The Drake

Jon Tucci woke up early Sunday morning. So early, in fact that it wasn’t light out yet. He looked at his watch. It was 4:30. His brain still foggy, he thought it odd that he wore his watch to bed. It should be on the nightstand. Since it was late June, sunrise wasn’t far off. He stretched his body a bit and became aware of something totally unexpected. He was also on the wrong side of the bed. How did that happen? 

Fully alert now, he sat upright, hoping he was wrong. He looked over to his right and saw the curled up body of a woman, not his wife. He must have fallen asleep. He remembered now that Daisy had warned him around midnight. She told him she was sleepy. He should get up, get dressed and go home. The last thing he remembered was saying, “I will, five more minutes.”  

She wasn’t stirring. He couldn’t even hear her breathe. He slipped out of her bed and felt around for his things. His eyes adjusted to the darkness; now he could see the outline of his clothing on the carpeted floor. He put his underwear, slacks and shirt on. Did he leave his waiter’s jacket in the car or was it in Daisy’s kitchen? Maybe the living room, he didn’t know. Then he looked for the keys to his two-year old, 1953 Chevy. 

He felt a growing sense of panic building within him. What was he going to tell Marianne? He and Daisy left The Drake early to spend time together. The Drake was a popular Italian restaurant in Newark’s North Ward. It offered good food, hard crusted bread and a few good imported, but moderately priced, wines. The aroma coming from the kitchen made it easy for customers to overlook the sparse décor. Aside from an amateurish mural of Rome’s Trevi Fountain, there was little to suggest the exceptional Neapolitan culinary experience that awaited 

It had been a slow night. His tips were barely worth counting and his last customer had left more than an hour before closing time. Daisy was The Drake’s hostess. He suggested they leave early. 

Like most people engaged in a clandestine affair, they were sure none of The Drake’s employees or its owners were wise to them. They were wrong. Even the dishwasher, a wiry Portuguese man who spoke very little English, understood they were lovers. They were the unwitting butt of silly jokes, a constant source of quiet gossip, especially when the place was slow. In fact, two busboys placed a bet on whether they would leave early that night. It wasn’t the first time Jon and Daisy pulled that stunt. 

What Jon didn’t know was that after he left The Drake, his wife Marianne stopped by, supposedly to say hello. A petite woman, she was wearing a red, A-line dress with a wide black patent leather belt and black pumps. She held a red clutch close to her. She wanted Jon to see her looking pretty, something other than a housewife with her kerchief and bobby pins. She scoped out the dining room trying not to be too obvious. The place was nearly empty. 

When Franco, the head waiter, walked out of the kitchen he recognized her immediately. This was going to be trouble, he thought. Jon’s wife looked like a woman on a mission.  

“Marianne! What are you doing here? You look very nice young lady.” 

“I thought I would surprise Jon, maybe have a drink or a late supper together.” 

“I see,” Franco said, a pensive look on his face. “He’s not here right now. He left to run an errand, I think. It’s been slow so he stepped out for a bit. He might be back in a little while though.” 

“Where’s your hostess, what’s her name?” 

“Oh, she went home a while ago. When it gets slow like this she don’t hang around.” 

Marianne frowned. She was about to say something, but thought better of it. She looked around again as if Jon might miraculously appear.  

 “Maybe I’ll have a drink then and wait for him,” Marianne said. 

The waiter nodded and pointed her to the bar. “I’ve been here like a thousand times before,” she said. “I know where the damn bar is Franco.”         

Franco smiled, acknowledging the silliness of his gesture and Marianne’s suspicious look. He tried to be casual, walking deliberately to the kitchen. He picked up the phone and asked the chef if he knew Daisy’s phone number. “You too?” the cook asked. 

Franco shook his head. “Basta! This is serious Tino. Jon’s wife is in the bar, waiting for him."

“This I gotta see.” He wrote down Daisy’s number and handed it to Franco. Then he walked through the doorway and down the corridor and stood at the edge of the bar where the waiters picked up their drinks. Marianne saw him and waved. 

“Have you seen my husband lately?” 

Suddenly, Tino was nervous. A good looking Sicilian with blond hair and blue eyes, he was suddenly feeling shy. He didn’t expect to have a conversation. “Jon? He’s in the dining room, no?” 

Marianne shook her head. 

Tino looked at the bar and picked up a slice of orange. He popped it in his mouth, an excuse not to talk. He shrugged and went back to the kitchen. He thought Jon was slow witted. Tino had been having a fling with Daisy until Jon came along. That Daisy was searching for a man to take care of her was an open secret. Tino knew at least one other guy, the bartender, had been to her apartment.  

