Page 12 of Gave Proof Through the Night

“He listed the boat on Saturday. Sunday morning, his brother-in-law Terrence sees the listing. Terrence has never been on a boat. Terrence does not know what a boat does. Terrence has no conceivable use for a boat. But Terrence sees Frank’s asking price and something happens to him.”

“What kind of something?”

“A competitive something. Terrence made an offer out of spite. Frank countered. Terrence went three hundred over asking. Frank went four hundred.”

“That’s the whole story?”

“Their mother calls from Boca because word reached her somehow. Neither of them can explain the boat to her. Neither of them can explain the boat to themselves.“ He pauses to drink. He does this without hurrying, in the manner of a man who knows he has the room and is not going to waste it. “Terrence wins. The boat is in Terrence’s garage now. It has not moved. Neither of them has been to the water. They are not currently speaking.“

I’m already losing it.

“Frank’s wife sent Terrence’s wife a baked ziti last Tuesday. As a gesture.”

“And?”

“Terrence’s wife has not returned the dish.”

It comes out of me completely. A real laugh, right there in Vin’s Diner on a Friday morning in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. I haven’t laughed in longer than I’d like to admit. Undignified and full, blueberry pancake fork halfway to my mouth, my free hand coming up like that’s going to help anything.

Three days ago I’d come close when that stranger with absolutely no situational awareness about the gravity of his own humor had said “crime doesn’t pay” to a pickpocket like it was a public service announcement. Something in me had wanted to laugh out loud at that. But I didn’t let it out. You don’t let your guard down when you’re working.

I have no idea why he keeps doing that. Walking through my head uninvited.

Sal watches me with a very small smile.

I love him.

I love him so much it is almost a problem.

“The dish,” I say, when I can say anything.

“The dish,” he confirms, and finishes his toast.

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. Take a breath. The laugh settles into something warmer and sits there in my chest alongside everything else.

He lets me have the laugh.

“The DiPietros each believed they were winning something,” he says. “Neither of them could have told you what.”

Okay. He’s not just telling me about Frank DiPietro.

“The story Frank needed to believe,” Sal continues, “was that he had something Terrence didn’t. Terrence needed to believe the same thing about Frank.” He straightens the edge of his napkin on the table. One small, deliberate motion. “The boat was irrelevant from the beginning.” He picks up his coffee cup. “It always is.”

Sal signals for the check with one small raise of two fingers. “Monday,” he says. “I’ll have names.”

“Thank you, Uncle Sal.”

Outside, Bay Ridge carries on. A delivery truck honks twice. Guys are yelling back and forth at something insignificant, probably.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, waving his pinky ring. “But do me a favor, kid.”

I reach for my pancakes and cut into the stack and its blueberry goodness. “Anything for you, Sal.”

“Go up to Otisville. Pay a visit to your father.”

I’m not ready for that. Not until I can deliver the proof to him.

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