None of this is new to Corky. Corky knows it practically by heart, it’s been recycled over the airwaves so much. But this time Corky’s moved by what he hears. Steadman’s words, and the crowd’s response. Corky’s thinking suddenly, Christ what if he was black, and hearing Marcus Steadman like this? How’d he feel then?
Thinking too, maybe skin color is real, a category like a separate species. Being black, yes being a nigger, if that’s what you must be in others’ eyes, in whites’ eyes. If that’s the price you pay for knowing who you are and who you aren’t.
Artie Fleischman jabs Corky in the arm, vehement, grinning, “You know what I’d like to do?—rip off that spade fucker’s prick and stuff it down his throat.”
Corky makes a grunting noncommittal noise. Maybe yes maybe no.
Returning then to the live coverage in Shehawkin, about ten miles away. The blond reporter’s wide eyes and quickened voice, WSUC-TV’s “flash SWAT team” peeking at the bungalow deeded in the name of Marcus Steadman’s stepmother, more close-ups of blank blind windows, isn’t this trespassing, Corky wonders, harassment?—wouldn’t blame whoever’s inside if he went berserk and fired a shotgun at the asshole film crew. All the guys at the bar, though, including Lew the bartender, are fascinated by it, really into it. Fuck Steadman, fuck the nigger! All you’d need is a firebomb to toss through one of those windows.
Artie Fleischman isn’t the only off-duty cop here, Corky recognizes two or three others. Bobby Ray’s is a white cops’ hangout which is part of its appeal.
Corky shifts his shoulders uneasily. Takes a big swallow of his ale. He can’t help but wonder what it’s like to be Steadman right now—hiding out in that house. All the talk in Union City about Marilee Plummer, and Steadman to blame. If she’d been a white woman, and if this were a few decades ago, the guy might be lynched by now.
The local news bulletin ends abruptly, fading to an ad for Miller Lite, an ad for the Dodge Caravan Mini-Van, back then to Tiger Stadium where it’s the top of the third, the Toronto team up to bat and Corky tries to concentrate but he’s rattled, hot in the face, thinking he should get the hell home. All his life he’s been a guy in the wrong place and running late. Starts out with all the time in the world then fuck it he’s running late. If he gets home in time he can shower, change his clothes, sober up some before Thalia arrives. Did she say four o’clock or four-thirty? Can’t fuck up, this is going to be a crucial meeting. God knows what Thalia will ask of him. Or take without asking.
Should call the van Burens, too. Hand them some plausible excuse for last night.
What you don’t want to do is get on Andy van B’s notorious shit list.
As bad, or almost, as getting on Oscar Slattery’s.
Corky knows he should leave Bobby Ray’s . . . but he’s drawn into the game, hard to resist. The mood in the bar, how Corky loves bars, and the companionship of guys like these, hard to resist. And they like him, and he likes that. Loud-laughing, profane. Dirty jokes. Corky Corcoran buys everybody at the bar a drink reciting the old Irish toast in an Irish-inflected voice—“‘May the road rise up to meet you, may the wind be always at your back, may the sunshine be warm on your face, and may you be safe in Heaven before the Devil knows you’re dead’”—and the guys love it, and applaud. Irish blarney, Irish bullshit, Corky’s a sucker for it, too. And somebody else, infected by Corky’s mood, buys another round. And so it goes.
Corky likes to think he’s the kind of good-hearted guy, he inspires generosity in others. Right?
They said that of Tim Corcoran, too. But his brother Sean—tightfisted.
Corky’s eating stale pistachios out of a bowl shared with Artie Fleischman and another cop, they’ve been trading wisecracks, baseball history, what they know, or think they know, when Dave Winfield steps up to bat. Winfield! Corky’s heart trips absurdly, he wants Winfield to do well. Like he, Corky, has to prove something to his friends.
