Chapter 10 - The Name on the Window
“This is how the account is settled,” Vincent said, taking a sip from his mug.
He spoke as though he were discussing the wholesale price of sirloin tips with a meat supplier.
“You will leave New York within one hour,” Vincent said. “You will take the train, because your Buick belongs to the impound yard on Third Avenue now. If you ever speak the name Sarah Jenkins again, I will have your union local audited by three friends of mine in the Department of Labor. If you ever set foot in this borough, my boys will not use knives.”
Raymond looked at Amelia, his eyes burning with malice. “She’s a nobody, Vincent. A gutter rat from North Philly. You’re risking a war between families for a girl who pours your gravy?”
Vincent set his cup down.
“There will be no war,” Vincent said. “I spoke to Frank Donato in Philadelphia forty minutes ago. Frank says your local has been stealing five percent off the top of the pension fund without his permission. He was very interested to hear where you were spending your afternoons.”
Raymond’s face went entirely white. The lard-like skin seemed to sag around his cheekbones.
Frank Donato was the man who owned the Philadelphia riverfront—a man who made Vincent Castellano look like a parish priest.
“You... you called Frank?” Raymond whispered.
“Frank is my third cousin through my mother’s family,” Vincent said calmly. “He suggested that if you do not return to the union hall by nine tonight to explain the pension books, he will have his nephews meet your train in Trenton.”
Vincent checked his gold pocket watch, popped the latch, and closed it with a soft *snap*.
“You have fifty minutes to reach Pennsylvania Station, Raymond. I suggest you walk quickly.”
Raymond Fletcher stood up. He did not look at Amelia again. He did not look at the shotgun. He stumbled toward the heavy glass door, his trench coat flapping around his knees, and pushed his way out into the cold Brooklyn rain.
Sal followed him to the curb, watching until the large, dark figure had turned the corner toward the subway stairs.
Inside the diner, the silence returned, but it was no longer heavy. It was the clear, sharp quiet that follows a summer thunderstorm.
Tony went back to his griddle, whistling an old Neapolitan tune between his teeth. Angela took the two mugs from the table and carried them to the sink, scrubbing them with hot water and yellow soap as if she were washing away the scent of a dead animal.
Amelia stood by the counter, her hands resting against her apron.
Vincent stood up from the booth, adjusted his cuffs, and walked over to her.
“The stitches look clean,” he remarked, his eyes lingering on her eyebrow.
“They don't hurt anymore, Mr. Castellano,” she said.
“Good.”
He reached into his pocket, took out a small brass key, and set it on the Formica counter between them.
“What is this?” she asked.
“The apartment above the bakery on Fourth,” Vincent said. “My sister Maria lived there for twelve years before she passed. It has a good stove, three locks on the door, and the windows look out on the park. The rent is seventy dollars a month, deducted from your envelope.”
Amelia looked at the key. The brass was shiny, newly cut, with a small blue tag attached to the ring.
“Why are you doing this for me?” she asked, her voice cracking slightly. “I’m not your family.”
Vincent looked toward the front window, where the red and gold letters caught the afternoon light: *CASTELLANO’S*.
“My name is on the glass, Amelia,” he said simply. “As long as it stays there, nobody who works under it is alone.”
He picked up his fedora from the coat rack, settled it onto his silver hair with two fingers, and walked toward the door.
“Angela!” Vincent called over his shoulder before he stepped out.
“Yes, Mr. Vincent?”
“Make sure she eats some roast beef before she finishes the shift. She is too skinny to carry those heavy trays.”
May you like
The brass bell gave its bright, clear chime as the door opened and closed.
Amelia reached out her hand, took the brass key from the counter, and slipped it deep into the pocket of her white apron—right beneath the embroidered green letters that had finally given her back her life.
