Tough Luck (5 page)

“I don’t want to go to a whore, all right?”

“So what’re you gonna do? Stay a virgin the rest of your life?”

“What makes you think I’m a virgin?”

Chris gave Mickey a look then said, “Come on, who did you fuck, Linda Gianetti? You told me nothing happened with her.”

Mickey remembered his date with Linda in tenth grade. He took her to see
ET
and near the part at the end, where ET phones home, he put his hand on her leg. When the movie ended, Linda said she was tired and wanted to go home and she never wanted to go out with him again.

“Maybe I lied,” Mickey said.

“Yeah, right,” Chris said. “No guy in the world would ever lie about getting laid. Guys only lie about
not
getting laid.”

Chris turned left onto Twenty-seventh Street, past some barren factory buildings.

“Can you please pull over and let me drive?” Mickey said.

“No way,” Chris said. “Not till you meet Betty.”

“Who’s Betty?”

“
That’s
Betty.”

Screeching the brakes, Chris pulled over to the curb and parked. A tall black woman in a leopard-skin brassiere and a short black leather skirt wobbled toward the car on what looked like four-inch pumps.

Chris got out of the car and went around to talk to Betty. Mickey watched Chris go into his wallet and hand Betty some bills. Betty looked drugged out, or drunk, the way she was trying to balance herself. Still, Mickey couldn’t help feeling turned on. She had a sexy body—big high breasts, long legs—and her face was surprisingly attractive for a hooker—smooth skin, lips painted with bright red lipstick.

Chris returned to the car and said to Mickey, “Happy fucking,” then he walked away and Betty opened the driver-side door and said to Mickey, “Wanna move to the back, baby?”

Mickey knew he would never live it down with Chris if he didn’t go through with this. Besides, Betty looked good.

Mickey lifted the button on the back door, and then he stood out of the car. Betty got in the back. Before Mickey got in with her, he looked over at Chris, standing several yards away. Chris was smiling, sticking his index finger in and out of his partially closed fist.

The backseat of Chris’s car was covered with newspaper, soda cans, and other junk. Mickey swatted away as much of the garbage as he could onto the floor, then he sat down next to Betty and closed the door.

“Something smells
nasty
in here,” Betty said, making a face.

Mickey didn’t smell anything unusual except for Betty’s strong perfume.

“It’s probably just the car,” Mickey said. “My friend’s kind of a slob.”

“It ain’t the car,” Betty said, “it’s you. You smell like fish.”

“Oh, that’s just because I work in a fish store,” Mickey said, thinking there couldn’t be anything more humiliating than a cheap hooker telling him he smelled.

“Your body clean?” Betty asked.

“Yeah,” Mickey said. “Of course.”

“We’ll see. Take down your pants so I can suck on your dick.”

Mickey pulled down his pants to his ankles. His heart was racing and he was starting to sweat.

“Your friend say it’s your first time,” Betty said.

“It’s not my first time,” Mickey said confidently.

“Whatever, don’t matter to me none.”

Betty’s cold dry hand reached under Mickey’s underwear. It felt weird but good, having someone else touching his dick. Mickey didn’t know what he was supposed to do next, if he was supposed to touch her back. He started running his fingers through her greasy hair, but this didn’t seem right, so he put his hand on her leg instead.

“Feels like you ready for me,” Betty said.

She pulled up her skirt then grabbed Mickey’s hand and moved it up her thigh. It was dark in the car—the only light came from the lampposts outside. Mickey closed his eyes, the idea slowly coming to him that something was wrong.

Mickey jerked his hand away and jumped off the seat, banging his head against the roof of the car on the way out.

“What’s the matter?” Betty said.

Suddenly, her voice sounded deeper, more manly.

Mickey pulled on his underwear and pants and got out of the car as fast as he could. Chris was standing on the sidewalk, laughing hysterically.

“Party on, boys,” Betty said to Chris as he walked away, swinging his butt.

Chris, still laughing, was keeled far over, his head almost against his knees.

Mickey, his face bright pink, said, “Gimme the fuckin’ car keys, you asshole.”

5

WHEN VINCENT’S FISH market opened for business at ten A.M. on Saturday, Mickey was hoping Harry would leave for the day, but Charlie hadn’t shown up yet, so Harry had to stick around. At around ten-thirty, Harry called Charlie at home but there was no answer.

