Tough Luck (12 page)

Rhonda hesitated then said, “These were for my morning classes.” She looked at her watch. “Actually, I should probably leave right now.”

“Hey, you want to go to a movie Friday night?” Mickey asked.

“I can’t,” Rhonda said.

“Then how about Saturday?”

“I don’t know,” Rhonda said, taking a step toward the door.

“Will you come to my father’s wake?” Mickey asked.

“When is it?”

“Wednesday at ten.”

“I have a class Wednesday at eleven.”

“A wake lasts all day,” Mickey said. “Maybe you can come after your class, in the afternoon—”

“Maybe,” Rhonda said.

“Is something wrong?” Mickey asked.

“No,” Rhonda said. “I’m just in a hurry.”

Mickey wrote down the address of the wake on a Vincent’s Fish Market business card and handed it to Rhonda.

“You sure something isn’t wrong?” Mickey said.

“Positive,” Rhonda said. “I just can’t talk right now.”

“Okay,” Mickey said. “I hope I see you at the wake.”

When Rhonda was gone, Mickey opened the card and read the printed message which began,
Words alone cannot
relieve the sorrow you must feel right now.

MICKEY LEFT WORK early to make it home in time to watch the six o’clock news, but there was still no mention of the robbery and murder. He fried up some shrimp and scallops that he’d brought home, added Minute Rice, and stirred it all together. He had a few bites, but he wasn’t really hungry. He put away the leftovers in the fridge and opened the card Rhonda had given him for what must have been the twentieth time. The card was signed “Rhonda,” not “Love, Rhonda,” and he hoped this wasn’t a bad sign.

Later, Mickey called Chris’s mother, figuring it would look suspicious if he didn’t keep in touch.

“Mickey, I’ll have to call you back—the police just walked in.”

On the word “police” a jolt went through Mickey’s chest, but he managed to catch his breath quickly. “What happened?”

“I’ll call you back later, okay?” Mrs. Turner said.

After Mickey hung up he looked out his bedroom window and saw the police car parked in front of Mrs. Turner’s house. To keep busy, he started cleaning out his father’s room. He got a few Hefty bags from the kitchen, then he filled the bags with old clothes from the dresser drawers and the closet, coughing from the smell of mothballs. His father had had most of these clothes for as long as Mickey could remember. An ugly plaid jacket reminded him of being at the racetrack with his father years ago, standing in front of the betting windows, while his father read the
Racing Form.
Mickey put the jacket up to his nose, not surprised that it still smelled faintly of cigarette smoke.

Mickey planned to bring the stuff to the Salvation Army, and if they didn’t want it he’d just dump it on the street. He filled six bags with clothes and was starting to clean out the papers and other junk from the drawers of his father’s dresser when the doorbell rang. Terrified, imagining the police had connected him to Chris’s disappearance, Mickey went across the apartment to his room and looked out the window. He was relieved to see that the police car was gone. The doorbell rang again. As he headed down the stairs to answer it, Mickey called out, “One sec, I’m coming.”

He opened the door and saw Mrs. Turner standing there crying into a bunch of crumpled napkins.

“What’s wrong?” Mickey asked. “What’s going on?”

Mrs. Turner continued to cry for a few seconds, unable to speak, then she said, “He’s dead. I know he’s dead.”

“What do you mean?” Mickey said. “How do you know that? Is that what the police told you?”

“No, but I just know it,” she said. “He’s not coming back. He’s gone, Mickey. Gone forever.”

She hugged Mickey, crying with her chin on his shoulder.

“It isn’t fair,” she said. “Why did this have to happen to him? He was a good kid. He was trying to get his life together.”

“You don’t know anything happened,” Mickey said.

“I know,” she said. “He wouldn’t just leave for somewhere without calling. The police say there’s still a chance, they’ll look for him, but I know he’s gone. I just know it.”

Mrs. Turner stayed with Mickey for a while longer, crying, and Mickey kept telling her, “Don’t worry, they’ll find him,” and “I’m sure he’s fine,” and anything else he could think of to make her feel better.

Finally, Mrs. Turner said she would let Mickey know if there was any news, and then she walked away. Mickey watched her cross the street with her shoulders slumped and the wet napkins still in her hand.

12

ON THE CHANNEL Five ten o’clock news, the story about the Manhattan Beach robbery finally broke. A reporter live on the scene in front of the house on Hastings Street said that the police were trying to solve a bizarre mystery. The reporter explained how Robert and Barbara Rosselli had returned home from their vacation home in Pocono Pines, Pennsylvania, late last night when they discovered that their house had been robbed. The Rossellis had discovered blood on the floor in their bedroom, as well as a small handgun.

