So I wait. He gave me a look when I walked in, but without recognition. I bought him a round and fed him my shots. He almost got into a fight with a kid at the pool table. He reached into his pocket and I reached into mine. His knife didn't come out, so neither did my .45. That's okay. He'll pull it eventually. He always does. Everyone will see who pulled first.
I'll wait.
And all I'll leave behind is the memory of an ugly shirt.
Hot Enough For Ya?
Jimmy Romance felt the blood drain from his face like somebody pulled out the stop plug in his neck.
"So joo had no idea that she was his daughter?" asked Ricardo with a smile as he leaned on the countertop of Jimmy's Tan-O-Rama. He asked the question slowly, savoring the words like a fine wine.
Jimmy couldn't answer the obvious question since his mind was still spinning with the new information.
The girl with whom he'd recently broken several laws of New York State, physics, and nature with, was the one and only daughter of the one and only Jonathan Bass.
Or, depending on who you asked, "Butcher" Bass.
And asked quietly.
Jimmy thought he might vomit right into his brand new tanning bed.
Ricardo clicked his tongue. "Of course joo didn't know. Because…"
Jimmy didn't need Ricardo to finish. The rest of the sentence would have been something about sado-masochism, death wishes, or both. "Does he know yet?" Jimmy hated the tremble he heard in his voice.
"Oh, he knows," Ricardo said, grinning, his gold incisor winking at Jimmy. Ricardo was the type of guy who liked to bring sour grapes to the dinner table. The kind of guy who only talked about the movies he didn't like. The restaurants with sucky food. The bad luck around the neighborhood. And he did it with glee. Ricardo was a ghoul for the jinxed residents of the West Village. "She come home last night wearing somebody's old bowling shirt. The one with Jimmy R. embroidered over the pocket?" Ricardo traced a finger over his heart.
Jimmy felt another wave of nausea run roughshod through his intestines. "How do you know this?"
"I heard Jonathan hollering as I passed by getting the paper this mornin'. Sounded kinda juicy, no offence, so I hung around front to hear."
That alone didn't bode well. Jimmy knew that Bass's apartment occupied the top floor of a brownstone on Thompson Street. If Ricardo heard him from the sidewalk, then he was yelling pretty fucking loud. What little Jimmy knew about Bass included his soft-spoken demeanor.
And that he preferred to do his loud talking with very sharp pieces of metal.
Wait a minute here. "Home? She still lives at home?"
"She only sixteen, Jimmy."
That did it. Jimmy ran into the can and lost his breakfast burrito into the toilet. "Ohgodohgodohgod", he muttered to the soon-to-be dead man in the mirror.
How? HOW the fuck could she be sixteen? She took it in the ass! Sixteen-year-olds didn't take it in the ass.
Did they?
Oh sweet fucking God…
He'd stuck his dick into the underaged anus of Butcher Bass's daughter.
Ricardo rapped 'shave and a haircut' on the bathroom door. The blood flooded back into Jimmy's brain with a roar. Was that little prick making some kind of joke? They both knew the rumors about Butcher's weapon of choice; a straight razor. "Hey Jimmy? Joo okay in there?"
Jimmy burst out of the bathroom and grabbed Ricardo by the neck, slamming him back into the counter. "Why are you telling me this! What's your play here, fucko?" he screamed, spittle flying in Ricardo's face. Jimmy knew Ricardo had a play, Ricardo always had a fucking play.
Ricardo only smiled condescendingly into Jimmy's outburst. "Cuz I'm a friend, Jimmy. I figure maybe somebody should keep an eye on the salon while joo away."
Away.
That was it all along. Ricardo knew that he'd need to go away. Where the hell was he supposed to go? Didn't matter. They could sure as hell find him here.
Mean Gene popped into Jimmy's mind's eye. Bass's cause and effect man. As in, cause Bass any grief, Mean Gene Ricciardi effects serious damage on your ass. Then he brought you to The Butcher for the big finish. Mean Gene had just been here a couple of months ago before his vacation.
Where was he going?
Paris. That was it. He said he wanted to get a head start on his tan. Jimmy remembered thinking of that crap movie, An American Werewolf in Paris. Gene could have passed for one if he had twenty percent less body hair and better people skills. Jimmy spent an extra hour Windex-ing Mean Gene's black curlies off the tanning bed.
