Page 5 of Loss and Damages
I can’t. I can’t let it go. All day I think of a woman who will cry herself to sleep for the next God knows how many nights, maybe for months, maybe for years, because my brother’s dead and our family didn’t have the courtesy to find her and say...say what? We’re sorry for your loss? We’re sorry you lost a fuck buddy? We hope you’re not pregnant because we don’t want to pay you or acknowledge your bastard?
Fuck.
Maybe Dad’s right. Maybe I should leave well enough alone. Bury my brother and try to move on.
Two days go by, the wake is scheduled for tomorrow evening, and still, it’s all I can think about because I want to mourn. I want to mourn and I have no one to mourn with except my dead brother’s girlfriend, and I have no idea who she is.
Time stops for no one, especially me.
The day of my brother’s wake, I walk into a small Italian restaurant located below ground in an older part of St. Charlotte. Red and white checked tablecloths and short, chunky candles decorate the tables. Oregano, basil, and garlic scent the air, but it doesn’t trigger my appetite. I can’t let my brother’s death make me look weak. Not to my father who asked if I was keeping this meeting, a measured look in his eye that turned into a gleam of approval when I said I was, or to the mayor or the gentleman joining us. A weak opponent is a dead opponent.
There are sharks in the water and damned if I’ll let them know I’m bleeding.
My cousin, Jimmy, my father’s brother’s son, runs this restaurant. I bought it and put him in charge after he was released from prison for breaking into, and entering, the wrong house, and by the wrong house, I mean a cop’s house. He’s a good kid when he’s sober and not high as a kite, and the only thing he ever wanted to do was open a restaurant with his wife. He’s happy now and off the streets. It helps Bianca bakes the best tiramisu in the country and keeps him on a short leash.
“They’re in the back. You sure you gotta do this today?” Jimmy asks as I step into the dining room.Milano’swill open for lunch in approximately five minutes, but he and Bianca will leave the tables to their staff to attend the wake tonight.
“I won’t need long. Send in some coffee, will you, Jimmy? Thanks.” I weave around the empty tables toward the back where the private parties are held.
“Yeah, sure.” He wants to say more, but I’ve heard all the condolences I can stand and ignore him.
Mayor Franklin Wilkins and Marshall Pitts sit at a table in the corner. The blinds of the ground-level windows are closed and shadows hide their faces as they talk in whispers. They abruptly stop when I enter the room, pushing the swinging door open and letting it shut behind me.
“Gentlemen.”
Wilkins stumbles to his feet, Pitts not far behind. They know who’s in control and they were undoubtedly trying to figure out how to tip the scales in their favor.
“Milano. We’re sorry for your loss. Leo was a decent guy. Wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Wilkins says, twisting a white cloth napkin in his hands.
“Thank you.” I take the insinuation as it was meant. Leo wouldn’t hurt anybody or anything, but I would. Without apology. I have a stone where my heart should be,yadda, yadda, yadda.I’ve heard it all before. They can compare me to Leo all they want. My brother’s a martyr now, and I’m a sinner who’s going to hell.
“Sit, sit,” I say, gesturing toward the table. “Jimmy will be in with coffee and if you want a bite to eat, by all means.”
At that moment, Jimmy pushes into the room carrying a tray that has a carafe of coffee, three mugs, and cream and sugar on it. He serves without speaking or making eye contact with anyone at the table, pauses and waits for lunch orders that don’t come, and leaves as quietly as he entered.
I pour cream into my coffee and regard my guests. I’m not in a hurry to speak.
The mayor and Pitts also help themselves to coffee as the lunch crowd noises start to filter into the back room. The scents of mozzarella and ricotta cheese churn my stomach. Lasagna is the lunch special of the day and the spices are too strong. It had been a poor choice to meet here.
I hitch my ankle up to my knee and lean back in my chair. I can wait all day. I wasn’t the one who called this meeting.
My coffee mug is half empty by the time the mayor finally speaks. “The Historic Preservation Board called me this morning. They want to know what I’m going to tell you regarding the sale. They reminded me, politely, that the building was built in the 1930s and they were hoping I’d appoint it a historic landmark.”
This isn’t a surprise, and if it wasn’t sitting on prime real estate near the St. Charlotte River, I wouldn’t care what Pitts did with it.
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that what you want?” I ask Pitts.
His cheeks turn a ruddy red, and his forehead shines with sweat where it gathers at his temples. He wants both the mayor and me to be happy, but I’m not sure how that can happen. Mayor Wilkins wants to win the next election, and there’s no way in hell he’ll do that if he approves this sale. Too many people are against it, yet that’s the only outcome I’ll accept. Pitts is between a rock and a hard place, and he wouldn’t be surprised to learn I don’t fucking care.
“My father owned that building and passed it on to me.”
That doesn’t answer my question and it’s a meaningless piece of trivia that I also don’t fucking care about.
“You’re saying the land has sentimental value?” I ask.
Pitts shrugs uncomfortably.
“Gentlemen, my brother just passed away. I’m in mourning, but I attended this meeting as a courtesy. If you don’t want to sell, Pitts, just say so. You know as well as I do I can find other property, other land. A building without so many strings attached. I’m not thrilled about displacing hundreds of families—” I don’t give a shit— “and if you’re looking out for their best interests, then so be it. You’ll be a hero, standing up for theunderdogs of St. Charlotte.” I set my coffee cup onto the table and rise from my seat.