As the reporter spoke, footage of the outside of the house taken earlier in the day was shown. Then Mr. Rosselli came on, looking scared, saying pretty much what the reporter had said. A neighbor of the Rossellis said that he was shocked that something like this had happened in Manhattan Beach because it was such a calm, friendly neighborhood. The reporter returned live outside the house and said that the police were currently analyzing the blood and trying to trace the gun, but that they had no leads in the case.

Mickey watched the report, mesmerized, waiting for a mention of Filippo’s uncle Louie, but the mention never came. When the report ended, Mickey turned to the Channel Eleven news to see if he could find out any more information. He watched for about fifteen minutes, until the sports came on, but there was nothing about the robbery.

Mickey couldn’t believe he had been so stupid. He picked up the phone then realized he didn’t know Filippo’s or Ralph’s phone numbers. He knew Filippo’s last name— Castellano—but instead of calling Information for the number, he decided to go talk to him in person.

Without bothering to put on a jacket, Mickey walked a few blocks to Filippo’s house on East Forty-third Street. Mickey passed by the semi-attached, two-family brick house all the time, but he had never been inside.

After ringing the bell, Mickey heard heavy footsteps and then Filippo’s father opened the door. Mickey had seen Mr. Castellano around the neighborhood for years, but they had never spoken. He was a big fat guy with gray streaks in his black hair, and he had a thick mostly gray mustache. Chris had told Mickey that Mr. Castellano was a garbageman and he used to hit Filippo, but that was about all Mickey knew about him.

“Is Filippo here?” Mickey asked.

“Who are you?”

Mickey was surprised Mr. Castellano didn’t at least recognize him.

“Mickey. I’m on a bowling team with Filippo.”

“He ain’t here.”

“When will he be home?”

“Who the fuck knows?”

As Mickey said, “Thanks,” the door slammed. Mickey was heading home when he had an idea where Filippo could be. The Knights of Columbus had a club on Avenue J, and Filippo sometimes hung out there, drinking and playing pool. When Mickey entered the dank, dimly lit club, he spotted Filippo sitting at the bar, talking to the bartender. Filippo saw Mickey, got off his bar stool, and came over to meet him by the door.

“What the hell’re you doing here?” Filippo said.

“You fuckin’ lied to me,” Mickey said.

Filippo leaned close to Mickey’s ear and whispered, “Outside,” then he left the club ahead of Mickey. When Mickey met Filippo on the sidewalk, Filippo said, “You fuckin’ takin’ stupid pills or something? We’re not supposed to see each other.”

“Your uncle wasn’t in that house,” Mickey said.

“What the fuck’re you talkin’ about?”

“I just watched the news. The cops found the blood and the gun, but they didn’t find a body.”

“Will you shut the fuck . . .?” Filippo looked around. An old guy was walking his dog across the street, but he wasn’t paying attention.

“Did you kill Chris?” Mickey asked.

“What?”
Filippo said. “You tryin’ to get your ass kicked?”

“It was either you or Ralph because there wasn’t anybody else in the house.”

“Maybe the cops didn’t find my uncle’s body yet.”

“Tell me what happened or I’m going to the cops right now.”

“You’re not that stupid,” Filippo said. “You robbed that house too. You go to the cops you’re turnin’ yourself in.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Mickey said. “I want to know what happened.”

Filippo looked at the guy walking his dog across the street and said to Mickey, “Come on.” Filippo and Mickey walked farther up the block and stopped near the corner where no one was around.

“All right, I’ll tell you the truth,” Filippo said, “but you gotta swear to me you won’t go to the cops.”

“Just tell me,” Mickey said.

Filippo shook his head and covered his face with his hands. He started crying. He turned away from Mickey and said, “I did it, but it was an accident, I swear to God. My gun just went off.”

Filippo continued crying, wiping his cheeks.

“What do you mean, an accident?” Mickey said. “How could it’ve been an accident?”

“We were in my cousin’s bedroom,” Filippo said. “I thought I heard something near the bathroom. I said, ‘Chris, is that you?’ But he didn’t answer—probably Chris just fucking around, you know? So I just panicked and . . . I don’t even remember what happened, it happened so fast. I didn’t wanna fuckin’ kill him. He was my friend.”

Filippo rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands.

“Why were there two shots?” Mickey said.

“I shot him twice,” Filippo said. “It was just like a reflex— I couldn’t stop my finger. You gotta believe me. Why would I want to hurt Chris? I loved the fuckin’ guy.”

Mickey looked up at the dark sky, not sure how he felt. He hated Filippo, but he also felt sorry for him.

“Why’d you lie?” Mickey asked.

“I don’t know,” Filippo said. “I just wasn’t thinking straight, I guess—it all happened so fast. One second everything was all right, the next second Chris was dead. And I was scared of Ralph. He’s killed people before. Just last year he shot a nigger and a chink on the Island—they never caught him for it. Anyway, that’s the truth, but you can’t go to the cops. You were robbing the house too—you helped us take the body out. You call the cops, we all go to jail.”

