He was a miniature Adam. Joshua was athletic, as Adam was. His heroes were the Bebble brothers and Carl Stotz.
“I never heard of them,” Jennifer said.
“Where have you been, Mom? They invented Little League.”
“Oh. That Bebble brothers and Carl Stotz.”
On weekends, Joshua watched every sports event on television—football, baseball, basketball—it did not matter. In the beginning, Jennifer had let Joshua watch the games alone, but when he tried to discuss the plays with her afterward and Jennifer was completely at sea, she decided she had better watch with him. And so the two of them would sit in front of the television set, munching popcorn and cheering the players.
One day Joshua came in from playing ball, a worried expression on his face, and said, “Mom, can we have a man-to-man talk?”
“Certainly, Joshua.”
They sat down at the kitchen table and Jennifer made him a peanut butter sandwich and poured a glass of milk.
“What’s the problem?”
His voice was sober and filled with concern. “Well, I heard the guys talkin’ and I was just wonderin’—do you think there’ll still be sex when I grow up?”
Jennifer had bought a small Newport sailboat, and on weekends she and Joshua would go out on the sound for a sail. Jennifer liked to watch his face when he was at the helm. He wore an excited little smile, which she called his “Eric the Red” smile. Joshua was a natural sailor, like his father. The thought brought Jennifer up sharply. She wondered whether she was trying to live her life with Adam vicariously through Joshua. All the things she was doing with her son—the sailing, the sporting events—were things she had done with his father. Jennifer told herself she was doing them because Joshua liked doing them, but she was not sure she was being completely honest. She watched Joshua sheet in the jib, his cheeks tanned from the wind and the sun, his face beaming, and Jennifer realized that the reasons did not matter. The important thing was that her son loved his life with her. He was not a surrogate for his father. He was his own person and Jennifer loved him more than anyone on earth.
42
Antonio Granelli died and Michael took over full control of his empire. The funeral was lavish, as befitted a man of the Godfather’s stature. The heads and members of Families from all over the country came to pay their respects to their departed friend, and to assure the new capo of their loyalty and support. The FBI was there, taking photographs, as well as half a dozen other government agencies.
Rosa was heartbroken, because she had loved her father very much, but she took consolation and pride in the fact that her husband was taking her father’s place as head of the Family.
Jennifer was proving more valuable to Michael every day. When there was a problem, it was Jennifer whom Michael consulted. Thomas Colfax was becoming an increasingly bothersome appendage.
“Don’t worry about him,” Michael told Jennifer. “He’s going to retire soon.”
The soft chimes of the telephone awakened Jennifer. She lay in bed, listening a moment, then sat up and looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. It was three o’clock in the morning.
She lifted the receiver. “Hello.”
It was Michael. “Can you get dressed right away?”
Jennifer sat up straighter and tried to blink the sleep from her eyes. “What’s happened?”
“Eddie Santini was just picked up on an armed robbery charge. He’s a two-time loser. If they convict him, they’ll throw the key away.”
“Were there any witnesses?”
“Three, and they all got a good look at him.”
“Where is he now?”
“The Seventeenth Precinct.”
“I’m on my way, Michael.”
Jennifer put on a robe and went down to the kitchen and made herself a steaming pot of coffee. She sat drinking it in the breakfast room, staring out at the night, thinking. Three witnesses. And they all got a good look at him.
She picked up the telephone and dialed. “Give me the City Desk.”
Jennifer spoke rapidly. “I got some information for you. A guy named Eddie Santini’s just been picked up on an armed robbery charge. His attorney’s Jennifer Parker. She’s gonna try to spring him.”