For some reason, Jon never caught on. He was a big, powerful guy, dark features and a full head of black, wavy hair. A noticeable scar above his eyebrow, an ice skating accident when he was 15, made him look tougher than he was. He carried himself in such a way that no one dared to tell him about Daisy. 

In fact, one night, just as their shift was getting started, Jon and Franco were folding cloth napkins, getting ready for the anticipated rush. Daisy walked over and helped them fold for a while. She flirted with Jon a little, her hand casually brushing against his a couple of times while they folded. When she walked away, Franco, sensing an opportunity said, “Better watch that. She’s trouble my friend.”

Jon, tried to hide his nervousness and guilt, saying, “Is that right? What’s that supposed to mean Franco?”

Franco sighed and walked away. They didn’t speak to each other the rest of the shift, not even to say goodnight. 

Still, Franco was fond of Jon. He saw in him the young man he himself was more than twenty years ago. He had made his share of mistakes too. He only hoped that Jon had better luck than he did. 

Franco picked up the phone that sat on the shelf over the bread table and dialed Daisy’s number. Her phone rang a long time before she finally picked up. 

“Daisy, its Franco. Is Jon there?”    

“Here? No, why should he be here?”

“Listen Daisy, I mean no disrespect. But if he’s there with you, send him back to The Drake. His wife is sitting in the bar waiting for him.”

“It’s like I told you. He isn’t here.” Franco noticed that she lowered her voice almost to a whisper. 

It occurred to him then that if Jon was there, Daisy wouldn’t give him the message. Well, he tried. That was all he could do. Jon would have to deal with the problem now. It was one of his own making. He looked at his watch. He wished he could go home, but he was the late man, the waiter who would take care of any stragglers that might pop in for a quick bite. 

Two blocks from his apartment, Jon was dreading the scene he would likely encounter with Marianne when he got home. Why did he respond to Daisy’s advances? He really didn’t know. She had an average-pretty face. Her body wasn’t quite voluptuous, but she was certainly more full figured than Marianne. 

More than anything else, he was flattered by her obvious desire to be with him. She didn’t try very hard to disguise her intentions. When she realized the attraction was mutual, she started making comments whenever they were alone. One afternoon she was in the dining room getting her hostess stand ready when Jon walked through the front door. “The big guy is here,” she said, “Big all over I’ll bet.”

Another time in the cellar that held the pantry, he was walking out with spaghetti boxes the cook asked him to get. As he reached the stairs he saw her on her way down, for what he didn’t know. She whispered as they passed each other, “Don’t tell me I missed my chance to be alone with you?”  

Jon’s resistance evaporated. In what he hoped was a light- hearted tone he said, “Same time, same place, tomorrow.”

He wasn’t sure Daisy even heard him, but the following afternoon, just before The Drake opened its doors, he headed for the cellar, confident she would be there. Standing outside the pantry door, they kissed for the first time. When his shift was over he went to the pay phone that sat in the hallway between the bar and the dining room and called Marianne. “Don’t wait up for me,” he said. “I’m going to The Blue Moon for a nightcap with the bartender.” Just like that he and Daisy were off and running.     

Jon turned onto his street. He lived on the third floor of a three story apartment house with Marianne and their 9 year old son Marty. There was a space in front of the apartment house. Unaware that Marianne had been searching for him, he decided to pretend he fell asleep as soon as he turned off the ignition. The two-door, white Chevy was a gift. When his father-in-law, Mr. DeFilippo, won a new Caddy in the annual St. Francis Xavier Church raffle, he gave them his Chevy. The old man managed to remind Jon of his generosity regularly. 

It was light out now, but still maybe a little too early for anybody to be up and out on a Sunday morning. The first Mass wasn’t until seven o’clock. One of the neighbors would knock on his window and wake him up. No sooner had he settled into his head against the window pose when Marianne tapped on his window. He did his best to look startled then he smiled. Before he could say anything, Marianne spoke. “Don’t bother getting out of the car. You don’t live here anymore.” 

He rolled his window down. “What are you talking about? I fell asleep at the wheel.”

“I’m not an idiot Jon. I’ve been up all night waiting for you. You just pulled up less than five minutes ago.”

Jon had to think fast. He had considered what he would do if he got caught. He had feelings for Daisy but he certainly wasn’t prepared to end his marriage. For one thing, Catholics didn’t divorce. For Italian Americans it was even more out of the question. “You’re right. I did just pull up. What I meant was I fell asleep a couple of blocks away.”

“Really? Then why were you pretending you were asleep just now?”  

