The Best Revenge Read Online Free Page A

in my face.
    “Wait minute. Rule of life: After bad news, good news. My son Nick, he do this kind business. Clara!” She must have been close. He turned his head to her.
    “Get me Nick, he home now, quick.”
    As she dialed a number, the old man said to me, “You know Nick?”
    “I just met him once when we were kids. In this room.” Clara handed him the phone. The old lion addressed Nick in Italian, orders to a subordinate. I recognized a few essentials, Louie, my name, the amount of money. There were raised voices on both sides, then Manucci said something sharp in Italian, and calmly handed me the phone. “He remembers you. Here, you and him talk.”
    I took the phone.
    “Hey,” Nick said,“long time. I saw your picture in the papers. You haven’t changed. How’re you doing?”
    “Hello, Nick,” I said, aware of his father watching me. “How’s it with you?”
    “My wife says I get a year older every year. You got to tell me your secret. We should get together. You heard my old man? He said when Louie Riller is dead a son of Louie Riller’s is like a son of his, real old country. That makes you my brother, right? That’s a big number you need. Want to come see me tomorrow?”
    “Sure,” I said. “Of course. Thanks. When?” He set the time, asked for the name and phone number of my accountant so he could get some facts, told me his company was called The Venture Capital Corporation, and gave me the address.
    The Seagram Building?
    Before I left, the old man said two things. “If Nick no help you real good, you call me.” He looked at Clara, motioning her to move his wheelchair closer to me. “I have nice farm in Sicily I go every year till doctor —stupido first class—he say no more airplanes. You, Ben-neh, you stay on my farm no charge. No one look for bigshot Jew-producer in Sicily. One year, two years, everything calm down, you come back. Take wife. Take bambini. Leave mess for everybody else clean up.” He laughed.
    “My bambini ,” I said, “are in high school. They don’t know any language except English. My wife wouldn’t know what to do on a farm.”
    “What’s matter? She not smart? She learn, no?”
    “She might leave me.”
    “That’s no wife.”
    “Louie wouldn’t want me to run away.”
    He sighed. “I forget what Turks you Jews are. Do one thing for me. One.”
    He leaned his head very close to mine, as if to keep what he said from Clara, who was standing at a discreet distance.
    “Ben-neh?”
    “Yes, Mr. Manucci.”
    “You come to my funeral, okay?”
    I nodded, extended my hand to confirm the agreement. He closed both his hands around mine with hurting strength, his eyes blazing. “If you no there,” he said, “I jump from coffin, fin d you, cut your throat.” And just as suddenly he let go of my hands, roared with laughter. “You believe that?”
    I nodded.
    “You better believe, Clara call you. Go!” he said.
    I nodded good-bye to Clara, but it was difficult to take my eyes off the old man’s face, which I was certain I would not see again until I joined the line in front of the bronze casket to pay my respects.
    Outside, the air seemed fresh like after a lightning storm. I was breathing hope again.
    I noticed the three boys sitting on the hood of my car, pretending they didn’t see me coming. I guess they thought I was someone from Manhattan who would beg them politely so they could hold their hands out for commerce to get their asses off my BMW. I unlocked the driver’s side, got in, turned on the ignition with a roar, and started forward, giving them a bare second to scoot off the car. I knew the ways of the street once. As I zoomed away, I caught a glimpse of their squashed bravado in the rearview mirror.

3
    Ben
    The Seagram, for all its copper-clad simplicity, was once for me the Taj Mahal of New York, a slab thrusting thirty-eight floors up from Park Avenue as much to capture the attention of the heavens as of the passersby below. In years past