As Bob lay beaten on the floor, Rocco dumped the leash and collar on his quivering body, then brushed past Bridget, putting his shoulder into hers on the way to pick up her pile of challenge cards. Rocco was still breathing heavily from the exertion as he popped the cards back and forth from one open palm to the other, then performed a bridge before he began flipping the cards over to read them. “Let’s see all the fucked up shit you — I’m sorry, ‘Mistress Bridget’ — wanted me to do.” The way his face puckered as he swished that name around in his mouth, like it was water brash, made me think that a harsh switching might still be in her future as well. She sat back down, subconsciously protecting her own ass in a silent sign of defeat.
“Did this one, did this one…” Rocco intoned, as
much to himself as to anyone else as he rifled through the stack of fancy MasterBettor challenge cards. Those that displeased him he flung at Bridget’s feet. “Don’t give a shit about this one….”
When he was done, he was clutching a handful of cards, with the rest dumped on the floor. He still had the gold card, two reds — the third one was with me — and just a few blacks. Rocco read them silently to himself, but I could hear him mutter under his breath when he flipped over the gold card. “Madonne!”
Bridget smiled wickedly, but said nothing.
“Here’s the deal, hon,” Rocco growled when he was done weeding out unwanted challenge cards. He was looming over Bridget, who looked small next to this hulking brute. “I ain’t doing 40 of these fucking things. But you give me half your share of the company and I’ll do these ones in my hand.”
“Uncle Anthony would never allow it,” Bridget scoffed with overweening assurance. “You know how invested the family is in this.”
“Don’t hide behind your uncle’s skirts,” Rocco seethed. “I didn’t say nothing about Anthony’s share or the family’s share or any of that shit. I said give me half of your share. The share that belongs to you and… Sissy over there.” His tone was washed in contempt. “You can think of it as kicking your husband’s half up to me.”
“You already got a point and a quarter on this job. That’s enough. You’re not getting half of our share, too,” Bridget replied. “I let you wet your beak, not drown yourself.”
“This ain’t no negotiation, sweetheart,” Rocco said gravely as he reached down to grab the leash again. “You don’t want to see my counteroffer.”
Bridget looked at her husband, still writhing in agony on the floor, and nodded her head, her chin down, eyes lowered. She looked even hotter now that Rocco had taken the edge off her pride.
Just then, my phone buzzed, distracting me from the action inside the house. I crouched lower in the flower bed and checked my text messages. I had a new text from Sam. “When is bro going to pick me up?”
I’m the boy’s father, but somewhere along the lines I became “bro,” “bruh” or “brah.” I guess I shouldn’t complain though. He calls his mother the same thing. She hates it almost as much as she hates being called “Chesty.”
I sent Sam a text back telling him I was leaving soon. As I heard the whoosh of my message being sent, I put my phone on mute and stuffed it back in my pocket.
Before I could resume spying through the gap in the curtains, Rocco threw open the front door and emerged fully clothed and strutting towards his vintage red ‘vette, a stack of challenge cards in his fat fist. He must have been confused when he saw my Subaru still parked in the driveway. Scanning around, he immediately caught me crouched down in the hydrangeas, no doubt looking ridiculous with dirt on my knees. He studied me up and down then gave me a jovial grin and said, “It looks like we got a nigger in the woodpile.”
I winced. Of course this lowbred goon would say it that way.
“I was just… ah…,” I stammered. I know Rocco is awful etiquette epitomized, a living breathing rebuke to good manners, but the depth of his crudity had me momentarily at a loss for words.
With a series of richly articulated hand gestures, Rocco showed me he understood without the need for any further discussion. “Say no more, you stuttering prick, ya!” He appeared relaxed and amused. His tone was jocular. “I’m outta here but I’ll see ya tonight.”
I gave him a quizzical look.
“The coaches called a special practice to help get ready for the playoffs Saturday. The parents are going to come too and cheer ’em on. I was just talking with Bob about it,” Rocco added with a twisted laugh. “You should bring Chesty.”
I smiled like an idiot. I didn’t know what else to do. I could have crumbled to dust and died. This man had caught me spying on him — again — and he might as well have called my wife his fucking goomah in the process. “You should bring Chesty,” I said to no one, deepening my voice to mimic Rocco’s rich bass. Fucking prick.
Rocco started his car and let that supercharged engine clear its throat. The top was off and his big bald spot stared back at me while he cranked the radio even louder. I might be losing my mind, but as he tore out of Bob and Bridget’s driveway, I had the unspeakable feeling that the song he was blasting held a special message just for me.
“Mother America
Is brandishing her weapons
She keeps me safe and warm
By threats and misconception
So if you break the chain
You’ll have to shake me
And if you break my….”
That’s the last lyric I could make out as his car disappeared down the road. I was thinking about doing the same, but when I heard Bridget and Bob bickering inside, I stayed rooted outside their front window.
“What the fuck, Bridget?” Bob moaned. He still wasn’t on his feet and he seemed barely able to speak. “Why did you do that?”
“Do what? Let Rocco get a bigger piece of the action? He was going to kill you, Bob!”
“Well now he doesn’t have to kill me because you did it for him!” Bob bleated.
“I did what I had to do, Sissy!” Bridget fired back unapologetically. “Like I always do for us! And who says it has to come out of your share anyhow?”
“Who else is there?” Bob protested, the effort of speaking causing him to contort his face. “Your uncle isn’t getting diluted. The family isn’t getting diluted.”
“You’re forgetting our silent partner — the patsy,” Bridget retorted. “We set aside some shares in his name; more than we need. We can spare some of those for that asshole Rocco. We’ll still have enough in reserve for our lightning rod.”
“Good,” Bob groaned, clearly in severe pain. “By the way, after all that, I think my Chore Chart should be considered complete, don’t you?”
I turned back to my car, but not before I heard Bridget snort and say, “No.” Part of me wanted to burst back in there and start whooping that bitch’s ass until it matched her husband’s, but I was cautious, mindful of just how little I really knew about this situation. Rather than doing anything rash, I decided to go home quietly and gather more information. I had a theory to test. But first, I had to get my son.
“Bro is on his way,” I texted.
The ride home was surprisingly chatty. Sam usually gives me one word answers or ignores me altogether while playing with his phone, but here he was gushing excitedly about how much fun he had at TJ’s house playing bumper pool, trading hockey cards and riding four-wheelers. I loved seeing my son so happy. He was even excited to be seeing his friends later tonight at practice. That perfect smile on Sam’s little face made all my worries melt away. I even forgot that I wasn’t done paying Invisalign for it.