by Jess Walter
But the movie is slow and dark and he can’t concentrate. He leaves when his popcorn is gone. Walks for a while and then cabs to a little restaurant called Caffe Grigio on Desbrosses Street. Standing next to Benny is a guy in black shirt and white jacket, hands crossed in front of his crotch like a soccer player protecting the goal. The guy is shades of gray—slate eyebrows rising over sunglasses, white hair receding at the temples. His black shirt is parted to reveal a gold chain nestled between the folds of his neck and a bouquet of silver chest hair.
Benny stands between Vince and the other man like a boxing referee. Even with the blond Afro, he’s a half foot shorter than either of them. “Hey,” he says to Vince. “This is the client I was telling you about. Pete, this is—” Vince can see his old friend reminding himself to use the new name, the way they agreed. “This is Vince Camden.”
They shake hands warily and walk into the place, past the cash register and straight to a booth at a window, all set up for them with three place settings and three waters. Pete pulls the chintz curtains and sits nervously tracing his finger on the paper place mat. The place mat says Beautiful Italy! Pete traces the shape of Italy on the mat without looking down.
Benny sits on Pete’s side. “Okay,” he says, “I’ve filled Pete in on your story. He’s agreed to help you out as a favor to me.”
“I appreciate that,” Vince says.
“But you’re never to mention that you spoke to him or that I represent him. If you ask a question and he declines to answer, that’s it. Understood?”
Vince nods.
“You are not to repeat any of this information to anyone, not even to me. Pete could get in trouble helping a guy like you.”
Vince is surprised at the sting of that.
“So today never happened,” Benny continues. “Understood?”
“Sure,” Vince says.
“Okay, then,” Benny says. “I’m going to sit at the bar because I really shouldn’t hear any of this. Wave me over when you’re done.”
They watch Benny go to the bar and take off his overcoat. The waitress comes over and Pete orders a beer and the veal cannelloni. Vince says he only wants a whiskey sour. When the waitress brings them each a drink and an antipasto plate, Pete takes his sunglasses off to reveal two tired eyes, also gray. He takes a piece of provolone, salami, and an olive. “Benny tells me you’re into some shit with Ray Sticks?” His voice is rough and slow, as if he’s talking through water.
Vince nods. “I think so. Big stocky guy with black hair and a couple of caterpillar eyebrows. Calls everyone chief—”
Before he can say any more, The Client nods and takes a drink of his beer. “Yeah, that’s Ray Sticks. I play cards with that animal.”
“So how do I find out who sent him after me?”
“Only one guy could’ve sent him after you.”
“Who?”
Pete picks another olive off the antipasto plate. “Sticks works for this guy Johnny Boy, boss of a Gambino crew out in Queens. Runs everything out of Ozone Park—hijacking, a little shy business, gambling. His brother runs smack. Johnny is like an old-time Cosa guy. A traditionalist. Always talks about returning to the glory of the old days. Shit like that. Real slick. He’s squarin’ up all the business that fell between the cracks. That’s probably where they found you. Between the cracks.”
“Do you think he’d let me buy off my debt?”
“Doubtful.” Pete frowns, and tilts his head. “John ain’t averse to money. But you don’t know with that guy. He’s high-strung. Watches too many movies. Last March his kid got run over by a car, and he’s been buggy ever since. Real unpredictable.”
“So how do I find him?”
“Johnny Boy’s crew works out of this place, the Bergin Fish and Hunt Club. But I’d stay away from there. Guy like you ain’t likely to get a break in a place like that.” For the first time he meets Vince’s eyes. “No offense.”
Vince ignores it. “Where, then?”
“Try to catch him relaxed. He likes to gamble. Gets drunk and throws away ten, twenty dimes a weekend on card games. You play?”
“Yeah. A little.”
Pete rips off a piece of the place mat and grabs a pen from a passing waiter. “There’s a high-stakes game in an apartment over on Mott Street tonight. I’ll vouch for you, get you in the door. You pay my buy-in. Then I’ll lose quick and get my ass out of there before you say anything.” Pete writes the address on the place mat. “There’s always two or three games. I can’t guarantee you’ll be at Johnny Boy’s table, but you flash enough money, look like a mark, maybe even win…you might get a shot.”
