Maybe She Loved Him
Elizabeth Primamore
Thinking back, Giro recalled a shortish fellow strolling into the place. He had a thick neck that sunk into the overcoat that hung away from his middle. He wore a gray Fedora toward the back of his head and removed it when he sat at the bar. No one had seen him before, not even Dominick, the owner, though the man could’ve passed for one of his friends. Giro had served him a pale lager on tap. He said his name was Hank and was passing through Belleville, saw the grand opening banner in red, white, and blue draped above the front door, and when he drove up a little closer, a black Ferrari in the parking lot. Intrigued, he thought he’d stop in for a drink, and check the place out. He liked to support small businesses, he said, especially in times like these. Baby Doll, a regular at the bar, had found this out. Since Hank claimed to like the atmosphere of the grill so much, he returned a few more times, until he didn’t.
Shortly after Hank left for the last time a pretty young Asian woman, Suyuan, arrived for an after work breather. No one had seen her before, either.
***
On the weekends Giro tended the bar in the front room at Lombardo’s Mediterranean Bar and Grill. Dominick Lombardo, a boyhood friend, owned the place. The room, large and unpretentious, with shaded windows, wooden bar stools, and dim lighting, was right there as you walked through the big brown double doors. The dining room was farther back, through a square opening, with prints from the Italian Renaissance on the walls, and side lamps.
Early on weekends, no later than six, older couples and sometimes groups of senior women, came, ate, and went. By eight o’clock, the place was filled with customers, sometimes two deep at the long and curved bar, and chatter filled the air, along with the clinking of glasses. Some customers watched the banner of the news cycle on the silent TV that hung high in the corner. When people were waiting for a table, they sat at the bar, or if they didn’t drink, on the window ledge, or if young, leaned against the wall and held hands under the dim lighting. In the background, Italian opera through the speakers heightened the Mediterranean atmosphere.
Ever since the grand opening two months ago, which drew in diners by offering a ten percent discount on dinner and a charming man behind the bar, the grill had taken off. Despite a shaky economy--it was 2011, after all, and the financial crisis hardly over--the townspeople of Essex County, somehow always had enough money for a meal out. Women of all ages, and even some men, were happy to see Giro. There was something in the way he carried himself, the tilt of his head, the soft grin, the focus of his dark eyes on the person he was speaking to, as if they were the only person in the room, that drew people to him. That he often felt jittery inside he kept to himself.
In his youth Giro had been the brightest and best looking in his class, with his dark wavy hair; he was tall with square shoulders and biceps that must’ve driven the girls crazy. Now in his mid-forties, he was more mature, which only added to his appeal. Easily Giro had maintained his optimism but not the simple expectancy of youth. He had been married, and his former wife Colleen had walked out at the first sign of his troubles.
These days Giro was a stranger in Belleville. In the late seventies he had gone to junior high with Dominick, before his family moved away. No one knew much about Giro, except that he drove a black eye catching Ferrari Scaglietti and lived in Upper Montclair.
Over the years Giro had run into Dominick now and then.
Once in the mall, Dominick had done Giro a great favor when he introduced him to Colleen Margaret Molloy, a blond beauty and a senior at Mount St. Dominic High School in West Caldwell. They married after Giro graduated from college. He wasn’t happy that things hadn’t worked out, but he couldn’t blame Colleen for leaving him.
Giro was the kind of guy who never forgot a favor so when Dominick contacted him out of the blue to ask him to help out behind the bar, he didn’t hesitate. Dominick “knew everybody,” savory and unsavory, which made Giro feel the kind of connection with power he saw among gangsters in the movies. He enjoyed watching Dominick wheel and deal, but stayed on the periphery, where it was safe, as he had all through their friendship in junior high school.
On this certain October Saturday night, the first frost had arrived. Not far from the bar on a table stood a pumpkin carved by the restaurant’s staff. The flame of its candle flickered every time the door opened. Sometimes one of the leaves under pinecones that decorated the pumpkin would float away and land on the bar. Giro pinned a yellow leaf in mid-air.
“Nice catch,” said Baby Doll, a regular.
“Think I’ll make the NFL?” Giro went around the bar to the display, nodding at customers, coming and going.
Baby Doll tilted her head on her shoulder. “You could be my Tom Brady.” It was nice to see her smile.