Mickey knew Filippo was right; like it or not, he was involved.

“So what the hell’re you gonna tell Ralph?” Mickey said.

“I’ll take care of it,” Filippo said. “Ralph’s my friend. I’ll make him understand.”

Mickey remembered Mrs. Turner, crying into the ball of napkins. He didn’t know how he’d be able to face her again.

“I guess we have no choice now,” Mickey said. “I’ve gotta go home.”

As Mickey started away, Filippo said, “Hey, Mickey.”

Mickey turned around.

“Sorry.”

Mickey realized tonight was the first time Filippo had ever talked to him normally, without acting like an asshole. Mickey walked away without saying anything.

13

WHEN MICKEY ENTERED his apartment, he fell to his knees and broke down crying. He hadn’t cried at all about Chris or his father, and it all hit him at once. For about half an hour, he remained on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Finally, he stood up, feeling exhausted, and he didn’t know how he’d make it through the next few days.

At work the next day, Mickey felt out of it, as if he had a bad hangover. He kept thinking about Chris, bleeding to death on the bedroom floor, and felt like it was his fault. He knew this was crazy, that he’d had nothing to do with what had happened, but he couldn’t stop feeling responsible.

On his way home, Mickey walked quickly along Albany Avenue, afraid Mrs. Turner would see him and come out to talk to him. As he turned into his driveway, Mickey glanced across the street at Mrs. Turner’s house and saw that the downstairs lights were on. He pictured her sprawled out on the couch, drinking.

Mickey spent the evening making last-minute calls to old friends of his father, telling them about the wake tomorrow. He’d been missing Rhonda all day and he called her, leaving a message on her answering machine, reminding her to stop by tomorrow if she could. At ten o’clock, he didn’t bother watching the news, afraid he’d find out that Chris’s body had been discovered, or that the old man on the street had come forward.

At around nine-thirty on Wednesday morning, Mickey arrived at the Sabatino Funeral Home on Avenue U wearing his best black pants and a brown shirt that he’d had since his first year of high school. The funeral director told him how sorry he was about his loss, and then he led him to a room where Sal Prada’s body was in a casket. The funeral director sat with him for a while on the pew near the casket and then left him alone.

About twenty minutes later, cousin Carmine arrived with an old woman Mickey had never met. Carmine was hunched over and frail and didn’t recognize Mickey. After Carmine and the old woman sat down in the pew in front of Mickey, Mickey leaned forward and said, “Carmine,” a few times until he finally heard him and turned around.

“It’s me—Mickey.”

Carmine continued to squint for a few seconds, then said, “Mickey, shit, I didn’t recognize you.”

Mickey and Carmine shook hands, then Carmine introduced Mickey to the woman, his “girlfriend Ruth,” who must have been about ninety.

“Hey, I’m sorry about your father,” Carmine said, “but he was a good guy. Yeah, he was a good guy.” He started squinting again. “Now I know what’s different about you—it’s your nose. It grew, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, a little,” Mickey said, remembering why he’d never liked Carmine.

“A little?” Carmine said. “You kiddin’ me? You look like the spittin’ image of your father now. See that Ruth? That’s Sal’s nose.”

Carmine and Ruth stayed for about an hour, and Mickey wished they’d left sooner.

The rest of the morning no one else showed up. Mrs. Turner was probably too worried about Chris, and some of the people Mickey had called were too old and sick to travel. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving Day and some people might have left town early. Still, Mickey expected at least a couple of Sal’s old friends from work to come, and he was especially hoping to see Rhonda.

The funeral director returned to the room and offered to get Mickey something to eat for lunch, but Mickey said he wasn’t hungry. Then, about half an hour later, Charlie arrived, wearing a black suit and a tie.

“Guess I’m early,” Charlie said, sitting down next to Mickey.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Mickey said, smiling. “Thanks for coming.”

“What did you think, I’m not gonna show up to your father’s wake? Where’s your girlfriend at?”

“She was here before,” Mickey lied. “She might stop by again later.”

“That’s cool,” Charlie said. “I only came here for you. I thought I was gonna get my ass jumped in this neighborhood.”

“It’s during the day,” Mickey said.

“You wanna come hang out in Bed Sty during the day?” Charlie said. “But it don’t matter—I got protection now.” He looked around. “I know this ain’t exactly the time and place, but feel this right here.”

Charlie patted the front of his suit near his chest. Mickey touched the area, making out the shape of a gun in the inside pocket.

“Jesus,” Mickey said.

“Thirty-eight Special, shoots six rounds,” Charlie said. “My friend Andre got it for me on the street.”

“You don’t want to carry that around with you,” Mickey said.

“Really,” Charlie said. “Why don’t I?”

“You just don’t,” Mickey said.