Vince thanks him and the guy shrugs. He looks up to Benny at the bar, and then turns back to Vince. “Look, Benny says you’re a good guy, so I’m gonna tell you this one time: Be careful of this guy John. He ain’t right. Ever since his kid got killed—” He doesn’t finish the thought.
“How old was his kid?”
Pete is picking at the antipasto plate. “Twelve.”
“Jesus. And the guy who hit his kid? What happened to him?”
Pete picks an olive from the antipasto plate. Stares at it, shows Vince, then drops it into his water glass. They watch it sink to the bottom of the East River.
THEY FLY THROUGH a tunnel, Detective Charles working the siren, gas pedal, and whiskey bottle in concert. On the other side of the tunnel Dupree sees a sign for the New Jersey Turnpike. He turns back to Charles. “Hey, are we in New Jersey?”
“We ain’t in fuckin’ Seattle.”
Dupree looks down at the file in his hand. “Look, I think we should go talk to this girl, Tina McGrath, before it gets too late—”
“Settle the fuck down, Seattle. I got some business first.”
“But—”
“Look, I could’ve had my fuckin’ Friday night off, chased some tail, but when my lieu tells me you poor fucks from Mayberry need some help, I jump! You think it’s easy to get an NYPD detective to volunteer to haul your ass around on a Friday night? You might show some consideration for my work ’stead of busting my balls.”
“I’m sorry,” Dupree says.
They exit the turnpike, drive through close, ratty houses, and after a few minutes, come to a small business area. Charles parks in front of a brick storefront with a dry cleaner in the front and a sign on the side above a screen door that reads NITTI’S.
Charles hops out of the car. “Come on, Seattle. We’ll have a bite with my union rep, and then we’ll go find your girl.”
Dupree sits in the car, unsure what to do.
“Oh, come on! You’re like a fuckin’ woman.” Charles grits his teeth, then leans back in the car and offers a charming smile. “Look, I promise you never tasted food like this. Your guy ain’t goin’ nowhere in the hour it takes us to eat a bowl of fuckin’ noodles. Now come on. Help me out here.”
Nitti’s is well lit, walls covered with framed pictures of Italian movie stars and snapshots of regular people standing between a small Italian couple, maps of Italy, baskets hung with eggplant and artichoke and strung-up Chianti bottles. The food is set out in pans on a long table in the front of the room—a lasagna, a ziti, spaghetti, meatballs, and sausages, followed by pans of green beans and zucchini. Most of the customers are men, sitting at long picnic tables covered with checked tablecloths, drinking water glasses of Chianti.
The old, hunched Italian man from the pictures calls from a stool behind the cash register. “Two, Charlie?”
“That’s right, Guiseppe. This here is Dookie. He’s a rook cop out there in California, come to learn how the finest do it.”
Dupree opens his mouth to correct Charles, who turns and mutters, “I know you ain’t from California, but that old fuckin’ guinea wouldn’t know from Seattle.”
“He a cowboy, then, Charlie? Bang, bang?”
“That’s right, Giuseppe. Fuckin’ bang bang cowboy.”
The old Italian points his finger. “Bang, bang!”
“You’re on
expense,” Charles says. “Pay the man.”
Dupree gives him fifteen bucks. Charles grabs a plate and Dupree doesn’t know what else to do, so he follows. They fill their plates with food and join a severe man in the corner, thin-faced and wisp-haired, drawing on a cigarette, his cleaned plate pushed to the side, along with a kitchen wineglass. He looks from Charles to Vince and back, sniffs, and takes a drag. “Where the fuck you been, Charlie? It’s almost eight.”
“I’m on the job tonight, Mike. I told you.”
“You didn’t tell me shit. Why are you still on the clock?”
“I figured I might need the overtime.” He looks at Dupree. “And someone to vouch for my whereabouts.”
“Who’s the kid?”
Dupree opens his mouth to introduce himself, but Mike hasn’t so much as looked at him, so he lets Detective Charles do it.
“This is Officer Dookie. Dookie, this is Mike. My PBA rep. Dookie here is a badge from Seattle. We’re helpin’ each other on some shit today. We’re like partners here—like fuckin’ alibis. Right?”
The word alibis chills Dupree, but it fades in a bite of the best meatball he’s ever had—spiced and meaty, like someone fed a steak to a tomato. “My God, this really is good,” he says.
Charles laughs. Mike just stares.
“See, I told you Dookie’s okay. He’s gonna vouch that I was busy helpin’ him out tonight. Ain’t that right, Dookie?” Charles pops in his own mouthful of food.