“He better have a good excuse or I’m gonna fire him,” Harry said.

Around lunchtime, Mickey was hoping Angelo would show up to finally square his debt. The last time Mickey had seen Angelo was last Tuesday, and he was starting to wonder if he would ever see him again.

Harry called Charlie a few more times, but by one-thirty there was still no answer. Mickey hadn’t taken a break all day, and he was exhausted. Afraid he’d slip with the knife and cut himself again, he went to the deli up the block and bought a pastrami-on-rye and a cup of coffee.

When Mickey returned to the fish store, Charlie was standing near the cash register. The lower part of Charlie’s left arm was in a cast, and he had bruises on his face.

“Jesus, what happened?” Mickey asked.

“He’s in the middle of telling me the story,” Harry said. Then he said to Charlie, “So did you see what they looked like?”

“A few of ’em,” Charlie said, “but it don’t make a difference. The cops said they’ll look for them, but I know that’s just bullshit. The cops don’t give a shit what happens to two black dudes. But if we was white and the other guys was black, they’d have ’em arrested overnight—guaranteed.”

“Hey, I know I told you this before,” Harry said, “but you never listen to me. You gotta be careful about where you go at night. You gotta stay out of the white neighborhoods.” Harry took off his apron. “Anyway, I’m glad to see you’re alive, and now I can leave to go to my dentist appointment I had three hours ago. By the way, you’re only getting a half day’s pay today.”

“
What?
” Charlie said. “You can see what happened to me, can’t you?”

“Yes, and I’m very sorry,” Harry said, “but it’s no excuse for not calling in. You have my home number—you could’ve called me this morning.”

“Ah, come on, man,” Charlie said.

“So long,” Harry said, smiling as he left the store.

“Motherfucker,” Charlie said. “If I had to get my arm fuckin’ cut off, he’d try to dock me. Son of a bitch piece of shit.”

“What happened?” Mickey asked.

“You heard him? ‘You gotta stay out of the white neighborhoods at night.’ Like it’s my fault ’cause I’m black? Like I gotta sit home all night in my house like I got a curfew. Fuck him, man.”

“Come on, tell me,” Mickey said.

Charlie let out a deep breath then said, “My cousin was DJ’in’ this sweet sixteen party in Mill Basin last night. I wanna start gettin’ into DJ’in’ myself, you know, so I went with him. Anyway, we was leaving, standing outside the house, when Jerome, my cousin, starts talkin’ to this white girl. Then these white dudes come out and start saying shit, calling us niggers and shit. My cousin started saying shit back to them, then one of the white dudes goes away and comes out with one of them aluminum baseball bats. My cousin and me, we run, trying to get to our car. But the dude’s behind us, swinging the bat. He got my arm, but I made it inside. But they had Jerome up against the car outside. The dude was swinging the bat at him, and I was in the car, watching. What the fuck was I supposed to do? I thought if I opened the door the guys would drag me out and beat me too. So I just started honking on the horn, and then these other people came over and the guys just ran. Jerome was in bad shape, man. Lost a lot of blood, broke bones and shit everywhere, but they got him in stable condition now. It’s gonna be in the paper—somebody from the
Post
talked to us at the hospital last night.”

“Jesus,” Mickey said.

“Whatever,” Charlie said. “I just feel bad ’cause I didn’t do nothing. I was just sittin’ there in the car, watchin’ it happen.”

“You did the right thing,” Mickey said. “If you got out they could’ve killed you.”

“Or maybe I could’ve saved my cousin’s ass.”

“Or maybe you
did
save his ass,” Mickey said. “Maybe if you didn’t honk on the horn, no one would’ve come over and scared the guys off. Maybe if you went out there, you both would’ve been killed.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Charlie said, “but I still feel like I did him wrong.”

“Can I get you something?” Mickey asked. “You want something to drink? You want some of my sandwich?”

“That’s all right,” Charlie said. “I just wanna forget about it. That’s why I came into work today. So I could go on with my life, you know? I ain’t gonna let those motherfuckers keep me at home.”

Mickey took a bite of his sandwich and washed it down with a gulp of coffee. He took another bite when the bell above the door rang, and the girl who had been in the fish store yesterday walked in. She was wearing a lot of makeup today, especially around her eyes, and she must have done something with her hair because it looked fuller and bigger than Mickey remembered. Her legs looked perfect, in tight purple acid-washed jeans, and she was wearing a baggy white sweater.

