The Education of Giacomo Jones Ch. 05

"Assuming we win these final two games, we're in the SEC championship game in Atlanta the week after the Florida game. And if we win that, we're a lock for one of the four playoff berths," Rance said. "So, best case scenario, we could still be playing for a national title on the ninth or 10th of January."

"Clearly, us being Fulbright, we don't have much experience with that level of postseason play, so I don't know what our preparation itinerary for such an eventuality would look like," he said. "And unless we lose these last two games, we're most likely playing a New Year's Day bowl game."

Aunt Semmie sat on one end of her sofa, her feet tucked beneath her to keep warm, and smiled at Rance seated across from her in the corner of an identical facing sofa with Gia's back reclined comfortably against his chest.

"All things considered, that's a nice problem for Fulbright to have from an athletics standpoint," Semmie said. "The reason I raise the question is that we often have family come to our place on Hilton Head for a few days between Christmas and New Year's, and I'd love to have you and your mom join us if that works."

Rance nodded.

"Why don't we put a pin in that and circle back in a few weeks when we know what the postseason schedule looks like, but if it works out, what do you think about it, baby, about your mom coming down?"

"I don't see why not, but then I'd need to ask her," Gia said. "I'll do that this weekend."

"More generally, I know Callie -- that's what her mom goes by -- has been thinking about leaving New Jersey, particularly since all of this started. She has a townhouse in Ridgefield Park, convenient to the city, that she owns free and clear. I wonder, Aunt Semmie, if y'all have someone who could maybe figure out what she could make from selling her property up there and how much house it could buy down South somewhere," Rance said.

"Well, 'down South' covers a whole lot of real estate, but I'd be happy to have someone contact her, get an idea what she might be interested in and work up some numbers for her," she said. "Gia, why don't you feel your mom out on that point when you ask her about her holiday plans this weekend?"

"Thank you. I will," she said. She snuggled comfortably against Rance and smiled.

●●●

The phone rang a little before 8, waking Gia from her slumber on the one morning she could reliably sleep in.

"What the...," she groaned groggily as she patted the tousled sheets and comforter, groping for her iPhone. No telling where it had wound up with all activity between Rance and her beneath those sheets until well after midnight before they dozed off naked, pressed against each other.

She found it and her spirits sank when she saw the caller was "MOM."

"Morning Ma. Whassup?" Gia said.

"Pickleball," she said. "They got Pickleball."

"Whaddya mean, Ma?"

"Those bastards. They killed Pickleball, the cat."

Pickleball was an affectionate, lazy and overweight orange cat who was widely adored in Callie Jones' neighborhood and was especially fond of Callie. She wasn't Callie's cat -- Callie being highly allergic to pet dander, she could not tolerate cats or dogs inside her home. Pickleball was owned by a neighbor around the corner of the next block, as her collar clearly stipulated to anyone who cared to read its tags, but a casual observer might have mistaken her for Callie's because she seemed to spend much of her time lounging on the cushioned chair on Callie's front porch exposed to the warming afternoon sun in the cold weather months. Callie adored Pickleball and would leave treats for her -- about the only way she could show her affection since petting or holding Pickleball would force her to take antihistamines for days to arrest the runny nose, red eyes, rashes, swollen eyelids and such that would afflict Callie almost immediately.

In Sunday's wee hours, Callie was awakened by the alarm her doorbell camera was programmed to activate on her smart phone app. She tapped her phone and could see three or four young men in hooded sweatshirts clustered around her front door, though she couldn't see what they were doing to it. She could hear bumping and scraping sounds against the door, and then a muffled thump. She pressed the microphone icon on her smartphone screen and said into it, "I'm calling the cops," and could hear the slight delay as her words blared forth from the tinny speaker adjacent to the doorbell.

The hoodlums turned and began to scamper down the steps to her front porch, but before they left, one incomprehensibly turned, put his face near the camera, give her the finger and yelled, loud enough that she could hear without the doorbell camera's microphone, "This is for Geno, ya fuckin' cunt."

Within seconds, they were gone, scattered into the darkened street, but not without leaving a trove of evidence for the police who arrived about 10 minutes later. Callie dared not open the door until the officers were outside, and it was then that she saw the atrocity the thugs had left behind. It took her breath away.