The guys along the bar, plus Lew, are hostile to Winfield, which pisses Corky who’s been following his career for a long time, what seems like most of his own adult life. You got to admire these veterans of the game sticking with it when they’re traded off, the shit Winfield took as a Yankee, from Steinbrenner, the guy’s a hero for Christ’s sake, both legs scarred from injuries in the game, a bad back, also he’s black and that can’t be easy even today. Also he’s forty-one years old in what’s basically a kid’s game. “Here’s my man! Here we go! Stand back!” says Corky with cheerful belligerence, knowing sentiment’s strong against Winfield, against the Toronto team. His drinking buddies are silent, sullen. The pitcher’s a twenty-four-year-old blond kid named Gary Redmon who’d passed through the Mohawks swiftly on his way up two seasons ago so there’s strong local sentiment for him, the white kid with Elvis-style sideburns, smirky mouth, good-looking and on the spot pitching to Dave Winfield about whom there’s such an aura, so much history. Corky’s friends stand silent and tense not even drinking as Redmon makes a show of playing it cool but he’s rattled pitching one, then two, balls, one lucky strike and then on Redmon’s fourth pitch there’s a crack!—Winfield connects with the ball and it’s a high-arcing fly out into center field and into the stadium, a home run: Winfield rounding the bases smiling and easy, big guy, muscular, solid in the gut and probably feeling back pain but you’d never know; too classy to show what he’s feeling except, now his teammates are giving him the high five, grinning at him, he’s naturally feeling good and since there were two men on base the game’s now tipped solidly toward the Jays, six runs to Detroit’s two. Corky’s excited and gleeful as a kid, pounding the bar as Winfield trots home. Certain of the other patrons are muttering cursing Winfield, the usual racist names so Corky says, more pleading than angry, “Look, Christ, the guy’s good, and at his age, practically my age for fuck’s sake,” meaning to raise a laugh but nobody laughs, nor even acknowledges Corky’s remark. Everybody’s tense watching the TV and no joking, Corky sees Artie Fleischman’s close-set glinting eyes fixed like a snake’s and can’t resist goading him when Redmon throws four balls in a row and walks the next batter, really fucking up now and the Detroit fans booing, and now comes some young Canadian new to the Toronto team and connects with the first throw a line drive deep into right field so the guy on first slides home and the batter makes it to second and Corky’s laughing and pounding the bar sending the pistachio shells flying, really into it now though the others along the bar are mostly silent, sullen.
“Shit! That’s baseball,” Corky says, hugely delighted. “The Mo’s”—meaning Mohawks—“should be half so good.”
One of the off-duty cops says sourly, “Since when are you such a Canuck-lover, Corcoran?” and his companion mutters sneeringly something about “sucking black cock” which Corky hears, so he says, excited, “Yeah?—fuck you, assholes, you can’t recognize a great athlete, Winfield’s a great athlete I don’t care what color,” and Artie Fleischman says quick and hot, “Shit, that old spook won’t last the season,” and Corky says, “Watch your mouth, Fleischman, everybody here isn’t a racist,” and Fleischman says, “‘Nigger,’ then,—that old ‘nigger’ won’t last the season I bet you money,” and Corky says quick and hot too, “Yeah?—you do? Put your money where your mouth is,” reaching for his wallet in that way he has like he’s reaching for a pistol, knows the gesture will sober Fleischman and it does, Fleischman backs down muttering, “—The Jays will fuck up before the season’s over, I’ll bet on that,” making a clumsy swaggering show of reaching for his wallet, “—like they fucked up last year, and before that, asshole Canucks,” and Corky leaps in, “Like hell! Give me odds, five to one, the Blue Jays will win the fucking pennant in October!”
There’s a pause, a beat or two, everybody staring at Corky and Fleischman, the lieutenant’s at a disadvantage saying, stumbling, “—Why not the Series, Corcoran?—if you’re gonna shoot off your mouth,” and Corky’s tempted to say yes, why not, the Series, why not, for the sake of seeing the looks on these asshol
es’ faces wondering if Corky Corcoran has insider baseball dope unavailable to hicks like themselves, he’s got connections with the Vegas casinos doesn’t he, practically a professional gambler? But Corky’s not going to be suckered into that. Saying instead, “Maybe the Series, but for sure the pennant: want to bet?” that delicious shiver rippling like an echo of the very words want to bet? like want to make love?—want to fuck?—Corky Corcoran standing toe to toe at the bar with Lieutenant Fleischman who’s at least three inches taller than he is and thirty pounds heavier and who does in fact pack a pistol inside his coat, all off-duty cops carry their guns, Corky just now caught a glimpse of Fleischman’s but Corky’s no less arrogant, pushy, he’s enjoying this, the others guys watching and Fleischman’s baffled as a bull beset by a bulldog not knowing which way to jump. A man’s instinct is to accept any challenge but Corky’s bet is so off-the-wall, so unexpected, making such a bet in May when the teams are just getting started, God knows what the lineup will be by October—the Jays could be in first place, or last. Fleischman says doubtfully, “Are you serious?” and Corky says, “If you know me, you know I’m always serious.” It takes Corky ten minutes of explaining, cajoling, working out odds on a paper napkin, before Fleischman sees a good thing here, or thinks he does, and agrees to the bet.