Man oh man. Jimmy was woozy with the realization of just how big a world of shit he was suddenly in.
He had to go.
Fast.
"How much you got?" he asked Ricardo.
"Well, I got a couple hundred on me that I can give joo until…"
Jimmy caught Ricardo with a hard uppercut to the chin. Ricardo's jaw snapped shut with a sound like cracking ice. He stumbled, leaning backwards into one of the empty tanning beds. Jimmy slammed the top of the bed shut with all his weight on top, sandwiching Ricardo's face in the bed. Something crunched in the machine and Ricardo slumped to the floor, blood pouring from his ruined mouth and trickling from one ear.
Jimmy felt Ricardo's neck. He still had a pulse. Good for him.
He reached into Ricardo's pockets, took the money and dropped the keys to the salon on the floor. He wouldn't need them because he wasn't coming back.
Couldn't come back.
Ever.
Jimmy noticed the gold incisor catching the light again. Unfortunately for Ricardo, it was on the floor, next to his right foot. Jimmy picked up the tooth and stuck it in his pocket.
"Hi," he'd said. Like most of life's grandest clusterfucks, this one had started out simply enough. Jimmy could tell with just that one little word whether or not to continue talking to the girl two seats over or to flash his practiced fuck-me smile at another. And there was always another.
Jimmy thought she looked young, but fuck it, they were in a bar. How young could she be? The big goon in the Jets jersey sitting at the door must have carded her on the way in.
She was decked out in a black leather miniskirt and a gold spaghetti-strap tank that showed off her flat belly and clung to her nipples nicely. She was obviously looking for some attention. The only kind of attention that Jimmy gave women.
"Mm-hey," she replied through her ruby-lipsticked mouth, a small daub of crimson makeup smeared under her plump lower lip.
Jimmy gauged the situation so far as very good. Her eyes had the soft glaze that indicated she was just past her alcohol tolerance. In the twenty minutes he'd been sitting there, she'd popped back two and a half apple martinis. A little more grease, Jimmy thought, and this engine is a-runnin'.
"Want to do a shot with me?" he asked. "I hate dinking alone."
The rest, until that cocksucker Ricardo came strutting through the door, went exactly as planned.
Jimmy made a mental note to stab that fucking bouncer in the throat if he ever saw him again.
The paranoia was the worst part. It had been five days since Jimmy ran from the Tan-O-Rama, hauled his ass to 14th Street, dove into a cab and got home to Brooklyn. He hadn't opened his door since.
Although Jimmy would be willing to bet that most people he'd known for a decade or more didn't even know real last name, he wasn't taking any chances.
Everybody called him Jimmy Romance.
Romance wasn't his real last name, of course.
Jimmy earned the moniker from the long trail of women that he'd conquered over the years. They were his Achilles Heel. His one weakness. Jimmy didn't smoke, didn't drink to excess, didn't do drugs. Clean as a bean. It wasn't out of any moral or health concerns that he'd kept himself so straight-edged, it was the pussy. Didn't smoke, because he liked to keep his breath clean and teeth polished, was often complimented on his pearlies. Drugs and alcohol killed his game, fucked with the brain and body. His mind was his greatest seductive tool.
His body closed the deal. Why waste the money anyway? The intoxicant under the panty line was Jimmy's only drug. It was all he wanted.
The irony wasn't lost on Jimmy.
It was women that kept him in prime physical condition over the years.
It was one girl that might end up killing him.
He didn't know if anybody knew where he lived, but was pretty certain nobody did. Was his address written down anywhere in the salon? He couldn't remember for sure. It must have been. Was it anyplace obvious? Jimmy could just imagine that grinning prick Ricardo handing his address over to The Butcher for his thirty pieces of silver. Not having as much as looked at a Bible since Sunday school, Jimmy didn't recall Jesus busting Judas's teeth onto the floor before the betrayal, but wouldn't have thought any less of Jesus for it.
Nor did Jimmy plan on going peacefully into his personal crucifixion. During the few short hours that he slept, when he felt his eyes going too heavy for even the terror to keep open anymore, he would slide his recliner to the end of the long hallway and drift into an uneasy sleep, revolver in hand. On two separate occasions, he'd almost shot a Jehovah's Witness and a Girl Scout when they woke him up in a frenzied panic out of his tortured dreams.