“What do I look like, I’m five years old?” Charlie said. “You don’t gotta worry about me, daddy, I’ll be a good boy. I won’t go play cowboys and Indians with my friends.” Charlie laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning to
use
it. It’s just for protection—so if shit goes down like what went down that night, I can defend myself.”

“Just be careful,” Mickey said.

“I will, daddy, I will,” Charlie said. He looked around. “So you gonna have some more family coming later on?”

“We don’t really have a very big family,” Mickey said.

“That’s cool,” Charlie said. “My family’s not big, either. Got my mother and brothers and a couple aunts and uncles, but that’s it. So how old was your father, anyway?”

“Seventy-five,” Mickey said.

Charlie rested a hand on Mickey’s shoulder.

“You believe in God?” Charlie asked.

The question surprised Mickey.

“I don’t know,” Mickey said.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Charlie said. “There’re only two answers, yes or no.”

Thinking about everything that had happened to him lately, Mickey said, “No. I guess I don’t.”

“What about your father?” Charlie asked.

“Yeah, right,” Mickey said. “He used to go to Atlantic City on Easter Sunday.”

“It don’t matter,” Charlie said, “because your father’s in heaven right now. I know a lot of people don’t believe in the Lord Almighty, but all that means is there a lot of surprised dead people.”

Mickey smiled even though he didn’t want to.

Charlie left at around two and no one else came the rest of the day. When Mickey came home he called Rhonda and left a message with her stepmother. He spent the rest of the evening rehearsing what he would say when she called back, but the phone never rang.

AT TEN O’CLOCK the next morning, Thanksgiving Day, Mickey picked up his father’s ashes from the funeral home and headed straight to Aqueduct Racetrack in Queens, where there was an early holiday racing card. Instead of parking in the street outside the track where he used to park with his father, he paid the buck fifty and parked in the track’s parking lot. It was chilly and windy and there wasn’t much sun. With the canister of ashes tucked under his coat, Mickey paid for his general admission and went into the grandstand.

It was early, about forty-five minutes to post time for the first race. Mickey walked straight past the TV monitors where he used to watch the races with his father on cold winter days, and back outside to the front of the grandstand. Wanting to get this over with, he kept walking, past the paddock, toward the rail.

Opening the canister with his father’s ashes, Mickey remembered when he was eight years old and he’d begged his father to buy him a pet cat. Finally, one afternoon after school, Sal Prada took Mickey to a pet store on Avenue N and Mickey picked out a Tabby. Mickey named the kitten Spunky. Mickey played with Spunky all the time and he took good care of him. He always made sure there was fresh food and water in Spunky’s dishes, and he changed his litter box two times a week.

But Spunky had a problem. He’d been taken away from his mother too soon and he only used his litter box once in a while. One night, when Sal was barefoot and on his way to the bathroom, he stepped on a piece of Spunky’s shit. Sal started screaming at Mickey and the cat, and he told Mickey that if Spunky didn’t learn how to use his litter box they were going to get rid of him. For the next few weeks, Mickey raced home every day after school and searched the entire apartment, making sure Spunky had used his litter box. But one night Sal started screaming, “That’s it! Where is he? Where’s that fuckin’ animal?”

Sal barged into Mickey’s room and found Spunky next to Mickey in Mickey’s bed. Sal lifted the screeching cat up by his tail.

“What the hell are you doing?” Mickey said. “What’s wrong with you?”

“The fuckin’ cat shit in my bed,” Sal said. “I warned you, I fuckin’ warned you! That stupid animal’s outta here . . . for good!”

Sal carried Spunky by his tail into the kitchen and put him in a shopping bag, rolling up the bag so that the cat couldn’t get out.

“Let him go!” Mickey screamed. “Let him go!”

Sal pushed past Mickey and left the apartment. Mickey, barefoot and screaming, ran after his father, but Sal kept pushing Mickey away. Sal got into his car and pulled out of the driveway. Mickey chased the car halfway up the block then collapsed onto the street, crying hysterically.

About half an hour later, Sal Prada returned home without Spunky.

“Where is he?!” Mickey screamed. “What did you do with him?!”

Sal went into his room and locked the door. Mickey banged on the door all night, finally falling asleep in the hallway.

The next day, Mickey demanded to know what happened to Spunky but Sal just said, “Forget about him, he’s gone.” Mickey kept screaming and crying until Sal finally said, “All right, you wanna know where your fuckin’ cat is? I tossed him out the window on the Belt Parkway. Trust me, you’ll never see that stinkin’ animal again.”

Leaning over the rail, Mickey cocked his arm back and flung his father’s ashes toward the racetrack. A strong wind blew most of the ashes back toward him. Seagulls swooped down toward the concrete, thinking someone was feeding them bread crumbs, then took off quickly when they realized their mistake.

Mickey tossed the canister into a garbage can and headed back toward the grandstand with his hands deep in his pockets and his head down against the wind.