Dupree feels a tightness in his chest. “What are you talking about?”
Mike flicks his cigarette at Detective Charles’s plate. “I can’t believe you got a appetite after all this. You’re a real fuckin’ pig, Charlie.”
“Fuck you, Mike.”
“No! Fuck you, Charlie! You screwed up this time, man!”
Dupree looks back and forth, a bite of meatball still speared on his fork.
“I know.” Charles talks through a mouth of baked ziti. “So—”
“So?” Mike stubs his cigarette out. “So I’m tired of saving your ass.”
“Come on! Why you gotta treat me like a fuckin’ kid? Stop bustin’ my balls already and tell me what to do.”
Mike sighs. “You’re in deep shit, Charlie.”
“I know what I’m in.”
“It’s time you squared up, man.” Mike lights a new smoke. “This ain’t a free meal you took, Charlie. Or goddamn tennis shoes.”
“I know what it ain’t, Mike. Just tell me what I gotta do.”
Dupree looks from one to the other.
“How many times I tell you? You don’t mess with this side of the river, Charlie. That girl’s father is a Newark councilman. I can’t help you over here.”
“Did you find out—what’s she sayin’?” Charles asks.
“She’s sayin’—” Mike looks over at Dupree again. “Are you sure you wanna talk about this in front of…”
“I’ll go outside.” Dupree starts to stand.
Charlie’s hand clamps down on Dupree’s leg. “No. Dookie stays. No secrets between partners.”
Mike shrugs. “She and her girlfriend drove over to Alphabet City to buy a dime bag. You pulled them over, took one of the girls back to your car, forced her to blow you in your car, and then stole their coke.”
Dupree has lost his appetite. Pushes his plate away.
“Well.” Charles sulks and his bald head is furrowed to the crown. Takes a bite of noodles and points with his fork. “That ain’t what happened, Mike.”
“Yeah? What happened?” Mike picks a flake of tobacco off his tongue and looks at Dupree’s plate, then up at Alan for the first time. His eyes shift back to Charles.
“She practically took off my belt, Mike. I didn’t force nobody to do nothing. I was doing her a fuckin’ favor.”
“Aw, Jesus.”
“Come on, Mike. How am I supposed to know she’s a councilman’s kid? You’re fuckin’ killin’ me here.” Detective Charles drains his wine and reaches for Dupree’s glass. “There ain’t some way we can make this better?”
“Make it better? IA’s already got wind of it. How we supposed to make it better, Charlie?” Mike smokes hard.
“Look—” Charles reaches for Mike’s arm.
Mike pulls his arm back and points his finger at Charlie’s nose. “I know you’ve had a tough time of it, Charlie. But this shit has got to stop.”
“It will. It will. I swear.” Charlie seems to smell hope for the first time.
Mike watches the trail of smoke from his own cigarette. “I reached out to the councilman and, as you might guess, he ain’t exactly thrilled that his daughter’s buyin’ coke ten days before election.”
Charles points with his fork. “I knew you could help me, Mike.”
“Shut the fuck up, Charlie! You’re lucky this guy’s a sleazeball councilman. If it was my kid, you’d be pissing through a fucking tube!” He takes a breath. “The guy is having trouble with a labor union that’s supporting his opponent. He doesn’t want to go in-house for this…so if you helped him out…I don’t know.” Mike slides a sheet of folded paper across the table.
Charlie grabs the paper and opens it. Dupree sees Mike has written a union-local number and the name Daryl Greene on the page. “What’s he want from the guy?” Charlie asks. “Drumstick? Wing?”
“No, no, nothing like that. Just deliver the message.”
Charlie beams as if he’s won the lottery. “That’s it?”
“A strong message,” Mike says. “After that, I think the councilman will take care of his daughter,” Mike says. “But that’s only half your only problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“Internal affairs has the name of the coke dealer. They think you have a deal with him to pick off buyers from out of town after he sells to them.”
“Goddamn it, Mario!” Charles spits. Then he wipes his face and tries to restore his smile. “I’ll take care of that. I’ll make that better.”
Mike leans forward. “You gotta get this shit under control, Charlie.”
“I will, Mike. I will. I promise. After this, I’ll take some time…get all squared away. Just help me out here.” He puts his hands out on the table.