Dreams about sharp things. Lots and lots of sharp things.
Jimmy wondered how much longer he could keep it up.
Pun definitely not fucking intended…
He was running out of food, for starters. His last meal consisted of oily old sardines on chewy rye crisps. He couldn't remember buying the dusty can of sardines. Who the hell bought sardines? Either way, in the moment, Jimmy was glad he had them.
He lived in New York, for chrissakes, where anything at any time could be delivered to your doorstep, but Jimmy was afraid to get anything brought to his house. He didn't need anyone to know that he was home. He would carefully watch the street from behind the thick curtains for any unusual cars, but what qualified as an unusual car? Jimmy didn't know his neighbors, much less what they drove on a regular basis.
The dark van with tinted windows, for instance. There was a dark blue Caravan that sat kitty-corner to his front window and didn't move for three days. Then on Saturday, some loser in full clown get-up filled the back of it with bright balloons. How the fuck could Jimmy live next to a clown and not know? For some reason, he felt he should have possessed that little nugget before this point.
On the fifth afternoon, as Jimmy prepared himself a lunch of watery clam chowder (he'd run out of milk) and a Froot Roll Up, he heard footsteps on the porch. Jimmy pulled the gun from his waistband, and pointed it down the hallway. It was just about time for the mailman, but Jimmy wasn't going to be taking any chances. The footsteps were heavy. Whoever it was, they weren't feeling any need for caution.
A sharp squeak. Jimmy cocked his gun with a shaking thumb. Rustling papers and the click of the door slot snapping shut. Without thinking about it, Jimmy hadn't even checked his mail for the four days he'd kept himself a prisoner inside the apartment. Too close to the windows. Also, somewhere in the back of his mind, he feared a letter bomb, even though it wasn't even close to Butcher's style. The Butcher liked cutting people, if that could be thought of as a style. John Bass liked his punishments delivered first hand and close up. For hours and hours at a time.
Jimmy crept carefully over to the door and collected the pile of mail off of his doormat. It was the typical mélange of crap. Gas bill, phone bill, some toolbag pleading for his City Council vote, credit card applications…
…wait a minute.
There it was.
He didn't know how long it had been there, but right there, printed gaily on a five-by-seven postcard was his salvation.
"Fortune Estates," came the sugary voice on the phone.
"…."
"Excuse me?"
Jimmy cleared his throat, realized that he didn't need to whisper "Yeah, I got your postcard."
"Excellent! So, as I'm sure you can see from the pictures that Fortune Estates offers the highest in quality living arrangements in t--"
"I want to see it."
"What? Oh, um…okay." The girl obviously wasn't accustomed to such an easy sale. "I'll need to check your name in our database. When would you like to see--?"
"Soon as possible. Name's James Romancelli."
"Well, Mr. Romancelli, I can send you the information packet in a week and…"
"I only have the next few days off. I can fly in the next two days or I can't fly out at all. You can overnight the ticket."
"Oh. Okay. Well, I'll need to check with my manager and see if that's possible."
Jimmy was put on hold to the strains of muzak Rod Stewart. He hated the real Rod Stewart. What the fuck made these people think that anybody wanted to listen to the muzak version? Jimmy's foot tapped on the floor anxiously.
The line clicked back. "Mr. Romancelli?"
"Yeah."
"I've brought your situation to the attention of my supervisor, Mr. Casey, and he said that we can help you."
Jimmy exhaled the breath he didn't know he was holding in and almost broke into tears of relief. "That's great."
"I'll send your ticket tonight and we'll see you on Wednesday. Is there anything else..?"
Jimmy hung up the phone and sagged against the wall. He had his out. His ticket, literally, would be in his hand the next day. Up to that point, Jimmy's running potential had been limited. With the money he'd taken from the register and out of Ricardo's pockets, he'd amassed a sum total of $1,022.36. Not nearly enough to run—and run as far as he felt he needed to in order to be safe. Not enough to start over. He had a couple grand more in the bank (and Ricardo's tooth), but couldn't access it, not wanting to go out in public and such. But now, he got himself a free ticket to another time zone. He could get his money and live for a couple months while he set himself up. The operating words being he could live.
