic break the silence.

So, it appears that you’re going to write about this? Dominic said, more a statement than a question.

I’ve been thinking about it, hedged Alfred.

Dominic shook his head sadly, sighed.  I really wish you wouldn’t, Al.

Why not?  Alfred projected a hint of animosity into his tone, for he knew he could be honest with Dominic without fear of repercussions.

I wouldn’t want to see the boy and his mother dragged through the gauntlet any more than they already have been.

Oh?  But not for any other personal reason, Dom?

"You mean because you might mention me?  The older man laughed.  Anything you write about me I’d brush off like it was merely a bothersome gnat.  Hey!  Dominic suddenly shouted, pointing towards the left.  Pull in here a minute, Al."

Alfred slowed the car, then pulled into the parking lot of a large open-air market.  Acres of planted farmland stretched out behind it.  This particular farm was also known for its pick-your-own strawberries.

I want to buy a few things for Delores, said Dominic.  That’s Danny’s wife.  A few people are going over her house to eat.  Would you like some fresh strawberries for you mother?  I bet she’d really enjoy them.  He raised a brow to emphasize what a treat this would be.

I’ll browse around with you, said Alfred, defensively.  He had to be.  He was sure Dominic would think nothing of buying him a bag of groceries—either with sincere motives or for other reasons.

They strolled from stand to stand.  Dominic appraised the choices carefully, selecting only the best of each item.  He filled three shopping bags with various fruits and vegetables, one of which he claimed he would take back to his home in Boston.  Accordingly, he kept the purchases meticulously separated, appearing to take great pleasure in shifting items around from bag to bag.

Dominic’s enthusiasm embarrassed Alfred.  He felt compelled to buy two pints of strawberries for his mother, although neither she nor his sister would be all that enthused over them.  Dominic offered to pay, but Alfred politely declined, and Dominic didn’t press the issue on this occasion like he would have years before in a gayer scenario.

The bags were stored in the back seat.  Before long they were further down Route 2, turning onto Route 4.  Traffic had been light but picked up after they passed the exit for Quonsett Point, the former home base for the Seabees.

So, how is your mother? asked Dom.

Fine, thank you.

Now I understand why I haven’t seen you in a couple of years tipping a few at all the old haunts.

Albert nodded.  I’m not on any permanent payroll right now, he added.

More or less freelance?

You could say that.  The doctors told me to slow down a few years ago.  Not that I crave the aggravation, Dom.  And the income has never been all that important to me.  It wasn’t a secret that Alfred had been left a considerable trust by his late father, paying dividends that he could virtually live off.  Not that he was flaunting this fact to Dom.  But it was a subtle warning just in case the strawberry gesture really wasn’t innocuous and was a prelude to something else.

Ever run into PeePee Taylor? asked Dominic, laughing.

Alfred also laughed, recalling the nightclub circuit’s class clown.  Not in quite a while.  The last I heard of him he was having liver problems and had checked into a V.A. hospital.

Oh?  I didn’t know that.  But what a hot shit he was, huh?

They reminisced about the man for a few miles, then fell silent again.

Route 4 merged into I-95.  Traffic picked up.  They rolled past the airport exit.

Dom, said Alfred, you weren’t thinking about trying to talk me out of writing a story?

"Moi?  Why would I do that?"  The old don’s countenance was pure innocence.

That’s exactly what I was wondering.

I’m surprised at you, Al.  Have I ever tried to persuade you not to write about something?

Not that I recall.

And that’s in what, maybe thirty years?

Maybe closer to thirty-five.

Thirty-five!  And in all that time we’ve ate and drank together many times, had a lot of laughs, and yet I’ve never tried to influence you in your writing.

