being an asshole.”
“We’re all assholes.” Costa laughed. “Just ask Violet.”
Marshall snorted at the mention of Violet’s name. “Ain’t that the truth.”
“Except for Dead Winston,” said Costa.
Marshall blinked in recognition. “Oh, yeah. The sainted Dead Winston.” He raised his cup. “To Dead Winston.” The men drank again.
“He was one lucky son of a bitch,” said Costa.
“You got that right.”
Marshall stared down into his coffee, thinking about Winston Montgomery. He’d been Violet’s first husband, and thirty-two years her senior. They’d met when Violet Benjamin was twenty-two and working one of the many snack bars at Detroit Metro. They’d struck up a conversation over martinis and smoked almonds. He was on his way to Japan to promote one of his company’s newest computer programs. She was a college student, still trying to figure out her major. She was bubbly and bright. He was well read and adventuresome.
According to Violet, Win went right out and bullied the girl at the ticket counter, purchased a first-class seat for Violet next to his, and their whirlwind romance began in Tokyo. They came home thirty days later Mr. and Mrs. Winston Montgomery, much to the horror of Marilyn and Tom Benjamin, Violet’s parents. Tom referred to him as the Goddamn Cradle Robber until Winston died of a heart attack three years into the marriage. Marilyn never said much about him and secretly nursed a crush on her handsome, distinguished son-in-law so unlike her GM line-working husband.
“Know what I did one time?” Costa said, pulling Marshall out of his reverie. “She used to keep this picture of him on the mantle. Her Poor Dead Winston, she always called him.”
“She had a picture of him up in your house while you were married to her?”
“Yeah. Right in the living room so the son of a bitch could watch me watching the Wings game. Used to creep me out. I bitched about it, but she wouldn’t get rid of the goddamned thing. Said ‘he’s my angel watching over me from heaven.’ Can you believe that shit? Jealous of a dead guy, that was me, if you can believe that.”
Marshall leaned back in his chair. “I can believe it.” He hadn’t had to endure Winston’s photograph, but he’d sure listened to his share of all-the-things-Winston-did-for-me-stories. “So, what’d you do?”
“One night me and Violet were fighting about something.” Costa scratched at his head. “Oh, yeah. She went out and bought some clothes and shoes and stuff, and we were kinda hurting for money at the time, you know? Anyhow, I was mad about it. We were standing right there in the living room, and she tells me what a stingy asshole I am being, and we have our own business and whatnot, and how we should be able to afford ‘little extravagances,’ she called them. Then she says how generous Poor Dead Winston was and blah blah, and she goes stomping to the bedroom and locks herself in.” Costa got up from the stool, his knee popping, and crossed to the coffee maker. He filled his cup with steaming black brew. “So, I’m sitting there, right? Having a beer? And I’m looking at the dead guy’s picture, smiling at me with all those big white teeth, up there on the fireplace with all these candles and crap, like a goddamned shrine. So I go out the back door and walk over into the neighbor’s yard. They have this St. Bernard, right? And he craps all over the fucking place. Everybody in the neighborhood used to bitch about it. So, I go over there and scoop up this big dog turd.”
Marshall set his cup down on the stainless counter with a thump. “Jesus! That’s disgusting!”
“I scooped it up with a plastic bag. You think I pick up something like that with my hands? Jesus Christ.” Costa swirled the coffee around in his cup. “Anyway, I have this gigantic turd, right? And I take it in and put it on the mantle and squash the dead bastard’s picture right down in it.” Costa sat on the stool and poured another shot of ouzo into his cup. “Laughed my ass off,” he said, taking a mouthful of coffee.
“Holy shit.”
“Wasn’t exactly holy, but it sure was shit!” Costa laughed. “She didn’t talk to me for a week.”
“Who cleaned up the crap?”
Costa leaned on his forearm and peered over the black plastic frames of his glasses. His licorice breath wafted across the counter. He gave Marshall an incredulous look. “Me. Who do you think cleaned it up?”
Marshall sighed. “Yeah, right.”
Costa looked down into his cup. “That one cost me at least two weeks of friggin’ therapy.”
“You, too, huh?”
Costa nodded. “She was always going to some shrink or other.
Cost us a mint.” He gestured around the room. “You got your own business, you gotta pay your own insurance premiums, take care of your property.”
“I hear that,” Marshall said. “Started my own office about a year and a half ago.”
“Yeah?” Costa said. He patted Marshall’s shoulder. “Good for you. So, what happened?”
“What do you mean, what happened?”
“Between the two of you. You and Violet.”
“I don’t know for sure.” Marshall rubbed his throbbing head. “She said I was unhappy. I guess I wasn’t ecstatic about how things were between us, but all couples go through stuff, you know? I didn’t think things were bad. I mean, hell. We weren’t talking as much as we used to, and certainly things changed—you know, in the bedroom. But it wasn’t bad, you know? Shit, my mom and dad—hell, they’d fight like crazy. My mom would be screaming, and she’d take her shoes off and throw them at my dad.”
“She Greek?”
“French and Polish.” Marshall hunched over his coffee, his voice going quiet. “But, you know, for all their fighting, they stayed together. My mom totally lost it when my dad died, said he was the love of her life.” He chuckled softly. “All us kids could remember was yelling and flying shoes. But me and Violet? Things weren’t bad enough for . . . this.” Costa nodded. “Maybe she’ll change her mind,” Marshall said. “Come back, you know. Maybe she’s just . . . wanting some . . . space. Or something.” Marshall thought about Violet’s wedding ring, lying in a little dish next to the kitchen sink at home.
“Sure, maybe she’ll, you know, come back,” said Costa, but he looked down into his coffee when he said it, and Marshall could tell he didn’t think that was going to happen.
Costa locked the restaurant door behind Marshall with a sigh, shaking his head. He ran a hand through his thick hair. He had to admit, he felt sorry for the guy. After all, he’d been there. Costa had been Violet’s second husband. He was first generation American, the son of Greek immigrants, and grew up in his father’s restaurant in Detroit. Violet hadn’t liked Detroit, and she was even less fond of Costa’s conventional mother, Marta, who never let Costa forget he hadn’t married a Greek. Thin, pale Violet was a slap in his mother’s face, and when it got out that Violet couldn’t have children, his traditional mother was relentless. Every time she saw Violet she screamed obscenities, cried, and locked herself in the restaurant basement refusing to come upstairs until “that barren white whore” had left the premises.
For the sake of his own sanity, Costa’s father decided he needed to expand the business, and he set Costa up in Saginaw with a new restaurant. When Costa added a nightclub to the restaurant, his father was livid. Told him it would only bring trouble. Good thing he’d never told his father the club was Violet’s idea. She’d hated the restaurant and refused to work there alongside her husband the way Marta had worked alongside his father all their lives. But a club, she said, that could be her baby. She would be the manager and hostess. Unfortunately, what that really meant