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Authors: Laura Lee Smith
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satiated, and more than a little drunk. She found Bodie near frantic with a worry that quickly transformed into fury as he began to understand the nature of her absence.
“Tit for tit,” she said.
“Tat,” he corrected her.
She looked at him and raised an eyebrow.
Bodie was sick with jealousy. He harangued Mary Lou into telling him the name of her lover, then he set out into the streets of Naples in search of her suitor, Biaggio DiMaria. He found DiMaria in the very same bar where Bodie had tangoed with his Italian tart and started the whole mess in the first place. The bartender, following Bodie’s inquiry, pointed to the end of the bar, where a man sat alone, regarding his drink.
“Be careful, signore ,” the bartender said.
“What?” Bodie said.
“ Assassino ,” the bartender whispered, pulling his finger across his throat. “How you say? Hit man .” The man at the end of the bar looked up, and his eyes met Bodie’s.
Bodie thought for a minute about Mary Lou. He tried to summon the picture that had so consumed him just a short while ago, of this dark man’s body between her thighs, his face against her breasts, but all he could really see were the sinews in DiMaria’s neck, and the sweat glistening on DiMaria’s forearms, and the outline of something hard and possibly metallic under the silky white fabric of DiMaria’s shirt. DiMaria nodded at him, and Bodie’s blood ran cold. He looked away, did a quick reckoning. He’d survived Vietnam, he reasoned, and he was having too good a damn time in Naples for it all to come to an end right here. He backed out of the bar and went home to Mary Lou, Jimmy, and the small, wriggling family of rats.
If Bodie’s extramarital indiscretions had proven distasteful to Mary Lou, his failure to summon the cojones to defend her questionable honor now proved positively odious. She stayed in Italy just long enough to deliver the baby, whom she named Biaggio Antonio Dunkirk, a moniker intended to do one thing and one thing only: drive Bodie Dunkirk frigging nuts for the rest of his days. Then she returned to West Virginia alone with her two boys, whom she raised in the distracted, resentful manner of a woman who’d given up too much, too soon, and who was smart enough to realize she’d never, ever get it back.
“It’s like I never had much of a family,” Biaggio had said that night on the steps of the trailer. He and Frank were sharing a six-pack, watching a raccoon family at the edge of a thicket of scrub. “Not like you here,” he said, gesturing to the house.
Frank had snorted. “Some family,” he said.
Biaggio had looked at him sternly. “It’s a family, Frank,” he said. “It’s more than a lot of people got. Trust me.” Then Biaggio’s eyes grew soft and distracted as his gaze fixed on the raccoons under the trees.
That was years ago—five? Ten? It was hard to recall. Today, the haze was hot over Aberdeen as they stood in the driveway, and Biaggio’s T-shirt was already dotted with sweat across his chest.
“Goochie, Goochie, Goochie,” Biaggio said, crouching down and wrapping the dog in a full embrace. Gooch’s legs went out from under him, and he lay back rapturously in Biaggio’s arms, thumping his tail wildly, looking at Frank accusingly. You never treat me like this , he was saying.
“Oh, get up, you two, before I hurl,” Frank said.
Biaggio planted a fat kiss on the top of Gooch’s head, then stood up, took a deep breath, and raised his eyebrows at Frank.
“We got a problem,” he said. He nodded at Aberdeen meaningfully.
Frank regarded him. “We?”
“Well, you ,” Biaggio conceded. “It’s the ladies. They’ve gone nucking futs again.”
The morning sun was brutal, already. Frank felt it on his arms and face, a summer sun, aggressive and unflinching, as they walked together up to the house, Gooch, the bastard, favoring Biaggio’s side and still shooting sidelong looks at Frank. Biaggio moved with a strange
“Tit for tit,” she said.
“Tat,” he corrected her.
She looked at him and raised an eyebrow.
Bodie was sick with jealousy. He harangued Mary Lou into telling him the name of her lover, then he set out into the streets of Naples in search of her suitor, Biaggio DiMaria. He found DiMaria in the very same bar where Bodie had tangoed with his Italian tart and started the whole mess in the first place. The bartender, following Bodie’s inquiry, pointed to the end of the bar, where a man sat alone, regarding his drink.
“Be careful, signore ,” the bartender said.
“What?” Bodie said.
“ Assassino ,” the bartender whispered, pulling his finger across his throat. “How you say? Hit man .” The man at the end of the bar looked up, and his eyes met Bodie’s.
Bodie thought for a minute about Mary Lou. He tried to summon the picture that had so consumed him just a short while ago, of this dark man’s body between her thighs, his face against her breasts, but all he could really see were the sinews in DiMaria’s neck, and the sweat glistening on DiMaria’s forearms, and the outline of something hard and possibly metallic under the silky white fabric of DiMaria’s shirt. DiMaria nodded at him, and Bodie’s blood ran cold. He looked away, did a quick reckoning. He’d survived Vietnam, he reasoned, and he was having too good a damn time in Naples for it all to come to an end right here. He backed out of the bar and went home to Mary Lou, Jimmy, and the small, wriggling family of rats.
If Bodie’s extramarital indiscretions had proven distasteful to Mary Lou, his failure to summon the cojones to defend her questionable honor now proved positively odious. She stayed in Italy just long enough to deliver the baby, whom she named Biaggio Antonio Dunkirk, a moniker intended to do one thing and one thing only: drive Bodie Dunkirk frigging nuts for the rest of his days. Then she returned to West Virginia alone with her two boys, whom she raised in the distracted, resentful manner of a woman who’d given up too much, too soon, and who was smart enough to realize she’d never, ever get it back.
“It’s like I never had much of a family,” Biaggio had said that night on the steps of the trailer. He and Frank were sharing a six-pack, watching a raccoon family at the edge of a thicket of scrub. “Not like you here,” he said, gesturing to the house.
Frank had snorted. “Some family,” he said.
Biaggio had looked at him sternly. “It’s a family, Frank,” he said. “It’s more than a lot of people got. Trust me.” Then Biaggio’s eyes grew soft and distracted as his gaze fixed on the raccoons under the trees.
That was years ago—five? Ten? It was hard to recall. Today, the haze was hot over Aberdeen as they stood in the driveway, and Biaggio’s T-shirt was already dotted with sweat across his chest.
“Goochie, Goochie, Goochie,” Biaggio said, crouching down and wrapping the dog in a full embrace. Gooch’s legs went out from under him, and he lay back rapturously in Biaggio’s arms, thumping his tail wildly, looking at Frank accusingly. You never treat me like this , he was saying.
“Oh, get up, you two, before I hurl,” Frank said.
Biaggio planted a fat kiss on the top of Gooch’s head, then stood up, took a deep breath, and raised his eyebrows at Frank.
“We got a problem,” he said. He nodded at Aberdeen meaningfully.
Frank regarded him. “We?”
“Well, you ,” Biaggio conceded. “It’s the ladies. They’ve gone nucking futs again.”
The morning sun was brutal, already. Frank felt it on his arms and face, a summer sun, aggressive and unflinching, as they walked together up to the house, Gooch, the bastard, favoring Biaggio’s side and still shooting sidelong looks at Frank. Biaggio moved with a strange
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