Corky’s a little feverish saying he’s on the Canadians’ side because a mick is a kind of Canuck, right?—“You expect him to be a loser, you’re surprised when he’s a winner.”
It isn’t the actual money that excites, it’s the premise, the logic. What to skeptical eyes looks like illogic. A sexy feeling too deep in the groin though sometimes Corky’s blood pumps so hard he’s fearful of some kind of attack but fuck that, he’s flying high: pushing a racist prick like Fleischman into a corner, he can’t escape without losing face.
Women as different and as little known to each other as Corky’s Aunt Frances and his ex-wife Charlotte have teasingly chided him for gambling because he wants to lose because he wants his gambling friends to like him but, fuck it, that’s not so, and today’s bet with Artie Fleischman proves it: Corky’s a gambler because he can’t just haul off and punch certain bastards in the gut the way they deserve.
Corky’s in for $1000 against Fleischman’s $4000, he’s had to reduce the odds in Fleischman’s favor but it’s worth it. Grinning and hot-faced then the men shake hands—“It’s a deal!”—hard bone-crunching handshake, Fleischman’s fingers like fleshy steel and Corky has all he can do to keep from wincing. But he’s feeling God-damned good, best he’s felt in the past twenty-four hours.
Since Christina Kavanaugh kicked him in the balls.
Corky’s and Artie’s bet is so unusual, it’s like a strange-shaped object you want to examine from all sides. The other guys are drawn in, too, all of them on Artie’s side, that’s where the odds are, and Corky’s stuck his neck out now—hasn’t he? So the others get in on it and Corky accepts their bets too, chicken feed at $400 a crack; except the cop who made the remark about sucking black cock announces he’ll bet Corky $8000 to Corky’s $2000—and Corky doesn’t miss a beat or blink an eyelash, saying, “It’s a deal!”
Calculating he’s risking a total of $6000 if the Jays lose, chump change for Corky, but if they win he’ll clear a cool $24,000 and he knows they’re going to win.
By this time it’s 4:10 P.M. and Corky’s so roused up he’s almost forgotten he’s supposed to be home by 4:30 when Thalia’s due. He’s so distracted he’s scarcely taking in the TV game where now the Tigers are at bat, somebody’s just connected and hit a line drive, there’s a swift sure throw to first and the runner’s out and the score’s still 6 to 2, Jays ahead. “Another ale, Corky?” asks Lew and Corky’s not hearing staring at the screen as Tiger Stadium fades to a Marlboro ad like one dream fading to another and beyond that there’s still another, you’ll never come to the end of it.
Scared cards can’t win, a scared man can’t love—which doesn’t apply to Corky Corcoran, that’s for fucking sure.
5
Stepdaughter
You’re not my father, why keep up the pretense.
Bullshit, you don’t love me. I sure as hell don’t love you.
But I do. And you do, too. What can’t be forgotten, only betrayed.
He’d gone to see her and she’d practically shut the door in his face. Eleventh-floor apartment in the Dominion Towers which he was never to see, never invited inside, that evening as a blizzard came roaring down from Canada pitch black at six P.M. he’d risked getting stuck and having to pay a tow truck for the privilege of being turned away from her door glimpsing over her shoulder a man’s figure shadowy, blurred; whether Caucasian, black, or other—he couldn’t tell. She’d seemed frightened seeing him. The anger in his face. Corky some other time, this isn’t a good time, O.K.?—I’m sorry it just isn’t a good time.
He’d hired two goons to beat the shit out of this guy who’d been stalking her, and it worked. Not that Thalia knew, or guessed—not that he knew. Crazy as she is, her sense of morality, she might’ve called the police on step-Daddy, get him booked for aggravated assault.
Yes but I’d do it again. Sure.
It’s a risk but worth it. To protect her.
Corky’s approaching 33 Summit Avenue south of the park, five-bedroom Georgian Colonial he’s stuck with since his divorce. The house his wife had to have, on the market at $320,000 (in the mid-1970s) but sold at $285,000. Pawpaw Drummond’s realtor expertise not to mention the old bastard’s interest-free loan of a cool $100,000 and his help in getting the newlyweds a thirty-year mortgage.