Alfred smiled.  They weren’t bosom buddies as Dom was trying to portray, but merely good acquaintances who frequented many of the same watering holes and eateries, never mind the occasional courtroom long ago.  Sure, they had been involved in many conversations, but mostly general rather than specific.  Of course, Dom had occasionally given him valuable information, or sent him in more pertinent, productive directions, but it hadn’t ever been anything which he couldn’t have extracted himself with considerable legwork; and he had also introduced him to people around him, thus making his job easier at times.  And it was also true that Dom had never exerted any pressure on him or tried to influence a story.  Then again, there was little doubt in Alfred’s mind that Dom was a shrewd man, and that any tidbit of information he gave, or any conversation he initiated in the reporter’s presence, was for a particular reason, obscured from Alfred, but beneficial to Dominic or his brethren.

No, you haven’t, Dom.  I respect that.  But now I have to ask you bluntly: Would you rather I not write a story about any of this?

If I said I did, would you leave it alone?

Probably not.

Dominic laughed heartily, genuinely.  It reminded Alfred of the Dominic he knew from the cabaret circuit of Boston.

That’s what I thought! said Dominic, merrily it appeared.

Would it bother you?

Hey, Pokey, I’m hovering around seventy now.  Nothing bothers me but my bowels.

You do see, though, that a connection between you and Danny Pastore would interest a lot of people?

Only those who live boring lives.

Perhaps.  Alfred steered the car over to the slow-speed lane, readying to take an exit.  But it’s very interesting nonetheless.

"Et tu, Alfred!  Since when is a simple friendship interesting?"

One between you and Danny Pastore is.  I mean, such a contrast.

Oh?  You knew him?

I only know what I read—

In the newspapers, Dominic finished for him.  Come on, Alfred.  You of all people should know better than that.  Shame on you!

I’m only talking facts here, Dom.  Notwithstanding all the unproven allegations, the man did have an apparent long criminal history.  Perhaps only one conviction, but there was uncontroverted evidence that he had been a criminal for many years.

Dominic raised his hands in ostensible disgust.  Well, that’s the end of story.  So, what’s left to write about?

I don’t know, said Alfred, hesitating.  Maybe you’re right.  But your godson certainly doesn’t think so.

Dominic shot Alfred a sharp, suspicious look.  But he soon turned away and studied the passing factories of Cranston, the city they were then in.  No, he doesn’t, he said, his tone softer now.  He and his father were very close.

And in his book, Danny Pastore wasn’t a bad guy.

Danny wasn’t a bad guy, period.  If the facts be known, he just had an undeserved reputation of being prone to violence.

Alfred appeared skeptical.  Then maybe that’s reason alone to set the record straight?

"For who?  The public? asked Dominic, derisively.  You’re not going to tell me that you write because the public has a right to know the truth and all that bullshit?"

No. I’ll tell you that I usually work for people, and in an occupation, where that’s the motto to live by.  I’d be disloyal to the publishers who trust me if I didn’t keep that in mind.  I have to live by that standard or get out.  I know you can identify with something like that, Dom.

Alfred then turned the car onto the Route 10 exit.

Do you know where you’re going? asked Dom.

In life?  Or where I’m taking you now?

The old don chuckled.  Let’s keep it simple: where you are driving to?

The Stadium area in Cranston.  Lake Street.

Dominic shook his head as if in great disappointment.  So, you already found out where they live? he said.  And somehow, in just two days, you learned that the boy is my godson.  You’ve just been toying with me, Al.  You’ve already made up your mind.

Come on, Dom.  The street address was in the obit.  Alfred said this soothingly.  Be he didn’t dispute the accusation about the relationship.

They remained silent for the remainder of the ride.  In less than ten minutes Alfred turned down the short, dead-end street where the family lived.  He stopped two houses from the Pastore’s.  Cars lined both sides of the narrow street.  Alfred recognized several of them from the funeral cortege.  Several neighborhood children were hanging around the front of the Pastore residence.  Alfred thought he recognized young Dominic among them, but it was hard to tell because the boy was no longer in a suit.

Well, thanks for the lift, Al, said Dominic, breaking the silence.

My pleasure.

The don exited the car.  He opened the back door and retrieved his packages, then leaned back in through the front passenger window.  I hope you do the right thing, Pokey.

I always try my best, Dom.

The older man nodded.  Listen, do me a favor, he then said.  Look me up and give me a chance to comment if you decide to write something about this.

Comment on the record?

