Johnny Porno

by Charlie Stella

  “Why it’s a good country, America.”

  Brice seemed annoyed at the comment.

  “I’m breaking your shoes,” Levin said. “You’re a young stud, I can appreciate that, but there’s a lot goes on you’re still green about. Trust me on that.”

  Brice nodded and said, “What do you know about the guy running our investigation?”

  “Lieutenant Kelly? Not much more than you. He’s at it a long time, has roots with Vice that’ll make him unbearable you make a suggestion he’s not interested in. Guys like that are usually dinosaurs but not always. We’ll know soon enough.”

  “He into this detail?”

  “Into it how?”

  “He behind it. I’ve worked for guys just going through the motions, this for instance, makes it hard to stay enthused.”

  “So I was right, my hunch. You are the ambitious type. Wyatt fuckin’ Earp. That’s great. Just what I need this stage of my life, close enough to retirement I can taste the pina coladas, an ambitious gunslinger wants to clean up Dodge before his thirtieth birthday.”

  “I’m thirty-three.”

  “You look younger.”

  “I’m not and I’m no hero either. I just don’t like wasting my time.”

  Levin pointed at the blonde. She was touching her toes now, her ass to the audience. “I wouldn’t call this wasting my time. At least you get a show.”

  “What I get is bored,” Brice said.

  The crowd erupted into a cheer. They both looked up as the blonde stepped off the stage onto one of the tables where a stocky man had tilted his head back. A five-dollar bill lay across his nose. The blonde straddled his head, then lowered herself until she could remove the money with her crotch.

  “Now there’s talent for you,” Levin said. “How long you think it took her to learn that trick?”

  “About five seconds, assuming she practiced first. Why I never get wood in here.” He listed off the fingers of his left hand. “First, because they’re skanks, most of the women they hire here. Second, I see these losers letting one of these women probably been fucked half a dozen times before noon, they let them sit on their face for I don’t know what the guy gets out of it, makes me queasy, not horny.”

  “Any number of cops working the same beat might get propositioned to look the other way, the girls make a side deal,” Levin said. “A freebee to go, so to speak.”

  “They’d be wasting their time,” Brice said. “Not interested. Not without a couple dozen steam cleanings through an expensive car wash first. Then maybe a couple months in a monastery, a year or two of clean living, then maybe, I had the urge, I’d maybe let one of them hold my hand. Anything more than that, I’d have to pass.”

  “So you’re not on the take, that it?”

  “That’s a loaded fucking question. On top of an insinuation I’m working for the mob. You on the take, maybe? Looking to feel me out? That it?”

  “Most guys’d be tempted is all,” Levin said. “A place like this, a guy could knock off a piece in lieu of being bored all day.”

  Brice turned on his stool again. “First off, I wouldn’t pay for it. Second, I wouldn’t jeopardize my fuckin’ job.”

  “I meant no offense,” Levin said. He stuck his hand out, but the crowd cheered again, louder this time. Both men turned to see the string bikini bottom come off.

  “That even legal?” Levin said.

  One of the bikini bottom straps had broken free. The blonde, smiling now, was covering herself with it as she back-stepped toward the curtain.

  “No, but it’s an accident happens at least a couple times a day,” Brice said. “Least since I’m coming here.”

  “You gentlemen like anything else?” the barmaid asked.

  “I’m good,” Levin said.

  “Me, too,” Brice said.

  They watched until the blonde disappeared behind the curtain. The crowd gave a round of applause before settling down again.

  Levin said, “How long’s that, you’re coming to this place?”

  “Two weeks,” Brice said. “Here and another joint over in Queens. I rotate the days. Builds up their confidence they see me different days. They talk to me, the bartenders. This one passed me a name the other day, one of the girls she shills for. I usually stay for one girl, give her the allocated number of bills for tip money, have a couple beers and leave. That way they think I’m into one girl instead I’m a cop looking to bust somebody.”

  “Who’s your girl today?”

  “Not on yet. Black beauty, though. Very pretty.”

  “You gonna put a bill on your nose like that slob before?”

  “I’m not that brave. I’m afraid something might jump off, make me blind.”

  Levin glanced at his watch. “I just wanted to say hello. You’re free later, I’m buying. Get a six pack where I live for the price of two in here. What time you quit?”

  “Noon, but I’m heading up to Connecticut, see family.”

  Levin extended his right hand again. “Okay, then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Brice accepted the handshake. “Tomorrow,” he said.

  Another cheer erupted from the crowd as a tall, thin redhead with small breasts carried a mop and pail across the stage. She stopped to shake her ass to the baseline in Betty Wright’s “Clean Up Woman,” then proceeded to center stage.

  “This should be good,” Levin said.

  “Only if you got a strong stomach,” Brice said.

  Levin looked up and saw the redhead slowly licking her lips as she straddled the mop. “You know what?” he said. “Suddenly I don’t wanna find out.”

  Chapter 11

  He had a new coworker today, a big Russian, but the guy moved slowly, was sloppy, and wasn’t much for conversation. John did his best to avoid the guy when it was time to do the taping, especially after catching a whiff of the man’s breath.

  He had come to work without getting much sleep the night before, but he was feeling better about his prospects today. There was the chance of getting his union card back for one thing, and the extra stops on the weekend would bring in much-needed cash.

  He wasn’t sure when he’d be able to get over to the diner to see Melinda again and thought about calling to ask for her schedule, but decided against it. He had made some progress the night before and didn’t want to ruin it.

