by Jack Tunney
Neck tries to smile and holds up the bag of tacos.
She yells, “Two more scenes,” then returns to her people.
Henry is already down the aisle, shuffling over to the middle seats for a good view. Two men sit a couple yards in front of them. The one in the suit has an Irish accent and a shaved head with a scar splitting his head like the Prime Meridian. The other wears the same prototype costume as the actors.
Neck cracks his fingers, takes a deep breath, then follows the kid. The set is made up to look like an old jail, something out of Robin Hood or a black-and-white film. A table sits in the main part, two cells on either side with a bench and bunk beds attached to the wall by chains. Everyone wears dress versions of the costumes, but Neck can feel the grime in the tone of their voice. He settles into the seat and finds Henry’s outstretched hand waiting.
“We might need to get another bag. I think I can eat those by myself.”
“You’re going to need a second job, you keep eating like this. Or she needs to start getting paid. I can’t carry both of you.”
“Are you going to give me any of that piano money, or just use it to pay for my dad?”
Neck bites into a taco, chews while watching Ally. “If you think you can eat all these tacos with one hand, then yeah, sure, I’ll give you however much you want. Hell, they’re your hands.”
Henry pretends he’s watching the actors run lines, but Neck knows he’s both ignoring the comment and watching Ally. Part of him is proud he can still pull a girl like Ally, even in his mid-thirties. Part of him feels bad for wanting to punch a teenager for lusting after his girlfriend. A tiny part of him wants to mold Henry in his image
“She’s great,” Henry says after a few minutes.
“I know.”
Henry shoots him a sidelong glance. “At acting, I mean.”
Neck straightens up, eats the rest of his taco in one bite then grabs another. “I know.”
“You really never come to watch her before? She could hold the whole thing by herself. Listen to her cadence, the way her voice mimics her body for a minute then contrasts it so you get a totally different read of it. It’s that shift that keeps you in. Like when you break open a hydrant and can run in it, then you got to close it for a police, then it feels that much better when you go back in? All that with words, man.”
“Didn’t you say you never read plays in school? How are you such an aficionado of theatre?”
“You don’t know Brendan Behan? The Quare Fellow?”
“No,” Neck says. “I don’t.”
Henry watches an exchange. Ally flubs a line. She closes her eyes, takes a breath and to Neck she’s a different woman, not the firecracker he shares a bed with. She’s absent, submerged, removed. Then she opens her eyes and bursts above the surface, transformed into some other woman who looks more like her than she does. Neck looks down and realizes he’s been holding the taco before his mouth the whole time.
When she walks off-stage, Henry shakes his head. “Man, I told you school don’t mean nothing.” He points at the men sitting a few rows in front of them. “The name and writer is right on their papers.”
“They’re called playwrights,” is all Neck can counter with. “You should be a detective.”
“In our neighborhood?” Henry laughs, and one of the men turns around. Neckbone holds his hand up to apologize.
“Really,” Neck says. “How do you know so much about theatre if you never read it in school?” He leans over, closer to Henry’s chair.
“It’s all jazz, man. Miles said it’s not the notes you play, it’s the notes you don’t play. Cab Calloway said he only need one note because he can make that swing more than all the other ones anyone else play. All that stuff is the same. It ain’t no different from boxing.”
“As in, rather than tiring out your arms with weak jabs, just land the shots you need to land?”
“Guess so. See the way they go back and forth?” He pauses for an intense exchange, the man going over-the-top angry and the director in front of them telling them to do it again, but keep it real this time. “They’re fighting with words, each one’s trying to get up on the other. You use punches to bring the other guy down, they use words to get themselves up.”
They fall silent, watching the scene rerun a few times, a different emphasis, a line altered to convey a separate treachery on each go. Henry stares at the stage, transfixed. Neckbone watches Henry, trying to understand how to reach that stage of nonbeing.
After a few failed attempts, they bring Ally back on. Neck puts his taco down and focuses on her, looking for her jabs to set the actor back on his heels, her uppercuts when he’s vulnerable, her blocks and slips when he rises up against her, and her haymaker when he goes in for the knockout.
