Confessions of a Catholic Cop by Fitzsimmons Thomas

Author:Fitzsimmons, Thomas
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lightening Source.
Published: 2011-02-07T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 20

“Loser!” Doreen D’Amato screamed into her sleeping husband’s ear. D’Amato bolted upright in bed. His face was sleep lined, hair a sweat matted mess, eyes crusted, bloodshot.

“Where am I?”

Doreen flung the shirt D’Amato had worn last night in his face. He pulled it away, glanced at it. There was lipstick on the collar.

“I can explain,” D’Amato said, his breath a vile memento of the booze and cannabis he’d consumed last night.

“Don’t bother.” Doreen circled the bed. The floral tent-sized house dress she wore did little to conceal the fact that she’d gained yet another ten pounds.

“I’ve had it. You hear me, Vinnie?” Doreen pounded her fist into a beefy palm. “This is the last time I tolerate you staying out all night with whores, getting drunk.” She pointed a chocolate smeared index finger at him. “Next time, I’m taking the kids and leaving you.” Doreen waddled out and slammed the bedroom door. Paint chips flew every which way and speckled the carpet.

“You ain’t taking my daughters,” D’Amato yelled after her. “Warthog!” He fell back onto the king-size bed feeling stale and woolen-mouthed, his skull weighed down by stone. He placed a pillow over his face in an attempt to keep the afternoon sun out, and tried to recall last night.

He remembered having words with Beckett—the self-absorbed asshole—in J. G. Melons. Then Kitty, the bartender had refused to serve him another martini and threw him out. He recalled hailing a cab on Third Avenue and—wait a minute. D’Amato grabbed his shirt, sniffed it, smiled: Mona Love’s perfume.

He’d gone to Mona’s place, knocked on her door. She was home, glad to see him. She’d invited him into her red velvet abode. They drank beer, smoked pot. He recalled dancing with Mona, whipping out “the beast” but couldn’t remember if they’d been intimate. And try as he might, he couldn’t remember when he left Mona’s apartment, how he got home, or at what time.

“Loser!” Doreen shrieked from the other side of the bedroom door. A moment later D’Amato heard the front door open, then slam shut; the fat bitch was losing her mind.

D’Amato wished his wife would leave him like she’d been threatening to do for years. He’d take the kids, rent them a small apartment close to the city and as far away from Doreen as possible. Then he wouldn’t have to answer to anyone, like Beckett. He’d be able to come and go as he pleased, meet new women, party all night every night if he wanted to. Spend some quality time with his new main squeeze, Mona.

Seen from a helicopter, D’Amato’s “A” frame house was indistinguishable from all the others at Long Island’s Massapequa Shores. Actually, the “shores” had recently been bulldozed. The little man-made lake was gone. No longer could D’Amato stand at its banks, surrounded by scrub pine, far from the shattered South Bronx, and cast for fish he knew were not there. The lake had been labeled polluted so the greedy landlord could bury it, and he did just that—buried it to get rid of it, make it seem it never existed.

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