Page 32 of Married with Mayhem

“Anytime,” he says and takes another puff from his inhaler.

Once I’m back in my car I tap out a quick text to get the chore out of the way.

There’s another bag of gold in transit.

Within seconds, three dots appear to indicate the recipient is already responding. An annoyed sigh blows out of my mouth as I wait.

I can just picture that cosplaying cowboy motherfucker out there in his vast western kingdom. It’s high likely this is exactly where he is right now. He prefers to scheme from his home base and send his sons out to do the muscle work.

There was a time when I admired rather than despised the man. I know better now. But I still need to pay him. That was the contract made when I volunteered to assume a family debt. If I fail, I can expect an unpleasant visit from my own cousins.

Thanks for the heads up. Don’t be a stranger. – Uncle Cass

He always does that, signs off on his texts like I might have forgotten our connection. I wish I could forget. For now, I toss the phone on the passenger seat and opt to disregard the deranged members of my extended family.

With that chore out of the way, I pay a visit to an old high school buddy who runs an underground casino out of hisfamily’s hardwood flooring business. I still have some influence in this neighborhood and I send a lot of players his way in exchange for a fee. He’s happy to cough up the cash and tells me to stop by for next week’s game night.

“I’ll think about it,” I tell him even though I won’t. The only appeal games have for me is as a means of separating fools from their money.

While I’m driving back over the bridge and watching the shadowy skyline of Manhattan loom closer, Sabrina’s words echo back to me.

“Life doesn’t come with a set of rules. But games do. The gaming world is the one place where I know how to win.”

I wasn’t ready for that honest glimpse into what makes Sabrina tick. And I’d really love to throttle the breath out of whoever made her feel like she’s a loser at life. Her father was no prize and he treated his daughters as if their only value was as pawns for marriage alliances but I get the feeling Sabrina’s Daddy issues don’t tell the whole story. She might have told me the rest if I’d pushed, but the hour was too late and she was sitting too close and I was far too interested in having more than a conversation with her.

Once I’m back on the Lower East Side, I walk two blocks out of my way to a pretzel street vendor before doubling back to Gino’s.

Neil Diamond is belting outBrother Love’s Traveling Salvation Showon the jukebox, a trio of construction workers are ordering at the counter, and Sabrina is seated at the same table where I left her this morning. But now she’s carefully paging through a thick blue photo album that looks suspiciously familiar.

“Is this Monte wading around naked in a creek?” she asks.

What the fuck?

My father deposits pizza slices on plates and answers her question at the same time. “Yeah, when he was four he went through a phase where he kept taking his clothes off and couldn’t be stopped.”

Sabrina stares at the picture and turns the page. “Look, he did it again. This time he’s standing in the woods butt naked and waving a plastic red shovel.”

My dad chuckles. “That was taken at his Uncle Vinny’s cabin in the Catskills.”

“Aw, why is he crying here while clutching a really dirty blue blanket?”

“He called the blanket Mr. Bluey,” my dad says. “Every time we tried to take it away to wash it he’d start screaming like he’d been set on fire.”

“That’s so cute.” Sabrina turns another page. “Oh, I think this must be his first day of school. He’s carrying a lunch box with yellow ducks and he looks scared.”

“Excuse me!” I shout.

Everyone looks up. Even the construction workers turn around. They give me a onceover, produce deep scowls and return to waiting for their pizza slices.

“Hi, Monte,” Sabrina says. “Why are you just standing there? You’re allowed to sit down.”

I know I’m allowed to sit down. Yet I feel like I might have misplaced a few threads of my dignity as I yank a chair out and drop down directly across from her.

“What are you doing?” I ask as she flips another page in the family photo album that should be buried in a closet at my Dad’s house in Queens.

She sips her soda and flips another page. “I’m examining your childhood memories. What happened to your hair here?”

“He cut his hair with a pair of safety scissors at school,” my dad says as he emerges from behind the counter.

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