He also ran pigeon errands:
ANGELO: You mix oil with the malathion, stupid. JIMMY: Baby oil? ANGELO: The oil holds the malathion. You mix it and brush it on the perches. The fumes go in the birds’ feathers at night. Kills all the mites. JIMMY: So you don’t want the borax now? ANGELO: Of course I want the borax. Bring the borax, too! You’re so fuckin’ stupid! And pick me up at ten tomorrow.
And he wasn’t always the best errand boy at that:
ANGELO: The peanuts you dropped off, they’re the wrong kind. JIMMY: What? Whatsa matter with the peanuts? ANGELO: They’re the wrong kind. JIMMY: They’re normal. They’re normal peanuts. ANGELO: You need raw Spanish peanuts, not roasted, no salt. The kind you got, they got at the ballpark. You can’t feed ’em to the birds. Why’n’t you just bring ’em a hot dog and a Bud Lite, you idiot? And make it two o’clock tomorrow, not three.
He also ran errands for the construction company:
ANGELO: No, stupid, I said 20,000 square feet of plywood, builder’s grade. They shorted us, the bastards. JIMMY: You said 2000 square feet. I wrote it down, Ange. 2000. ANGELO: 2000? I didn’t say 2000! What am I gonna do with 2000 square feet of plywood in a mall, for fuck’s sake? And pick me up at nine o’clock, can you get that right? Don’t be late.
Judy took notes on every conversation between Jimmy and Coluzzi, but as the tapes rolled on, her hopes sank. There was nothing to suggest that they had caused or planned the car accident with Frank’s parents. She flipped back through a legal pad full of notes. The only evidence she’d gotten was on the first tape, for January 25, the day of the crash:
ANGELO: I’ll be ready at ten tonight and I’m gonna be thirsty.
JIMMY: You got it. I’ll bring the Coke.
ANGELO: Good. Don’t be late.
Judy had listened to it over and over, excited when she first heard it. But on her notes she could see it for what it was. Nothing. All it proved was that they were together that night, not that they killed two people together. But still it was interesting, and it motivated her to keep going, despite her growing fatigue.
Judy checked her watch. It was three in the morning. Maybe she could lie down and listen. She put her legal pad on the floor, stretched out on the soft wool of the conference room rug, and curved her back against Penny’s, which felt surprisingly warm and solid. It was good to have a dog around, and Bennie couldn’t fire her for it, since she did it herself most of the time.
Judy snuggled back against the puppy, who leaned against her in response, then she rested her head on her arm, picked up her pen, and hit PLAY. She closed her eyes and listened to the tape drone on, hoping that, in the still of the conference room, in the middle of the night, she would hear the sound of men planning murder.
A lawyer’s lullaby.
The next thing Judy knew the tape had gone silent and the telephone on the credenza was ringing. She must have fallen asleep. Her navy suit bunched at the skirt. Her brown pumps lay discarded on the carpet. She looked at the windows. It was dawn. An overcast sky, with the clouds showing a pink underbelly.
Ring! Ring! Judy propped herself on an elbow and checked her watch through scratchy eyes. It was 6:30 A.M. Ring! Penny lifted her head and blinked dully, clearly hoping voicemail would pick up.
Ring! Judy got her feet under her, sleepwalked to the credenza, and picked up the phone. “Rosato and Associates.”
“Judy! You there? It’s Matty, Mr. DiNunzio.” His voice sounded urgent, and it woke Judy up.
“Sure, what is it?”
“We been callin’ you all night, at home. What’s the matter with your phone?”
“I don’t know, what’s the matter with it?”
“It don’t work. I called the company, they said there was something wrong with the line, inside the house. They can’t even send a guy to fix it, they only fix the outside lines.”
Judy felt a tingle of fear. Her apartment, unlocked. Her phone, possibly tampered with. It sure sounded like a trap. Her gaze found Penny, who had gone back to sleep curled into a golden circle on the rug, reminding Judy of a glazed doughnut. The dog had saved her life. Judy resolved to be a better mother.
“Judy, you okay?”
“I’m fine. I stayed here and worked. I got these tapes of Coluzzi and Jimmy, but they’re not much help—”
“Judy, I don’t have time to talk. I’m at a pay phone and I don’t have another quarter and I’m almost out of time.”
Judy couldn’t remember the last time she’d spoken to anybody calling from a pay phone, but it had probably been Mr. DiNunzio. In fact, the DiNunzios still had a black rotary phone at home, resting on something that they called a telephone table. Soon the whole family would be on display in the Smithsonian.
“You gotta come,” Mr. DiNunzio said. “Now.”
“Where? Why?”
“Down by the airport.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, but we need your help. Come now. Get a pencil.” He recited an address as if it were familiar, and Judy grabbed a pencil, scribbled it down, and reached for her clogs lying under the table.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
But the line went dead.
The metal scrapyard lay alongside the highway in an industrial section of South Philly, and it was immense, taking up at least three city blocks. Mountains of rusty oil barrels, fenders, bumpers, aluminum duct work, brake drums, and railroad wheels reached like houses to the sky, and between each was a dirt road. It looked like a veritable City of Scrap, and if it was, its city hall sat at its center: a huge metal tower of dark corrugated tin, with a series of conveyor belts reaching to it in a zigzag pattern, like a crazy walkway. Judy had never seen anything like this, except in the cartoon The Brave Little Toaster, but she didn’t say so. It didn’t seem like the sort of thing you’d want your lawyer knowing, much less saying.
Cyclone fencing, concertina wire, and a heavily chained and padlocked gate kept the world out of the scrapyard, although the only world interested in entering was Judy, Tony-From-Down-The-Block, Feet, Mr. DiNunzio, and a golden retriever puppy, sitting patiently and only occasionally nosing Judy’s hand to be petted. Judy hadn’t wanted to leave her at work without telling anybody, and Penny was already turning out to be useful, finding ossified dog turds where nobody else could.
Three senior citizens, the puppy, and the lawyer stood in a stymied line facing the front gate. Everybody but the dog held a take-out coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts, and a half a dozen glazed were left in the car. Judy was coming rapidly to the conclusion that no Italian went anywhere or did anything without a saturated fat nearby. It turned a job into a party, even a job this filthy. Trash lay everywhere, litter clung to the Cyclone fencing, and the increasing traffic on the highway spewed air scented with hydrocarbons. Soon it would be the morning rush hour, and they all would suffocate.
Mr. DiNunzio read the sign on the front gate, a long notice posted by order of the court. “No admittance, it says, and then some court lingo. What’s it mean, Jude?”
Tony-From-Down-The-Block snorted, an unlit cigar in the hand with the paper Dunkin’ Donuts cup. “It means you can’t go in, Matty. Whaddaya think it means, siddown and have a cuppa coffee?”
Judy ignored them in favor of the notice. It had been posted by the bankruptcy court and was dated February 15, a year ago. She juggled Penny and the coffee cup to run a finger along the fine print. “Apparently the business that owns and operates the scrapyard went into receivership, and its assets—the land, the machinery, the equipment—were frozen pending the outcome. In other words, this scrapyard is just the way it was on February fifteenth.”
“That’s what Dom from Passyunk Avenue said,” Mr. DiNunzio added, and Judy looked over.