Baby Doll was about forty-five with reddish curly hair. Dark circles underscored her emerald eyes. Her mouth was covered with chapstick that left smudgy lip marks on the Collins glasses. A silk black shirt was tucked in denims held up by a leather belt with a silver buffalo buckle. It seemed to him her cool look was a way for her to stay afloat during the worst time of her life.
Baby Doll downed her third Tequila Sunrise, head thrown back, stringy neck in full view. Rumor had it that she had been sober for three years, but started drinking again when her house went into foreclosure from a bad loan. She worked hard at Tessie’s Hair Salon, on her feet eight hours a day--cutting, coloring, setting, at least two heads at a time--but was let go when the customers stopped coming. That evening, she discovered her girlfriend was gone, after five years together. Giro knew that feeling. His wife had walked out on him, too, when the bank accounts started to dwindle down.
On Giro’s way back from returning the leaf to its rightful place, he looked at himself in the mirror. Grinning, he liked what he saw. This job was only temporary until something better came along. He pulled in his stomach and winked at Baby Doll, who was swaying out-of-time to Pavoratti’s Greatest Hits in the background.
Tonight he was wearing black Lucky jeans and a white button-down shirt open at the neck, that seemed to blend well with the background of shelves of liquor. Since Dominick had requested he wear more casual attire to attract younger people, Giro left his Brooks Brothers suit, which he usually wore for work as an investment specialist, in the closet, though he did wear his Oxford Brogans. Brown. Calfskin leather. He glanced at his fine shoes as a reminder, while he shook the tumbler with two hands. He knew quality. He was quality.
He placed another Tequila Sunrise in front of Baby Doll. “Make me another--For later--Pretty please.”
But Giro was off bypassing an older man who had just sat next to her with a folded ten dollar bill between his fingers.
“What? Not even a short one?” Baby Doll said, with her hand cupped to the side of her mouth, craning her neck toward the end of the bar. She turned to the stranger. “You’re lookin’ thirsty.”
Before the man could respond, Giro was already there. “What can I get you, chief?”
“He won’t even make me a short one,” said Baby Doll to the man.
“Anything pale ya’ got on tap. No bitter.” His manner was brusque. Giro was used to that.
“American Amber?”
The man nodded.
“Open tab?”
Again he nodded. This guy was far from good looking. A pudgy face, deep-set blue eyes, a crooked nose, strong lower lip. Skin was as grey as a cat’s.
“And a tall one for the lady.”
But Baby Doll hoisted herself up, shoved her thumb behind the buffalo buckle, and addressed the small crowd. “No short one for little ol’ me?” She raised her glass and shouted to no one in particular. “That’ll be the day!” And then bobbed her head at the small group whose eyes were now on her. Plopping back down with a thud, she tossed her head back in raucous laughter.
Giro slipped a coaster under the pint of lager, foam running over the sides. The stranger narrowed his small eyes on the tall glass as he reached for it, unmoved by Baby Doll’s performance.
Amid resumed chatter, Giro laughed to himself as he kept moving, digging, pouring quick. Behind Baby Doll’s back, Dominick called her John Wayne, whose famous line in the movie The Searchers that was, though she probably didn’t know it.
Sometimes when she got really sloshed, Dominick would take the keys away from her and drive her home. He was tough, but he had heart. Giro liked that about him. But most nights Baby Doll held her liquor well. She never slurred her words and always walked straight. She was just one of those people who liked to knock back a few. In Europe, no one would call her an alcoholic. Giro splashed some orange juice into the glass and slid it next to the Tequila Sunrise she was finishing up, which by now was watery with melting ice.
“Thanks, darling. Hank here’s from Paterson, ain’t cha’ Hank?”
“Yup.” He nodded once, eyes straight ahead, steely calm.
“Thought he’d stop by to support the local businesses. Made a U-turn to do it.” She turned to him. “Good of ya Hank, specially in these hard times. I lost my job, ya know.”
Hank turned to her. “Sorry.”
Baby Doll pointed at Giro. “That handsome boy there drives a Ferrari.”
The stranger raised his eyebrows. “That so?” He lowered his foamy pint of beer on the bar.
Giro watched the street door open and close, felt the chilly breeze that made the candle flicker, a leaf drop to the floor. He saw the parking lot now filling up, with a crack of moonlight along the roofs of the cars, including his.
