by Liz Hickok
Mickey Fusco sits on the barstool next to George and apes his actions. “I’m good, too,” he tells the bartender. George slides a ten across the bar, stands up, and stretches his neck left, then right. Mickey stands up, stretches his neck left, then right. The bartender looks expectantly at Mickey, but is disappointed when Mickey turns his back to the bar. Mickey is a thin, nervous sort. Between thirty and thirty-five, five six, five seven max. He probably shops for clothes in the boy’s department.
The driver asks the bartender, “Do you know a place where a guy can get something to eat around here this time of night? No fast food, good food.”
“Ask those guys at the end of the bar, they’ll know.” The bartender gestures with his chin toward George and Mickey.
The driver leaves the bartender a two-dollar tip and approaches the two men.
George sizes up the driver with the bored expression of someone who could use another six hours of sleep. “I heard what you asked the bartender. How hungry are you, kid?”
“Joe.”
“What?”
“My name is Joe, and I’m real hungry. I’ve been driving all night. No Denny’s or McDonalds, okay? There’s gotta be someone serving decent food this late.”
“Where are you from, Joe?” George asks.
“Nowhere special,” the young man says.
Mickey says, “I’m hungry, George.”
“You’re always hungry. Sometimes I think you got yourself a tapeworm.”
Mickey shrugs, and the corners of his mouth go up a fraction of an inch in a weak attempt at a smile.
“This here is Mickey, and I’m George. Let’s bounce.”
George leads his two companions to a vintage Cadillac in primo condition.
“What is this, some kind of land yacht?” Joe asks.
“Funny! I’d appreciate it if you didn’t insult my ride, Joe. It’s a 1985 Cadillac Seville slant back. It’s a classic,” George says. “Got a hundred thousand miles and still going strong.”
Joe throws his hands up in surrender, “Sorry.”
“Are you up for the best breakfast you ever ate, Joe?” Mickey asks.
“And, and the best homemade biscuits and red-eye gravy on the planet.” George says.
“My mouth is watering.”
“And, this joint serves up generous nightcaps, too,” George says.
“Nightcaps as in liquor?”
George grins like a gambler with inside information. “Uh-huh, as in liquor.”
Joe checks his wristwatch, “Last call was at two.” Joe looks around at the empty street. “They’re getting ready to pull the sidewalks in.”
“Some rules are made to be broken, Joe.” George says.
Mickey puffs out his chest. “Yeah, we don’t play by any rules.”
“Shut up, Mickey,” George says.
Mickey cowers, “Sorry, George.”
“What kind of place is it?” Joe asks.
“The kind of place that caters to insomniacs, night hawks, and the occasional degenerate,” George says. “Let’s just say this place is way off the grid. If you catch my meaning.”
“This place got a name?” Joe asks.
“Nothing official, but those in the know call it Sneaky Pete’s.”
“Sneaky Pete’s, huh? Sounds like just the kind of place I’ve been looking for.”
George lights a cigarette and takes a long slow drag. He holds in the smoke for what seems like a long time before letting it out to swirl above his head like a storm cloud. Satisfied, he flicks the half-smoked cigarette butt into the street. Joe watches it pop and sparkle on the asphalt.
“Let’s go,” George says.
The three men climb into the Caddy; George behind the wheel, Mickey riding shotgun and Joe in the back seat behind Mickey. George fires up the engine and slams his foot on the gas pedal. The car rockets away from the curb and onto the deserted streets of the sleeping city.
The Caddy approaches a red light and rolls to a stop. There are no moving vehicles and no pedestrians in any direction. George drums his fingers on the steering wheel patiently waiting for the light to turn green.
“Just run it. There’s nobody around for blocks,” Mickey tells him.
“Who’s driving: you or me?” George snaps.
“You are George, sorry.”
George checks the rearview mirror. He looks from side to side, and then reaches into a jacket pocket to fish out a miniature bottle of Scotch, the kind served on airplanes. The light turns green, but George keeps his foot on the brake. He calmly twists the cap off the bottle, tilts his head back, and downs the liquor in one long swallow.
