Good Graces - Lesley Kagen [36]
Fast Susie’s mother likes to be called Jane; I don’t know why. Her real name is Angelica. Every afternoon, Jane lies in her robe on the davenport in the living room and watches “her shows,” which I have seen with her a few times when Troo wants to spend time yakking with Fast Susie and I don’t. The one called Guiding Light reminds me of our neighborhood because so many things go wrong . . . zip . . . bang . . . boom. And Queen for a Day I like because after those down-on-their-luck women are done telling the host, Jack Bailey, how crummy their lives are, I feel really grateful that we have our own washing machine.
As far as Fast Susie’s father goes, I have only seen him at supper a few times and Mass every so often because he’s got an important job. His name is Tony. He sells silverware, which he must do really well because he wears shoes made outta alligators and suits made outta sharkskin. Mr. Fazio works with a man called Frankie the Knife.
When we come into her backyard, Fast Susie says, “O’Malleys!” This is almost where she always is during the summer, lying on a greasy white sheet. Next to her, there is a bottle of baby oil with iodine in it. She slathers it all over her arms and legs, the whole hairy mess.
My sister plops down next to her and says with a load of admiration, “Zowie.” Troo isn’t talking about the two-piece bathing suit Fast Susie’s barely got on. She’s impressed by her bosoms. She is very interested in them in general and can’t wait until hers come in. Every morning she stands in front of the mirror on the back of our bedroom door to check to see if they’ve grown during the night.
Fast Susie beams down at the polka-dotted suit top that’s standing out about a foot from her body. “It’s like that song. An itsy bitsy teenie weenie,” she says, bouncing.
She inherited her bosoms from her grandmother the same way I inherited my long legs from Dave. Back in the old days Nana’s musta looked like freshly filled water balloons, too, but now she has to strap them down with a belt when she’s cooking so they don’t accidentally dangle into a pot of spaghetti and I hope the same thing happens to Fast Susie. She’s mean to me. She thinks I’m not cool. Not the way Troo is.
Fast Susie says, “Funny you two should show up. A little birdie told me something that might interest the both of ya.”
For once, I think I know which little birdie she’s talking about, so I say, “If it’s about Greasy Al escapin’ from reform school, Henry Fitzpatrick already told us.” Even though it’s the worst news, I’m proud of him. It really is something if you hear neighborhood gossip before Fast Susie does. Mother calls her the Hedda Hopper of Vliet Street.
Fast Susie pops up and says, “Fitzpatrick told you? That . . . that Casper Milquetoast?”
I take a step back from her waving arms. You gotta watch out for her all the time, but especially when she gets mad because the Fazios aren’t only Italians, they’re a special type called Sicilians, who are a people from the south side of Italy who are famous for paying you back for anything mean you’ve ever done to them even if they die trying. In their language, this is called having a vendetta.
Fast Susie says, “Ya better watch out, Troo. When Greasy Al shows up, you’re morto.”
She runs her pointer finger across her throat and makes this awful gagging sound.
I gasp, but my sister says, “I’m shakin’ in my boots,” only she isn’t. Her sides are splitting. “Greasy Al can sit on a screwdriver and rotate.”
I don’t like where this is heading. “Ethel’s waitin’, Troo.” All I want to do is go see my good friend and read to Mrs. Galecki. We are in the middle of the best Nancy Drew and if I never hear the words Molinari and morto again in my entire life, that would be fine by me.
“Did that little soda jerk also tell ya that one of the orphan kids ran away?” Fast Susie asks me, taking another stab at breaking news.
“No, it wasn’t Henry. I heard that from . . .” I almost tell her that it was Artie Latour who told us that