“Buena Sera.” Dominick looking sleek in his black silk three-piece suit, greeted an older gentleman and his wife. The man was large, about six foot four, and wore an orange tie with a navy blue suit. His wife wore long glittery earrings with a matching bracelet and had an Eiffel tower of blonde hair. He took his wife’s hand and they followed the owner. Scanning the bar, Dominick, brown menus at his side, glanced at Giro, who was shaking a martini, and gestured toward Hank and raised an eyebrow. Giro shrugged. Dominick and the couple disappeared into the dining room.
Giro saw the smooth back of the pumpkin, reflected in the mirror, the candle seemed incandescent, and for a moment he felt terrified that people carved pumpkins—gutted them, cut out a face, the scary face of the jack o’ lantern with a strange light that flickered over bogs of bodies in the world. Some people lived for this all year long. And then a wave of sadness washed over him, he trembled, to think that the pumpkin would rot and be tossed in the trash, on the sidewalk possibly, with its face smashed in, light out. His own light had blown out when he received his divorce papers, like that. Just like the housing market crash. The stock market. Like that.
“Where the hell is my damn bail out?” Baby Doll said to no one in particular, her eyes turning from the TV in disgust.
Hank finished his lager and set the glass on the bar. “I love cars. Them Ferraris. Don’t see ‘em too often around here. That really yours?”
For a second Giro wondered why the guy wanted to know. It must’ve looked odd for a vehicle like that to be parked in the lot of an Italian restaurant in a town like Belleville where women with curlers in hairnets shopped for groceries and men over fifty don’t vote for women presidents. Then he figured, either the guy likes Ferraris or he thinks I’m in the mob. Either way, he had to admit to himself he liked telling people the car was his.
“Yeah. It’s mine.”
“How does a bartender afford a Ferrari?”
“I’m a financial investment specialist. I’m an old friend of the owner. I help him out on the weekends.” That luck on a stock combined with some equity in his house planted that 2009 Scaglietti in his garage was Giro’s secret.
“And we like it that way, Mr. Hanky Panky,” Baby Doll said.
Hank ignored her, his eyes fastened on the bartender.
“How’s business these days?”
“I’ll tell you how business is,” Baby Doll chimed in “My house is in foreclosure. I got zilch left in my savings. And to boot, I’m one of the nine million suckers who lost their job. And look at that. Look at that!”
She pointed to the banner running across the TV: “The DOJ has decided that Countrywide’s co-founder Angelo Mozilo’s actions did not amount to criminal wrong doing.’”
She grabbed her drink and took a long swallow to wash away the damage of the news. “That’s how business is, Hanky. Now what kinda business you in?”
Giro was so amused by her the fluttering of his stomach to his heart subsided; he turned his back to let his face break into a wide smile, the fire of the jack o’ lantern glinting in the mirror. When he saw orders from the kitchen on the computer screen, he reached for glasses off the trellis.
“Fished for fluke my whole life. Down in Point Pleasant. Too old for that now. The wife wanted to go back north, so I retired and bought a house in Glenridge. Near her sister.”
Baby Doll pointed to Hank’s suit jacket. “You dress nice for a fisherman.”
He glanced at the silent screen on which a tan Angelo Mozilo sat at his desk, doing paperwork.
“Look at that slime,” Baby Doll said. “He charged me three hundred smackers to mow my lawn.”
“Personally?”
Baby Doll slammed her fist down hard on the bar. “I might be a dyke but I ain’t no crook!”
Dominick’s sister Tracy stood at the end of the bar. Short and squatty, she had the habit of tucking her white blouse deep into her black skirt that stretched over her huge middle, rolls of fat spilling over. It was a feminist look, Giro figured, women showing off their fat.
He passed two vodka and sodas to her.
“Thanks, darlin’,” she said.
Giro smiled. “Lookin’ good.”
While balancing the drinks on the tray, Tracy nudged Baby Doll’s shoulder. “We love ya any ol’ way ya are,” and went into the dining room.
Baby Doll turned toward Giro. “How about another, handsome?” The tall glass of orange tonic with a burst was already there.
A blast of laughter came from the curve of the bar and Giro looked over. Some heavily made-up divorcees were flirting with Dominick. Giro went to serve a waiting couple, hoping Hank had forgotten his interest in his business by now. Dominick had broken away from the women to lead a party of six to their table.
