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away except for Grandma Carmela and their horrible Aunt Connie. Apparently Uncle Carlo had simply disappeared—one of those jerks who went out for cigarettes and never came back: a lousy thing to do, even for a creep like him, but Francesca had to admit that anyone married to Aunt Connie would have had to consider it. Kathy, especially up there, would probably get asked every day, even by her professors, if she was any relation to those notorious gangsters, the Corleones. If the past few months in Hollywood were any indication, Francesca would have to be braced for this, too, even in Tallahassee.
    Her mother, the controlling shrew, was driving them both.
Driving!
To New York! Thank God Francesca would get dropped off first. She honked again.
    “That’s very annoying,” said Kathy.
    “As if you’re really reading that book.”
    Kathy answered in what was either French or fake French.
    Francesca hadn’t taken a language and planned to evade the issue either by taking Italian—which, in truth, she didn’t know all that well—or by majoring in something with no language requirement. “We’re Italian,” Francesca said. “Why aren’t you learning Italian?”
    “
Sei una fregna per sicuro,
” Kathy answered.
    “Nice mouth.”
    Kathy shrugged.
    “You can swear in Italian,” Francesca said, “but you can’t
read
Italian.”
    “I can’t read at all unless you shut up.”
    Their mother was next door at their grandparents’ house, and had been there for ages, laying down last-minute care-and-feeding instructions for Francesca’s brothers, Frank, fifteen, and Chip, ten. Chip’s real name was Santino Jr., and, until he had come home from baseball practice one day this summer and announced that he would henceforth answer only to “Chip,” had been called Tino. Francesca could probably do that. She could go to college and take on another name.
Fran Collins. Franny Taylor. Frances Wilson.
She could, but she wouldn’t. They’d already Americanized the pronunciation, from
Cor-le-o-nay
to
Cor-lee-own,
and that was change enough. She was proud of her name, proud to be Italian. She was proud that her father had rebelled against his gangster father and brothers and become a legitimate businessman. Anyway, Francesca’s name would change in good time, when she found a husband.
    Francesca honked again. What was taking so long in there? Nonna and Poppa would ignore every word Francesca’s mother said. Those boys got away with
murder,
especially Frankie, especially once the football thing started. Francesca honked once more. “You’re making it
much
easier,” said Kathy, and Francesca finished the sentence: “—for you to leave. I know.” Kathy sighed as only an American girl can. Moments later, she stroked the back of Francesca’s hair, softly. The twins had never in their eighteen years spent a night apart.
    Hal Mitchell’s Castle in the Sand Hotel and Casino never closed. Neither, these days, did Johnny Fontane, who’d done his two shows (eight and midnight) and been up all night, showing the swells and pallies a good time, then, for luck (since he had a session today), to his suite, where there were two chicks. One was a blond French girl who danced at the casino across the way and said she’d had one line (“Gosh, look!”) in that Mickey Rooney picture they’d filmed here last year, the one where Mickey’s a prospector in the desert and there’s a bomb test and the dose of radiation he gets makes it so any slot machine he touches pays off (there’s no scene with wiseguys beating the shit out of Mickey Rooney). The other one was a luscious brunette with a C-section scar who was probably paid to be there (fine by him; by Johnny’s stars, the worthiest of human attainments was to be a professional). When he’d asked, a total gentleman about it, if either of them had a problem going to bed—y’know? all three of them?—they’d laughed and started to strip. The brunette, who’d said her name was