"Sta minchia!  What a hot shit you are!"

They both smiled.

Well, I’ll do it for old-time sake, said Alfred.  He didn’t want Dom to believe he wouldn’t write out of fear.

That certainly will be much appreciated, Al.

*

The people in the house were mostly friends of Delores.  Her mother, aunt and uncle, were also there.  The two women visitors had prepared food the night before for the guests, some two-dozen, Dominic counted.

No one was there from Danny’s family.  It was said his entire family were long dead.

Dominic thought the food delicious.  He sampled a snail salad, a stuffed artichoke, a small piece of beef simmered to a touch in a tomato sauce, a few too many homemade cavatelli.  It made him think how ironic it was that death could be dealt with much easier on a stomach filled with good Italian cooking.

He didn’t know any of the other mourners besides Delores and young Dominic, but that didn’t matter to the old don.  He made himself blend right in and chatted along as if they were all old friends.  He charmed the younger woman, but their husbands stayed on edge, knowing full well who Dominic was.

Young Dominic came in and asked if the old don would play catch with him. Delores immediately began to object.  But the older man quickly raised a hand to her and agreed to go with the boy, giving her a wink.  The boy retrieved his father’s glove for Dom and the two ambled to the back yard.  Dom wasn’t very good throwing the ball.  His arthritis ached and his godson was constantly chasing the ball.  He had pity on the boy and suggested they take a walk.

They meandered down to the end of the street where it drained into Spectacle Pond.  Several hundred yards across the water they could make out Twin Oaks, one of the State’s most renown restaurants.  They picked around the ground for some loose stones, then skimmed them across the flat surface of the water.  The boy raised three skims to every one of the older man’s.  He was very skilled, he admitted, since he had practiced many times with his father.  Being no contest, the old don was forced to concede defeat.

Dominic D’Angelo used his skills to ease into a few questions.  Before long they were talking about the boy’s future, his schooling, his dreams, things of that nature.  The don told him about the boats his friends owned, deep sea fishing, golfing, his nephew’s horses: would young Dominic like to join him and his friends on a few excursions?  Young Dominic said he certainly would.  So, they made some tentative plans, contingent on Delores’ approval, which the old don assured he could obtain.  After all, they were now close buddies, he’d go all out to help him, he could rely on Dom whenever he was needed, and there was even a private number to call just in case he needed help.

So, how do you get along with your mom? asked old Dominic, using the term the boy had used for his mother.

The boy shrugged.  He looked off into the pond.  Okay, he said.

The old don thought the boy sounded like a condemned man ordering his last meal.  In fact, the boy had been evasive and less than candid these last several days whenever his parents were mentioned.  Dominic laughed to himself, realizing how like his father was the son, keeping his own counsel.  But the boy’s father had eventually opened up with him, the don, and it was imperative that the son do likewise.

Do you know what kind of relationship me and your father had?  The old man tossed the last rock he held into the pond.

Sure.  You were comps.  That means good friends.

Uh-huh.  He brought you with us several times over the years, so you saw how we acted together.  Of course, he hadn’t brought you around in some time, because you’re a busy guy now, what with the school, the baseball, the friends … the girls, I bet?

No way! exclaimed the boy, quickly.  But a small smile cracked his face. My father didn’t say to you that I like girls?

What a shrewd kid, the don thought.  Danny had told him the boy was a natural with women—unlike his father—and that he could sway them easily.  But the boy didn’t do it maliciously or consciously.  He asked little of anyone, never pressed when refused.

No, he never did, responded the don.  He told me you’re usually a gentleman around the ladies, that they all like you a lot.  He said all the girls in school want to be your girlfriend and they all want you to kiss them.

"He didn’t say that!" said young Dominic, appearing to cringe in disgust.

The don rubbed the boy’s head playfully.  No, he didn’t, he said, laughing. I’m only kidding you.  The boy nudged the don with his shoulder, then they laughed together at the tease.  "Me and your father kidded around like that sometimes.  It’s good to keep humor in your life, capisce?  Helps to make it bearable."