“This here American Amber’s pretty good,” Hank said. “I’ll have another.”
Giro pulled the lever. A sharp pain shot through his stomach. He stiffened and the pint glass almost slipped to the floor. He had to move away. He picked up the two empty wine glasses left by a young couple. He slammed the glasses into the wash basin.
Colleen wanted that house. That English Tudor was nearly a million dollars. It was on half an acre, tall hedges, maple and pine trees in the backyard. Giro felt a little crazy buying a house for that much money, but everywhere he looked, people were being rewarded for buying houses for as much as they could possibly afford, and more. How could he be so--Not again. He wasn’t going to blame himself again, though it always came back to that.
He took deep breaths to diminish the pain in his stomach. At that moment, in Lombardo’s Mediterranean Bar and Grill, he didn’t know if he felt betrayed or just plain stupid. Blood droplets on the floor showed him how hard he had slammed the wine glasses into the basin. He put band aids on the cuts and discarded the broken glass and blood-streaked napkin in the trash.
“How’s the food?”
“What’s that?” Giro said.
“The food here. Any good?”
Hank’s question caught Baby Doll’s ear. “You see the dining room full, don’t cha,’ mister?”
“Veal scallopini is the chef’s specialty,” said Giro.
“Something how folks always find a dollar for a good meal.”
Baby Doll turned around. “You don’t look like you’re starving, Mr. Hank. And in my business if they were all as bald as you we’d all be starving.’ Ha!”
Hank pointed. “Cut your finger?”
“Just some broken glass.”
Hank held his pint with two hands and stared at the foam. Giro settled a tab at the register. “You never said how your day job’s going. Times are rough.”
Giro gave the man a tight smile. “I’m a conservative investor.”
Hank stood up and shoved his arms through the sleeves of his coat. “Them Ferrari cars run about two hundred grand, don’t they? Maybe next time you could give me some stock tips. I’m getting’ tired of driving a used Toyota.”
“Be glad to.”
Baby Doll yanked Hank’s sleeve, pointed to the TV screen. “You think that any of these Wall Streeters will go to prison?”
“Who knows what the government will do, ma’am.” He put on his hat and left. Giro gave him a three finger salute. He felt relieved. There was something oppressive in the man’s manner, his curiosity. Giro turned to a guy who had taken a seat. “What can I get you?”
***
Two weeks later--
With the door opening and closing the light inside the pumpkin flickered and now it was flickering a lot. A pretty Asian woman in a gray wool coat sank onto a bar stool two seats from Baby Doll. One look at her and Giro almost jumped out of his brogans. Was she alone? He pushed the thought out of his mind and wiped down the bar. “Nessun Dorma” started on the sound system. He turned the volume up a notch.
Giro slipped inside the music, oblivious to the weekend drinkers with bills in their hands. He thought of when he first met Colleen. We are together, he would say to her. Me and you. Together. It didn’t work out, but he was no loser. Out of all the men she could’ve married--the Ivy League jock, the chandelier king, or the scion of the Kennedys, twenty times removed--she chose him, the striver.
Opening bottles of beer, ringing up tabs, leaving dollar bills spread like a hand of playing cards on the bar, Giro felt a little drunk. But he hadn’t had a drop.
The aria poured out of the speakers. It was the point everyone anticipates, even if they didn’t understand the lyrics. Giro paused, bottle poised over a glass. A customer or two stopped talking. The newcomer sat still. Even Baby Doll was transfixed. It was a precious few seconds of reprieve, relief from the bar, his wrecked marriage, finances--the possibility of the pure joy love could inspire.
Then the moment was over.
But Baby Doll still swayed, eyes dreamy, determined not to let the moment go. “That Puccini,” she sighed. “Boy, can he sing!”
Giro threw his head back and laughed. Some patrons chuckled, too. Leave it to Baby Doll to improve his mood. It felt good to laugh.
Baby Doll laughed, too. “I say something funny?”
“Pavarotti,” said the Asian. “Pavarotti is the singer. Puccini is the composer.”
Baby Doll waved her away as if at a fly. “Who are you? The Opera police?”
Giro dashed a fresh drink in front of her. “The lady was telling you that you got the composer and singer mixed up. This one’s on the house.”
Baby Doll looked at the young woman. “Do you believe this guy?”
“Yes, I do.”