One of the neighbors on the second floor came to the window and said, “Pipe down.”

Jon saw his chance. “What’s wrong with you Marianne? You’re making a scene in front of the whole neighborhood because I had a couple of drinks too many and fell asleep?”

“Where were you?” she hissed.

“I was at The Drake, where do you think I was, for Christ’s sake?”

Marianne played her trump card. “I was at The Drake you shitfaced liar. You weren’t there."

Jon put his hands to his face and gently rubbed. He got out of the car. “Listen to me. You don’t have any business checking up on me, understand?” His demeanor changed now. He wore the threatening look experience had taught him was so effective. “Now for your information, it was a slow night so I left early. I went to The Blue Moon and had a few drinks. Is that some kind of crime now?” 

He walked past her and headed toward the apartment door. Marianne stood next to the car, not sure what to do next. She was not a well educated woman, but she was bright. Her instincts told her Jon was lying. 

At that moment the man who lived across the street stepped onto his front porch. He looked at Marianne, saw Jon and looked away. Marianne was wearing thin, summer pajamas. She was so angry when she saw Jon pull up that she didn’t even think to put a robe on. Suddenly, she was embarrassed. The guy across the street took another look and Jon noticed, another opportunity.

“Yo, Pete, go back in your house and mind your own damn business. My wife’s not standing here for you to look at.”

“Sorry Jon, just wanted to make sure everything was all right.”

“Okay, you checked now get lost.” 

“Jon, go inside,” Marianne said, swiftly moving to him, her arms folded protectively over her chest. She was pleased to see he cared. She was also grateful they had something else to focus on for the moment. They walked up the front steps, pushed open the apartment house’s heavy front door and climbed the two flights to their apartment in silence. They were met at the door by their 8 year old son, Marty. He was crying.

Marianne embraced him. “It’s all right Marty. We were just having an argument. 

“Who took care of Marty while you were playing Dick Tracy?”

“My mother came over for a while.”

Jon’s face turned crimson. He was genuinely angry now, forgetting that he was the cause of their troubles. “You had your mother here? And when you came home what did you tell her?”“Nothing, I said we had a drink, but you were busy so I came home,” she lied. 

They stood there in the doorway, neither of them sure what to do next. Jon understood that he had managed to calm things down for now. In the 11 years they were married, Jon had only strayed one other time, a one night thing when he went to, of all things, his uncle’s funeral in Columbus, Ohio. 

The situation with Daisy was different. They had been seeing each other for three months, maybe longer. They had pledged their love for one another, which he now realized was a grave miscalculation. The restaurant’s owners, Phil and Marie, liked him. But he saw now how his relationship with Daisy could cost him his job if things got out of hand. He would have to let things cool down between them, at least for a little while.   

He was making good money at The Drake. In spite of his ability to turn icy cold at a moment’s notice, he never displayed that side of himself to his customers. He was charming and always respectful, even to the guys who treated him as if he was some peasant just off the boat. He never even shot any of them a warning look. Mostly he laughed it off when they got high and mighty on him. After three years there, he had a steady clientele of mostly good tippers. 

Only one guy, a balding, heavyset, neighborhood bookie, got under his skin. The guy always had a much younger woman with him. When Jon came to his table, without fail, in a loud voice, the guy would say, “Meet Jon, Baby Doll, your wish is his command, right Jonny boy?” Then he would hand Jon a five dollar bill and say, “Whatever she wants. Look at her. Who could say no to a face like that?” Sometimes, if he felt he could get away with it, he would add, “And get a load of those tits.”

This went on every Saturday night for almost a year. Finally Jon went to Franco and said, “That fucking bookie is getting on my nerves. He’s yours if you want him. I’m not serving him anymore.” Still, he envied the bookie’s luck with women.                       

Marianne and Jon were still standing just a foot inside their apartment. Jon looked over at Marty who was now in their tiny living room, watching cartoons on the black and white, RCA console set. He wasn’t crying anymore. He looked at Marianne. She was near tears. Jon assumed she was ashamed of her behavior. He could not have been more wrong. She was fighting back tears of anger and frustration. She was thinking she needed to find a job, something Jon would hate.   

“I’m going to jump in the tub,” he said, casual now. “What’s for breakfast?” He smiled as if to say, all was forgiven. He lightly kissed her forehead, in control again.  

She surprised him. “Fix it yourself. Or better yet, get your girlfriend to make you breakfast.”

