Tough Luck (16 page)

“No,” Mickey said.

“Come on,” Harris said, “might as well admit it. You and Chris were there and who else was with you? Was Ralph DeMarco there?”

“No,” Mickey said.

“No, DeMarco wasn’t there, but you were there—”

“No, I wasn’t there and I have no idea if Ralph was there,” Mickey said.

Harris smiled and looked over at Donnelly.

“So why’d you rip off your boss?” Donnelly asked. “You short on cash?”

“I made a mistake,” Mickey said.

“I didn’t ask if you made a mistake,” Donnelly said. “I asked why you did it.”

Mickey looked away, thinking, then he said, “I needed the money.”

“So you stole because you needed money,” Donnelly said. “How original. What was the problem, you didn’t make enough robbing that house with your friends?”

“I didn’t rob any house,” Mickey said.

Donnelly turned to Harris.

Harris said to Mickey, “Look, we know you were at the house, so maybe if you tell us who was with you and how Chris Turner got shot, then maybe we’ll take it a little easy on you. I mean this could be your second arrest in two days. I hope you realize how serious this could be for you.”

“You want me to lie and tell you I robbed a house with Chris?” Mickey said. “Is that what you want me to do?”

“No, we want you to tell us the truth,” Harris said.

“I’m telling you the fucking truth,” Mickey said. “I wasn’t there. I was home that night watching the Knicks.”

“And isn’t it a coincidence,” Harris said, “the only person who can vouch for your story happens to be dead.”

“I don’t care if you believe me or not,” Mickey said.

“All right, we’re gonna be honest with you ourselves now,” Donnelly said. “No more bullshit, all right? We don’t think you had anything to do with your friend’s murder. We think you just got caught up, wrong place at the wrong time. So why make things any more difficult for you? Why not fess up? Tell us who was there with you, what happened, and we’ll let you off easy.”

“I wasn’t there,” Mickey said. “How many times do you need to hear me say it? I wasn’t there.”

Harris approached Mickey suddenly. With his face an inch or two in front of Mickey’s, he said, “Look, prick, you’re lucky as hell we didn’t run you in already. We could’ve done it, you know, and the judge wouldn’t’ve let you off this time. It would’ve cost you fifty, maybe a hundred grand to see the light of day again. You don’t have that kind of money, do you? No, I didn’t think so. You had fifty grand lying around, you wouldn’t be ripping off your boss and robbing a house.”

“I didn’t rob any house!” Mickey screamed.

“Bullshit!” Harris screamed back.

“I want a lawyer,” Mickey said in a suddenly calm voice. “If you won’t give me a lawyer you’ll have to arrest me.”

Harris, still leaning over the table, looked over at Donnelly.

“Look at this, Matt,” Harris said. “Kid gets arrested one time he’s an expert on the law, knows all his fuckin’ rights.”

Harris backed away and motioned to Donnelly with his head. Donnelly stood up.

“All right, you want us to leave, we’ll leave,” Harris said to Mickey. “But you might want to think about what we said. You’re a young guy—twenty years or longer in the pen’s gonna go by real slow.”

The detectives left and Mickey remained at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. He was too exhausted to be worried about anything the detectives had said, and he knew they probably didn’t have anything on him, anyway. They didn’t even say anything about the old man on the street, so the guy must not have come forward.

Mickey was starting to doze and decided he should eat something. He wasn’t hungry but he realized he hadn’t eaten anything since a couple of rolls for breakfast in prison.

Mickey nibbled on leftovers from the fridge—mushy Chinese food, hardened pizza. His head was still throbbing and his shin hurt where the guy had kicked him last night. He looked in the bathroom medicine chest for some aspirin but couldn’t find any. He went into his room and collapsed on the bed.

Bright rays of sunshine were coming through the window into his room. He looked at the clock near his bed and saw the time—12:14. He went to the bathroom then returned to bed and fell back asleep.