Giro studied the newcomer. A splash of dark eyes. Red gloss on her lips. A simple white blouse, navy skirt, high brown boots. She sat with her legs together, hands on her lap. Just like a lady.
The aria over, Giro lowered the volume and turned to the woman.
“What can I get you?”
“A gin and tonic, please.”
She said please. How nice.
Giro reached for the Tanqueray.
“House, please,” the woman said.
“You don’t look like the house liquor type.”
“What type is that?”
“I don’t know, but not you. Haven’t seen you here before.”
“I understand a woman can come here alone and not be bothered, you know. That’s what a friend told me.”
“Your friend is right.” He made her a Tanqueray G and T, garnished it with a wedge of lime, added a straw, and delivered it to her on a coaster.
“I’m Suyuan.”
“Welcome to my corner, Suyuan.” He bowed and kissed her extended hand.
“Spare me,” Baby Doll muttered.
“In Chinese Suyuan means long cherished wish,” she said, pulling her hand back. “Your name?”
“Giro. I was named after my father. I don’t know what it means in Italian. Much less Chinese.”
She smiled. “Neither do I. So I assume you’re the oldest son?”
“The oldest and the loneliest.”
“An only child?”
He nodded. “You?”
“Youngest of three.”
Giro had a sudden mental image of kissing her, slowly at first, then long and longer still, when a loud bang of dinner plates crashing to the floor jounced him from his fantasy. The volume of chatter dipped, and there was hand clapping.
“Someone had an accident,” Baby Doll said.
Tracy came from the dining room with red stains on her white blouse. “I skidded on a piece of pinecone someone’s shoe dragged into the dining room. Lost a whole plate of lasagna. Thank God it didn’t fall on nobody but me.”
“You look like a murderer,” Baby Doll said. “You okay?”
“Yep.” Tracy placed another glass of white wine and a red Giro had ready and left.
Dominick and a bus boy carrying a brown plastic bag, broom, and dust pan appeared and hurried into the dining room.
“Someone had an accident,” Baby Doll said again, sadly. “Sure did.”
***
Now nearly ten o’clock, the dinner crowd was thinning. The sound of the ignition of cars pulling out of the parking lot was more frequent. Giro went to the window and eyed his shiny sleek vehicle. Glad it was still his. Glad it was still there. He went to the Halloween display and picked up a few scattered dry leaves and bits of pinecone. Behind the bar, he threw the detritus into the trash and turned to Suyuan. “Sometimes the littlest thing cause the biggest problems.”
She raised her eyebrows in agreement.
He was pleased. “So what brings you here?”
“I’m a graduate student at Rutgers and teaching fellow in English literature. My cousin lives here in Belleville. I’m from Flushing.”
“Queens?”
“Yeah, but I like New Jersey better. Less crowded. More space. Better-looking men.” She smiled.
“Teaching is a good field to go into these days. One of my aunts was a teacher. Social studies. Lived on a good pension after my uncle died. The schools’ll be clamoring for you. I know I would be.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. What about you? ”
“I’m helping out the owner. That’s him over there.” Giro jutted his chin toward Dominick, who was escorting the couple out the door.
“What do you do when you’re not behind the bar.”
“I’m in finance.”
“Finance. Wow. Meaning you’re--”
“I’m a licensed financial planner. And real estate.”
“An investor?”
“I’ve done some speculating.” Speculators had extra cash, money to burn. He hoped she knew that.
Baby Doll fresh from the rest room hoisted herself onto the bar stool.
“You were affected by the crash?,” the newcomer asked.
Giro held up a hand. “One moment.”
A solitary drinker, a serious guy with a thin moustache, was poking a twenty toward the bar. Giro served him a Dewars on the rocks but didn’t take the money.
Baby Doll pointed at the silent TV screen, which showed a growing crowd in Zuccotti Park. “I’ll tell you about affected,” she said. “Me losing my house and all these shits from Wall Street not going to prison. Instead we’re bailing these bastards out. First Bush, then Obama.” She raised her fist in the air. “Occupy Wall Street!”
Suyuan turned to Baby Doll. “But the stimulus was necessary. We couldn’t let the country plunge into another Depression.”
Baby Doll wheeled on her. “Nah, just let its ordinary tax paying soup line citizens plunge into hell. Same thing!” She shifted on the stool, hooked a slouchy boot on the rung. “I applied for a loan modification three times, but that shit bank kept telling me they never got my application. “Three times!”
