Tough Luck (13 page)

14

ON HIS WAY home from the racetrack, Mickey stopped at the White Castle near Starrett City and bought a dozen minicheeseburgers and a few orders of fries. He took the food to go and ate on the floor in his room, watching the Thanksgiving Day football games.

Except for the meal, it wasn’t much different from Mickey’s usual Thanksgivings. He and his father used to cook a small turkey or buy some presliced white meat and a few legs from the supermarket deli counter. They would also buy cans of sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce and a box of powdered mashed potatoes. Mickey would fix himself a plate of food then go into his room to watch football.

Last Thanksgiving, after the football games, Mickey had gone to see a James Bond movie with Chris. Mickey didn’t feel like going to the movies by himself tonight, and he had nothing else to do. He figured his friends from high school were home for the holiday, but they were probably busy with their families. Besides, no one had tried to get in touch with him.

Mickey decided to take a drive, just to get out of the apartment and clear his head. It was only seven o’clock but the Brooklyn streets were dark and empty. The only stores open were a few newsstands and all-night grocery stores. Mickey turned on the radio to kill the silence in the car, then he got tired of listening and turned it off.

Mickey made a left off of Flatlands Avenue onto Avenue I. He drove past Albany Avenue and continued along I to East Twenty-third Street—Rhonda’s block. He parked across the street from her house and got out. There were lights on in most of the rooms, and as Mickey walked closer he could hear people laughing inside. He walked up the driveway and looked in through a window. About ten people, including Rhonda, were seated at a long table. Mickey couldn’t understand why she hadn’t invited him to dinner tonight. She knew his father had died and that he probably didn’t have anyplace else to go. He wondered if he had said something to upset her.

For about ten minutes, maybe longer, Mickey stood in the driveway, looking in the window, then he returned to his car and drove home.

In front of the open refrigerator, he ate leftover cheese-burgers, getting angrier at Rhonda with each bite. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. He picked up the phone in the kitchen and dialed her number.

“Hello,” her father said.

Mickey was silent.

“Hello,” her father said louder.

Mickey held the receiver up to his ear for a few more seconds, then he hung up. He grabbed a plate from the dish rack and smashed it on the floor.

MICKEY TRANSFERRED THE fresh lobsters from the crates to the tanks, then he got to work gutting the tuna and cutting them into steaks. It was good to be busy, to forget about the rest of his life for a while.

In the middle of the afternoon, Mickey took a break, sitting on a stool in the corner, drinking a Pepsi and looking through the
Daily News.
There was nothing about Chris or the robbery. He looked up from the newspaper and watched Charlie making change for an old man at the register. The man handed Charlie a bill and then Charlie opened the register and gave the man his change and said, “Thank you.” The man left the store and Charlie closed the register without putting the twenty inside.

Charlie walked behind the fish stands, his hands disappearing out of view, then he came around to where Mickey was sitting.

“Damn, it’s been a long day,” Charlie said. “Sometimes I think time moves slower in this store, like we’re in the
Twilight Zone
or something. I gotta put on some tunes to keep me awake.”

Charlie knelt down to his boom box and a few seconds later rap music started blasting. Charlie started nodding his head to the beat of the music as he cleaned the countertop.

Mickey didn’t know what to do. He really didn’t care if Charlie was stealing from Harry—let him take all of Harry’s money if he wanted to—but he didn’t want to see him get caught.

Mickey went over to where Charlie was working. Charlie looked up at him, still bobbing his head to the music and said, “What’s the matter, don’t like my man Kurtis Blow?”

“I saw you,” Mickey said.

Charlie turned away, looking down at the counter he was cleaning.

After a few seconds of silence, Charlie said, “Saw me what?”

“I saw you take that money,” Mickey said. “You never put it in the register.”

“I did too put it in the register.”

“I was watching,” Mickey said. “You took change out but you didn’t put the money in.”

“Then you must not’ve seen what you thought you seen,” Charlie said, “ ’cause I didn’t take no money.”

Charlie stared at Mickey, Kurtis Blow rapping about basketball in the background.

Mickey said, “Look, I wouldn’t even say anything about it, but Harry said he was gonna fire you if he catches you stealing—”

“I wasn’t stealing,” Charlie said.

“Do whatever you want to do,” Mickey said. “I’m just trying to help you out, but if you don’t want my help, that’s fine with me.”

Mickey walked back to the stool and sat down and opened the newspaper. He was staring at the hockey scores without reading them.

Charlie shut off the music. For a while, Charlie remained behind the fish stands, then he came over to where Mickey was sitting.

“All right, I took it,” Charlie said. “But it was just twenty bucks.”