When he woke up again it was dark outside. The clock read 5:04. He fell asleep again and the ringing phone woke him up. Reaching for the receiver, he saw it was after midnight. He had missed an entire day.

“Mickey, it’s Ralph.”

Before Mickey could say anything, Ralph said, “Meet me in an hour, Midwood Field, by the handball courts.”

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

“Just be there,” Ralph said.

Mickey tried to say something else, but Ralph had already hung up.

19

MICKEY CLOSED HIS eyes and dozed again. A few minutes later, he woke up and forced himself to get out of bed.

Although he had slept for over twenty-four hours straight—thirty including the time before the detectives arrived—he was still exhausted. He put on jeans and a sweatshirt then went into the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water. It didn’t help. His legs were weak and his knees felt like they were buckling.

Midwood Field was over a mile away from Mickey’s house. Mickey and Chris used to go there sometimes after school and practice kicking field goals. Mickey remembered the time he was kicking and Chris pulled the ball away at the last moment, like Lucy always did to Charlie Brown, and Mickey slipped on the frozen turf and fell flat on his ass.

Mickey parked on Avenue K, near East Seventeenth Street, across the street from the handball courts next to the football field. There was a group of about ten teenagers, some wearing Midwood High School jackets, drinking beer out of paper bags and listening to music on a car stereo. It felt like it was the coldest night of the fall so far. Sitting in his parked car, wearing just a windbreaker over his sweatshirt, Mickey was shivering and he wished he’d worn a warmer jacket.

Mickey waited in the car for about five minutes, then he decided to go outside, in case Ralph was also waiting in one of the parked cars on the block. Mickey stood on the sidewalk in front of the handball courts with his hands in his pockets, looking around, rocking from side to side, trying to keep warm. The teenagers, about twenty yards away, were laughing and yelling and didn’t seem to notice Mickey or the cold. After waiting for about another fifteen minutes, Mickey wondered if he’d made a mistake about the meeting time.

Finally, Mickey decided, To hell with it, and he headed back toward his car. As he was opening the door he heard someone whistle behind him. Mickey saw the shadow of a person around the corner on East Seventeenth, behind the fence surrounding the handball courts.

Mickey headed back across the street, gradually making out Ralph’s figure.

When Mickey came up to Ralph, Ralph lunged at him, grabbing him by the shoulders and then pushing him facefirst against the fence.

“What the fuck?” Mickey said.

Ralph started frisking Mickey, patting down his arms, waist and down each leg. Then he reached under Mickey’s jacket and shirt and felt his chest and back.

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

Ralph didn’t answer. Ralph felt Mickey’s ass and reached under between Mickey’s legs and squeezed his crotch.

“Sorry,” Ralph said, “had to make sure you weren’t wearing a wire. Come on, let’s go for a drive.”

“A drive?” Mickey said. “What for?”

“I gotta talk to you in private, away from the kids.”

“They’re up the block, they’re not gonna hear anything,” Mickey said. “Come on, I’ve been freezing my balls off out here, waiting for you. What do you want to talk about?”

Ralph looked over toward the teenagers, then he said to Mickey, “All right, let’s go onto the courts.”

Mickey followed Ralph onto the handball courts. They stopped in a spot in the middle of the courts where it was almost completely dark. The only light was from the lampposts on the street, about fifty yards away. Mickey could barely see Ralph, just a few feet in front of him.

“So the cops told me they talked to you,” Ralph said.

Like after the robbery, Mickey was surprised to hear Ralph talk so clearly.

“Yeah, they did,” Mickey said.

“Did you rat me out?”

“No,” Mickey said. “Of course not.”

Ralph waited a couple of seconds, looking over toward where the teenagers were gathered, then he said to Mickey, “The cops had me twelve hours today—one fuckin’ chair. They said you were busted for robbing the fish store you work at. That true?”

“Yeah,” Mickey said.

