Page 37 of Married With Malice

I swirl the contents of the glass around and act like I’m thinking. “Thought I detected a hint of cherry.”

I’m so full of shit it’s a wonder I can talk. One of my forgettable college girlfriends aspired to be a professional sommelier and used to drag me around to events where people were always saying things like ‘Thought I detected a hint of cherry’. They were full of shit too.

But George is impressed. “Good palette you’ve got. They don’t make this Kentucky brand anymore. I’m lucky that I was able to score a case at auction.”

For the last hour George has been towing me along for a tour of the Key Bay Resort. He saved his pride and joy, the extensive underground wine cellar, for last. The place seems as vast as the Paris catacombs, which I got to see the summer between college graduation and law school. Cale bankrolled the trip and practically drop kicked me onto the plane for a month long European tour. He joined Richie’s crew right out of high school but he really wanted me to see something of the world in the hopes I’d be inspired to stay far away from a mafia fate.

Things didn’t work out that way. It’s the one thing that truly eats at me, knowing my brother blames himself for this no matter what I say.

The thick wooden shelves are filled with carefully labelled bottles reaching nearly to the ceiling. Though liquor values aren’t my specialty, George clearly has a penchant for rare varieties. I’d casually guess there’s at least a few million in value stored down here. “Must have taken you a long time to amass this stockpile. It’s practically a national treasure.”

George scans the enormous room. I’ve already looked up his history so I know he’s turning sixty next year. He tries to hide the years with cosmetic interventions that stretch his skin to the shiny breaking point.

“I started with a few dozen bottles inherited from my father thirty years ago,” he says. “It’s become a passion over the years.”

Nothing in George’s bio explained his connection to Albie Barone. But he’s from an old Chicago political family so it’s likely he’s got more corruption than blood running through his veins. My theory is that he needed a sordid favor at some point in the past. The Barone family business is a whole other tangled net to unravel and I haven’t even tackled that project yet.

At least George seems like an affable guy, eager to be friendly. He’s given us the VIP treatment here. When I asked him to keep an eye out for Anni while I was gone he was happy to post a pair of bodyguards outside the building all night.

Moving closer to the nearest shelf, I check out a French label with the year 1972. “You ever think about splitting up the collection so it’s not so vulnerable all in one place?”

While George considers the question, it’s tough to tell what he’s thinking. His face is so packed with Botox it just doesn’t move a whole lot. “My lawyer said the same thing.” He shrugs. “It feels like a sin to split up the family.”

“You should listen to your lawyer. And get a separate policy with a different carrier.” As soon I’m finished talking I realize I sound like a pompous jerk. I shouldn’t give out advice when he didn’t ask for any.

But George doesn’t mind. He raises his glass. “Your father-in-law said you were a sharp kid. He was right.”

I suppose it’s nice to know that I’ve got the approval of old Albie. Maybe he can relay that sentiment to his stubborn daughter.

George urges me to pick out a bottle as a surprise for my new bride. Rather than risk selecting some antique worth fifty grand, I ask George to choose one for me.

Once George starts talking it’s not easy to get him to stop. But at least I learn a few things about the tourism industry of south Florida and that will come in handy when I pitch Mugsy’s request to Richie.

Eventually George has other things to do besides be my tour guide so he walks me back to the main building. Late October isn’t a busy season here and the staff at the front desk look a little bored, although they do perk up and try to appear busy when the boss strolls into view.

A dark-haired young woman wearing the tailored khaki and navy blue uniform of the resort staff eyes me from the front desk. She breaks into a pretty smile when our eyes meet. The only reason why I look twice is because she reminds me of Anni.

Speaking of my wife, I assume she’s still brooding in our suite. I don’t want to interrupt. I like the way we left things earlier, with her still panting after she came so hard she vibrated. Afterwards, she couldn’t even speak. Anni needs to marinate in her feelings for a while before she figures out what she wants. In the meantime, I’ll be waiting.

Before he takes off, George reminds me of our dinner plans later. He says he and his wife are looking forward to meeting Annalisa. I tell him the feeling is mutual, although there’s no guarantee Anni will actually behave herself. Or even show up.

This doesn’t bother me. In fact I’m enjoying the uncertainty. Annalisa Barone is a lot of things but she’s never boring.

Within the main building there’s also a large café with dim lighting and tons of polished dark wood. Decorating the walls are framed black and white photos of Florida’s pre-tourism scenery and Ernest Hemingway.

One of the screens over the bar is showing the Dukes hockey game so I take a seat and order a pint of Guinness. My standard choice, it was my father’s favorite. The only reason I know anything about what my father liked to drink is because Cale has a good memory. My own memories of my parents are few and far between. The ones I do have are so fuzzy I’m not sure if they’re real or based on things I’ve imagined from my brother’s many stories.

However, I like to picture my father hanging out with the rest of the boys from his firehouse and downing a pint. Maybe playing some darts, cheering on the Dukes. And then taking off early to go home to his family. He always seemed like a giant to me. When he carried me on his broad shoulders, as he often did, it felt like I was sitting atop a mountain.

The night he died isn’t one I remember, nor do I remember being told that there was too much damage to his lungs after he battled a chemical fire. I do remember Cale holding my hand at the funeral, just as I remember Cale holding me on his lap months later as I wailed inconsolably the morning our mother lost her fight with cancer.

My parents used to call me their ‘miracle prince’. I don’t remember that either but I wish I did. Cale knows of at least one miscarriage in the nine years between us and he thinks they’d given up on having another child when I decided to surprise everyone.

The bartender slides my glass over. When he moves out of the way, the mirror on the opposite wall shows my reflection. Cale and I both take after our father, although Cale likes to say that I’m the only one who inherited our dad’s magnetic personality.

There’s no way to know if that’s true, especially because my brother thinks I’m a much better man than I really am. In any case, I raise the heavy glass at the man in the mirror who looks like my father.

Up on the screen, the Dukes score another goal. The score is three to one with half a period left. Football was always my favorite sport but hockey came in a close second. I learned to skate by trailing after Cale and played in youth leagues until the end of high school.

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