Mickey closed the newspaper.

“But the other day,” Mickey said, “when I asked you—”

“I didn’t want to get you involved. It’s just something I’m doing myself, on my own.”

“I could give a shit about the money,” Mickey said, “but Harry was serious—he’ll fire you.”

“The fuck do I care?” Charlie said. “You think I need this shit-ass job? I can ring people’s bells, ask ’em if I could rake the leaves off their lawn, and make more than I’m making here.”

“So if you think you can make more money doing something else, then quit,” Mickey said.

“Why is it any of your business what I do?” Charlie said.

“Because I don’t want to see you get in trouble,” Mickey said. “If Harry catches you he’ll press charges.”

“He won’t catch me.”

“What do you mean? He already found money missing one time. If he sees you—”

“Shit, I been takin’ from that dumb-ass for two years,” Charlie said, “and he ain’t caught on yet.”

“What’re you talking about?” Mickey said. “He found money missing.”

“All right, so I fucked up one time, but it won’t happen again.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I got it all figured out,” Charlie said. “The money on the receipts adds up to the money on the register. Like the old man who was just here, right. Fish he bought cost twelve-fifty. I don’t ring it up as a sale, I just open the drawer. I take the twenty, give him the seven-fifty change out of the register. Then, the end of the day or whenever, I go back to the register and put the seven-fifty back inside, so I get my twelve-fifty and the receipts add up. I usually take home an extra forty or fifty bucks a day.”

“If you make a mistake again, he’ll find out about it,” Mickey said.

“But I won’t make another mistake,” Charlie said. “I’m gonna be careful from now on. I used to keep track of the numbers in my head—now I write them down on a piece of paper.”

“You sure you want to do this?” Mickey said.

“I got no choice,” Charlie said. “I got two brothers and my mother makes shit, answering phones for doctors, and Harry’s money I can wipe my ass with. So I just do a little supplementing of my income—what’s wrong with that? You think Harry and his rich-ass brother in Miami need that money? You don’t think they got money to burn? I hear Harry on the phone with his stockbroker, talking about all these stocks he’s buying—thousand shares of this, thousand shares of that—the guy’s got money comin’ out of his asshole. So what’s the difference if I take some extra home with me or not?”

“If you need money why can’t you get another job?” Mickey said. “Can’t you work nights or weekends?”

Charlie was shaking his head.

“I got stuff to do at home, man. I gotta take my little brother to school in the morning, I gotta help him with his homework at night. I gotta keep an eye on him, make sure he don’t join up with the wrong crowd. I got responsibilities.”

A woman came into the store. Charlie took the order and Mickey watched as he made change from the register, then, when she left, he pocketed the ten-dollar bill she’d given him.

“Just be careful,” Mickey said. “You better be keeping track of how much money you take out of the register.”

“Twenty-two dollars and forty-five cents so far today,” Charlie said.

“Still, you better watch out,” Mickey said.

“I will, daddy, I will,” Charlie said, smiling.

HEADING BACK TOWARD Albany Avenue, carrying a warm pizza box in front of him, Mickey spotted Filippo hanging out with his girlfriend Donna and a bunch of guys—Eddie Dugan, Rob Stefani, John Lyle—on the corner. They were all drinking beer out of paper bags, and Filippo had his arm around Donna’s waist. Filippo looked over and saw Mickey. They stared at each other for a few seconds, then Filippo turned back toward the other guys and started talking again. As Mickey continued up the block, he looked back over his shoulder. Filippo was still talking to the other guys, but Donna was looking right at Mickey now with a blank expression. Mickey kept staring at Donna as he turned the corner.

Seeing Filippo hanging out with his friends, acting like he would on any other night, angered the hell out of Mickey. Filippo should have been home mourning, and he definitely shouldn’t have been out enjoying himself.

In his apartment, Mickey sat on the floor in his room, eating his meatball pizza. After a couple of slices he was full and he went into the kitchen and put the rest of the pie away in the fridge.

Mickey returned to his room and started watching
Dukes
of Hazzard,
but he couldn’t concentrate. He kept thinking about Rhonda, wondering what she was doing, if she was thinking about him right now too, if she missed him as much as he missed her. He imagined her with another guy, a Jewish guy, someone her father wanted her to be with.

He picked up the phone and dialed her number. When she answered he didn’t know what to say.

“Uh . . . Rhonda?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Mickey.”

She waited a few seconds then said, “Hi.”

“I just called to see what’s up,” Mickey said.

“This isn’t a good time,” Rhonda said.

Mickey pictured the Jewish guy sitting next to her.