“You think that was the brightest thing in the world?” Ralph said. “Getting busted, time like this?”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything,” Mickey said.

For a long time, Ralph looked at Mickey with his lower lip hanging down, not saying anything. Mickey had a bad feeling but he wasn’t sure why.

“We got a problem,” Ralph finally said.

“What kind of problem?” Mickey said.

“You know Filippo shot Chris, right?”

“Yeah, he said it was an accident.”

“It wasn’t no accident,” Ralph said.

Suddenly nauseous, Mickey said, “What’re you talking about?”

“He only told you it was an accident, but it didn’t happen that way. It was all over that slut Donna. Chris fucked her the night before the robbery and when they got upstairs Chris started laying into Filippo about it. Filippo started it, talking about how Chris’s mother was a lousy drunk and Chris said, ‘At least I know how to give your girlfriend a good fuck.’ Then Filippo just fuckin’ shot him. He put another bullet in the ceiling and made up the story about the other guy in the house.”

“How do you know all this?” Mickey said.

“He fuckin’ told me,” Ralph said. “When I heard his uncle Louie wasn’t in the house, I put a gun to his head and said, ‘Tell me what the fuck’s goin’ on or you’re gonna be in the river with Chris.’ First he said it was an accident, then he told me the truth. But there’s more. Remember the diamond ring we couldn’t find? Turns out Filippo took it for himself. Then maybe he felt bad, thinking he owes me something for everything I went through, getting rid of the body and shit, and he comes to me the other day and goes, ‘Here’s your five grand.’ I go, ‘What the fuck’s this for?’ and he tells me how he sold the ring at a jewelry store in the city.”

“Jesus,” Mickey said.

“So now you see what I’m talking about,” Ralph said. “The cops, they know the ring was taken from the house, they talked to Filippo already. Filippo might rat us both out if we don’t do something about him.”

“What can we do?” Mickey said.

“We can kill him,” Ralph said.

Mickey stood in the dark with the cold wind against his face.

“What else we gonna do,” Ralph said, “sit around, wait for the cops to come?”

“Do whatever you want,” Mickey said, “but leave me out of it.”

“You got no choice,” Ralph said.

“Why’s that?”

“If you don’t help me I’ll have to take Filippo out on my own,” Ralph said. “I’ll have to do it sloppy, and if the cops catch me guess who I’m gonna say helped me.”

“They’d never believe you,” Mickey said.

“You wanna chance that after just getting busted?” Ralph said.

Mickey and Ralph stood there for a good ten seconds without saying anything. Mickey was thinking how if he hadn’t put in that first bet for Angelo he wouldn’t be here right now.

“So what do you want me to do?” Mickey finally said.

“Go talk to Filippo tomorrow morning by work at the supermarket,” Ralph said. “Tell him you heard he sold that ring and you want five g’s. Tell him if you don’t get the money you’ll go to the cops. Then tell him to meet you tomorrow at midnight on the train tracks under the bridge by Flatbush Avenue.”

“Why there?”

“Kids set off firecrackers and M-80s there all the time,” Ralph said. “Someone hears the shots, they won’t think nothing of it. Tell him you want to meet by the tracks because you think the cops might be watching your house. And when he gets there I’ll come out and shoot him.”

“Why do you need me?” Mickey said. “Why can’t you do it alone?”

“After I put that gun to his head,” Ralph said, “if I told him to meet me someplace, someplace out of the way, do you think he’d do it?”

“But why do I have to
go
there?” Mickey said. “Why can’t I just tell him to meet you there?”

“You think he’d come out if he saw me there? If something goes wrong, call me. I’m listed—Ralph DeMarco, Fillmore Avenue. You call me at eight tomorrow night. I won’t answer. Let the phone ring seven times and hang up. That means no, it’s off. If it’s on, you don’t gotta do nothing—I’ll just be there on the tracks waiting. After I get rid of Filippo’s body, we’ll pin Chris’s murder, the robbery, everything on him. But, you gotta remember, when you leave your house tomorrow, make sure no cops’re following you. If you see cops, forget about it, turn back. Tell Filippo the same thing. If you see cops it’s off, you go home, we set it up the next night. Got it?”