Ally wraps the scene with a blistering scream, the other man jumping back, genuinely terrified. She slaps her hand over her mouth, trying in vain to hold back a laugh. As soon as the other man has caught his breath, though, he starts clapping. The men sitting in front of them stand and clap, the bald one letting out a hoot before the other one yells for them to take five.
Henry nudges Neck in the ribs. Crumbles of ground beef stick to the sides of his mouth. “Told you.”
The other actors applaud Ally, and she offers an embarrassed bow. Neck feels something bloom inside his chest.
When the cast begins to scatter, Neck and Henry make their way to the stage, tacos held out for her.
She gives Neckbone a long kiss on the lips. “My hero.”
“I can’t promise tacos and not deliver. That’s an offense punishable by death.”
“You were mesmerizing,” Henry says, shaking her hand.
Ally blushes wildly and Neck swats at the boy’s hand. “What’d I tell you?”
She shoves half a taco in her mouth, biting off a piece of paper wrapping the process. “We’re going to be a while. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want.”
“We don’t mind,” Henry says.
Ally smiles at Neck. “I don’t have another scene tonight. We have to stay for everyone though. In case ... you know?”
“Sure,” Neck says. He reaches up and slips his hand behind her neck, pulls her close and tastes the cumin and salsa on her breath as he kisses her. “You really were good, Al.”
Her eyes almost disappear, she smiles so big. She pats his cheek. “Thank you for coming. It means a lot. Really.” She kisses him once more. “And for the tacos.”
Henry tries to flirt with Allison, but Neck pulls him toward the door before the kid can get too far. He fumbles through an excuse, just being polite and all, and Neck feels some urge he can’t explain. It’s almost frightening, his desire to lay his fatherly arm around Henry’s shoulder as they walk home.
ROUND SEVEN
Two nights later, Ally and Neck hold up the corner of the bar as Henry incites a riot with his piano. There are only eight people dancing, but the men throw their women up in the air, and the women spin with such wild abandon, Neck has the urge to uncork a six-punch combo on the whiskey barrel just to join in the revelry.
Half of the pitch he gave Junior he’d pulled directly from his imagination, not thinking Highlandtown had any possibility of sustaining a jazz joint, but weirder things had happened, and were happening right before their faces.
The Stride soundtrack was a nice change from the usual Hank Williams and Waylon playing throughout the old neighborhood bars, or Tito Puente in the small cafes and taquerias popping up with the influx of Central Americans. I could almost get up and move my hips to this with Ally, Neck thinks. The thought makes him laugh, bringing Ally closer to him.
“What’s so funny?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
She tips her bottle at Henry, whose head is thrown back, fingers dancing up and down the keys. “He’s really good.”
“He is.” Neck sips at his bottle of National. “I figured he was mostly mouth. Glad I didn’t have a fool made of me. Figure I
’ll start farming him out to some of the other bars, get his little friends in on it. Build myself a proper little Ponzi scheme and lord over my empire of thirteen-year-olds.”
“You’re a jerk.” She flashes a smile.
“That’s why you like me so bad, huh?”
“Something like that.” She takes another belt then heads to the ladies’ room.
Henry’s fingers cascade down the scales, his rhythm growing slower as the octaves get lower until he’s hitting the same methodical note over and over. The dancers clap like monkeys who found a bag of meth, wiping sweat from their foreheads. Then Henry calls out twice and kicks the tune back over. The notes pile and layer, forming soft slopes and jagged edges Neck remembers in a tactile way. The music presses against his palm, cadence of song and elasticity of clay merging in the air as Henry pushes the beat. Neck can feel his body slacken, settle toward the ground the same way Henry looked while watching Ally explore her lines.
The stool beside Neck scoots back. He turns to put his arm around Ally and hears Bill Stokes’ voice.
“Need another beer?”