That’s what my dad always said.  Me and him were always fooling around.  A gleam appeared in the boy’s eyes from the memory.

"That’s how me and Danny were.  We fooled around a lot.  And sometimes we were serious—although we still kept humor hanging around, like on standby.  Our relationship—our friendship—went a lot farther than that.  We were very close, me and your father.  We talked about things that neither of us would talk about with anyone else."

What kind of things?

"Oh, all sorts of things—guy kind of things.  Like how we felt about something that happened, what we liked and didn’t like, who we liked and didn’t like, what we were planning, things like that.  It was neat, you know?  It was good to have someone you trusted, that you could talk with about anything, see what they have to say about whatever’s on your mind."

Yeah, my dad told me that.  Me and him talked about a lot of stuff together.  My dad knew more than even the teachers in school.  Even mom called him a wise ass a lot of times.

The old man burst into laughter.  I don’t think she meant that as a compliment, Dominic.

The boy nodded.  Yeah, I know.  Sometimes she’d just get real mad because he was way smarter than her.

The laughter vanished from the old man’s face.  "Your father told you that?" he asked, both amazed and concerned.

The boy shook his head.  I figured it out, he answered, not without a hint of shyness.

I’m impressed, the don said, raising his brow.  You’re probably right.  I’m not putting down your mom, mind you, but a lot of people say things like that when they get mad.

My mom is mad a lot.  The boy said this unemotionally, clinically, without emphasis.

The don eyed his godson for a moment.  I’ll tell you, Dominic, you really are something special, he said.  I think you’re going to be a lot smarter than your father was.  And that’s saying something, because your father was pretty smart. And I’ll tell you something else he was: honest.  Me and him never lied to each other.  If there was something we didn’t want to tell one another, then we just didn’t talk about it.  But we never lied, especially ’cause we’re comps.  I hope that’s the kind of relationship we’ll have.

Okay, said young Dominic, seriously.  Dad told me that.

Told you what?

To trust you.  To always tell you the truth no matter what.  He said you’ll always try to help me if I do.

The old man’s breath evaded him for a moment.  He paled slightly, brought a hand up to rub his eyes.  The boy watched him closely.

Well, I hope you’ll do just that, said the don, having collected himself.

Sure.

That’s why I asked if you get along with your mom.

The boy looked back across the pond.  We get along, he said, flatly.

Do you like her, Dominic?

Yeah, she’s all right.

The old man smiled inside, happy that the boy was living up to his word of being honest.  At least she’s done everything she could taking care of you since your father has been gone these last couple of years.

Yeah.

She’s got her problems, too.

Yeah, dad and I talked about that. He told me why she yells a lot and taught me how to ignore it.

"Ignore it? … That’s pretty good, Dominic.  A real adult word … and a smart way of dealing with the problem.  But, I’m curious about what he said made her get upset?  If you want to tell me, because you don’t have to."

He said she was frustrated because her life didn’t turn out the way she dreamt it would.

"You and he discussed that?"

Sure.  He told me a lot of people get big ideas when they’re young, but then they find out things ain’t going to happen that way.  He said it can drive them a little crazy sometimes, so we got to allow for that and ignore some of the things they say and do.

The old don thought that he had now heard everything!  He realized that he must be out of touch with this new generation and its so-called computer age.  What did your father do, make you memorize that? he asked, half in laughter.

The boy shrugged.

Well, he was right, said the don.  So, always do your best to get along with your mom.  And I’m going to promise you this:  I’m going to start living up to my obligations as your godfather.  You and I are going to become close friends.  Now, I gave you my number and I want you to use it anytime you have a problem, or whenever you just feel like talking to someone.  You know, I get lonely, too, and I wouldn’t mind hearing from you once in a while, kind of shoot the breeze.  And whatever we say will be between just the two of us.  Not only that, I’m also going to start visiting with you more often, maybe take you on a trip once in a while. …  If that’s okay with you, of course?

Sure, said Dominic, trying to keep cool, but obviously pleased with the idea.

"Buono.  The don put out his hand to seal the contract.  If we do all that, then we’ll be double comps, okay?"

