by Ira Gold
When the Sicilians battled each other, they abided by rules that made the Geneva Convention seem a throwback to Genghis Khan. But today is different. Now the mob is global. The Russians and Chinese, almost as much as the Feds, pose a grave threat to Italian hegemony. These new guys don’t mind bringing anarchy into people’s homes. Our women and children might be shot in cold blood. The same is true for the length of the conflict. These newcomers fight with a viciousness that even overcomes their lust for a buck. Every battle is Stalingrad. Retreat equals the Long March. Businesses are set aflame, cars booby-trapped, houses bombed, entire gangs wiped out and still they fight. In Queens, every member of the Grinkovsky ring was hunted down in the course of a war that also led to the demise of Fat Fat Chen, the head of a triad that controlled all the soy sauce going in and out of Flushing.
26
The Second Going
Hours pass. Vinnie never calls. Ariel disappears. Maybe I should have just said that I loved her. Why the hell not? We have all the ingredients of a love story. Cute meeting. An idyllic first date complicated by various conflicts. We made mad love. We both need to overcome demons, mature into self-knowledge, before we could logically end up together. True, she gets off on some weird shit. But she accurately characterized my attitude. Why should I care if she enjoys being tortured, hung from a pole? I’d draw the line, sure, at real injury. But it is kind of exciting to know that a woman spends hours arousing herself in this strange way. I had returned to nipples as hard as diamonds, a labia as engorged as a breadfruit.
Now my penis surprises me. Just thinking about Ariel’s body makes me want to wank. She’s getting to me. She’s gone a couple of hours and I want to slide inside her again.
I decide to take a shower because I’m sweaty and my hardened dick orders me not to count on Ariel’s return. Maybe she’s angry. I can’t take any chances. I’ve learnt not to rely on the kindness of strangers. So I masturbate under the hot stream and feel that I’ve taken a step in reasserting control over my environment.
The water cascades down my back and I empty my mind of Judith, Ariel, Vinnie Five-Five, Bones, Vlad, Crazy Bo. Only the moment matters. I enjoy the tingle of the scorching liquid as it reddens my skin. I shut everything out.
I almost don’t hear the halting thud of feet descending the stairs.
Quickly, I turn off the water. That heavy gait is not Ariel’s. It’s either an assassin or Ariel’s mother. There’s no time to get out of the shower before I hear an old woman’s sigh as she reaches the bottom step. Her breaths come heavy as I stop mine. I remember that Ariel said her mom is losing her hearing so I don’t think that she heard the shower running.
Mrs. Hirsch bangs open the washing machine lid. The shower is just a few steps from it but with the curtain drawn, Mrs. Hirsch doesn’t know I’m here. The water drips down my body and chills me. Mrs. Hirsch is not a fast mover. She grunts and groans. She complains aloud, “My back, my back, oy.”
I’d help the aging lady do her wash except she’d have a heart attack if I walked out of the shower, a large naked man offering to transfer her clothes to the dryer.
She starts the machine. It looks like I’m going to get away with this new silliness when my phone rings. Shit, shit, shit. Ariel’s mother walks across the basement. She says aloud, “Oh, my God. Ariel forgot her phone.”
I have left the phone tangled in the sheets on the bed.
“I don’t see it. I don’t see it.” The old woman sounds desperate, as if hoping the person on the other end of the line can hear.
The phone keeps ringing as if voice mail has never been invented. Finally it stops. I relax.
But then I hear, “Hello? Hello?”
Oh shit.
“Who?” she yells.
“What windows? We don’t need any windows.”
A beat. “You have the wrong number. This is Ariel’s phone.”
Another beat. “No. I am not playing a game. You’re no friend of Ariel, talking like that.”
Do I run stark naked from the shower and grab my phone from an already terrified woman? Ah, just when you think the situation can’t get any more ridiculous, it gets dangerous.
“I’m hanging up,” she yells. “You have the wrong number.”
I slide down the wet wall and sit on the shower’s filthy floor.