“These young people do have a point,” Suyuan said.
“You can’t win,” Baby Doll said. “You just can’t win.”
“The banks suck,” Giro said. He dropped a lime wedge into the fizz of a highball glass.
“I’m going to stay in my house till they carry me out,” Baby Doll said. “Screw these banks!” She knocked back the rest of her drink.
“You can, you know,” Suyuan said.
Baby Doll wiped her lips. “Huh?”
“I have a friend who hasn’t paid her mortgage for five years and she’s still in her house.”
Baby Doll looked at her in disbelief.
“Nobody pays their mortgage anymore,” Suyuan said.
“That’s not right,” Giro said. “That’s not how I was raised.”
The front door closed behind the last of the diners filing out. The wind had died down. The jack o’ lantern’s light stayed steady.
Suyuan’s head was down, thumbs moving fast on her Iphone. Did she have a boyfriend?
Dominick swept up to the bar and stood between Baby Doll and Suyuan.
“Another for the ladies,” he said.
Suyuan shifted in her seat. “No, really I can’t--My cousin’s waiting--I’m terribly late as it is.”
Her cousin. Giro brightened at the sound of the news no one else heard.
“Of course you can. It’s on me.”
“You heard the man” Baby Doll said.
“If I can have a seltzer. No ice.”
“Hit me again,” Baby Doll said, tapping her glass.
Dominick went behind the bar. Giro handed him a white envelope, which he slipped inside his jacket. He turned to Suyuan and motioned toward Giro. “Watch out for this guy. He drives a Ferrari.” Then Dominick down shifted to Baby Doll. “And watch out for her, she ain’t drivin’ at all. Right, cowgirl?”
As if on cue, Baby Doll dug into her pocket. She held out a thick silver key dangling on a key chain of a dual women’s sign. He pocketed the keys and nodded at the man with the thin moustache. They walked off.
This round Giro poured for Baby Doll was strong enough to fell a mule. He slid the cocktail toward her. Baby Doll took a few quick sips.
“Mmmmm. Good job, Tommy.”
He approached Suyuan. “Seltzer and lemon or--?”
“Could I change that to a Diet Coke? Would that be alright?”
“A lady is allowed to change her mind.”
“Yeah, that’s what my girlfriend said and now she’s gone, too,” Baby Doll chimed in.
Giro went to the refrigerator for a can of cola.
“I’m sorry,” Suyuan said.
“Are you?” Baby Doll smirked.
The soda flowed into a tall misted glass.
“I parked my little wreck next to a fancy sports car. Must be the Ferrari everybody is talking about,” Suyuan said.
“That’s the one.”
As she reached to take the chilled glass of cola from him, her fingertips brushed his hand. Giro thought he got an electric shock. She felt it, too. He knew she did.
The “Employees Only” door opened. Dominick and the man came through. Dominick stopped by Baby Doll while the man went off without saying anything.
“Time to go, cowgirl.”
Baby Doll inched off her seat. Giro came out from behind the bar and guided her swaying arms into the holes of her jacket. Behind them Tracy held out and a brown paper bag.
“She needs to eat something.”
“Who does?” Baby Doll asked, bewildered.
“I’ll take it.” Tracy placed the bag in the crook of Dominick’s arm and went back to the kitchen. He put his other arm around Baby Doll and they left.
Giro sat next to Suyuan. He plunked his short thick glass next to her glass of cola, the slice of lemon floating on its side. He looked into her eyes. But she broke the look and reached for her pocket. Giro placed his hand on hers and, taking his cue, she drew her lips towards his.
Just then Tracy broke through the kitchen doors. “Time to go. Did you lock--.” She looked at them. “Forget it.”
Tracy went to the front door and bolted it shut.
“Thanks,” Giro said.
“Don’t mention it.” She turned to Suyuan, who seemed to need reassurance. “We have a back door, hon.”
“Is there anything left over?” Giro asked.
“Take Dominick’s. He forgot. It’s still warm or you can throw it in the microwave.” Tracy motioned toward Suyuan. “There’s plenty left over. Pasta and salad, too. Good night.”