Hanging by its neck from a length of coat hanger wire dangling from her brass door knocker was the bloodied, lifeless carcass of Pickleball, a butcher knife shoved into its abdomen upwards toward her heart and lungs. Callie wailed her horror and grief into the night's cold silence, and it was several minutes before she could regain sufficient composure to talk to the officers who were standing in her living room.

Now, on the phone with Gia in the morning light, Callie's composure crumbled again.

"It brought all of that horror back, all of the evil that I hoped had died with Gennaro," she told her daughter between sobs.

"Dear God, Ma... I... I just... I'm so angry right now," Gia said, her hands trembling as she held the phone. By now, Rance was sitting upright in the bed beside her. Gia covered her naked chest with a sheet she held against it, her eyes narrowed by the fury that boiled within her.

The police viewed the doorbell camera footage and downloaded a digital copy of it. The remarkably sharp image along with what appeared to be pristine bloody fingerprints on the plastic handle of the butcher knife gave police evidence strong enough that they believed they would make an arrest within hours. One of the officers said the face of the young man who turned toward the camera and flipped Callie off was familiar and that it was likely one of Gennaro Millientello's many cousins or half-siblings, most of them petty criminals born without benefit of wedlock. For most, there was no record of secondary education beyond 16 when they had the legal right to drop out of school. What they did have was multiple run-ins with law enforcement.

Now Gia had begun softly crying and Rance quietly held her.

"Ma, you gotta get outta there. I mean, how is it that after all we went through with Geno, with all the experience the cops have with his lowlife, outlaw family -- with the threats that they already knew about! -- that they didn't have an eye on our house?" Gia said, her anger again stoking itself, her volume approaching a shout. "How many times does fucking New Jersey have to fail victims of crime?"

"I'm done, Gia. I want to leave here for good and soon," Callie said.

"That's good to hear, Ma, because we were talking about that last night with Rance's aunt who owns the largest real estate company in eastern South Carolina, and she's got someone who can help you out when you're ready... and clearly you are," Gia said.

"I appreciate your thinking about me, but I gotta figure out how to get this place sold and then I gotta figure out where I wanna go. All I know right now is it ain't goddamn New Jersey," she said.

"We can help you with that, Ma. Somebody who works for Rance's Aunt Semmie will be able to advise you on all of that -- what you can expect for the sale of the house, what that would buy in various markets elsewhere. It's called Gartlan Properties and while they dominate this part of the Carolinas, they also have listings and represent buyers as far north as Virginia, all the way to Miami and as far west as Atlanta. If nothing else, it's a place to start, right?" Gia said.

Her mother's voice was calmer now, which encouraged Gia.

"I guess so," Callie said. "Who do I need to call?"

Gia looked around to Rance, who could overhear Callie's faint words. She shrugged silently, and Rance motioned for her to mute her phone. She did.

"Tell her that someone will contact her, and that we will tell Aunt Semmie today about the new circumstances adding urgency to the situation," Rance said. Gia nodded and unmuted the phone.

"Hey Ma, our understanding is somebody's going to be calling you," she said, immediately wincing at her use of the plural pronoun. But she pressed on. "We gave Aunt Semmie your number last night. She's driving back to Charleston, where she lives and the business is based. We'll call her this morning and ask her to expedite things after what just happened."

"Hmm," Callie said. "You kids are a step ahead of me and that's nice. Thank you, Gia."

Callie paused a moment and then more loudly, "... AND THANK YOU, RANCE!"

Gia couldn't stifle her gasp, and Callie heard it. As if that wasn't sufficient confirmation that Rance was next to her -- and had been all night -- the awkward silence that ensued as the two realized they were caught removed all doubt.

Rance's face flushed red. Gia sat there with her mouth open, her eyes wide. She didn't know whether to panic or giggle.

"Giacomo Marie Jones, mia dolce figlia, who do you think you're bullshitting?" Callie said with a laugh, loud enough to be heard without the benefit of the speakerphone feature. "I raised you and I've seen you two together. I know love when I see it. I'd be disappointed if Rance wasn't there."

"Uhhhh...," was the only response Gia could muster. She knew that her wily mother had somehow busted her by phone from hundreds of miles away. She also knew from experience not to try and mislead her. But there was no rule against stalling for time. "Well..., actually, Ma..."

