The Spia Family Presses On

TWO

Whose Land Is This, Anyway?

I drove my cherry-red pickup down Arnold Drive through Glen Ellen, turned on Madrone Road passing Valley of the Moon winery, then turned right onto Highway 12 toward the city of Sonoma. The grapevines along the highway were in full autumn glow, with more dazzling shades of yellow, bright orange and sienna than most years. Fortunately, the road was nearly free of cars so I could glance at the ribbons of color against the backdrop of deep-green mountains without killing myself or anyone else.

I lowered the windows to let the wind race through the cab. My mind wandered to the beach in Maui as I passed the Russo vineyard. It was home to the man I had a love-hate relationship with. We were in the hate stage at the moment, having broken up four months ago after a weekend that nearly put me back in rehab. Leonardo Russo was the man I lusted over, woke up dreaming about, and wanted so bad it hurt.

Leo and I were like fire and kindling when we were together, hot being the operative word here, both with our sexual encounters and our ability to party on. A real shame considering I truly loved the man, but he was bad news as far as my sobriety was concerned. I was trying to focus in on that negative fact as I slowed to cruise by and fantasize about any future possibilities. It was just then that I saw two men standing toe-to-toe talking out on the front porch of the tasting room, a large two-story clapboard painted gray with white trim.

I pulled over, thinking one of the men was Leo, and already I could feel the tingle in my toes. I hadn’t seen him in awhile, but the man still had a powerful effect on me. Perhaps a little wine buying might be in order for Dickey’s freedom party. There could never be enough wine at one of our family events.

Leo’s Pinot Noir had won a gold medal at Vinitaly. I figured heartfelt congratulations would serve as my opening act, just a bit of friendly conversation between two neighbors.

I knew my limits, sort of. And anyway, it wasn’t as if I could start anything up again with him anyway. I’d heard he had a new girlfriend, a Marley or Sharley or something. She lived over in Napa. A wine critic or a food critic. I wasn’t sure of all the details, not fully wanting to admit that he had already moved on, but I did know she had a fat ass according to Aunt Babe who was somewhat of an expert on fat asses, having one herself.

The sun was in my eyes as I stared at him. His rich brown hair seemed longer than usual, and there was quite a bit of facial hair going on, most likely due to Marley or Sharley’s insistence because the Leo I knew shaved at least twice a day, but it was Leonardo all right. I mean, if it wasn’t, he looked enough like him to be his brother, and as far as I knew, Leo didn’t have a brother.

I let out a long, slow lustful sigh, completely envious of fat-ass Marley or Sharley or whatever the hell her name was. And what was wrong with my ass anyway?

I sighed again hoping he would notice my pickup. It was obvious this truck belonged to me: I rode around with my olive-picking ladder sticking out of the back. A prerequisite this time of year; one never knew when they would be called on to start picking.

For a moment, he glanced my way, but there was absolutely no sign of recognition.

Fine.

What did I care.

I shifted my gaze. The other man didn’t look familiar. He was much smaller than Leo, both in height and weight, had thick, gray hair combed straight back, and wore a shirt the same color as the autumn leaves.

He must be a tourist.

I was just about to back up so I could head for the driveway, thinking my mother would truly appreciate a case of wine, when the man started poking Leo’s chest. Leo slapped the man’s hand away and I knew from my many years of watching my volatile relatives, these two guys were in the heat of a battle.

I watched for another moment as arms flailed, and tempers elevated to a point where another man came out to try and put a stop to their escalating argument. I was thinking perhaps this was not the optimum time for a visit, so I pulled back on the road, thankful to let the temptation pass.

When I arrived at the bank just off the Plaza in the village of Sonoma fifteen minutes later, the parking lot was almost empty. I figured I could get in and out in no time. I so didn’t want to run into anyone I knew because I was lousy at hiding things and I simply had no stomach for spilling my guts about Dickey’s release.

I parked the Ford, hurried inside and found forty-something Liz Harrington eager to escort me to Mom’s safety deposit box. My name was on all my mom’s accounts. “Just in case I get hit by a bus,” she’d say. The likelihood of my mom getting struck down by a bus in Sonoma was equal to her getting hit by a meteor. The woman hardly left the orchard, and when she did, someone else would drive her. She wouldn’t even cross the street in the village without an escort let alone walk somewhere alone in the presence of crazed bus drivers.

But she insisted, so there I was doing her banking with the help of surly Liz Harrington who, for some inexplicable reason, seemed eager to please.

“I hear your cousin Dickey was released from Soledad yesterday,” she surreptitiously inquired as we walked toward the back of the bank, her well-worn cowboy boots clicking on the gray tile floor.

“That was quick,” I answered. Sonoma Valley was like any other small town. News traveled through it like wildfire in a dry forest.

“I also heard your family is throwing him a party tonight. Boy, I’d like to be a fly on the wall at that one.”

