Page 73 of Arranged Addiction
More gifts. A pair of shoes. Lacy underwear. That’s fucking bold of him. A gift card to a boutique purse shop near the office. I spend that one in about ten seconds. Earrings, a few bracelets, and finally, a black diamond-studded choker.
I know he’s trying to win me over, but a bunch of shiny crap isn’t going to cut it.
Instead of wallowing, I decide to be productive.
I call Sheila on the fourth day and grill her about my parents. I get every single name I can of anyone who might’ve known them back in the day. I go online and start searching for information on Senesi, the Butcher of Milan, and there are a lot of rumors but nothing concrete. I dig hard right through the weekend, dredging up old associates that either worked for or with my parents. I want to find someone who might be able to help with my nightmarish situation.
If I can take care of Senesi then I’ll have leverage.
“Hello? Is this Marco Russo?” I lean back in my chair that Monday morning. It’s early and the office is still quiet. I haven’t gotten any presents from Declan yet, and he was away all weekend. It was the ideal situation.
“Yes, this is him.” The man’s voice is scratchy and slow like he’s pondering every syllable. “Who’s calling?”
“Hello sir, my name is Casey Brennan. I was calling because you might’ve known my parents.”
There’s a short pause. Then gritty laughter. “Is this a prank? Are you really little Casey Brennan?”
“No prank, sir.” My stomach does an excited twist. I haven’t gotten anyone on the phone yet, but this man seems to recognize me. I found his name in an old business listing as someone associated with a small company my parents used as a front. “I’ve been trying to hunt down anyone who might’ve known my parents back in the day.”
Another laugh. He sounds like a smoker. “And you somehow came across me? Incredible, just incredible. Yes, dear, I knew your parents quite well. I remember you as a little spitfire of a toddler.”
“I’m sorry if this is rude, but I’m honestly sort of taking a stab in the dark here. How exactly did you know them?”
“Tell you what. Let’s have lunch this afternoon. There’s a diner called Sal’s Corner on Amsterdam Avenue. I think the number’s 247. You meet me there and I’ll talk all about your parents.”
“Really? That would be incredible.”
“Casey Brennan. Little Casey. Unbelievable. Your parents were great people, Casey, and I’m so sorry for what happened to them. But we’ll meet at eleven-thirty, how’s that sound?”
“I’ll see you there, Mr. Russo.”
“Stick with Marco. See you soon, Casey.”
The diner’sold but surprisingly nice. It’s not too crowded as I step in through the front. The real lunch rush should get going soon, and I figured we’ve got a half hour of relative privacy before the place gets packed. We’re on the Upper West Side and I’ve probably passed this spot a dozen times over the years but never stopped inside before.
I linger, feeling uncomfortable. I don’t know what Marco Russo looks like. I tried to look him up after we got off the phone, but there aren’t any pictures of him online, or at least none that make sense. I’m about to turn around and get out of there when a small, older gentleman half stands from a booth in the back and waves to me.
He’s in his late sixties with thinning gray hair and pale skin. His eyes are sunken, but they seem friendly enough. He’s in an older-style suit, something wool and loose-fitting, and I’d never have looked at him twice if we were out on the street. “It’s very good to meet you again, Casey,” he says, shaking my hand limply. He coughs, hacking and low, before gesturing for me to sit. There’s already coffee waiting. “Are you hungry? Order anything you like. It’s on me.”
“Thank you, Marco, but let me pick up the bill. I’ve been trying to find anyone who might’ve known my parents. You’re the first one who would actually talk to me.”
He laughs that smoker’s grunt again. “No surprise there. Your parents were good people, but they had some unsavory friends.”
“Yourself not included?”
“Oh, no, dear, in those days I was about as unsavory as they get.” He beams at me. His teeth are crooked and yellow.
I order a club sandwich and he gets soup. When the waitress leaves, Marco talks about my parents glowingly. “Always looking for the next adventure. Always growing themselves. You were there, running around between their legs, as they hatched new schemes and grew their business.”
“What kind of business was it, exactly?”
“This and that.” He laughs and quickly changes the subject. “Your mother had an amazing sense of humor. Just the funniest woman in the world.”
As we eat, he keeps talking. But I start to notice something odd.
He’s never specific.
When I ask about dates, times, events, he waves a hand and changes the subject. When I press him for details, he glosses over everything. I start to wonder if I made a terrible mistake, at least until the waitress takes our empty plates and he sits back with his third cup of coffee.