Daisy was off that Sunday. When Jon went into work, he could see right away that his co-workers were giving him weird looks. He went about his business, getting his station ready. Tino made him a plate of spaghetti with garlic and olive oil, a favorite dish since he was a kid. A few minutes before they opened the doors, he could take it no longer. He walked over to Franco, who seemed to be staring into space. “Franco, what’s going on here? Why is everybody giving me the fish eye?”

“Nobody’s giving you the fish eye, Jon. People are worried about you. Do you know Marianne was here last night looking for you?”

“Yeah, she told me.”

“No problems then?”

“What problems? Why should there be problems?”

A couple of parties walked in and sat down, one at Franco’s station and the other sat at one of Jon’s tables. “Go see your customers. We’ll talk later,” Franco said.

It got busy early and stayed that way for the next three hours. By nine o’clock there were only a few parties left, sipping coffee. The waiters and the bus boys were giving them the fish eye. They wanted to go home. Jon sat at the table next to the kitchen doors. He turned and picked up the adding machine that sat on the bottom shelf of the bus boy’s station. He sat the machine in front of him; it was time to total the dinner checks for the night. When he was finished he would give the checks to the owner, Phil, along with the cash he collected, minus his tips, and a slip of paper he ripped from the adding machine roll verifying the amount. 

Usually, he would short the house by fifteen or twenty dollars, depending on his needs. He started doing it two weeks after his affair with Daisy started. She taught him the trick that made it possible. The adding machine had a quirk that allowed a waiter to minus out the amount he wanted to steal. If you didn’t actually clear the machine, but instead typed in the amounts on each check, it would add them and come up with what appeared to be the correct total. 

Unless the owner went to the trouble of clearing the machine and reentering the amount of each check, he would never know one of his waiters was stealing from him. Jon needed the extra cash to take Daisy to lunch or to a movie in the afternoon, after which they made love. It bothered him a little, but not nearly as much as it would have bothered him if he wasn’t able to buy the household things Marianne needed just because he was spending money on Daisy. That night, unsure what his next move was, he played it straight. The owners of The Drake got every penny that was coming to them.   

Franco came over and sat down with Jon, ready to use the adding machine himself. He placed a half-filled glass of Chianti next to the machine. The Drake was dead. He was tired and he wanted nothing more than to go home and rest his aching feet and knees. 

Jon watched while Franco worked the adding machine. He wondered if Franco had ever gotten wise to the machine’s glitch.

Franco eyed him back and said, “You’re wondering if I know how to do magic tricks?”

“Maybe.”

“I used to, but I sleep better now. Nothing beats a good night’s sleep, I’ll tell you that.”

Jon smiled. Right now he could use a peaceful night. “We did alright tonight. I had 24 parties.”

“Listen kid, about the question you asked earlier. Franco hesitated for a moment. “You and Daisy, it’s not smart for a guy in your situation.”

Jon didn’t answer. He stiffened his body and shot Franco his tough guy look. Franco punched in a check total on the adding machine and took a sip of wine. He sat back and said, “Jon, maybe you scared a lot of boys in high school with that look. I’m too old to be afraid, capisce? 

“Now I know you and Daisy think nobody knows what’s going on. I’ll let you in on a little secret. Everybody, including Atilio the dish washer, knows you too are getting together.” As he said this he made fists, holding up only the index finger of each hand and slowly bringing them together until they touched. 

Jon shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Franco.”

Franco laughed, a kind laugh, not wanting to hurt Jon’s feelings. “You’re still young. Maybe you’re the kind of guy who just needs something on the side. Or, maybe you’re just going through a rough spot, who knows? But Jon, either way, this is where you butter your bread. Can you afford to be so foolish?” 

Jon knew it was useless now to protest. He held out his hands in supplication. “I don’t know, I just…”

Franco nodded. “You use protection?” He pulled a cigarette from his pack of Luckies. 

“Sometimes, but she hates it when I do though.” Jon smiled; there was a note of pride in his voice.

Franco opened his lighter and lit his cigarette. Rather than close it to extinguish the flame he held it open and looked at John, not saying anything.  

Jon surrendered “Not much I can do about that now is there?”  

“We’ll see. You make promises to Daisy?”

“You mean like getting married?”

Franco nodded.

“No, not exactly. I said I would think about it.”

“Alright, call her tonight and tell her you thought about it. You can’t do it and you can’t see her anymore.”

“You think it’s that easy?” 

“She tell you I called her place looking for you last night?” Franco asked.

“No, was that you who called?”

“Yeah, I told her to send you back to the restaurant, your wife was here.”

Jon closed his eyes. “What if she goes to Marianne?”