The boy nodded and shook the offered hand.

Feeling a little better about life, they walked back to the small ranch house. Most of the mourners had departed, the remainder getting ready to follow.  Dom’s nephew, Nick, had arrived with another soldier in a Lincoln, there to drive the don back to Boston.  They were sitting in the car, waiting patiently.  Dominic introduced the pair to his godson, explaining that Nuncio, his nephew’s companion, had once been a pitcher for a pro baseball team in Triple-A.  Perhaps Nuncio would show the boy a few pitching grips, the don hinted?  Out came the gloves, all but the don retreating to the back yard.

Within minutes all the mourners were gone, except for Delores’ family.  The two women helped her clean and put things away.  The uncle eased into the back yard with the other men.  Dominic was served a demitasse, and the woman sat with him, upon which he began a quiet conversation, the pleasant sounds of the backyard play drifting up through the kitchen windows.  While they sipped, Dominic related a short anecdote about him and Danny and a mutual friend, which had to do with a racy mispronunciation of a word in the Italian.  His rendition of the story was accompanied by gestures and exaggerated expressions of those involved.  Delores’ mother, full Italian herself, found the story utterly hilarious.  She laughed so hard that she proclaimed that she would pee her pants.  No one was embarrassed.  In any event, that story prompted Delores to relate an interesting tale about Danny, a lobster, a nutcracker, and a couple sitting next to them at an exclusive Atlantic City restaurant.  Delores’ mother’s bladder weakened even more, all were told.  Speaking of weak bladders, Dominic was reminded about a trip he made to Las Vegas years back and a pit boss at the old Tropicana …

Before long the kitchen resonated with hysterical laughter.  The day’s trauma, it’s aches and pains, eased a little.

The laughter escaped into the back yard, luring the men into the kitchen.  Nick and Nuncio were introduced, then forced by politeness to have drinks.  Out came rich Italian pastries, and no one had to twist their arms to sample each of them.

With everyone thus occupied, Dominic now signaled Delores that he’d like a few moments alone with her.  She led him into the refinished basement, where they sat together on an old sofa, long abused by the antics of father and son.

Delores Connors Pastore was 37 years old.  She was normally an attractive woman, but today her face was still puffy from the last several days’ ordeal, and makeup had done little to hide the unfavorable affect.  She was nearly as tall as her late husband—five-feet-ten—and lately had gained several pounds here and there.  She had mirthful green eyes and gay full lips, quick to turn into a pout or frown, given provocation.  The speed of her ever-changing emotions had often prompted Danny Pastore to claim that her Irish-Italian heritage proved that such combinations ought to be banned by Amnesty International.  If Delores was in a good mood she would get a big kick out of this observation, but at other times—and one never knew when—he was taking his life in his hands by provoking her.

But now she sat demurely beside the old don, whose smaller frame had found a sinkhole in the abused sofa, and thus did he appear dwarfed by his late friend’s wife.  She asked if he would like her to get him anything to drink.  Dominic politely declined.

He asked how she was getting along, whether there was anything special he could do for her or his godson.  Delores assured him that there wasn’t, that her job was working out well.  She was prudent enough not to mention the several hundreds of dollars she received anonymously each month, which she had long surmised came from the don indirectly.

Dominic then informed her about his stroll with her son and some of the things they had discussed.  He informed her that Danny had always said that he wanted his son to receive the best education.  Now that Danny was gone, the don would feel privileged to help see that his friend’s wishes would be realized.  He asked if Delores would mind if he made a few inquiries?  Delores said that she wouldn’t mind, but of course she would want to know all the details before matters went too far.  Dom emphatically agreed.  He subtly praised her protectiveness, the fine job she had done single-handedly the past two years.  He also confessed that he had been remiss in his obligation as godfather in the recent past, but he would now like to make up for it and take the boy on occasion for a day or two on vacation, assuring that his godson would have some contact with grown men acting responsibly.  They agreed to discuss this further at a more opportune time.

Finally, Dominic brought forth a small jewelry case from his jacket pocket and handed it to Delores.  This is something Danny asked me a few months back to have made for you, he said.