“I called you the other day,” Mickey said. “Did you get my message?”

“Sorry, I’ve just been really busy.”

“Yeah, I know, you had a big Thanksgiving dinner at your house.”

“How did you know that?”

“I just figured you did.”

“I really have to go now.”

“Is somebody there?”

“No, I just have to go.”

“Do you want to go to a movie with me tomorrow night?”

“I can’t. I really have to go, okay?”

“Okay, but—”

She hung up. Mickey called her back and the answering machine picked up. When he called again a few seconds later the line was busy.

Mickey pictured Rhonda and her new boyfriend in Rhonda’s room, on her bed, making out, starting to have sex. He tried calling her a few more times but the line was still busy, then he called Mrs. Turner.

“Oh my God, Mickey!”

Mrs. Turner sounded even more upset than she had the other day.

“What happened?” Mickey said, starting to panic himself. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, God, Mickey,” she said, crying. “Oh, God. It’s not fair, it’s not fair!”

“What?” Mickey said. “What happened?”

Mrs. Turner cried even harder and louder, breathing heavily. Finally, she said, “He’s dead! They found his body in the Hudson this morning. My baby’s dead!”

15

FOR A LONG time, Mrs. Turner couldn’t speak clearly, but she finally explained what had happened. Early this morning, a guy fishing off a dock near Dobbs Ferry in Westchester had spotted a body floating in the Hudson. The body was badly decomposed but the police had determined that the person had been dead for about a week. The Westchester police contacted other police departments in the New York area about missing persons and found out about Chris. Using Chris’s dental X rays the Westchester police were able to ID the body.

Mrs. Turner stopped talking and there were just the sounds of her sobbing. Mickey knew he had to say something, something that would sound right.

“I can’t believe it,” he said. “I just can’t believe it.”

“Why’d this have to happen to him?” Mrs. Turner said. “Why’d it have to happen to my little boy?”

“Do they know how he died?” Mickey said.

“He got shot,” Mrs. Turner said. She cried for several seconds then said, “They found the bullet in his chest.”

“Holy shit,” Mickey said, trying to sound surprised. “Who could’ve shot him?”

“I got no idea,” Mrs. Turner said. “Everybody loved Chris.”

Mickey stayed on the phone with Mrs. Turner for a few more minutes, and he was relieved when she said she had to go.

Sitting at the end of his bed with his eyes closed, Mickey knew the police would come to talk to him soon. They would match Chris’s blood to blood found in the Manhattan Beach house, and then they would talk to Chris’s friends to see if they knew anything. Even if they denied it, the old guy who’d seen them getting into the car would be able to ID them. Mickey imagined Filippo breaking down and admitting everything, or, more likely, Filippo telling the cops Mickey Prada killed Chris.

Mickey couldn’t believe Ralph had fucked up so badly, and he worried about the other things Ralph was supposed to get rid of—the laundry bags filled with their clothes and the things they had stolen. Mickey couldn’t remember if he’d checked all the pockets of his pants. Maybe he’d left something in a pocket, or maybe Ralph or Filippo had.

At one point, Mickey dialed 911, ready to tell the police everything. He’d explain how Filippo had killed Chris by accident and how he’d had nothing to do with it. But when the operator answered, Mickey realized what he was doing and hung up. Calling the police now would be crazy. Even if they believed that Chris’s death was accidental, they would still arrest Mickey for robbery—armed robbery. Mickey remembered being in the car Ralph had stolen on the way to Manhattan Beach that night. He’d had his chance to get out then and he didn’t take it. All he could do now was pray he didn’t get caught.

The rest of the evening Mickey waited for the police to arrive. Every time a car drove by he was convinced it was a police car, and every time a car stopped and a door closed he imagined it would only be seconds before his doorbell rang. He might have slept for an hour or two, but in the morning he felt like he’d been awake all night.

At work, every time a customer came in Mickey looked up from whatever he was doing, expecting to be arrested.

Charlie noticed Mickey acting strangely and said, “You all right?”

“Fine,” Mickey said.

“You sure?” Charlie said, “ ’cause you don’t look too good.”

“I said I’m fine,” Mickey snapped.

“All right,” Charlie said. “Damn.”

Mickey went to lunch at John’s Pizzeria, across the street from the fish store. After he ordered a slice and a grape soda, he turned around and saw a cop standing on line behind him.

Mickey felt his face getting hot but he tried to stay calm.

“How’s it goin’?” the cop said to him.

“All right,” Mickey said, his mouth so dry he could barely speak.

Mickey paid for his food and sat at a table in the back, facing the door. The cop took his time at the register, joking around with the guys behind the counter, then he took his order to go and got into his double-parked squad car.

