Daughter of the Mob (Sample)

15 | Pantomime

PAMELA PACED ACROSS the sagging pine planks of Sean's Greenwich apartment floor. Her eyes were trained steadily ahead at the door. She had arrived early to clean the place, organizing plates and cups into the cupboard and removing cluttered stacks of unreturned library books and literary journals from the shelves. She had informed Johnny that she wouldn't need a ride, simply because she was meeting Sean for an early breakfast.

That was a lie.

Sean rarely ever had breakfast, since he slept late and woke later. When Pamela had let herself in through the unlocked door, he had been asleep on the couch, snoring with his mouth hanging wide open, his chin tucked into his neck, a trail of saliva landing on his pyjama shirt.

There had been no sign of his girlfriend, so Pamela presumed they had parted ways.

Pamela hadn't told her brother more than he needed to know; that she had a gentleman friend who wanted to meet her family. Since her parents had practically disowned her, Sean had been the only plausible option. On the telephone he said he wasn't surprised, reasoning that their family history was too burdensome to explain to a new acquaintance. She had made him swear he would keep the visit brief, and tell Johnny only that their parents were out for the day.

Now all there was to do was wait.

Waiting was excruciating. Pamela kept on checking her wristband watch, then switching her gaze to the knockoff mahogany wall clock Sean had purchased at a flea market in the Bronx. Three o'clock came and went; which was the time Johnny had promised to arrive.

Finally, at half-past three, the doorbell rang.

Pamela adjusted her nylons and then aired out her pastel blue swing dress in the mirror, a tremor of fear pulsing through her entire frame. In a fluster, she called out for Sean in a mock-whisper and took a deep breath.

Johnny was standing outside the door, his hair slicked into a side part with plenty of castor oil. The cowlick dangling in front of his forehead had itched itself loose, and somehow it made him less intimidating. His endearing brown eyes were clouded with indifference, concealing any trace of emotion.

"Hi Pamela," he said gruffly in his thick Italian Brooklyn accent as she opened the door, stepping gracefully to the side for him to enter.

"Hello, Johnny." She blew out a breath, making a mental observation of his dark sports jacket and dress pants clothing his athletic frame.

He had taken the occasion as a formal affair rather than a casual lunch, as she had understood it to be.

Then again, she supposed that meetings with mobsters were always glamorous, like the romanticizations portrayed in radio broadcasts and newspapers.

She followed Johnny's quizzical gaze as he surveyed the small, outdated kitchen and modest living room. Confusion stamped his countenance.

"Is everything alright?" She asked.

"Yeah," Johnny started, pinching the bridge of his nose, "this your parents' place?"

He did not hide his surprise at the crude apartment.

Surely he hadn't suspected her to be from a rich, upper-class family, simply from her speech and dress. She had tried her best to disguise her accent, quickening her speech and pronouncing vowels like Caterina did. But she was not a good pretender.

"Yes," Pamela frowned, surprised at the provocation in her tone, "is there something wrong with it?"

She couldn't see Johnny's face as he turned towards the window.