Raising Jake Part 26

"At the moment, I'm not transporting transporting anything. I'm standing still, and so is my vehicle." anything. I'm standing still, and so is my vehicle."

The Irish are known for their love of wordplay, and my father is no exception, but he is picking a terrible time to break b.a.l.l.s. Jake purses his lips to keep from laughing out loud, and all I can do is stand there as my father proceeds to make a bad situation even worse.

Orvieto stands up straight, forces a grin. "All right, I'll rephrase the question. What have you got inside your car?"

"That's better! Cobblestones."

"Cobblestones?" Orvieto asks, genuinely surprised.

"Yes," my father says. "Some people know them as Belgian blocks."

"Where did they come from?"

"Bounty of the sea!" my father exclaims, pointing toward the beach the way Moses might have pointed toward the Promised Land. "They've been buried in the muck and mire of this bay for G.o.d only knows how long. I couldn't bear the waste of it, so I decided to salvage them."

"Salvage?"

"Yes. It means, 'to save from being wasted,' or words to that effect."

Orvieto stares at my father through cop-narrow eyes. "I know what 'salvage' means," he says evenly. "But what you're doing isn't salvaging. What you're doing is stealing."

Now everything's out on the table. Jake crosses his arms and stares at his feet. My heart is hammering away, but my father has managed to make himself look genuinely aggrieved.

"Stealing! In all my life, I've never stolen so much as a stick of chewing gum!" In all my life, I've never stolen so much as a stick of chewing gum!"

"Well," says Orvieto, "there's always a first time."

"Exactly who have I stolen from?"

"The City of New York, sir."

My father turns to look at me, as if daring me to tell him I'd told him so, but I say nothing. This is his show, and for now, his son and grandson are merely pa.s.sengers on this rapid ride to h.e.l.l.

"Officer," my father says to Orvieto, "let's face it. The city of New York had no earthly idea that these stones were out there, buried at the bottom of an old forgotten pier. The only reason I I knew about it is because I'm a lonely old man who prowls these beaches, thinking back to my youthful days in the navy. I served my country, you know. Two hitches in Dubya Dubya Two, and believe me, I was in the thick of it. A j.a.p submarine sank my ship. Seven hours I bobbed around in that cold, cold sea, staring at the stars, praying the rescue ship'd get there faster than the sharks. Were you in the service, Officer?" knew about it is because I'm a lonely old man who prowls these beaches, thinking back to my youthful days in the navy. I served my country, you know. Two hitches in Dubya Dubya Two, and believe me, I was in the thick of it. A j.a.p submarine sank my ship. Seven hours I bobbed around in that cold, cold sea, staring at the stars, praying the rescue ship'd get there faster than the sharks. Were you in the service, Officer?"

Orvieto sighs, shakes his head. "No, I wasn't."

"Well, it was a different time. People believed in things. And all these years later, I can tell you with my hand over my heart that I still still believe." believe."

He sweeps his hand toward Flushing Bay, an almost blissful smile on his face. "Know what I believe? I believe the sea was tryin' to give something back to me. She nearly took my life in the war, so now, all these years later, she's makin' it right with the gift of these stones. What do you think?"

Clearly bored by it all, Orvieto pulls a pad and a pen from his jacket pocket and steps right up to my father. He's easily half a foot taller, not including the hat. "I think you're full of s.h.i.t, old man."

My father looks up at Orvieto's calm, chubby face, which now wears a cruel little smile, a smile that becomes the target for the punch.

It's a textbook roundhouse from my old man, and it lands with a shocking crunch on the mouth of Parks Department Officer Orvieto, who collapses as if all his bones have suddenly turned to jelly.

"Jesus!" Jake exclaims, his eyes as big as baseb.a.l.l.s.

My father stands there, fists poised defensively, as if he expects his opponent to retaliate. But Orvieto does not respond. He is out cold.

"Call me an old man, will you?" my father murmurs, more to himself than the unconscious man he's just clocked.

Orvieto has slid straight down into a seated position, his back against the side of the car. He looks as if he could be taking a yoga cla.s.s. Amazingly, his hat is still on his head, though now it's a little crooked.

He's absolutely still, and it dawns on me that my father might have killed him, and I'm trying to figure out the potential consequences: a manslaughter rap for my father, five to fifteen, which at his age could be a life sentence, and what about Jake and me? Would we be considered accomplices, just for being there? Or would the jury believe that we were sucked into this cobblestone caper, when all we meant to do was drop in on my dad one Sat.u.r.day afternoon for the first time since Jake was born?

It would all depend on how good a lawyer I could hire, and without a job I couldn't afford the worst Queens Boulevard lawyer in the Yellow Pages, and just as these calamitous thoughts are racing through my mind Orvieto's eyelids begin to flutter and my heart soars with hope.