As Mickey ate his slice quickly, taking big bites, he decided he had to stop living his life in fear. Maybe the police would catch him, maybe they wouldn’t, but he just had to forget about it.

When Mickey returned to the fish store, Charlie was finishing ringing up a customer. Mickey watched Charlie keep the twenty the customer had given him and make change from the cash register. Maybe Charlie was right—if he was careful there was no way Harry would ever catch on. Mickey had seen Harry’s books last year when Harry had asked for help getting his corporate tax return ready. The Vincent’s Fish Market books were a mess, and there was no way for Harry to keep track of exactly how much money came into the store and how much went out.

When Charlie left on his lunch break, Mickey couldn’t stop staring at the cash register. If he could make some fast money by stealing from Harry, he could pay off his debts to Artie and the funeral home and start college in the fall.

A few minutes later, a woman came into the store and bought twenty-eight dollars worth of fish. She handed Mickey two twenty-dollar bills. Mickey held the bills in his hand and gave her twelve dollars change from the register. When the woman left the store, Mickey pocketed the twenties.

The next customer came in and paid Mickey with a ten-dollar bill for an eight-dollar order. Mickey kept the ten and gave the customer two dollars from the register.

When Charlie returned from lunch, Mickey was in a better mood and said, “Hey, I just wanted to say sorry for the way I’ve been acting all day. I guess I was just upset about my friend Chris.”

“What happened to him?” Charlie asked.

“He’s dead,” Mickey said.

“Seriously?” Charlie said.

“Yeah,” Mickey said. “He was shot—last week, but they just found his body.”

“Oh, shit,” Charlie said. “Man, I’m sorry.”

During the afternoon, Mickey took another sixty dollars from the register and then he replaced the change he had taken out. For the day he’d netted fifty-nine dollars.

When Harry came to the store at six o’clock, he looked at the day’s receipts and said, “Slow day, huh?”

“Yeah,” Mickey said, trying not to smile.

MICKEY WAS ON his way up the driveway, heading toward the entrance to his apartment, when a man’s voice behind him said, “You Mickey Prada?”

Mickey turned around and saw two men in suits—a short, stocky guy with slicked-back blond hair and an older, taller guy with gray hair.

“Yeah,” Mickey said thinking, This is it.

The taller man, the one who’d called out Mickey’s name, said, “I’m Detective Frank Harris and this is my partner Matt Donnelly. We’re with the Sixty-first Precinct, Manhattan Beach. We understand you were friends with Chris Turner.”

“That’s right,” Mickey said, managing to stay calm.

“Mrs. Turner told us we could find you here,” Harris explained. “Did Chris tell you where he was going last Saturday night?”

“Last Saturday night?” Mickey said, as if trying to remember.

“We believe he was shot to death during a robbery of a house on Hastings Street in Manhattan Beach last Saturday night,” Harris said.

“A robbery?” Mickey said. “Jesus.”

“Did he tell you anything about this?” Harris asked, opening a small pad.

“No way,” Mickey said. “I had no idea.”

“Were you friends with Chris a long time?” Harris asked.

“My whole life,” Mickey said.

“Do you know a guy named Ralph DeMarco?”

“I don’t know his last name,” Mickey said, “but Chris has a friend Ralph on our bowling team.”

“Heavy guy, balding?”

“Sounds like the same guy,” Mickey said.

“Did Chris say anything to you,” Donnelly said, “about doing anything with DeMarco last Saturday night?”

Mickey shook his head.

“When was the last time you saw Chris?” Harris asked.

“Last Thursday night,” Mickey said. “I was over at his house watching TV.”

“Just for the record,” Harris said, “where were you last Saturday night?”

“Home,” Mickey said, “watching TV in my room.”

“Was anybody with you?”

“My father,” Mickey said, “but he’s dead now.”

“Mrs. Turner told us,” Harris said, “we’re sorry for your loss.”

The way Harris said it Mickey knew he couldn’t give a shit.

“Thanks,” Mickey said.

“Well, I think that should about do it for now,” Harris said. He put his pad away in an inner-jacket pocket and took out a business card and handed it to Mickey. “Do us a favor. If you hear anything, anything you think we should know about, give me a call at that number. There’s an answering machine so you can leave a message.”

“So you really think he was killed robbing a house?” Mickey said.

“In all probability that’s what happened,” Harris said. “The bullet that we found in the victim’s body matched a bullet found at the scene of the robbery. We think the bullets were fired from the same gun.”

“Jesus,” Mickey said.