“It should be pretty boring,” I muttered with indifference, hoping she would get the message that I didn’t like where this conversation was heading. It was bad enough that I came from a family of aging ex-mobsters, but did I have to hear about it even from my banker?

“Not the way I heard it.”

I couldn’t resist. “And what was that?”

“You have relatives flying in from all over the country to be there,” she said as we walked into a small, stuffy room, the walls lined with tiny metal doors, each one with double key holes.

The woman knew more than I did about my mother’s plans. “Not likely, but you know how families are,” I told her trying to sound as if my family was as normal as the next guy’s.

“No. How are they?” Her head bobbed in a curiously disjointed way. I stared at her wondering if that movement was natural or was it some old neck injury that had never quite mended properly. Either way, it seemed like something she should get fixed “I grew up in an orphanage and the only parents I ever knew died from a crack overdose when I was ten. I never married, never had kids and from the looks of it, I won’t be getting those things any time soon.”

While she spoke I was thinking that perhaps it was her neck injury that had turned her into such a disagreeable woman.

Or not.

I decided to go for a more holistic approach. “Love can come when you least expect it.”

“That’s a bunch of baloney,” she said bitterly.

I smiled, not having a good comeback for that one, so I let the silence of the airless room take over.

We turned our keys in the locks. I slid the box out of the slot, and Liz Harrington stood a little too close-by, key in hand, while I went through Mom’s things. I could smell the shot of bourbon she’d mixed in with her coffee that morning, and the sweet cologne she had sprayed on her clothes to cover it up. It made me feel a little sorry for her. I knew all about the need to smooth out the day.

I found the papers Mom had asked for, along with my dad’s simple gold wedding band, Mom’s matching wedding band, a couple of photos, a picture of me in first grade missing a front tooth, some little girl I’d never seen before who was also missing a front tooth, a small mesh bag filled with gold coins and a larger one containing silver change—Mom’s security just in case the economy took a real dump and paper money became worthless—and Dickey’s flashy ring. For some reason, I remembered the ring, but not on Dickey’s finger. I stared at it for a few seconds, trying to visualize who else could have worn it, but nothing came to me.

I thought about when Mom had put all these things in this box when we first moved here. How sad she was, and how much I still missed my dad. He had left on a business trip while we were still living in North Beach—I was twelve, way before we moved to Sonoma—and had simply disappeared. Mom hired a private detective to find him, someone not connected to our ever-growing family, but we never saw him again.

Not that this was anything new to a mob family, but my dad had always tried to steer clear of “family” matters so I never had the impression he was actually connected, at least that was the innocence of my childhood. Somewhere during my late teens I finally realized the truth, everyone around me was connected.

Still, he was different than Uncle Benny or Uncle Ray who were Made Men since they were in their twenties.

My dad loved to make people happy, and loved to cook. Almost every Sunday afternoon he’d boil up a few pounds of pasta, fry about fifty meatballs, throw them in a rich tomato sauce, then make a mountain of salad and invite everybody he knew over for dinner. Those were some of my best memories, and most likely where I got my love of cooking.

I took out the ring and the papers Mom had asked me to fetch, put everything back into the box, slid the box back into its slot, turned the key, and Liz stepped forward and did the same. I told her thanks and to have a nice day. She threw me a tepid smile, never uttering another word, thank God, and I walked out of the bank.

I still had a little time before I had to be at the bookstore for Lisa’s book signing, so I decided a stop at Maya, a Yucatan restaurant off of the Plaza. Maya’s was located on the historic Sonoma Plaza on the corner of East Napa and First, a stone’s throw from Readers bookstore. I felt actual hunger pangs and thought I’d stop in for one of their prawn enchiladas in a cream sauce with sweet peppers, onions, cilantro and rice. It had to be one of my favorite lunches. That and a Maya Margarita made with agua fresca (whatever juice the bartender squeezed that morning . . . guava was my absolute fave) served in a chilled martini glass. I drank it sans the tequila, a concession I’d made with myself months ago.

When I stepped inside the colorful restaurant with the stone walls and polished cement floor, the hostess greeted me with a friendly smile and asked if I would be sitting at the bar or a table. I opted for a table. The bar, better known as the Temple of Tequila, was far too much of a temptation. I’d spent many a night worshiping at the Temple with tequila flights lined up in front of me. All I wanted now was a quiet spot to read.

“A table would be fine, thanks,” I told her. She picked up a menu and I followed her to the table next to the front window. I could see my pickup parked curbside. Someone in a monster black Tundra was busy trying to parallel park in the tiny space behind my pickup and was having one hell of a time getting into the space. I just hoped he didn’t hit my bumper. I wasn’t in the mood to exchange info.

As soon as I pulled the wooden chair out to sit, my waiter appeared and I ordered. I didn’t need to look at a menu. When he left, I began reading the documents. I wanted to see if I could find anything that might indicate a problem for my mom. I didn’t understand her urgency to get the documents, and I was curious about what they said.