“People are animals,” the mother wails. “Never in my life . . . Ariel’s going to be so upset. I wonder why she made the bed down here. Poor girl. Exhausted from all this unemployment.”
So the old lady takes my phone. Halfway up the stairs, it rings again. Vinnie Five-Five will view me as nothing less than a dangerous traitor. In war, one’s paranoia is as important to survival as one’s weaponry. Vinnie could easily jump to conclude that I’m in with the Russians because of my friendship with Ivan. By taking a shower I have signed my own death warrant.
My only chance is to get hold of the phone. I dress quickly. The old lady’s senses are failing. I should be able to snatch the phone without being detected.
I tiptoe up the narrow staircase and stop at the door of the apartment where Ariel lives with her mother. Nothing stirs. So I go inside. To the left is the living room. To the right is the kitchen where Mrs. Hirsch babbles to herself. All I can hear is Ariel. I sneak into the living room. Knickknacks and picture frames cover side tables and walls like dust. From the kitchen I hear a voice whine: and she’s going to blame me. Ariel is just going to put the blame on me.
The living room has red wall-to-wall carpeting that muffles my footsteps. I remember such shag carpeting from my grandmother’s house. I fervently hope that if I ever own a home, I would keep the decor more current. My eyes, meanwhile, rake the room for the phone.
Pots and pans bang in the kitchen. Mrs. Hirsch is making dinner. If she cooks at the same speed that she launders, I’ll have a couple of minutes.
I look behind frames, under snow globes, and between the ceramic figures. I find nothing but hideous kitsch. Mrs. Hirsch must have the phone on her. I’ll wait until she goes to the bathroom and then duck into the kitchen to look. Just then, the phone rings yet again.
Oh my God, a frightened voice keens. Ariel, your phone! The crazy old bird panics. What am I going to do?
I don’t have a second to think. I just hit the ground and roll under the sofa as Mrs. Hirsch charges into the living room holding the ringing phone as if it were white hot.
She drops onto the sofa and begins to cry. It’s that terrible man. Who did Ariel get involved with now? What kind of animal? Oh, my God.
For a second I think Mrs. Hirsch is referring to me. But it has to be Vinnie or one of his messengers who has made himself a persona non grata after just a few words to the old lady. Vinnie must be in a murderous rage. And why not? He just lost his favorite child. His business is being squeezed by ruthless competition. And he himself is the primary target of assassination by two vicious criminal gangs. Such things could put the best tempered into a foul mood.
I’m safe enough under the couch but I might not be able to stay here forever. When the phone stops ringing, Mrs. Hirsch takes it and heads back into the kitchen.
I hear her opening and closing the fridge, clanking glass dishes and copper pots. Ariel had mentioned that her mom is a terrible cook. If so, she goes to great effort in putting together her atrocious meals. And she mutters Ariel’s name one hundred times.
It cannot be pleasant for Ariel to be living here.
The carpet makes me want to sneeze. I manage not to move, but I do despair. I’ll never get the phone. I’ll die by one violent hand or another. If only I could live under the sofa, as cozy as a cat hiding from company.
But I can’t. I consider pretending to be a burglar to get my phone back. I could use some of the bondage ropes to tie the old lady up, rummage around for the phone, grab a few other things, and leave by the front door and go back down into the basement by the side door.
The more I think, the better this simple plan seems. No one will get hurt
. I’m about to make my move when the front door’s lock clicks. Ariel is back.
She comes into the living room schlepping two heavy grocery bags and calls, “I’m home, Ma.”
“I’m in the kitchen,” Mrs. Hirsch yells back. “You forget your phone and this crazy man keeps calling. What’s going on, Ariel? Who are your friends these days?”
Ariel stops in the middle of the room. “What are you talking about, Ma?”
“Hey!” I hiss.
Ariel’s head snaps toward the couch but she doesn’t see me.
“Get that damn phone!”
She puts down the bags. “Where the hell are you?”
Between clenched teeth I say, “Under the couch. Your mother has my fucking phone.”