"He's all right," my father says, his fists still clenched. "Lucky for him I pulled that punch."

I turn to my father and Jake, who stand side by side. I put one hand on my father's shoulder and the other on Jake's. It's like a touch football huddle, and the time has come for me to call the next play. "Dad, please, calm down. Jake, are you all right?"

"I'm better than that cop," Jake says.

My father sneers. "He's no cop. He's some bulls.h.i.t Parks Department flunky whose uncle got him his pathetic ball-breaking job."

"Dad, listen to me. When this guy comes around, I'm I'm doing the talking, okay?" doing the talking, okay?"

"Look at him!" my father exclaims. "Some tough guy! No gun! No handcuffs! What's he gonna do, poke me with his pen?"

"He's got a walkie-talkie, Dad, and if he calls for help we're dead. Okay? So I'm begging you-let me take it from here. Trust me, all right?"

My father looks me in the eye and hesitates before reaching out and patting my cheek. It's the first time he's touched me today, and the first time he's ever touched me in such a gentle way. When I was growing up we shook hands on birthdays and Christmas, and that was pretty much the extent of our physical contact. Funny that my first-ever portion of paternal affection should come in the midst of a felonious a.s.sault that could put my father behind bars. It's also kind of funny that I've got tears in my eyes.

"All right, kid," he says softly. "It's your game now. Get us out of this mess."

I take a moment to blink away the tears and focus before turning to squat and face Officer Orvieto, who's making little groaning noises. He opens his eyes, coughs, clears his throat, and spits a gob of red mucus on the pavement. His lip is swollen, but I don't think my father broke any bones or loosened any teeth.

"Are you all right, Officer?"

He stares at me but says nothing, his tongue probing his wounded lip.

I reach out and straighten his hat. "Are you aware of everything that's happened?"

"I was a.s.saulted."

"Okay, good. You remember. That's a sign that you haven't been badly hurt."

He makes a woozy gesture with his hand. "You'll all have to come with me, the three o' youse."

"Well, I'd like to talk to you about that. Do you ever read the Star? Star? The The New York Star New York Star newspaper?" newspaper?"

He's puzzled by the question, but he nods. I pull my press card from my back pocket and hold it to his face. "I'm a reporter with the Star. Star. Been there a long time. And believe me, this is the kind of story we really love to tell." Been there a long time. And believe me, this is the kind of story we really love to tell."

Orvieto manages to sit up a little straighter. "What "What story?" story?"

"The story of how an eighty-year-old man got into trouble for taking something that n.o.body even knew was there. A cranky, eccentric old man-a war war hero, mind you-picking through the muck at low tide, minding his own business, when suddenly some cop decided to give him a hard time." hero, mind you-picking through the muck at low tide, minding his own business, when suddenly some cop decided to give him a hard time."

Orvieto points past me at my father. "He is in the wrong here."

"I'm sure he is, if we're going strictly by the book. That's why it's such a good story for my newspaper. It gives the readers a little something to talk about, argue about. Because let's face it, Officer Orvieto-who in their right mind would think my father has done anything wrong with this little scavenging expedition? Gathering up rocks that n.o.body even knew were there, rocks that would have stayed buried in the muck until the end of time?"

Orvieto opens his mouth to speak, but lets it close without saying anything.

"It wouldn't be just one story," I continue. "I could turn this thing into a crusade, especially if you arrest me and my son along with my father. Three generations of one family, disgraced over a bunch of slimy old rocks. And let's not forget the tale of the tape."

Orvieto hesitates before asking, "What the h.e.l.l is that?"

"You know, like they do the day before a prize fight. Pictures of you and my dad, side by side. Heights and weights, and all the other vital statistics. You're what, six-two, maybe two-twenty? My father goes maybe five-seven, one-fifty."

"One forty-seven," my father corrects me. "I'm still a welterweight, same as I was in the navy."

"There you go," I say, not breaking my gaze from Orvieto's eyes. "You've got seven inches and seventy pounds on the guy, not to mention he's fifty years older than you." I lean in a little closer before adding, "And he dropped you with one punch." one punch."

At last, Orvieto gets the picture. His face flushes and he takes a deep breath.

"See, people love reading about the little guy who triumphs against the odds. What we've got here is your cla.s.sic David and Goliath story, with a lot of funky elements thrown in-a crazy old man and an overzealous cop, waging war over a bunch of rocks from the bottom of a polluted bay."

This isn't like the hustle I pulled on Headmaster Peter Plymouth about the story I was threatening to write. Everything I'm telling this a.s.shole is true true. This is a good story, and I'd be delighted to write it up, if I still had a job at the paper.