Neckbone drains the rest of his, tears forming at the edges of his eyes from the carbonation burn. He sets it on the bar. “Sure.”
Stokes motions to bartender, points at the spot before him and Neck. He nods over at Henry, who milks the dancers for all their energy. “That the kid you came in talking about?”
“Yeah. Jeff’s boy.”
“He’s pretty good.”
“That he is.”
“Too bad Jeff ain’t as good a gambler as his kid is a musician.”
The bartender sets two bottles before them. “I thought the same thing myself.”
Stokes tips his back, swallowing half-a-dozen times before placing the bottle back on the bar. Foam rises up over the mouth, slips down the side. “Going to have to take tomorrow night’s fight from you.”
“Excuse me?” Neck picks up his bottle then puts it back down, lest the urge to smack it against the bar then Stokes’ face becomes too strong.
“You heard.” He scratches the stubble on his cheek. “You said you’d give me a fight on the house...”
“I said after this one. I need to pay my rent.”
“And while that’s generous, you do owe me more than one fight.”
“I’ve got obligations, people who are counting on me.” Cock the bottle back, let it go, walk out.
“You’ve still got your hands.” He points at Henry. “Your little friend still has his. Don’t test my generosity.”
“What am I supposed to do about my rent?” Break his face, then walk over to Beigler and make a deal.
He shrugs. “Your landlord going to break your knees with a shovel if you’re late?”
“That a promise or an invitation?” Or leave his face alone, walk over to Beigler and drop a dime. That make you a rat?
Stokes pours the rest of the beer down his throat, then picks up Ally’s beer and drains it. “Tell him you’re going to be late.” He sets the empty bottle in front of Neck and walks away.
Neck scrapes his thumb down the bottle, the label pilling beneath his nail. Long swathes of brown in the soaked white paper. Diming out a shady backstabber isn’t being a rat. If that made you a rat, what’s that make Stokes? A cockroach? A silverfish?
It makes him a man who won’t hold to his word, who takes his own profits over the promise of others, who runs illegal bouts without getting approval from on high because it would cost too much. It makes him a man who doesn’t deserve a name, just swift retribution, his comeuppance dealt out severely and justly. A man who will soon become familiar with Otis and his ear collection.
The chair scoots back again, Ally sliding in beside him. She shakes the empty bottle before her then stares at it, puzzled. The bartender asks if they want another. Neck pulls a crumpled wad from his pocket, flattens a dozen ones and leaves it on the bar.
“Where are you going?” Ally says.
He nods at Henry. “Stay and enjoy that for a while. I need to go see a man about a cockroach.”
Ally’s shoulders drop. “Are you serious? We have roaches?”
Neck kisses her cheek. “Not for long.”
ROUND EIGHT
Neck picks up a stained towel hanging over a park bench and presses it against his forehead. He closes his eyes to push away the thought of where those stains came from. Not important, he thinks. More important is to look nice, respectable, like you’ve got yourself together. That’s what’s important to the man, right?
He tosses the towel back over the bench, sniffs his armpits then crosses the street. He stands before the buzzers. Six buttons sit inside the polished gold plate, but four are empty. One reads Hutchins Construction. Neckbone rings the buzzer marked Beigler, Keats and Leavy, LLP.
It’s a full minute before the intercom crackles to life.
“What.”
“I was looking for Mister Beigler.”
A pregnant pause. “This is Beigler.”
“Hi, Mister Beigler. This is Neck – Christopher Martin. I work for Mister Hutchins, did a few side jobs for you. Security stuff.”
The only thing audible is the sound of static, no voice or breathing coming from inside.
“I’ve got a client here, Chris.”
“I’ll only take a minute, sir. I promise.” Neck checks the street around him, feeling sketchy even standing here. “This is something that will interest you.”
Another few long seconds pass, then Beigler says he’ll be right down. Neck pops his shoulders, swings his arms around in circles like he’s getting ready for a fight. It’s the only way he knows to get rid of anxiety.
The door opens. “Come in here.”