They drive into a decaying neighborhood over a potholed littered street that had once been home to the well-to-do. It is now lined with derelict houses and their peeling paint, seedy lawns, and sagging porches. A dozen or more luxury cars are parked along both sides of the street. Their presence is in direct contrast to the sad-looking, clapboard houses. George finds an available parking spot and slides the car effortlessly into the space. Mickey jumps out of the car.
“Go ahead, I’ll be right there.” George tells Joe.
Joe moves from the car to the sidewalk. He looks back and catches a glimpse of George removing a small gun from the back of his waistband and hiding it under the driver’s seat.
Joe follows George and Mickey up to a non-descript two-story house that looked badly in need of some tender loving care. They trudge up six steps to a dimly lit enclosed porch where the trio is confronted by a mountain of a man, a former defensive tackle. The man is six foot, four inches tall and approaching three hundred pounds. His massive frame is perched on a bar stool, blocking the entrance to the house. A black leather coat falls open to reveal a gaudy Hawaiian shirt and a big .41 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver in a shoulder holster.
Joe’s eyes bug out at the sight of the weapon.
“Whatcha looking at, kid?” the man menaces in a voice seemingly emanating from the bowls of the earth.
“Nothing.”
The big man self-consciously pulls his coat closed, points his chin at Joe, and asks George, “He all right?”
George slaps Joe on the shoulder.
“Joe, meet Eugene, aka, Big Junior.”
“Hey,” Joe says warily.
“Let’s just say Joe here is ‘our friend,’ Big Junior,” George says. Big Junior quietly eyeballs Joe and finally says, “Don’t worry. I got a conceal carry permit. Just exercising my second amendment rights, understand?”
George hands Big Junior thirty dollars. Big Junior nods, adds the three tens to a roll of bills, and then holds open a canvas sack. “Weapons and phones,” he demands. The men empty their pockets. George and Joe deposit cell phones. Mickey drops in a Swiss Army knife. Junior shakes the bag in George’s direction. George shrugs and opens his jacket wide for Junior to see that he is not armed.
“You know me all too well, Junior, but I’m way ahead of you tonight.”
Big Junior clicks a handheld counter three times and opens the front door.
Acrid tobacco smoke mixed with the sweet smell of freshly brewed coffee and wonderful kitchen aromas. The three men thread their way through a living room and dining room. They pass stern-looking men in sharp business suits, hipsters in khakis, two men in jeans and -t-shirts, an off-duty waiter in a wrinkled tuxedo, and a man in a dark blue windbreaker zipped up to his neck. The man in the windbreaker holds a heavy ceramic coffee mug and inhabits the room’s only couch in a way that prevents sharing. The two suits are led up the stairs by two young women. Everyone is drinking booze from coffee mugs.
The trio continues on to the kitchen and is quickly engulfed in the delicious aromas of fresh biscuits, fried potatoes, bubbling gravy, and strong coffee. The kitchen resembles a diner. Two men, blue-collar types, sit at the only table, a four-top, finishing their breakfast. The four stools at the counter are empty. The trio straddles three of them and watches the action. A sturdy red-faced man with squint lines aroun
d his eyes and a Hemmingway-style salt and pepper beard chops and flips a pile of lacy hash browns on the big flat-top griddle. He wears a gourmet chef’s black double-breasted jacket and checkered pants. A red bandana on his head replaces the traditional toque, and he carries an extra thirty pounds around his girth.
A full-figured woman in a hairnet and red apron works next to the chef and playfully swings her hips into him. He smiles and slides over giving her room. She breaks two eggs over the flat-top using one hand. She throws several slices of ham onto the flat-top with the other hand. The man moves to the oven and removes three trays of piping hot biscuits. The aroma is intoxicating.
Mickey nudges Joe’s arm.
“The big guy, that’s Pete.” He inhales deeply, “Don’t that small good?”
The woman stands next to Pete and stirs a pot of gravy that is bubbling on the stove. She samples it. “Gravy’s ready, Pete,” She says.
Joe asks the woman, “Red Eye gravy?”