“Remember me?” the girl asked.

Mickey didn’t know what to say or do. He just stood there, staring. He remembered he had a bite of food in his mouth and swallowed it, then he said, “Sure I remember you. Hey, I’m really sorry about yesterday. My boss is just an asshole sometimes.”

“Amen,” Charlie said.

“What happened to
you?
” the girl asked Charlie.

“Nothing,” Charlie said, “just fell off my bike last night.” Then he said to Mickey, “I gotta go wash up,” and he exited to the back of the store.

“So can I get you something?” Mickey asked the girl.

“No, thank you,” the girl said. “Actually, I just came by to see how you were doing.”

“You did?” Mickey said.

“Yeah,” the girl said. “I felt bad for leaving yesterday, but someone was waiting in the car for me and I didn’t want to buy anything from your boss. So how’s your finger?”

“It’s fine, see?” Mickey said, holding up his bandaged hand.

“Well, I’m glad.”

“Don’t you want something?” Mickey asked. “The fluke and flounder are fresh today. Also the kingfish is really nice.”

“No, I’m sorry. Maybe some other time. Anyway, I’m glad you’re feeling better. See you around.”

“Bye,” Mickey said.

Mickey watched the girl leave the store. Charlie returned from the back and said, “Where’d she go?”

“She left,” Mickey said.

“You get the digits?” Charlie asked.

“Nah,” Mickey said.

“What you talkin’ ’bout, Willis?” Charlie said. “Can’t you tell that girl was in heat?”

“It’s not like that,” Mickey said. “She just came here to see how I was feeling.”

Charlie stared at Mickey, his hands crossed in front of his chest.

Mickey stood there for several seconds longer, then he went around the fish stands and dashed out the door. He looked both ways, up and down Flatbush Avenue, but he didn’t see the girl anywhere. He was about to go back into the fish store when he spotted her coming out of the video store across the street. Mickey darted into traffic, not seeing the station wagon speeding right toward him. The driver of the station wagon slammed on the brakes, and the car screeched to a stop, inches in front of Mickey.

“Fuckin’ moron!” the driver shouted, leaning out of the window.

Continuing across the street, Mickey didn’t see a motorcycle coming from the other direction. The motorcycle sped past Mickey, barely missing him. Mickey waited in traffic for two more cars to pass, then he sprinted toward the sidewalk where the girl was staring at him, with her mouth partway open.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Mickey said, catching his breath. “I’m fine.”

“You almost got killed.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I just saw you and I was afraid you’d get into a car or something and drive away.”

Mickey stared at the girl. He noticed she was wearing the same great perfume she had worn yesterday.

“Do you want to go to dinner or a movie sometime?” Mickey asked. “If you don’t want to that’s okay too. I mean I—”

“I’d love to,” the girl said.

“You would?” Mickey said. “I mean that’s great. So do you have a phone?”

“Do I have a
phone?
”

“I mean phone number.”

“Do you have a piece of paper?”

“No, but if you tell me I’ll remember it.”

The girl told Mickey her phone number then said, “But how will I know it’s you when you call?”

“Sorry, I’m Mickey.”

The girl sang,
“Oh Mickey, you’re so fine, you’re so fine you
blow my mind, hey Mickey.”

Mickey smiled then said, “Who do I ask for when I call?”

“Rhonda.”

“Rhonda,” he said. “Great.”

They both laughed nervously. Mickey noticed the way Rhonda’s teeth weren’t perfect—the two front ones stuck out a little too far and overlapped slightly—but it was still the best-looking smile he’d ever seen.

Mickey realized he was staring at her again and said, “So I’ll definitely call you soon.”

“Okay,” Rhonda said. “Bye.”

Mickey watched Rhonda walk away, liking how her thighs rubbed together in her tight jeans. When she reached the end of the block, she looked back at Mickey and smiled, then she turned the corner and was gone.

When Mickey returned to the fish store, his face glowing, Charlie said, “See? Now ain’t you glad I came in to work today?”