Mickey waited a couple of seconds then said, “Is that all?”

Ralph said, “Yeah,” and Mickey left the handball court. He went back across Avenue K and got in his car. It took a few tries to turn on the engine. Finally, the car started and he made a U-turn. In the rearview mirror, he saw Ralph on the corner, his hands deep inside his coat pockets.

20

MICKEY CAME OUT of the shower, the skin on his back and chest bright pink. The TV stations had gone off for the night, so he turned on the radio. He was hoping the music would help him calm down, but when “Back in Black” came on he had a flashback to inside the stolen car with Ralph and Filippo when Chris’s body fell against him. He unplugged the radio and flung it across the room. Blackie started barking downstairs, making a racket.

“Shut the fuck up!” Mickey yelled, but the dog wouldn’t stop. Mickey stayed awake, trying to figure out what to do. He wished he was with Rhonda.

At eight o’clock, Mickey got up and drove to the luncheonette on Nostrand and I for breakfast. His throat was sore, probably from being out last night in the cold. He ate only part of his ham-and-eggs special then he went to talk to Filippo.

He drove down Nostrand Avenue toward the Waldbaum’s near Kings Highway. He almost never went to this Waldbaum’s, even when Chris was alive, because he didn’t want to run into Filippo. But he knew that Chris and Filippo used to work early mornings together, so he figured Filippo would be there now.

He parked in the lot next to the supermarket and went inside. His face felt very hot and he decided he might have a fever.

After looking for Filippo in the front of the supermarket, near the checkout lines, he headed back, through the cereal aisle, then over past the frozen foods. He started back toward the front of the store when he heard Filippo laughing.

The laughter reminded Mickey of the time in fifth grade when Filippo had cornered him in the schoolyard and started chanting, “Mickey Mouse is a faggot, Mickey Mouse is a faggot.” Dozens of kids, including girls, gathered around and joined in, the laughing and taunting getting even louder.

Mickey headed back toward the frozen foods, where the laughter had come from. Filippo was alone now, sticking prices on TV dinners.

“Filippo,” Mickey said when he was a few feet away.

Filippo turned around.

“What the fuck’re you doing here?”

“We gotta talk,” Mickey said.

Filippo grabbed Mickey’s arm and pulled him away through the swinging doors into the stockroom and pushed him back against a stack of boxes.

“You fuckin’ crazy comin’ here?” Filippo said. “The cops’re on our asses. Somebody could see us together.”

“I talked to Ralph,” Mickey said. “He said you killed Chris on purpose. Is that true?”

Filippo squeezed Mickey’s neck. “You want me to kill you too, you dumb bitch? Just get the fuck out of here.”

Filippo choked Mickey for a few more seconds then let go. Mickey gagged, trying to breathe.

“Why’d you do it?” Mickey said. “Was it really over some girl?”

“Next time I choke you I’m not lettin’ go,” Filippo said.

Mickey couldn’t stand looking at Filippo anymore, and he wondered if he’d done the right thing coming here.

“I came here to help you, you fuckin’ idiot,” Mickey said. “Ralph’s pissed at you for stealing that ring. You better go talk to him and try to work it out.”

“You think I give a shit about Ralph?” Filippo said.

“Talk to him,” Mickey said. “Tell him you’re sorry or something. I don’t know.”

“Why do you want to help me?” Filippo said.

“I don’t want to help you,” Mickey said, “but I don’t want to see anybody else get killed, even you.”

“Hey, Filippo, what’s goin’ on over there?”

The deep male voice had come from the other end of the stockroom. The voice sounded familiar to Mickey but he couldn’t place it.

“Nothing,” Filippo said.

“Nothing?” the man said. “Then what’re you doin’, going schizo, talking to yourself?”