Mickey watched the detectives walk away, then he went up to his apartment. He undressed and took a long shower. Eventually he fell asleep in front of the TV, but he kept waking up every hour. At six-thirty, just as the sun was starting to rise, he gave up trying to sleep and drove to the luncheonette on Nostrand and I. He sat at the counter and had bacon and eggs, orange juice, and a cup of black coffee. The guy next to Mickey got up and left a copy of the Sunday
Daily News
on the counter. Mickey thumbed through the main section, finding nothing about Chris, then he left the luncheonette and drove to Rhonda’s block.

He parked directly across the street from her house. He checked his watch—seven-fifteen. It was too early to ring the bell; besides, her father might answer. He would just have to wait for her to come out. It was his day off work and he would wait all day if he had to.

At nine o’clock, Mickey was still sitting in his parked car, watching the house. No one had come or gone. Then, at around nine-thirty, the shades opened over the windows of the room on the second floor facing the street. Mickey wondered if this was Rhonda’s room. His palms started to sweat as he imagined seeing her through the window. But whoever opened the shades moved away quickly, and Mickey couldn’t tell who was there.

The stitches in Mickey’s right hand were starting to itch badly, and he remembered how he had been supposed to go to a doctor to have them removed. Using the pen knife on his key chain Mickey started picking at the stitches, removing them one by one.

At about ten o’clock, Rhonda’s father left the house. Mickey ducked down quickly, peering over the steering wheel as her father got into the station wagon that was parked in the driveway and drove away.

A few minutes later, Rhonda’s stepmother left the house, wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and Mickey ducked down again. He waited awhile then sat up, seeing she had jogged halfway up the block. He didn’t hesitate. When she turned the corner, he got out of the car and walked quickly toward the house. He’d rehearsed what he was going to say, but now it was all jumbled in his head. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to blow this chance.

He rang the doorbell, counted to ten, and rang it again. He was about to ring it a third time when the door unlocked and opened. Rhonda was standing there in sweatpants and a big white T-shirt. Her hair was messy and she had no makeup on, not even lipstick. She looked like she had just woken up, but she still looked great.

“Hi,” Mickey said, smiling.

Rhonda seemed surprised when she’d opened the door; now she just looked angry.

“What are you doing here?” she asked coldly.

“I just came to talk and tell you how sorry I am for whatever I did.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Rhonda said.

“I want to talk to you,” Mickey said. “Come on, let me in.”

“Why are you doing this?” Rhonda said.

“Please,” Mickey said. “Maybe we could go somewhere. I have my car—”

“No,” Rhonda said. “Look, I don’t know why you can’t understand this, but I don’t want to see you anymore. You have to go.”

“But I don’t understand what I did wrong,” Mickey said.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just . . . You just have to leave, okay?”

“It’s just what?” Mickey said.

“It’s nothing.” Rhonda turned around for a second, toward the inside of the house.

“You have a guy in there?”

“What? . . . No.”

“You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie?”

“Then why can’t I come in?”

“You have to go home, Mickey. Please.”

Rhonda tried to close the door, but Mickey stuck his foot in front.

“What’s his name?” Mickey asked.

“Please get out of the way,” Rhonda said.

Using his shoulder, Mickey pushed the door open and made it into the foyer.

“What’s wrong with you?!” Rhonda screamed. “Get out of my house!”

Mickey looked beyond Rhonda but he didn’t see anyone in the living room.

“Is he upstairs?” Mickey asked.

“There’s nobody here,” Rhonda said.

“Then what’s wrong with you?” Mickey said. “Why are you treating me this way?”

“You better get out of here right now,” Rhonda said. “I’m warning you, I’ll scream for help.”

“I know you love me,” Mickey said. “I remember how you looked at me that first time we met in the fish store. We’re perfect together.”

“Please just leave me alone,” Rhonda said, backing away.

“I can’t live without you,” Mickey said.

“What are you talking about?” Rhonda said. “You don’t even know me.”

Mickey took a step toward her. She grabbed the object nearest her—a heavy glass vase from on top of a side table— and held it above her head.

“Leave right now, you lunatic,” she said, the vase shaking in her hands.

“Come on,” Mickey said, “just put that down so we can talk.”

Mickey lunged toward her and tried to grab the vase.

“Come on, give it to me.”

“Let go!”

“Come on.”

Mickey was starting to pry the vase loose when it smashed onto the floor, shattering glass everywhere.

“I’m sorry,” Mickey said, “I didn’t mean to do that. Please stop crying. Just stop crying!”

Mickey tried to hug Rhonda when the front door opened behind him. Mickey turned and saw Rhonda’s father enter the house, holding the Sunday
Times.