"Hi Callie," Rance said, leaning into the phone, breaking the tension and ending the suspense.

"We're about to head out to Menlo's for some breakfast before Sunday morning training room check-in," Rance said.

It wasn't a lie: they were going to Menlo's for some eggs, grits, bacon, home fries, biscuits, real butter, homemade persimmon jam and everything else that made Southern breakfasts so irresistibly decadent. His response neither confirmed nor denied having spent the night with Callie's daughter, and it didn't insult Callie's remarkable street smarts.

With the issue somewhat defused for the moment, Gia smiled at Rance and activated the speakerphone. It allowed Gia and Rance both to hear Callie chuckle gently, a soft acknowledgement that she was on to the young lovers, that they knew she had busted them and that she knew that they knew that she had busted them. But that was just fine with everyone, considering the dark and dreadful tone with which the call had begun.

"Hey, you kids go get some breakfast. I feel a lot better after talking to you -- both of you -- and knowing now that this is happening and I'm leaving goddamn New Jersey," Callie said. "We'll talk later. I gotta get ready for Mass. And I love you... both of you."

"Bye Ma. Love you too," Gia said before three short beeps verified that the calling party had hung up.

Gia dropped her phone onto the covers and looked at Rance in rapt amazement.

"Holy shit, Rance Martin, you just got the biggest win of all -- my Catholic mama's seal of approval for you to sleep with me," she said, dropping the arm that had pressed the sheet to her chest to expose her breasts to Rance's hungry eyes.

"I don't know about you, but that makes me so horny," she said, pushing the sheet off her legs, leaning backward and beckoning her lover.

Rance said nothing. His swiftly stiffening manhood and his probing kiss said it all.

Menlo's could wait.

●●●

"Sit right over there, Mr. Calvo," Sgt. Bill O'Malley said as his beefy right hand pushed the gaunt, sneering young man into the small room and toward a seat at an empty table pushed hard against a blank, pale blue wall.

"Fuck you, ya Mick pig," Mikey Calvo, a 19-year-old first cousin to the late Gennaro Millientello, said as he spat at O'Malley.

It took several minutes before Calvo regained consciousness on the floor crumpled against the legs of the table in the dank, pale blue room. Billy O'Malley had been a Golden Gloves regional champion and won his weight class for the Atlantic Fleet in the three years he spent in the U.S. Navy based in Norfolk, Virginia.

He had trained himself not to respond to slurs against his Irish heritage. Years of growing up in Brooklyn, his time in the Navy and the 14 years he had spent as a New Jersey State Patrol officer had conditioned him not to do what his temper tugged at him mightily to do and beat the slur's originator until he shat himself. But that along with a spray of saliva from a craven street punk like Calvo, especially since COVID-19, released the Kraken dwelling inside O'Malley's chest. He could feel the left side of Calvo's jawbone give way and dislocate from his skull as his form went limp and crumpled to the sticky concrete floor.

"That's a terrible accident, Billy. Clumsy little cocksucker, tripping and busting his jaw against the corner of the table like that," said another officer, this one with stripes on his sleeve showed his rank as that of a lieutenant.

"Nah, lieutenant," Sergeant O'Malley said, grasping Calvo around the neck of his hoodie sweatshirt in both clenched fists and using it to lift his entire, still flaccid body and slam it into the empty seat he had been told to take earlier. "I think this little cocksucker just needs some cold, liquid refreshment to help him collect his fuckin' thoughts."

The lieutenant handed O'Malley a red solo cup filled with ice water which the sergeant tossed directly into Calvo's face. Mikey gasped and grasped his head, sending a jolt of pain through his wounded jaw and causing him to shriek in agony.

"You back with us there Mikey, all alert and awake are ya? You remember me, Mikey? I'm ya Mick pig friend, Sergeant O'Malley," he said, pulling the empty chair around the table until it was about a foot in front of Calvo's cowering form.

"Now, I got bad news for you, Mikey. Look at these pictures in this folder," O'Malley said as the lieutenant put a manila envelope onto the table and opened it. Inside were images captured from Calvita Jones's doorbell security camera just 12 hours earlier, around 3 a.m.