All he had to do was take a look at some dinky little timeshare. The location was the icing on his getaway cake.
Jimmy Romance was going to Vegas, baby.
Strutting through McCarran airport, Jimmy heard Dean Martin singing "Ain't That a Kick in the Head?" on a loop through his brain.
How lucky can one guy be?
You better believe Jimmy felt lucky. And what better city to be lucky in? He felt like a million bucks. He felt better than he had in years. He felt…free. He walked with a Rat Pack bounce through the terminal, all the way to the goofball holding a handwritten sign that read 'Fortune Estates' and 'Romancelli' underneath.
Check this guy, Jimmy thought. Only somebody truly living the good life could afford to dress so stupid. First off, the guy was wearing a white linen suit that looked like he'd bought it for a nickel at Don Johnson's yard sale. His peroxide-blonde coif was moussed tighter than a Catholic girl's bra strap.
Actually, as Jimmy looked around, he was a little startled to see how much color everyone wore. Jimmy was the only person in the terminal wearing full black. New Yorkers stuck to their black clothes like they were participating in a seven million-man wake. The wardrobe that would have blended him seamlessly into the teeming masses of Manhattan made him stick out in Vegas. Jimmy suddenly felt obvious and uncomfortable.
The guy caught Jimmy's eye. "Mr. Romancelli?"
"Call me Jimmy."
The guy smiled with teeth even whiter than Jimmy's, whiter than nature ever intended. Apart from the guy's skin, which was tanned a George Hamilton brown, everything else looked bleached to the bone. Jimmy shook his hand and smiled back, trying to make it look friendly, rather than the mockingly superior East Coast smile he felt worming onto his lips.
"Norman Casey, sales manager for Fortune Estates. But please, call me Norm." Norm extended a pristinely manicured hand at Jimmy.
Jimmy, took it in his own, suddenly feeling self-conscious for the first time in his life about the state of his cuticles. "You got it, Norm. So, what's the deal?"
"Well, first we'll get your luggage. Then I'll drop you at the
hotel. No hard sell tonight. Tonight, you get to enjoy Sin City at your leisure."
"Sounds good, Norm."
"You expecting someone?"
"Huh?" Until Norm pointed it out, Jimmy wasn't even aware that he'd been nervously glancing from person to person around the terminal. The fear had crept back into Jimmy's subconscious when he realized that his outfit made him noticeable; a target if someone was looking.
Jimmy didn't appreciate the fear returning and did his best to push it back. "Nah. just taking it all in, Norm."
"First time in Vegas?"
"First time out of New York State."
"Well, you picked a hell of a time to see the desert, my friend.
When the automatic doors whooshed open, the heat nearly knocked the breath out of Jimmy. "Jesus."
"Hot enough for ya?" Norm cackled.
Jimmy couldn't believe that he actually asked that. "This whole place is like a big fucking Tandoori oven." Jimmy shielded his eyes from sunlight so powerful, it felt like it had weight.
"Blessing and curse. You'll notice that you're not sweating, though?"
Jimmy looked at his hands. Dry as a Saltine. "Well, I'll be…"
"Desert heat, my friend. It's not even as hot as it gets. Tomorrow's supposed to hit a hundred-ten."
"Degrees?"
"Yup. You're actually sweating, but the second it hits your pores it evaporates. Can be quite dangerous. I've got some spring water in the car. You'll want to make sure that you stay hydrated."
Norm drove himself a brand new Beemer convertible. Not too bad for a real estate shill. Norm leaned over, popped the glove compartment and handed a bottle of water to Jimmy. "Here you are, pal." Norm started the car and Frank Sinatra immediately sprang from the speakers singing "My Way." "Welcome to Vegas, Jimmy. Believe you me; you live the life for a while, you may never leave."
Funny that, Jimmy thought, I have no intention of leaving.
After he checked into his room, Jimmy went to the lobby and asked about rates. Four-hundred a week. Unbelievable. In New York, Jimmy knew people who paid three times that to share a Bronx studio with a ten pound rat named Bruno. The complex was geared towards conventioneers, but what the hell. It had a friggin' pool. Jimmy paid the guy a month's advance and hit the tables, looking to build his kitty.
Dirty Words Page 8