Delores was puzzled.  She opened the case.  Inside was a thin gold chain, attached to which was a subway token that had been heavily gold plated, then set into a gold band for easy attachment to the chain.

Delores gasped.  She brought a hand up to her mouth to stifle a cry, the hand began to tremble slightly.

The old don’s face wrinkled in concern.  You okay?

Delores’ green eyes were glazed over.  She could barely nod.

Dominic still didn’t understand the full significance of the subway token.  Danny had asked him to have it made, just saying that it was a husband-wife thing.  The don wasn’t one to inquire into such things.

Anyway, I was supposed to give it to you as an anniversary gift, Danny said.  Dominic patted her knee very gently.  But I know that’s a few months off, so I figured this would be an appropriate time to give it to you.

Delores was still fighting back tears.  Thank you, Dominic, she said.  It’s very special.

He waved off her gratitude, grunting, trying to distract the both of them from thinking about the tragedy.  He then produced two envelopes, one sealed and addressed to Delores in Danny’s handwriting, the other opened and containing a sheaf of legal documents.  He handed her the sealed envelope.  This is a personal letter for you from Danny, said Dominic.  I suggest you read it later.

Delores took the letter and inspected it for a moment.  Then she peered at the old man.  "Danny sent this letter to you?"

Sealed, said Dominic.  It was given to me sealed, just as you see it now.  An attorney visited him several months ago at the federal prison concerning his appeal and brought it out with him.  I was asked to hold it until further instructions, but since they never came …  It wasn’t the most candid statement, but it certainly eliminated further explanations.  To get past further questions, Dominic proceeded to open the second envelope and withdrew the documents it held, handing them to Delores for inspection.  These are also yours, he said.  I was holding them for safekeeping.  Look them over at your leisure, then let me know if you have any questions.  We’ll meet another day and go see the agent, who I happen to know very well.  I’m sure he’ll make everything proceed very smoothly.

Delores quickly scanned the cover sheet of the documents.  She didn’t comprehend just then all the legal jargon, but it wasn’t difficult to understand the gist of what the documents represented.

I don’t understand? said Delores. I wasn’t aware of anything like this? Where did this come from?

I wouldn’t know, Delores, said Dominic, expressing innocence.  Again, I was merely holding the documents for safekeeping.

But what does it mean?

It means that Danny thought of your very much, that’s what it means.  Dominic hadn’t meant to say this in such a sharp tone, but he was still upset with what Danny had done.  But you know that, of course, he added, instantly composed once again.  For the time being, I ask that you keep this to yourself until we have a chance to discuss it further.  You have guests upstairs, so this isn’t the proper time.  And I really must be going.  Okay?

Delores could only manage a nod, still dumbfounded by what the documents represented.

Dominic reached over and gently took the paperwork from her, reinserting it into the envelope.  He handed it back.  He arose, kissed her cheek, thanked her for the fine meal, then said how sad he was that they had both lost a good friend.  His voice was cracking somewhat, his face filled with emotion.  He had to get out of there.  To ensure that matters didn’t get out of hand, he quickly made his way to the stairway and up into the kitchen.  He quickly wished well to all and took his leave, Nick and Nuncio in hot pursuit.

His godson was outside admiring the Lincoln with a few of the neighborhood boys.  The don paused and he and his men conversed with young Dominic, using a calculated, manly voice, kidding around with the boy for a couple of minutes as if he was one of the gang, thus raising young Dominic’s standing before his peers.  They finally all shook hands, and the don loudly reminded the boy that they’d soon get together for a trip on a yacht and deep-sea fishing, as they had done once before.  And then they were gone.

When the car pulled away, all the neighborhood boys wanted to know who the impressive men were?

Dominic smiled.  Just some friends of mine, he said, as nonchalant as he could.

Danny Pastore would have been proud of his son.

*

The streetlights were on by the time Delores’ family departed.  A northeast breeze shook multi-colored leaves onto the dead-end street’s modest homes.  It seemed as if a vacuum had sucked most of the life from the house.

Young Dominic got ready for bed, put