"Amazin' how good consumer electronics technology has gotten, ain't it lieutenant? See this Mikey?" O'Malley said, picking up one eight-by-ten color printout and holding it inches from Mikey Calvo's face. "That's you, Mikey. How do we know? Because that's the same goddamn hoodie you wearin' right now. That's your ugly motherfuckin' face inside the hoodie right down to that gold tooth, just without that swollen jaw."

O'Malley scooted his chair even closer to Calvo, close enough that Mikey could smell the wintergreen flavoring from the pinch of smokeless tobacco O'Malley had pressed between his cheek and gum.

"And how do we know that, Mikey? We know that because you were dumber even than the rest of these dumb fucks who tied that mutilated cat on the victim's door. The others were at least smart enough not to stop, turn around and give themselves up in front of a live video camera giving us a positive ID that'll hold up in any court in the country," O'Malley said.

"I don't know who actually killed the cat and jammed that knife into it, but those shoes we took off you when you were arrested, we're pretty sure the blood on it is going to turn out to be from that kitty cat, which is enough to persuade a jury you killed it... unless you give up the other losers who were with you on that porch early this morning," O'Malley said, his steely blue eyes hiding none of the personal anger he felt for the trembling Mikey Calvo, his street-tough persona now fully abandoned.

The lieutenant, standing in a corner several steps behind O'Malley, stepped forward.

"You may not think this amounts to much, Mikey, and for most folks, that might be right. Animal cruelty? That usually gets pleaded down to a misdemeanor. Vandalism, same thing. But two facts put you in serious trouble, Mikey," the lieutenant said.

First, the lieutenant explained, New Jersey's legislature had made animal cruelty a low-level felony and made it very difficult under the law for a judge to accept a lesser charge if certain elements of the crime were proved to a jury. Second was the compounding effect that the cruelty charge along with vandalism and another charge tied to the terroristic threat of violence had created. Especially damaging to Mikey legally was his explicit mention on the recorded doorbell cam video of his late cousin, Geno Millions. That amounted to clear terroristic coercion or intimidation against a victim or witness of a crime, a law New Jersey had passed in response to the violence associated with the crack cocaine epidemic of the 1990s and for which the punishment was made even harsher after the 9/11 attacks on the Pentagon and Manhattan's Twin Towers, just a cab ride away from this small, dank, pale blue room.

"Mikey, all the elements of these crimes, which we have you nailed solid on, are enough to send you away for 20 years without parole," the lieutenant said, crouching down so that his eyes were even with Mikey's.

"But you see Mikey, that long juvenile record that you thought was sealed away when they let you out of Pemberton a year ago? Well, all of that gets to come right back in if you're charged with a serious crime, Mikey. All of it. And that makes you what the law refers to as a habitual offender. If the jury gets to see all that, and they will, they can find that you are a career criminal, and that means the judge can triple the mandatory minimum sentence. Do the math, Mikey. That's at least 60 years. That means you won't get out of prison til you're almost 80 if you survive that long," the lieutenant said coldly.

Mikey slumped forward, placed his arms on the table and hid his face in them.

"Mikey, the only chance you got to help yourself happens in the next three minutes in this room," O'Malley said. "You give up the other assholes who was with you this morning and testify against them for the state, or you're going to be a very old, worn-out asshole when they turn you loose from prison. And this ain't no Sunday School juvey lockup, Mikey, it's real grown-up prison where little virgin asses like yours make you some bad man's bitch real early."

"Clock's tickin, Mikey," O'Malley said.

Michael Calvo sobbed loudly for several minutes. The lieutenant brought him a cup of ice water and this one didn't go in his face. Billy O'Malley got up and moved to a far corner of the room to give the cowering, broken street thug some room.

"You protect me if I talk?" Calvo finally said.

"Sure, Mikey. A lot better than we can protect you from them pedophiles in prison, kid," O'Malley said.

He took a drink of the water, winced in pain at the movement his jaw made as he swallowed, then looked at the lieutenant.

"OK, I'll talk to you," Calvo told the lieutenant, "but get this guy out of the room."

The lieutenant turned and nodded toward the sergeant, who wordlessly exited. The lieutenant placed a digital recorder onto the table and turned it on.

"Tell us what happened, Mikey, and go all the way back to who came up with this idea, including when and why."