11. “She’s a pieca ass, I’ll tell ya dat. I’m gonna screw her brains out tonight, right before the festa. Bring it in wid a bang!” Another voice said in Servi’s ear, its origins emanating from somewhere in a world cloaked by mist. Yet the voice was familiar, from his recent past. Pure Brooklynese. For a moment, Servi thought he was back in New York, stuck in eastbound traffic on the Long Island Expressway, waiting for the next exit, ANY exit, merely to get off, but it never arrived. Then he remembered he was lying in a lumpy bed in Rome, sick with an ailment without a surname.
“Whaddya tawking about?” Servi asked, sitting up in the bed, the wheels of his mind formulating an arrangement, laying it in front of him like a newly minted coin ready for circulation.
“Fuckin’ A,” Tony squawked. “I knew you wasn’t from no fuckin’ Canada. I knows a paison from my parts when I seez one. Jesus Christ! You slippery fuck!”
“Let’s have a drink to celebrate,” Servi said, sitting up in bed.
“Ya sure? Ya look like shit all warmed up.”
“I’m OK,” Servi answered, springing out of bed, striding to the bathroom. “Just let me get my shit together, and we’ll drink a shit loada wine.”
In the bathroom Servi methodically emptied into an empty pill bottle the fine white powder of the red pills, which always inclined him into a Rip Van Winkle stage of slumber. Then with hands quaking like two leaves still unlucky enough to be on a branch in winter, he pulled on his clothes.
Dear Aaron, his mother wrote, I write this with tears, thinking my youngest son is dead or worse, hurt and unable to contact us…