The Family(27)

“Thank you, sir,” says Saul. He can feel Carol’s watchful eye burning a hole through his apron. “Well—” and he moves to take a ticket from the next customer in line. It’s not in his cache of muscle memory to stand still when the deli is this loud and bustling.

“Hey!” says the tall man. Saul turns back around. “Look, kid,” says the tall man, balancing his sandwich in one hand and bringing a pickle to his mouth with the other, “you make a damn good sandwich, I was saying—holy Father, that’s a good pickle—but you seem like a smart guy.”

“I do?” says Saul.

“You do. And I’m in the business of smart guys.” The man finishes his pickle and looks for somewhere to wipe his hands; finding none, he brushes his thumb and forefinger along the cuff of the sleeve of his opposite hand and winks.

“Thank you, sir,” says Saul, “but I really should get back to work.”

“Okay, okay, I get it, you’re in the middle of things here. I’ll cut to the chase.” The tall man puts his hand over the counter to shake Saul’s and says, “I’m Joey Colicchio, and I’d like to give you a promotion.” The truth is, Joey Colicchio knows that Saul studied English for years before fleeing, and has been watching him for weeks. He’s young, strong, and spends all of his time outside of work alone. He’s a perfect candidate for a delicate position.

Standing still, delicatessen spinning around him, looking at the Italian man who has just offered him a job for no reason he can discern, Saul is stretched between curiosity and fear. Trust no one, his mother had said. But also, make me proud.

“Grossman!” erupts Carol’s militant growl. Saul looks up, drops Joey Colicchio’s hand, says, “I’ve really got to get back to work,” and turns back to his station, where at least ten tickets are lined up in a row at the edge of the counter. “Turkey on white,” Saul repeats to himself, refocusing. “Pastrami on rye, turkey on rye, tongue with mustard.”

“I’ll be back, kid,” comes Joey Colicchio’s voice from behind him. And then, “Damn, this is a good sandwich.”



* * *



—

Seven hours later, Saul is standing on Houston Street watching the early morning traffic thunder by. The sky is pink and periwinkle and streaked with the first yellow light from the sun, which has risen over the bridges connecting Manhattan to Brooklyn by gossamer strings. As it does every clear, cold morning, the overwhelming stench and noise of work seems like a dream.



* * *



    —

Back in Brooklyn, Joey Colicchio kisses his sleeping wife’s forehead and inhales the familiar dust and detergent of his bedroom. He pauses at the window to look out over the still-sleeping buildings of South Brooklyn before drawing the shade against the bright morning sun. He disrobes, leaving his suspenders clipped to his trousers in a puddle on the floor and his socks in small white balls. Without looking down, he knows his body shows the unmistakable signs of middle age—his legs have lost some of their tone and his torso is more barrel-shaped than it used to be; his skin hangs more softly on his muscles; his muscles don’t cling to the bone the way they once did. The mat of curled hair across his chest is flecked with gray and plastered across thinning skin. He climbs into bed next to his wife and moves the bulk of his body against the pliable curves of hers. She leans back against him, and her smell, unearthed from its cavern of sheets, fills the air of their bedroom. Outside there are jobs unfinished—a young man not yet hired; plans not put into place; debts to be paid.

Joey had had several meetings to keep after his conversation with Saul. In the middle of the night, in a moment of cold, calculating determination, he had drawn back his fist and punched a man in the face. Joey is particularly adept at punching a man in the face. Done haphazardly, the bones in the hand can snap like breadsticks. But without even thinking about it, Joey Colicchio can land a devastating blow: fingers curled tightly, thumb on the outside, wrist cocked so the meat of the other man’s cheek meets the strong place between Joey’s index and middle knuckle. There is no swing; rather, a short sharp forceful jab; a direct path from Joey’s fist to the soft tissue of Giancarlo Rubio’s cheek. There is some adrenaline. Some unmentionable, addictive satisfaction. We don’t fuck around when you owe us, Joey had hissed. And you know, you’re lucky I’m here. Joey wiped his hand on his handkerchief. You’re lucky I came tonight, and not one of my guys. They’re not as nice as I am. Giancarlo Rubio had held the split fruit of his mouth with one hand and said, I know, I know, it’s coming. Giancarlo owns a restaurant in the growing Italian section of Carroll Gardens. Joey’s associates make sure his olive oil, his prosciutto, his wine, get to him on time. Undamaged. Giancarlo has a wife and five children. The children will be sleeping in their narrow bunks when he limps home, but his wife will pour him a glass of wine. She will hold ice against Giancarlo’s swollen blackened eye, will put pressure on the gash in his face until Giancarlo stops spitting thick mouthfuls of blood. Your children eat or mine do, Joey sometimes thinks of saying. But he cannot admit, or does not believe, that he has no choice. He no longer knows what part of his job is a system from which it is worth breaking free, and what part of it is an inheritance, a heart, the fertile earth out of which he grows.