“The best you ever tasted,” The woman responds.
“You use sorghum or molasses?” Joe asks.
“Sorghum when we can get it,” Pete responds.
“You use guajillo peppers?” Joe asks Pete.
“How the hell do you know about guajillos?” Pete is suspicious.
Joe side-steps the question offering up a crafty smile instead, and then asks, “Coffee or espresso?”
“Espresso. Pete here wouldn’t have it any other way, ” the woman says with admiration written all over her face.
“Sounds like you know something about cooking, kid,” Pete says.
Joe shrugs. “I have my moments.”
The chef studies Joe’s face. “Do I know you?”
“I get that a lot. I have that kind of face.” Pete is unconvinced. “Huh-huh.” Pete sets three trays of biscuits down, wipes his hands on a towel, and jauntily tosses it over his shoulder. He pops three biscuits out of one of the trays and onto a plate. “Have a couple-o-three biscuits on the house for you and your friends, George, while you wait for breakfast,” Pete offers. “Tell me what you think, kid,” Pete says.
The three men devour the biscuits in no time flat.
Joe nods his head in epicurean joy. “I gotta hand it to you, Pete. These biscuits are fantastic.” He holds his half eaten biscuit up for inspection and turns to his two companions. He says in a voice loud enough for Pete to hear, “The secret to a great biscuit is using very cold butter, almost frozen. That way you can grate the butter into the batter. Very cold pieces of butter create pockets of steam when baked. That’s how Pete here gets these biscuits so light and fluffy.” Joe takes another bite out of his biscuit. “Right, Pete?”
“Yeah, that’s the technique, kid.”
“And of course you add ice-cold cream to your ice-cold buttermilk. Am I right?”
“Right on the money, kid.” Pete directs a questioning stare at Joe.
“Pete.”
“Yeah, kid.”
“It’s Joe, not kid.”
“Okay Joe. How do you know all that stuff?” George asks.
“I graduated from the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, New York.”
“Do tell,” Pete says. He puts one hand over his heart and makes a mocking bow. “Hey Roxy, you hear that? We got ourselves a CIA big shot,” Pete says with just a hint of scorn in his voice and then turns his attention to George. “What are you drinking?” he asks.
“Dewars.”
“Me too,” Mickey says.
Pete glares hard at Mickey. “You got money this time, Mickey?”
“Yeah I got money. What do you take me for?”
“You don’t wanna know.” Pete says and then turns his attention to Joe. “You want a Coke or something… Joe?”
“Why do you think I would want a Coke?”
“You look so young is all.”
“I’m twenty-three.”
“That’s young to me.”
“Give him a Dewars, Pete,” George says.
“Just coffee,” Joe insists.
“Just coffee?” Pete throws his head back and roars with laughter. Pete places his palms on the counter and leans forward. “Tell ya what. One chef to another, how’s about I fix you an Irish coffee? Couple fingers of Bushmills in a cup of strong Rwandan coffee with just a dollop of whip cream on top?” Pete asks. “I whip up the cream myself. None of that canned stuff for you. I use granulated sugar too instead of confectioner’s sugar. Know why?”
“Because confectioner sugar contains cornstarch and the cornstarch sometimes makes whipped cream gritty.”
Pete looks surprised. “Jesus Joe, now you’re scaring me,” Pete says.
“Check this out, Pete,” Joe says. “Try using Amaretto or Frangelico instead of vanilla extract in the whipped cream.”
Pete tilts his head to one side, smiles, and wags an accusing finger at Joe. “Now you’re just showing off,” Pete says. “Okay, it’s Irish coffee for you, with Frangelico in the cream.”
Joe nods his head. “That would be great.”
Pete looks at George, raises his eyebrows, and tilts his head to indicate that he was impressed.
“You guys ready for your breakfast?” Roxy shouts over her shoulder.
“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Mickey responds.
A very pretty girl, nineteen, or twenty-years-old enters the kitchen from a side room and quickly busses the now vacant four-top. She smiles at Joe.
“What’s your name?” Joe asks.