“You’ll sleep on the couch for a couple of weeks. You’ll eat shit and you’ll apologize a thousand times,” Franco said. “You’ll make the bed, do the dishes, buy her jewelry and take her out. You’ll play catch with your son. Then one day you’ll mention, as if it don’t mean anything, that you went to confession.” 

“You were doing okay until you said that,” Jon said. 

Franco took a long satisfying sip of his wine. “One Saturday night she’ll say ‘aren’t you coming to bed? We’re going to the early Mass tomorrow.’ That’s when you’ll know you’re married again.”

“How do you know all this Franco?”

“The same way you’ll know it after these things happen.” 

“And what about Daisy?”

Franco shook his head and smiled. He took a long drag on his cigarette. “She’s gonna be a real bitch on wheels, kid. But Marie will set her straight when she feels you’ve suffered enough. You’re lucky the old lady likes you.”

Jon thought that one over. “What can Daisy do to me?”

“Come on Jon. Her job is hostess, right? You think your tables were always busy because everybody that walked in the joint asked for you?” 

“I told her about that. I made her spread it around, especially in your case.”

“My point is she is going to make sure you starve for a while, kid. Nobody is going to sit with you unless they come in when she’s in the bathroom.”

“I’ll talk to Phil if she does that.”

“No, no. You don’t want to do that. You’ll be fired before you get the words out of your mouth. Did Daisy ever tell you how she knows Marie and Phil?”   

“No she didn’t, why?”

“Marie is Daisy’s Godmother. Daisy’s mother went to school with Marie from kindergarten through high school, best friends.”

“What does that have to do with Daisy screwing me out of parties every night?”

Franco finished his wine. “I’m tired and I’m going home.” He picked up his dinner checks and stuffed them in his waiter’s jacket. He would stop by Phil’s tiny office and drop them off with the money on his way out the door. 

“That’s it?” Jon asked. 

“Uh-huh. Take your medicine and keep your mouth shut.” Franco looked around to be sure no one was within earshot. “Now I’m telling you this for your own good. Maybe it will make things easier. You weren’t the first guy here that Daisy got together with. She’s young and she’s misguided. Marie stops off at St. Francis and prays for her every morning.”

“Wait a minute. Who was she with before me?” 

 “What difference does that make? Somebody else will take your place soon enough, and you’ll thank him.”

Jon sat alone at the table. Carlo the assistant cook came out of the kitchen. “You got a phone call,” he said. “You want something to eat before I close up?”

“Who is it?” Jon asked.

“How do I know? You want something to eat or not?”

“Maybe, where’s Tino?”

“Didn’t feel good, he went home. You got five minutes to decide and then I close up.”

Walking into the kitchen, Jon was worried. Daisy never called him while he was working. He would have to have a talk with her about that. But it wasn’t Daisy. It was another kind of trouble. “Hello, this is Jon.”

“It’s Papa, I just want you to know that Marianne and Marty are here with us. She won’t say why.”   

“You’re her father. What reason does she need?” Jon asked.

“That’s right, I’m her father, but she don’t usually bring no suitcases when she comes over here.”

“You saying she left me?”

“Looks that way. She’s crying. How come Jon?”

“I don’t know Papa. Should I come over there?”

“Wait until tomorrow. Marty’s sound asleep. He was crying too, in case you’re interested.”

Jon slammed the phone back into its cradle.  

“Not hungry?” Carlo asked.

In the bathroom, washing his face, Jon’s worry slowly turned to anger. He loved Marianne no doubt about it. Leaving him, well, that shook him up. But Marianne couldn’t prove anything. She wanted to spend a few days with her parents? Fine, let her crawl back home when she realized he wasn’t going to come begging. 

He decided to go see Daisy instead. Maybe he could talk some sense into her, explain why they couldn’t see each other anymore in a way that wouldn’t make Daisy exact a revenge he couldn’t afford. 

Daisy lived only a block away from The Drake. Jon decided to walk there. It would help him clear his mind. He tried to remember the last time he didn’t use protection with her. Had to be at least a month ago, he thought. 

She lived on the first floor of a two-family house. He climbed the steps hoping his resolve wouldn’t melt when he saw her face. He was about to ring her bell when he noticed some movement in her living room. The blinds weren’t completely closed so he could see inside. 

There was Tino on the couch with Daisy, warming her up with a long kiss. He knew he should turn around and leave, but he couldn’t help it. He rapped on the window. The looks on their faces was priceless. He gave them his middle finger.

In the car, on his way over to his in-laws home, he felt like a man in control of his life, maybe for the first time in months. He would take Marianne and Marty home. Sleep on the couch if he had to.