For the next two weeks Suyuan and Giro took rides in his Ferrari, ate veal scallopini, listened to Pavarotti. They spent many nights at his home. She was captivated by the house--the glittery chandelier his ex-wife insisted on, the library filled with rare books he never read, the Oriental-style garden around the built-in swimming pool. And she enjoyed taking long drives to nowhere in particular as much as he did.
“I’ve never ridden in such a fancy car before. This is so exciting,” she said. “They’re really expensive, aren’t they?”
“Kinda.” Giro adjusted the rearview mirror, checked the screen, which showed plenty of space behind him.
“You drag race?”
“Some guys race them, but not me.” He swung the glistening Ferrari around toward the edge of the parking lot and turned. “It was a childhood dream to own one.”
With Suyuan in his life, a feeling of lightness buoyed him with an intensity he hadn’t felt since he first met Colleen. He stopped asking himself the same old questions. Is there a future? For me? My business? The country? The world? And it wasn’t just his car, his house, or his fine shoes that impressed her, Suyuan was genuinely interested in him, his thoughts, feelings, perspectives.
They endlessly talked to each other, laughed in unison, grew in understanding.
He fretted if he didn’t hear from her, saw nothing, heard no one else. But then a surge of joy would return to him when he checked his phone for the hundredth time in an hour, and there it was--her text, voicemail, a wave on Facebook.
He couldn’t believe his luck.
And it had happened because of a fluke. One night in a small town like Belleville a young beautiful woman walked into Lombardo’s Mediterranean Bar and Grill.
One morning they were lying in bed, the sheets crumpled up around them. Sunlight streamed through the windows.
“I feel fortunate to have a boyfriend who’s in finance,” she said, her head lying on his naked chest.
Giro stroked her hair. “And I feel fortunate to have a woman who appreciates me.” Suyuan’s hair was so smooth and sleek he wondered which shampoo she used.
“Maybe when you have a little time . . .”
Giro went on stroking her hair. “When I have a little time what?”
“Oh, I’m saying--Sorry--I wanted to ask you--Would you be willing to give me some tips on investing?”
“In?”
“Whatever you think is good.”
“If you tell me the shampoo you use.”
“The dollar store brand. And one damn expensive conditioner.”
Together they laughed.
“Seriously, though,” she said. “How did you get all this?”
“Besides my stock portfolio, it was real estate speculating that gave me the edge.”
“Speculating. Meaning?”
“I bought and sold about twenty houses.”
“Twenty?”
“At least.”
He sat up. “You hungry?”
“A little.”
“Let’s talk at breakfast.”
Giro swung his legs around to the side of the bed and reached for his shirt. He pulled the black polo over his plain boxers and gave her a quick kiss. “Meet you downstairs.” He went through the door and trotted down the steps.
Suyuan reached for her handbag. Took out a box. And threw on a sweatshirt.
The sun shone full force through the turning leaves of the large trees and across the backyard. Giro pulled the shade down half-way.
“Still too bright?”
Suyuan brought her elbows to the table and met his eyes. “I like the sun.”
“And the sun likes you.”
Giro turned off the jets under the percolating coffee and the whistling teapot. He poured a cup of tea for her, coffee for himself, and sat across from her at the round table. “I’m the kind of guy who needs a cup of coffee before he can find his way to the refrigerator.”
Suyuan blew on her tea, tipped a dot of milk.
“How’s your tea, okay? It’s Barry’s.”
“Barry’s?” She brought the cup to her lips.
“From Ireland.” His phone chirped. He glanced at it. It was an urgent text from a client. He would call her back later, when he was alone. He powered off.
Suyuan held the cup in her hand. “This is nice. Different from Chinese tea, which you drink black.”
“Right. After cold noodles. It’s the best.”
“Look!” She pointed at the window.
A squirrel ran across the grass and over the tarp of the pool.
“He wants to go for a swim,” she said.
“Hope he doesn’t drown. More tea?”
“Please.”
Giro lifted her cup and saucer and went to the stove. Steam was still rising from the teapot. He turned on the jet anyway and dug his hand inside the box of teabags. “Last night Baby Doll was angrier than ever.”
“I can understand.”
“When she’s had too much--It’s Wall Street. Wall Street. Wall Street. She’s obsessed with it.”
“In China my grandparents lost their house. Lost everything. Had to run for their lives.”
“Really? Wow. I’m sorry. Communist, right?”
“And war with Japan.”