“Grace. What’s yours?”
“Joe.” Mickey answers.
George swats Mickey’s arm. “Don’t intrude, Mickey.”
“Yeah, okay, sorry Gorge.”
“Don’t tell me. Tell Joe.”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry…”
“That’s okay, Mickey.”
“Hi Joe,” Grace says.
“Hi Grace,” Joe responds.
“Get back to work, Grace,” Pete bellows.
Grace quickly returns to the side room, presumably to wash dishes. The three men take their coffee mugs to the now vacant table and wait for their food to arrive.
“What’s her story?” Joe asks.
“Working her way through some local cooking school I think,” George says.
Roxy arrives with big oval plates heaped with hash brown potatoes, slices of ham, biscuits smothered in gravy, and topped with fried eggs.
“Youse guys want ketchup?” The woman asks.
“Yes please,” Joe replies.
“Please? You mutts hear that?” Roxy calls out to no one in particular. “He said ‘please.’ We have a gentleman here.” She quickly pulls Joe’s head to her ample breasts before he can resist and rocks him back and forth.
“I can’t breathe,” Joe yells
“Roxy, come on, let the poor guy go before you kill him.” George pulls several bills from a showy money clip and drops them on the table. Roxy pushes Joe away, snaps up the money in one swift move, and returns to the griddle.
“Let me take care of mine.” Joe reaches for his wallet.
George grips Joe’s arm to stop him. “Your money’s no good here, Joe.”
Joe looks over his shoulder hoping to get another look at Grace.
George catches the action and smiles.
The men shovel the food into their mouths as if eating their last meal.
Joe sits back after cleaning his plate and raises his arms in the air. “I gotta hand it to you. That was a great breakfast.”
“Told you so.” Mickey says to Joe. “Yo, Pete, you hear what Joe here said? ‘That was a great breakfast.’”
“Come back any time,” Pete says.
“That goes for me too, hon.” Roxy says while squeezing her ample breasts, winking an eye, and licking her lips seductively at Joe.
Mickey grabs his mug and scurries away.
“Where’s he going?” Joe asks.
“To lose his shirt again. C’mon, I’ll show you?”
❦
&nb
sp; George and Joe find Mickey in the converted garage playing poker with three hard-cases and a dealer, coffee mugs at the ready. Two players dig into wedges of apple pie. Mickey is seated at the table with a dwindling pile of chips in front of him. A cigarette dangles from his mouth.
George nudges Joe, “The guy wearing that leather apron is the dealer. He works for the house. He balances an open cigar box on his lap and every time the players ante up the dealer flicks a chip against his leather apron so it bounces into the cigar box. That’s called the rake, the house’s cut.”
George leans in close and whispers to Joe, “Watch the dealer. He’s a mechanic, a magician at manipulating the cards. He can deal from the bottom to himself or a shill sitting at the table.”
“So, he’s cheating,” Joe says.
The house works on thin margins. Let’s just say his actions create an extra cut for the house.” George walks up to Mickey, taps him on the shoulder, and nods his head in a gesture that signals it’s time to go.
“What? Youse guys wanna go already? We just got here.”
“Come on before they clean you out.” Mickey reluctantly cashes in his chips. George pulls him aside.
“Mickey, how many times I gotta tell you? It’s a sucker’s game. They’re cheating you.”
“I know.”
“If you know, then why do you keep playing?”
“Cause, they let me win sometimes.”
As the trio moves toward the front door, the man in the dark blue windbreaker bends down to retrieve a bottle of vodka from the floor. The windbreaker opens enough for Joe to catch a glimpse of brass precinct numbers on the collar points of the man’s blue shirt and a badge pinned over his heart. He is cop. He catches Joe staring at him. The cop casually settles back into the couch and refills his mug with vodka, takes a long slow sip from the mug, and then glares menacingly at Joe. “The hell you looking at, kid?” he challenges.
“Nothing, I’m looking at nothing,” Joe says.
The cop snorts contemptuously, and his face hardens into a mask of anger.
“Get him the fuck out of here, George,” the cop says.