“How did she get . . . Oh shit.”
Her mother stalks into the room and Ariel plops down on the cushions above me. “Ariel, your phone keeps ringing. Such a terrible man—”
Mrs. Hirsch hands Ariel the phone. Her new Samsung looks nothing like my old iPhone. But her mother does not notice the difference.
“It’s just some noodge I met. He likes pretending he’s a gangster. He actually is a lawyer, a friend of Todd’s.”
“He’s a sick man. You should hear the language.” Her mother hands over the phone.
“A lot of lawyers like to think they’re gangsters. It makes them seem more manly. I got you the string beans. Three dollars a pound.”
This stuns the old woman into silence.
Ariel carries the bags into the kitchen and I wait for the mother to follow.
But the price of string beans has knocked Mrs. Hirsch off her feet. She collapses onto a red brocaded armchair and yells to her daughter. “Are you joking? Three dollars?”
“Two ninety-nine,” Ariel replies with satisfaction. “Can you believe it?”
“Thieves and murderers! That’s all that’s left in this world. Slit your throat for a nickel.”
Ariel comes back into the living room. “So don’t boil them to death. Use the steamer I got you. That way, vegetables retain their crispness and their nutrients.”
“With that stupid thing I just get a face full of smoke,” Mrs. Hirsch complains.
“For God’s sake, Ma. Don’t stand over it the way you do.”
And Ariel leads her mother out of the living room and into the kitchen. I wait for a second, grab the phone Ariel has left on the couch, and slip back down the basement stairs.
There, I see that Pauli Bones called. I hit his number and he picks up on the first ring.
He starts off by cursing me and my mother with all the earthy gusto of a Chaucer pilgrim. I let him vent before I politely ask, “What the fuck is going down?”
Bones pants in anger. He snarls, “You heard about Julius.”
“Yeah.”
Nothing more comes over the line for a few seconds. Then Bones informs, “The cops released the body. Be at the funeral home at eight tonight.”
Vinnie Five-Five owns DiPietro’s Funeral Home. The crew sometimes meets there.
“If you’re not there—”
“You think I’m going to screw Vinnie at a time like this?”
“You piece of shit, you better not.” Bones, my best friend in the crew, clicks off.
I put on my shoes. Actually, I like Pauli Bones. He knows nothing about nothing except for the rackets. But within this world, he understands how to handle himself. It’s no coincidence that he’s the only one left alive from the night Scrunchy got it. If I had to put myself in the hands of anyone in the crew, it would be Pauli Bones.
However, I don’t care about Vinnie’s business. I don’t care about scoring. The only thing I want to do is put my feet up in a cheap motel and read—eating nothing but pizza, drinking nothing but scotch. I’m insane. So what? I don’t need excuses for not supporting a war as meaningless as the ones in Vietnam and Iraq.
But this is the situation I was born into. Only when I walk these streets does my father’s love still engulf me. Judith, still alive, is here. I can’t disappear and never see her and the girls again. And now Ariel. If I weren’t in such a situation I could pursue Ariel at my own pace, see how it goes playing at what she wants, get hammered and high and maybe even have a conversation. Ariel went to college, grad school. Perhaps she learned something of interest.
Yet I will fight a war that will needlessly kill many, including me. If life itself weren’t such a pointless struggle against unconsciousness, this would be a great tragedy.
The truth is—I don’t want to be murdered.
I sit on the bed for a long time before Ariel appears in front of me, showered and changed into a short nightgown whose embroidered hem reaches her midthigh.
She approaches with a smile on her face, a bottle of Stoli in her right hand and a thick leather belt in her left. She puts the bottle on the floor and slaps the belt against her palm, “Ready?”
“What are you going to do with that?” I ask, but feel none of my usual intellectual curiosity, my burning desire to know things.
“We can do a lot of things with this.” Ariel sticks out her bottom and whacks it. “It’s versatile. I can whip you or you can whip me.”
