“I don’t follow, sir.”
“Well, she’s taken a real liking to you. I’d actually say that she’s in love with you.”
Awww shit!
“I was wondering how you felt about my stepdaughter?”
“She’s amazing,” I replied. Strangely enough, I meant it. “Maria’s beautiful, smart, honest, and down-to-Earth.”
“I agree,” Frescanetti replied, pleased by my choice of words. For a second, I thought everything was cool. Then he looked a bit disappointed. “But why are you going to dump her, son?”
I’m sure I had a “shocked idiot” look on my face for a second or two. I decided to roll with it and fake righteous indignation. The whole time, Frescanetti sized me up like we were playing poker.
“You think I’m going to dump Maria on our prom night?!” I asked, playing offended.
“No,” he replied with a sad shake of his head. “I think you’re going to dump my little girl in a couple of months, thus breaking her heart.”
“Look, Mr. Frescanetti, you’ve got me all wrong. I like your daughter. I really do -”
“But you go through women like boxes of cereal. It’s like they don’t mean anything to you.”
They didn’t. But there was no way I’d admit it aloud.
“I guess, considering your childhood, it makes sense that you have attachment issues.”
I was too shocked to speak, so I just sat back and said nothing. Frescanetti leaned forward, put his thick elbows on the desk, and cupped his huge hands in a thoughtful way.
“If my mom left my dad for a richer guy, thus driving my dad to drink himself to death, I’d be a little mad at the fairer sex, too. Still, you can’t go around playing with women’s hearts, Gil. That’s beneath a fella with your potential. Your old man would agree.”
He shouldn’t have gone there.
I was so young that I could barely remember him, lying still in his casket with too much makeup on his face. Whenever someone asked me about my dad, I never mentioned how much I hated him. He was a worthless drunk, who couldn’t keep his marriage afloat or stick around to raise his son. After he died, I was dumped on Aunt Denice, who treated me more as a burden than family. On my eighteenth birthday, I got a valet gig and moved into my own place, just to get away. By then, my respect for women was in the toilet. If it weren’t for the sex, they wouldn’t matter to me at all.
Again, he was right. But I’d never admit it.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied with forced calm. “You’re a retired union negotiator, not a shrink.”
“Both positions are more similar than you’d think,” Frescanetti grinned as he leaned back into his chair. “And I didn’t mean to push any buttons, Gil. I’m just making a point. Maria’s not the enemy. You should give her a fair chance. That’s all I’m asking.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you don’t,” Frescanetti amicably replied. “I’m not going to kick your ass or anything. I’ll just be very disappointed in you.”
“How’s that going to stop me from dumping Maria – if I wanted to?”
His eyes narrowed a bit.
“It wouldn’t. But what goes around comes around, kid. Call it ‘karma.’ If you rack up too much of the bad stuff, it’ll catch up with you … in spades.”
I wanted to call Frescanetti all types of motherfucker. Instead, I forced myself to stay cool, just like in football.
“Is that all, Mr. Frescanetti?”
Frescanetti allowed me a slight grin with his nod.
“Have a good time, call me if you have any troubles, and uh … practice safe sex, willya?”
My shocked expression made him laugh.
“Oh, and please have her back by four, at the latest,” he chuckled. “She’s got a dentist’s appointment at 11:30. And I’d hate to have to reschedule it on account of … whatever.”
I felt like such a dumb prick at that moment, as I waited for my prom date’s father to stop laughing at me. Part of me wanted to call the whole damned thing off. He stood up and held out his hand. Not really wanting to, I stood up and shook his hand. Then I turned to leave. None of this made sense.
A question jumped into my head as my hand found the door knob.
“How do you know so much about me and my family? I never told Maria any of what you just told me. I never told anyone!”
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Frescanetti asked.
“No,” I replied. The old man didn’t reek of alcohol. Maybe he was nuts. Asking that kind of question’s a good sign of being mental.
“You shouldn’t think that way,” a thick male voice said from behind me. I started to turn around, only to have two huge hands grab me by my shoulders, drag me back to the chair and force me into it like I was a 2 year-old. I half-turned and saw nothing behind me!
“Gil Zakes,” Frescanetti grinned. “I’d like you to meet Giovanni Mancusso.”
Frescanetti muttered some kind of gibberish that sounded vaguely Italian.
An instant later, I could see Giovanni just fine. Actually, I could see through him just fine. He wore a gray double-breasted suit with a white shirt and matching carnation in the left lapel. He stood about 6’5”, maybe in the neighborhood of 270 pounds. He had the look of “old-school gangster” about him; the type I used to see in old mob movies on AMC. Still, his stubbled face was broad and friendly … in a scary sort of way. He reminded me of some of the offensive linemen on my team.
“Thanks,” the ghost said, as if reading my thoughts. “I used to play a little ball when I was your age.”
My jaw dropped. He was reading my thoughts! Frescanetti chuckled.
“Giovanni’s an honest-to-God ghost. Born: August 5, 1898. Died: March 26, 1933.”
“Pleased to meet ya’,” Giovanni grinned as he let go of me. I arched my back and jumped to my feet as Giovanni held out his hand. I dropped the corsage as I backed against a corner. The two bastards swapped grins. Giovanni lowered his hand.
“Giovanni’s a trusted ex-colleague of mine,” Frescanetti explained. “But we still do favors for each other. And when Maria started dating you, I asked him to learn what he could about you.”
“My ‘condition’ allows me to know everything that goes on in the minds of the living.”
“And that’s how I know so much about you,” Frescanetti added. “While Gio here assures me that my daughter’s in good hands tonight, he’s pretty sure that you’re gonna dump her before Labor Day. Please reconsider.”
“How are you doing this?!” I gasped.
Frescanetti patiently rose, pulled a laminated card from his wallet, and tossed it onto his desk. I leaned over to read it. It was his old union ID card, which read (across the top):
NECROMANCER’S UNION – LOCAL 412
“And for a second, I thought you were a mobster,” I blurted, unsure of what else to say.
Frescanetti and Giovanni shared robust laughter at my expense as I handed the card back.
“I’m just a ‘facilitator’ between parties, son. Local 412 is very real. So is what I said about karma.”
That last part was definitely a threat.