My food and drink arrived before I finished reading, and the Tundra had apparently given up and moved on when I glanced out the window again. I was grateful no damage was done. My plate of food smelled wonderful and I couldn’t wait to dig in.

For the moment, all was right with the world.

I took a big gulp of my margarita, and a bite of a perfect enchilada, the taste a complete delight.

Everything in the document seemed fine, except for the last page. It was signed by my cousin Dickey, my mom, Uncle Benny, and notarized by somebody named Peter Doyle.

I took another sip of margarita. I would have liked it better with a shot of Don Julio tequila or perhaps El Tesoro, but I told myself this was much more refreshing.

Yeah, right.

To summarize what I was reading, and if I was understanding the legalese correctly, it stated that in the event that Dickey Spia was cleared of the murder of Carla DeCarlo, the olive grove, any subsequent buildings and the business itself would revert back to him as the sole owner. I had to read that over several times before it sunk in.

Then as if my body reacted before my mind could take hold of this disturbing information, a tiny ripple of panic swept through me as my stomach roiled, and my chest began to tighten. If ever I needed a drink it was at that moment. I took a deep breath, pulled out some cash, stuck it under my essentially untouched plate of delectable looking fare and left the restaurant. I had to get home. Now! I had to know if this document was legal, and if it was, what did it mean for our company? For the family?

For me?

I raced home as fast as I could without getting a speeding ticket or causing some massive pileup. As I approached our olive orchard from the road, I could see that the family Spia was out in Mom’s front yard, apparently holding that meeting she had talked about.

Mom’s yard served as our usual meeting and party place. It was about half an acre wide, with a cluster of olive trees for shade that everyone was now standing or sitting under, drinking wine and participating in the animated conversation. Their attention abruptly turned to someone in the group. I couldn’t tell who, but arms moved about, hands sliced the air and gyrating body language told me they were in a tizzy. Most of the time everyone got along, but there were occasions when tempers flared and all hell broke loose.

I pulled my pickup in closer to the fence and hoped for calm, but from the looks of what was already going on, I couldn’t tell if the gestures were of the friendly variety or the “may you rot in hell” type.

Just about everyone who worked on our land was there, which was unusual for a Wednesday afternoon. Normally they’d be tending to their shops. Seeing them all together in the front yard in the middle of a work day was not particularly a good sign.

The friends and family who worked on the land considered it their personal small town. We even had our very own mayor, Uncle Ray, my mother’s honorary brother. In my naïveté, I used to refer to him as Godfather, until he put me straight one day and told me in no uncertain terms should the word Godfather ever be uttered in the same sentence with his name. Uncle Ray had done his time in a Federal pen for racketeering—he ran a highly profitable plumbing business in New York City with no real plumbers—but rumor had it racketeering was the least of his undertakings.

Mom had built a sort of one-street town on the land when she first took it over, hoping the charm and ambiance would attract more tourists to our olive products. Little did she know some of our more notorious relatives would want to take up residency and call it home.

Mom owned two rows of attached two-story buildings, which consisted of small storefronts on the first floor, and a few one bedroom apartments on the second floor. She collected rent for both, but the revenue from the businesses stayed with the shopkeepers. Each business boasted an Italian motif, and was run by various relatives, honorary relatives, adopted relatives, divorced relatives and a sprinkling of friends. It had been difficult to get all the permits to create an independent small town of sorts, but with Uncle Benny’s help she was able to eventually pull it off.

The orchard or farm, as we sometimes referred to it, served as a means for everyone to pursue more legitimate goals, not that anyone’s past was ever mentioned. It was a way to stay connected with each other and avoid having to find a new identity in the outside world.

I made sure there was no skimming, money laundering or racketeering. Once a month I went over their books, and if I found anything that didn’t quite add up or if somebody began pulling money out of their freezer, the family would band together and kick him or her out, which we’ve had to do on one or two occasions.

There was a time when the Feds would tap our phones and hide in parked vans and watch the place, but that stopped years ago when Mom walked right out to a parked van and began pitching the benefits of olive oil. The pitch that put it over the top for us was the day she mixed a cup of olive oil with four tablespoons of baking soda and taught them how to polish their guns with the concoction. Not long after that the vans disappeared, along with those pesky clicking sounds on our business phones.

As I pulled into the main driveway with the arching metal “Spia’s Olive Press” sign, I saw that we were closed for the day. A heavy chain hung across the entrance. I backed up and made a U-turn and headed for the private service road that led to the back of my mother’s Victorian, and would eventually end at the old stone barn.

The last time my family had closed the shops and olive oil tasting room early, my great-grandfather, Bisnonno Luigiano, who was ninety-six at the time and barely able to sit up in a chair, had drifted off to heaven during a Fourth of July celebration. And even then we only closed for a few hours while the paramedics were there. My family did not like to lose revenue, no matter what went on. So for them to close their shops in the afternoon meant that Dickey’s freedom party was bigger than death.