Beigler stands beside the doorway, his grey sweat suit doing nothing to hide the $100 haircut. His hands are massive and knuckles a jagged mountain range, but with fingernails manicured to perfect white half-moons.
Neck always wondered if the man had had surgery to get rid of the cauliflower around his ears, or if he was really as good as legends purported. He was always impressed by the man, especially after watching Stokes always carrying an axe handle to assert himself. Paul Beigler only felt the need to carry a heavy watch on his wrist. Neck starts toward the staircase, eager to run his hands over the ornately carved rail and feel the swoops and curves, but Beigler is immobile.
“You have one minute,” Beigler says.
“Thank you, sir.” Neckbone pauses for two breaths, trying to organize and prioritize his thoughts for maximum impact – and damage to Stokes’ face –then opens his mouth and the whole story tumbles out, Stokes’ unsanctioned fights – both by the law and by Beigler – and his corner-cutting, Jeff’s debt and the threats to Henry, Neck’s offer and Stokes’ subsequent rescinding.
Neck’s tongue is as nimble as his hands, and he manages to get through the whole spiel with no hint of Rollo’s extracurricular involvement. Beigler’s eyebrows rise and crimp slightly, but aside from those subtle movements, his face is poured cement.
When Neck is done, Beigler takes a deep inhale, exhales through his nose.
“He’s at Paradise City?”
“Yes, sir. In the basement.”
“If you knew Stokes was no good, why didn’t you ever fight for me?”
“Business and pleasure, sir.”
Beigler nods, opens his mouth to ask a question, then closes it and claps Neck’s shoulder. “I’ll speak with him.” He turns toward the stairwell.
“Are you going to mention my name?”
Beigler takes two more steps then pauses, looks down at the oriental patterned carpet. “Am I?”
“I’m no rat, sir.”
Beigler tells him to pull the door tight on his way out.
Neckbone walks down the sidewalks of Mount Vernon, watching the crushed quartz poured into the cement sparkle beneath the yellow streetlights. On his street, broken glass makes the light dance. Neck picks a flower for Ally from the park’s garden and tucks it into
his pocket, then picks up his pace. He swoops south to avoid the Latrobe Homes on his way back east to Highlandtown, hoping to make it home before she falls asleep.
ROUND NINE
Gus slaps his hands on Neck’s shoulder, rocking his muscles back and forth to keep them loose. He kneads Neck’s trapezius, shaking him as he grunts advice and encouragement into his ears.
Neck barely hears any of it. His muscles are strands of wire twisted around rusted rebar. The lanky man in the opposite corner holds his taped hands up to side and gives an Alfred E. Newman grin. His bald head glistens with sweat, like he’s wearing a crown made of broken glass. Neck tries to jump to his feet, but Gus keeps his meat hooks notched in tight.
“Stay calm, Christopher. I done told you, you had a good first round. Got your hits in, gave them something to yell about. You only need one more round of that, then drop him hard.”
“He’s playing me for a fool, Gus.” Neck tries to stand again and gets a heavy pinch on the pressure point for the effort.
“Listen here, son.” Gus cranes his head around into Neck’s face, keeping his hands on his shoulders, but making sure the hothead is listening. “I got Della’s birthday next week. My old girl’s seventy, hear? You know how old that is?”
“That’s seventy.”
“Seventy is only a number. You got no damn idea how old it is. Point being, she been suffering me over fifty years. The woman deserves a damn good meal for her birthday.” The ref whistles, calling the fighters to the center of the ring. Gus shoots him a look and the ref busies himself with inspecting the other fighter’s wrapping. “You get all hot and blow it, you’re going to lose my Della’s birthday money.”
“I hear you, Gus.”
“I know you hear me. I want you to understand me.”
Neck closes his eyes and tries to imagine him and Ally in fifty years. He can’t imagine it, but can’t not imagine it. It’s not good nor bad, it’s just not. He’s got a blurry image he can’t bring into focus. A tall, thin shape, like a pair of scythes leaning against a rock.