I can't help laughing. "s.h.i.t, I haven't even mentioned what the TV news would do with a story like this. Ever had a TV crew show up at your house, unannounced? They start filming before you even know what the h.e.l.l's going on. That's why almost everybody looks ridiculous on television. Jesus Christ, we could all wind up on Letterman! He could do a Top Ten list about the Cobblestone Caper!"

I hear Jake and my father chuckle over that, but Orvieto does not. He's gathered himself sufficiently to rise slowly to his feet, and even allows me to help him up by the elbow.

"The cobblestone caper," he murmurs, shrugging his way out of my grasp. "Very funny."

"Well, you know how they like to make fun. My point is that if this story gets out, only one person really gets hurt, and that person is you. So ask yourself-is it worth it?"

Orvieto stands there returning my stare, volt for volt. He's a little taller than me, so I'm looking up at him, but I'm really rolling now, and I'm not intimidated. I look left and right and even dare to put a hand on his shoulder before speaking again.

"Level with me-this is just a temporary job for you, isn't it?" I say. "I'll bet you're trying to join the police department, aren't you?"

Bingo. I've hit the bull's-eye. Orvieto swallows. "I'm on the waiting list."

"Okay, fair enough. No shame in that. But do you honestly think that New York's Finest are ever going to call up the guy who was at the heart of the famous Cobblestone Caper?"

I've just played my trump card. Either it'll work or it won't. Orvieto pulls on the brim of his hat, dusts the dirt off his a.s.s, and struts slowly all the way around the car, peering inside at the cobblestones. He stops in front of my father, as if considering whether or not to throw a punch, but then I see that his hands are clasped tightly behind his back, as if they've been cuffed.

"What do you have to say to me, old man?"

Those words again! If my father throws another punch, it's all over. But he manages to restrain himself. He gazes down at his muddy boots, takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry I lost my temper, Officer."

"Look at me when you say it."

My father lifts his head and looks right at him, with the eyes of an abandoned puppy. "I'm sorry I lost my temper."

"Officer Orvieto."

"Officer Or-vi-eto. You're Italian, aren't you? I like Italian people. They have a true pa.s.sion for living. My wife was Italian, rest her sacred soul."

Orvieto stares at him for a moment before moving to Jake and eyeing him from feet to face. Then he comes back to me and nudges me aside, so he can reach inside the car.

He takes out a cobblestone. His hands are so big he can actually clasp it in one hand. He looks at the stone and he looks at my father, and I wonder if Orvieto plans to bash my father's skull in. But instead, he goes to the busted fence and spitefully shot-puts the cobblestone down the hill, where we dumped all those cement chunks.

Then he turns to us, claps the muck off his hands, and says, "Get the f.u.c.k out of here, and I mean this minute. And do not not come back." come back."

Obedient as schoolboys, the three of us pile into the car. We all understand that we must remain silent until we start rolling. My father starts the car and puts it in gear.

"Christ, we're ridin' heavy," he whispers as we begin to roll. "Sit as still as you can. One b.u.mp and the whole carriage'll collapse."

We roll along until Orvieto and his hat are a speck in the rearview mirror. Then the road curves and he's out of sight, and the three of us begin to whoop and holler and laugh as if we've just pulled off the Brinks job.

"Masterful, my son!" my father exclaims. "What you did back there was masterful, although I wasn't thrilled about being called crazy." my son!" my father exclaims. "What you did back there was masterful, although I wasn't thrilled about being called crazy."

"Was that a bunch of bulls.h.i.t, about the j.a.ps sinking your ship?"

"Total bulls.h.i.t."

"Thought so. Good touch, though."

"I thank you."

Jake puts his head back and howls, then pats my knee. "Unbelievable, Dad," he says in a voice choked with pride. "That was just amazing."

I roll down my window to breathe in the salty, briny air. "I did what I had to do," I say. "That's all. Christ, but I need a drink."

"We all do," my father says. "But let's get this red-hot cargo home first!"

Jake puts his arm around my neck for a quick hug, my father beeps the horn for no d.a.m.n reason, the cobblestone cargo reeks like a sewer, and in the midst of the madness I suddenly realize that this, right now, is far and away the happiest moment of my life. And if anybody had told me yesterday that I'd be having my happiest moment tomorrow, I'd have told that person he was completely insane.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

When we get to the house my father pulls the car right into his little garage and closes the door after it.

"Gonna leave it in here for a few days. Just in case that mountie has a change of heart and decides to come lookin' for me."

"Should I unload the stones?" Jake asks.

"No, Jake, my boy, you've done enough. I won't need the car for a few days, anyway. Let's go inside."

We follow my father. I can't wait to be out of the garage. It's tiny and dark and creepy. Lined up along one wall are all those cans of canary-yellow paint. The garage connects straight to a little laundry room with a sink and the very same old Maytag washer-dryer setup my mother used.