Thirty-year mortgage!—what a noose Corky’d stuck his head into. Not knowing he’d be able to pay it off in eight years, determined to get out from under the debt.
Out from under his father-in-law’s boot, too. Only not quite so quickly.
33 Summit Avenue is two and a half miles south of 8 Schuyler Place. Both addresses are in Maiden Vale, but Corky’s house faces Summit Park, the largest park in Union City, acres of hilly wooded grassy land, the neoclassical marble temple that’s the Union City Museum of Fine Arts, the County Historical Museum, the prestigious Annandale Foundation for Medical Research, a number of landmark mansions some of which are no longer private homes but schools, headquarters for charities, clinics. Corky Corcoran’s house is one of the smaller houses along the park but it’s classy, eyecatching—the brick’s the real thing, faded-rose, beautiful, over a hundred years old not the sleek modern kind. A spectacular facade with a half-circle portico, four slender white columns, white shutters on the eight latticed windows. Slate roof. Circle drive. Three-acre lot, prime property in Maiden Vale. Juniper pine, plane trees, Russian olive. That gorgeous hedge of blooming lilac. If Tim and Theresa could see, they’d be proud of him. Jerome did O.K. after all.
Of course, upkeep on the property isn’t cheap. Nor taxes. Nor insurance. Waking sometimes sweating in a dream of adding up columns of figures with his pocket calculator melting in his hand like a limp prick. Dizzying columns of figures rising out of sight, endless. But telling himself it’s worth the price.
When Corky arrives at the house it’s already 4:40 P.M. and he’s anxious he might have missed Thalia, no car in the drive and no sign of her as he lets himself in the back hearing the telephone ringing cursing and stumbling to get to the phone but, fuck it, just as he lifts the receiver there’s a click. Whoever the caller was, he or she isn’t leaving a message.
Corky’s on his way upstairs when the phone rings again and he answers it (in the kitchen: staring out into the back, the deep sloping lawn, ten-foot lilac hedge and poplars at the rear like something in a French painting so beautiful Corky still wonders, I live here? I own this? even if he has trouble breathing sometimes) and it’s a neighbor, one of Jerome A. Corcoran’s constituents in the Eleventh District who’d prefer no doubt a Republican Councilman except nobody with such credentials not a certifiable nut seems to want to run against the incumbent, the name’s just familiar enough to Cor
ky’s practiced ear so he can fake it, Hello Gordon, good to hear from you, sure I remember you, how are you, and how’s the family?—and the rich old fart is on the blower for the next ten minutes complaining indignantly about the trash pickup on his street, trucks barreling by as early as 7:30 A.M. Wednesdays and Saturdays the purpose of which is to wake the residents, purely for spite these Negroes clanging and clattering and shouting at one another, yes and laughing too, and they make it a point to leave bits of debris in everybody’s lawns purely for spite, Gordon’s certain, Gordon’s damned certain, and what is Jerome Corcoran going to do about it? so Corky says politely he’ll call the superintendent of the Sanitation Department on Tuesday and complain and he’ll bring the subject up at the next council meeting which is Thursday, yes it is a problem though maybe not so bad as in other parts of the city where trash pickup is only once a week or not at all but thank you Gordon, very good to hear from you, and hanging up Corky slams the receiver down screaming “Fuck you you shit-eating old asshole calling me at home on Saturday you motherfucker!” in a rage clearing the kitchen counter of whatever’s there including the gleaming chrome three-slice toaster tumbling and crashing to the floor amid a deafening crash and a spillage of desiccated crumbs.
Now Corky’s waiting for Thalia whom maybe he’s missed. Jesus he’s sick at heart, worried he’s missed her.
Switches on a TV flicking rapidly through the channels, how many channels, thirty? forty?—the more channels the less there’s to see, or anyway the less time you have for each, Corky often flicks the remote control so fast the TV picture’s hardly more than a blur as if he’s speeding past, breathless. No baseball game, must be over. No, here’s one but not the one he’d been watching at Bobby Ray’s, looks like Cincinnati but Corky’s too restless to watch. He’s beginning to regret his bets on the Blue Jays, now the excitement’s dimmed down and he’s left wondering why, sheer impulse, completely fabricated odds, and so early in the season. In May, for Christ’s sake! And on Toronto! The last three times the Blue Jays got to the playoffs they screwed up, everybody knows they’re jinxed. Dave Winfield or not. Nigger-lover. Suck. And this year, with Corky’s luck probably the team won’t even make it to the playoffs.
What I Lived For Page 33