“Yeah. Okay.” Mike reaches across and takes Charles’s hand, squeezes it.
Dupree has been watching all this with horrified fascination. He clears his throat. “Look, fellas. I want no part of this. Your business is your business. But this has nothing to do with me—”
Both cops turn slowly to Dupree, as if they’ve forgotten he’s there. Mike smiles and pats him on the arm: “How about some more wine, Dookie?”
TWO CARDS DOWN. Three on the flop. Roll one on the turn and then the river—because it can sell you down. There is order and sense to a game of Texas Hold ’Em. Like breathing. Even after three days without sleep. And suddenly it doesn’t matter if you’re in New York or Washington, if you’re Vince or Marty or Jimmy Carter…it’s just the cards, same cards for everyone, fifty-two in four suits, gently rounded corners, crosshatch designs, the same cards everywhere, and you take to the game as if it could save your life, which of course it can.
Vince starts strong, with a suited king-jack. Decides to buy a pot right off, announce his presence. Bets heavy. Two guys drop. Two more on the flop. Three more on the turn. Vince misses his flush but pulls another king on the river and takes three hundie off a bald guy with thick glasses. The conversation goes on around him: everyone is getting balls busted or is up to his eyes to a shy or has a dickhead for a PO. The patter is familiar and yet Vince can’t seem to register the exact details, who says what, whose balls, which shylock, what parole officer. And suddenly it doesn’t strike him as that different from the donut-shop talk, or the normal ladies on the street: the PTA and the charcoal grill, braces and checking accounts. Banana apple strawberry.
Vince folds a hand, rides a low call through the flop, and then folds again. One of the players tries to engage Vince, but he gives minimalist answers. U
sed to live in the City. Moved to the West Coast. Runs a donut shop in Washington State. Ran into an old friend who said he knew a good game.
He had to buy his way and Pete’s into this game, two thousand each, but Pete seems to have taken off without playing and Vince has the feeling he got stuck at the kid’s table, with a bunch of nobodies—bottom of the food chain. So now he’s stuck at the first table, fine—nine guys drinking, working cigars, and playing Hold ’Em. If he knows this kind of game—one-time buy-in, 10 percent vig to the house—he guesses there are a couple of other nine-man tables in other rooms in the building, that they’ll play until people drop and the tables will come together for a ten- or fifteen-grand buy-in, and if he can just make it through this game, and maybe the next, he’ll make his way deeper into the building, to the tables with the deep pockets, and eventually to Johnny Boy’s table, where he’ll try to buy his freedom.
“You in the army?”
Vince looks up at an old guy with sunken cheeks. “I’m sorry?”
“Your hair. You don’t see it short like that anymore.”
Vince keeps forgetting about his crew cut. “No. I’m not in the army.”
“I was at Normandy myself, Omaha Beach,” the old guy confides. “Lost half my platoon in an hour.” No one looks up; they’ve heard this. “Bullets weren’t half as bad as the seasickness. It was almost a relief when we landed.” The other players ignore the man. “I’ll never forget. I watched one guy sink right to the bottom with his pack. Didn’t get off a shot. Just jumped out of the boat and sank. Drowned under all that weight.”
Vince looks down at his cards. He gets a pair of nines and calls a bluff so transparent it wouldn’t win a twenty-dollar pot at the Pit, let alone these stakes. Vince draws a third nine. And for a moment, the idea of squaring with Johnny Boy is less important than the way the cards are falling. The next hand he pulls jack-five off suit, and while he’d normally sit this one out, he doesn’t have enough time to play smart and he decides this is as good a time as any to buy a pot. It’s a scientific fact: the higher the stakes (and these are about as high as Vince has ever played) the easier it is to bluff, to buy one. It works. The other players fold—lucky because he gets no help. Four folds later, he goes after another pot. Now the other players take notice. They eye him; watch his hands and his face. Two players stay in. The flop: ace, queen, four. Dealer turns a nine and, on the river, a four. Guy across turns his cards: ace-nine. Someone whistles. Vince rolls his cards. Pair of queens. He rakes in another nickel. Two players leave the table, broke after less than an hour. One of them is the old guy from Omaha Beach. He looks at Vince, who can’t think of a thing to say. In his mind he sees the old man as a soldier, loaded down, sinking in the black water. “Good playing with you,” Vince says. His chips are heaped, not stacked, his original two grand now six. The real players are settling in.