ON SUNDAY, MICKEY’S day off, he woke up around ten and cooked bacon and eggs, leaving some extra in the pan for his father, who was still sleeping. After breakfast, Mickey watched some of
Davey and Goliath,
then he flipped through old
Sports Illustrated
s until the Jets-Colts game came on at one o’clock.

During halftime of the four o’clock game—the Giants-Buccaneers—Mickey took a walk to Rocco’s Pizzeria on Avenue J and picked up a pepperoni pie for dinner. When he returned to his apartment, he heard his father screaming from inside the bathroom.

“What’s going on?” Mickey said from the hallway. “What’s wrong?”

“Get me outta here!” Sal screamed. “Get me the fuck outta here!”

“Just unlock the door,” Mickey said, trying to twist the handle.

“You locked me in here, you son of a bitch,” Sal said. “I’m gonna kill you!”

Sal started banging against the door. Then someone started knocking on the door to the stairwell.

It was Joseph, the landlord who lived in the apartment downstairs.

“It’s all right!” Mickey yelled. “It’s just my father!”

“Will you shut him the fuck up?” Joseph yelled back. “It’s Sunday for Chrissakes!”

Sal was still screaming and cursing, banging frantically on the bathroom door. Blackie, Joseph’s German shepherd, was barking furiously in the apartment downstairs.

“Stand back,” Mickey said.

Sal was still screaming and banging.

“I said stand back!”

Finally, it was quiet for a few moments, then Mickey rammed against the door, shoulder first, but the door didn’t open.

“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” Joseph yelled from the stairwell.

Mickey rammed against the door again and again, and on his fourth try, the lock gave way and the door swung open.

Sal was standing huddled in the corner near the toilet bowl, looking terrified.

“It’s all right, Dad,” Mickey said. “It’s okay.”

Mickey took a step forward, reaching out to touch his father, when Sal suddenly pushed by him, almost knocking him into the shower stall.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Mickey said as Sal went down the hallway into the bedroom and slammed the door.

Later, Joseph installed a temporary hook lock on the bathroom door and told Mickey there would be a one-hundred-dollar surcharge on the rent next month to replace the original lock and repair the damage to the door.

Mickey spent the rest of the day alone in his room. After the Giants game, he picked up the phone and dialed the first six digits of Rhonda’s number, then he hung up, deciding he was just wasting his time.

AROUND TWO O’CLOCK on Monday afternoon, Angelo Santoro strutted into Vincent’s Fish Market. He was wearing a long black wool coat over a dark suit.

“How ya doin’, kid?” Angelo said.

“Pretty good,” Mickey said, hoping Angelo would take out his wallet.

Angelo noticed Charlie in the store and said, “What happened to you?”

“Fell off my bike,” Charlie said.

“Sorry to hear that,” Angelo said. Then he turned back to Mickey and said, “Can we talk in private? Maybe step outside or something?”

Mickey looked at Angelo’s coat, not seeing any bulge where his gun might be. He grabbed his jacket and followed him out the door.

“Sorry I’ve been a little incognito lately,” Angelo said to Mickey when they got outside. “I’ve just had a lot of business to take care of lately with my boss, you know? I hope you understand.”

“I understand,” Mickey said. “Of course I understand. I mean I knew it had to be something like that.”

Angelo took out a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket.

“Smoke?”

“No thanks,” Mickey said.

“Smart man. Probably save ten years on your life. Me? I’ll probably never know my grandkids. It’s all right, though. You gotta live life to love life, right?” Angelo lit his cigarette and took a long drag on it. After he blew smoke out of his mouth and nose, he said, “So you got the lines on tonight’s game?”

Mickey smiled, hoping that Angelo was just joking. But by the way Angelo was looking at him, waiting for him to answer, Mickey knew he wasn’t.

“I don’t know what the lines are,” Mickey said, not smiling anymore.

“It don’t matter,” Angelo said. “I’m gonna take it easy this week. Just put in two dollars on the Seahawks, will ya?”

“Two dollars” meant two hundred times, or another eleven hundred
real
dollars with the vig.

“I’m sorry,” Mickey said, “but I can’t do that. Not
can’t
— it’s just my bookie says I need the money from your other bets first.”

“I know my figure,” Angelo said, “and if you want to know the truth, that’s pocket change for me. I take a junket to Vegas, I drop ten g’s in a weekend. I never heard of a bookie don’t give a guy a chance to get even on a thousand bucks.”