A few seconds later, Angelo Santoro came over from behind Filippo. He was unshaven with messy hair hanging over his face, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He was pushing a dolly stacked with boxes of tomato sauce.

Suddenly, Mickey remembered seeing Angelo walking along Kings Highway that day, only a few blocks away from the Waldbaum’s.

Angelo looked uncomfortable for a few seconds, then he said, “Well, guess the cat’s outta the bag now, huh?” Putting on his Mafia smile, Angelo said, “How’s it goin’ kid?”

Filippo started laughing and then Angelo started laughing with him. Mickey stood there, unable to move or think.

“You wanna put in another bet for us tonight?” Filippo said to Mickey.

Filippo and Angelo laughed harder, then they high-fived.

“Yeah,” Angelo said. “If you don’t put in my bet you’re gonna disrespect my whole family.”

“What’s wrong, Mickey Mouse?” Filippo said. “Can’t take a joke?”

“Yeah, hope we didn’t hurt you too bad,” Angelo said. “If the Seahawks got one more point that night I would’ve been even. Oh well. Guess that’s just the way the ball bounces.”

“I can’t believe you fell for it,” Filippo said to Mickey. “You were so stupid.” Then he said to Angelo, “What’d you tell him your name was?”

“Angelo Santoro.”

Filippo laughed, squeezing his balls.

Angelo stuck out his hand toward Mickey.

“Nice to meet you,” he said. “My real name’s Jimmy. Jimmy Ramos.” Mickey stood still, his fists clenched at his sides. Jimmy pulled back his hand.

“He’s fuckin’ Puerto Rican and you thought he was in the mob,” Filippo said, laughing.

“You gotta admit I wasn’t bad,” Jimmy said to Mickey. “Maybe I shoulda gone to acting school. Coulda been the next Al Pacino.”

Putting on an Al-Pacino-in-
Scarface
accent, Jimmy said, “Okay, fuck you, how’s ’at?”

“Hey, gimme some credit too,” Filippo said. “I told you Mickey was stupid enough to fall for it.”

“Sorry if I hurt you with that punch in the gut,” Angelo said to Mickey, “but I had to make it look real. That’s what they call Method acting, right?”

“What family did you say you was with?” Filippo said.

“Colombo,” Jimmy said.

“Colombo!” Filippo said. “That’s a fuckin’ riot!”

Jimmy and Filippo laughed, high-fiving again.

“I better get back to work,” Jimmy said, catching his breath, his face pink. Then he said to Mickey, “See you around, kid.”

When Jimmy was gone Filippo said, “So you got anything else to tell me, or you gonna get the fuck out of here?”

Mickey was going to walk away, let Ralph kill Filippo, then he had a better idea.

“I want five grand,” Mickey said.

“Excuse me?” Filippo said.

“I know that’s how much you have left over from the ring,” Mickey said. “I want all of it—tonight at midnight.”

“You fuckin’ high?” Filippo said.

“If you don’t bring me the money I’m going to the cops. I’ll tell them everything—about the robbery, how you killed Chris—”

“Little piece of shit,” Filippo said. “I’ll break your fuckin’ faggot head open.”

“Midnight on the train tracks by the Flatbush Avenue tunnel,” Mickey said. “If you’re not there I’m going to the cops.”

As Mickey stormed away, out of the stockroom, Filippo called after him, “Wait, get the fuck back here,” but Mickey kept walking.

Heading back toward the front of the supermarket, Mickey saw Jimmy coming toward him. They stopped, facing each other.

“Hey, don’t blame me,” Jimmy said, holding up his hands. “It was Filippo’s idea, not mine.”

Mickey continued down the aisle, elbowing Jimmy hard in the ribs as he passed by. Jimmy lost his balance and stumbled against the shelves of tomato sauce. Mickey heard Jimmy screaming and jars smashing on the floor, but he left the supermarket without looking back.