He shook his head as he turned and placed the cup in front of her. “Don’t get me wrong. I feel bad for her."
“You don’t get over things too easily like losing everything you own. Your life savings. Your house. And nobody got punished for pushing bad loans. Instead they got rewarded. I don’t understand how that could happen.”
“You’re not alone.” Giro took another sip of his coffee. “The financial system is so complicated most people don’t get how it all works. Even smart people. So they get away with it. Before the mess?” He wagged his thumb at himself. “Little ol’ me? Beat them at their own game. For my investment properties I had a couple of real nice loans out there. The kind my mortgage broker was only too happy to write down. Like I was making nine hundred grand a year when--” He stopped short. “You okay?”
Suyuan’s hand dropped from under her sweatshirt. “A little itchy. Just some dry skin, that’s all.”
“So, yeah--Like I was making nine hundred grand a year when he knew I wasn’t. Two liar loans. That’s what they were called. Liar loans, get it? No documentation.”
“I’ve heard of worse.”
“Exactly. Nothing compared to those Wall Street assholes. So a small fry like me got away with a few things. Everybody was doing it.” He got to his feet. “And tapping into this house here?”
“Okay, I’ve heard plenty.”
“Paid for my car you love so much.”
“Don’t say--.”
“Cash.”
Suyuan stood up.
“Be right back.”
His eyes followed her as she turned and went.
When she came back, she was wearing a white T-shirt.
“You must be hungry. I know I am. How about some eggs and toast?”
“Sounds good.”
He opened the refrigerator door. “Now is a good time to buy. We could find you something nice and under market. You could live there, rent it. Make a nice monthly income.”
“Maybe I’m jumping the gun. I should finish school first. I only have ten thousand dollars anyway.”
“I could lend you some money.”
“No, I couldn’t ask you to do that. Your guy. Maybe I could use him?”
“His company went bust. And everybody scattered like bugs.”
“Isn’t that what Baby Doll was talking about? Countrywide?”
“That’s the one. Butter on your toast?”
“Dry for me.”
At his kitchen counter he cracked eggs into a bowl, mixed them with a beater, cut up broccoli, cheese, mushrooms.
The frying pan sizzled.
The table was set.
When the toaster popped the multi-grain bread, he served the eggs, spatula in hand.
They ate.
Went back to bed.
Took a drive.
The next Saturday, Giro was arrested.
***
In the jail cell, Giro thought of the night before. After the kitchen closed, he had taken out a red velvet box containing a five-carat diamond ring. Baby Doll had said, Awww, how romantic. Suyuan trembled with excitement.
“Will you marry me? What do you say?”
She began to cry. “You’re under arrest.”
The door swung open and Hank, two agents, and a local cop appeared. Hank slipped the cuffs on him. “A pretty agent in love is useless, isn’t she?”
“What the hell is going on?” Baby Doll stared hard at Hank then Suyuan. “Who are you? Some Mata Hari bitch?” She slid off the stool and went for Suyuan, but a cop knocked Baby Doll down.
Giro cried out to his friend, “Leave her alone!”
Hank looked at Baby Doll. “Sorry lady, but when a man in a shit town like this drives a Ferrari I gotta wonder how he pays for it.”
Baby Doll struggled to her feet. “So you’re a fraud! A liar! You’re one of them!” Her fist went for his jaw, but he caught it, laughed, pushed it away.
“Have another drink, you old dyke.”
“The law doesn’t want justice. The truth. Real criminals. All you bastards ever want is a guy to take the fall.”
Hank shoved Giro through the door.
“We’ll fight this,” Baby Doll said. “We’ll get you the best lawyer.”
But Giro didn’t hear her. He was lost in the sound of Suyuan’s sobs. Maybe she loved him. Maybe she didn’t.
When the door closed behind them, the jack o’ lantern went dark.
Elizabeth Primamore is an author and playwright. Her new book is titled Shady Women: Three Short Plays (Upper Hand Press, 2018). She is a recipient of the Bernard and Shirley Handel Playwriting Award and was a semifinalist for the Eugene O’Neill National Playwrights Conference. Her personal essays have been published in the anthologies From A to LGBTQ (650 Press, 2016) and Pain and Memory (2009). Primamore is a fellow at The Virginia Center for the Creative Arts and The Woodstock Byrdcliffe Guild. She holds a PhD from the City University of New York.