“You’re completely loco.” I start to get interested. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Ariel sits on my lap and grinds her ass into my crotch. She reaches down for the bottle and takes a swig and hands it to me.
“I’ll show you how to use it so you get beyond crazy horny,” she says. “You’ll thank me for the rest of your life.”
Ariel must have thought of me as a sexual primitive, only aware of the most brutal missionary positions. Maybe she grants me a few rape fantasies, but overall, she judges me a caveman, without any idea of the finer points of bondage and discipline.
“You going to hit me, or am I going to hit you?”
“First off,” Ariel jumps off me, “we’re not going to hit. We’re going to strap each other. A set amount of swats in ritualistic positions. I would let you strap me first, but I have to show you how it’s done.”
“I think I can figure it out.” I grab at the belt.
Ariel snatches it away. “No! You’ll hurt me. I want this to be fun.”
She sees my anger rising.
“Really fun,” her voice becomes seductive again. “You won’t be sorry. I promise.”
She’s in the tank already. Most S&M clubs serve no alcohol at all. Only the most sober should wield whips against their loved ones.
I would have been interested in playing if I hadn’t so much on my mind.
Ariel sits back down on me. “Are you okay? You know, I have a feeling you’re holding a lot back from me. Today, you’re even less verbal than usual.”
I nod.
“Okay.” She loses a little of her girlish enthusiasm. “Was it because of that phone call?”
“I got to do something.”
“What?”
“A viewing. Julius. That asshole I was telling you about. The one in the dumpster.”
“Vinnie Five-Five’s son.”
“Yeah. Eight o’clock tonight. Things are going to go down. I might not be back.”
Ariel pales. The strap falls from her hand and she leans against me. Her voice shakes, “You can stay here.” She picks up the strap and looks at it with longing. But then she pulls out the sex-toy box from under the bed and drops it in. “I don’t have to play these games with you, Howard. You think I do this with every guy?”
I have no idea what she does with other guys.
“I get satisfaction a lot of ways. But I trust you more than anyone I ever met. Well, first of all, you’re, like, the best looking. Amazing. Another thing. I know you’re smart. I can tell that from your eyes, Windows. You can’t hide intelligence like you can knowledge.”
I snort.
“No, no. Don’t be like that. You think I just like you for your body and your brutishness. You might think I exploited . . . took advantage of your situation.” Ariel takes a swig of
the vodka. “Let me tell you, all that education, all that arcane knowledge, does not make people more open to experience. And not only to kinky sex, but to love itself. Only Todd played a little bit. But I never trusted Todd like I trust you.”
“Todd’s the lawyer?”
“Yeah. You have a good memory.” Ariel tries not to get emotional. “I don’t say I understand our connection. You might not be able to express your feelings even to yourself, but you don’t have to. You’ll never have to say you love me, you’ll never have to say—”
“If I get clipped,” I interrupt, “it won’t be because I don’t like you.”
“Stop it, Howard. What I’m trying to say is that you’re truer than anyone I ever dated. Your emotions, like your conversation, are not tricky, always trying to stay one step ahead. And you know yourself, even if you’re terrified to let other people know you.”
“I gotta go to this thing. I have no choice.”
“Okay, then come back. There’s no reason you can’t come back.”
“I might be dead.”
“You won’t be dead. You won’t be dead.”
Is she a child, thinking that saying it makes it so? Then she gives way to tears. Shit. I’m pleased that a couple of women in the neighborhood would prefer me alive. I just can’t make any guarantees.
Ariel has finally run out of words. She buries her face in my chest. I try to think of some literary equivalent to our situation. A million stories of star-crossed lovers and doomed affairs exist. Men hidden by sympathetic women is a subgenre by itself. Women with movie-star beauty and saintlike self-sacrifice dominate World War II romantic fantasy. Here, German barbarity or Japanese cruelty proves to be the main obstacle to marital bliss. None of the stories take place in Sheepshead Bay among goombas and gangsters, where no line between good guys and bad guys exists. And S&M plays almost no role in any of them.