  It was close to two when he took a lunch break. He picked up a ham and Swiss on rye sandwich, a small bag of potato chips, a diet iced tea and a New York Post from a nearby deli. He ate in the tiny yard behind the job site under a tarpaulin he used to cover two stacks of cinder blocks. He glanced at the cover of the newspaper while he chewed on a big bite of his sandwich and saw the headline was about some guy named Kissinger being named Secretary of State.

  John flipped to the sports pages and glanced at the baseball results. The Yankees had lost their second straight to Kansas City, the Mets had beaten the Dodgers, and John’s second favorite team, because they had been his brother’s favorite, the Giants, had beaten the Expos.

  He turned the page and read a small article about the preseason blowout at the Yale Bowl the weekend before. He moved on to the horse racing pages and read through the horse names.

  He spotted a horse in the eighth race on the Roosevelt Card named Son of Nancy, an odds on favorite.

  “Maybe if you were a long shot and I had two bucks to my name,” he said.

  John finished looking through the paper about the same time he was finished with his potato chips. He had a few hours of work left for the day. Then he’d have to start thinking about what he’d tell Eddie Vento. The wiseguy had told him he could think about the job offer, but not too long. The pros and cons weren’t as black and white as he’d like them to be. Playing it safe, what his mother, old man Elias and probably Melinda would suggest, might mean playing it poor for the foreseeable future.

  If the builder he was working for today didn’t have anything next week, John would still need the weekend gig, at
least until he found something else. Turning down Eddie Vento might cost him more than he could afford to lose.

  It was three o’clock when he remembered to call his ex-wife. He would make plans to see his son when he dropped off the balance of the child support he owed. Maybe he could pick up Yankees tickets if they were home the following week or take the kid to the bazaar Nancy had mentioned. He checked the schedule in the newspaper he’d bought at lunch and saw the Dodgers were at Shea to play the Mets tomorrow night and the Giants Friday through Sunday. The Yankees were out of town.

  Little Jack was a Yankees fan. If John bought the tickets enough in advance, so long as it wasn’t a Saturday or Sunday, he should be able to take his son to see his favorite team. Maybe one of the games during the week before school started.

  When he was finished with work John called Nancy to check with her before he bought tickets he wouldn’t be able to use. His son answered on the second ring.

  “Hey, big guy,” John said. “It’s Daddy.”

  “Hi, Dad,” his son said. “We’ve been trying to call you.”

  John knew his son meant his ex-wife had been trying to call and that it probably wasn’t going to be pleasant when she got on the line. He did his best to avoid that conversation by keeping his son engaged. “Why, did anything happen?”

  “Nathan got me baseball tickets,” Little Jack said. “For going back to school, but he can’t make it and wanted to know if you could take me.”

  “What day’s the game, Jack? So long as it isn’t a weekend, I can.”

  “Friday, August thirty-first at seven o’clock.”

  John had to distribute the film Friday, but could do it in the afternoon.

  “It’s a night game, sure. I can do that.”

  “Really?”

  “I sure will, yeah. Did you thank Nathan?”

  “Yeah, I said thanks.”

  “Good. How was camp today?”

  “Okay. I told everybody about the game. They’re playing the Orioles.”

  “Baltimore, huh? They have good pitching on that team.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “And Brooks Robinson and Boog Powell.”

  “I don’t care, the Yankees will win anyway.”

  “Okay, I hope so.”

  “You coming over?”

  John could picture his ex-wife looming over their son waiting for his answer. He didn’t like putting the kid in the middle of their business and told his son to put her on.

  “But you’re coming over, right?”

  “I sure am,” John said. “And I’ll take you for Carvel after. How’s that?”

  “Great!” his son said.

  “Okay, then, put your mother on.”

  “Okay, Dad, love you. Here’s Mom.”

  John waited for her to speak. When she didn’t, he said, “Nan?”

  “What?”

  She had probably been on the line all along, most likely listening on another phone.

  “I’ll be over after I eat.”

  “You bringing money?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a click, a momentary pause, then a dial tone. The bitch had hung up.

  * * * *

  Louis slept with Myra, the roller skater he’d met in Washington Square park Tuesday night, after she hooked him up with an ounce of Panama Red through a dealer friend of hers in the West Village. Myra worked mornings at a button factory on Houston Street Monday through Wednesday and waited tables at an East Village diner weekends. In her spare time, usually while roller-skating in one of the south Manhattan parks, she brokered pot deals for her neighborhood friends in the business.

  After copping the ounce last night, she had brought Louis home to her studio apartment off Tompkins Square Park in the East Village. There they drank two bottles of sangria, shared an order of potato perogi, then sampled his pot and screwed until they passed out. When Louis woke up the next day, it was in the early afternoon and Myra was gone. He called the window-cleaning office to say he had had an emergency and hadn’t been able to call earlier. He told them he would be back in the morning but might need additional time off Friday and the following week. He would keep in touch.

  After hanging up the phone, he felt an itch between his legs. He was scratching at it through his underwear when the lock turned in the apartment door.

  Myra was back from her morning job. She carried a small white paper bag with steam rising from the top.

  “Bagels,” she said.

  “You got coffee?”

  “Two light and sweet.”

  “I’m gonna need more than two.”

  “Oh, the other one was for me. I can run down and get some more if you want.”

  “Hold on and I’ll go with you after I shower.”

  The apartment was tiny. She sat on the edge of the sofa bed and set the bag on the floor. “You awake long?”

  Louis had moved from the sofa bed to one of two folding chairs. He leaned over, opened the bag and pulled out a bagel, then one of the coffees. He set the bagel in his lap and popped the lid on the coffee.

  “Thanks,” he said before sipping.

  “Sure,” Myra said.

  Louis noticed she had gone out wearing the same outfit as last night minus the roller skates. She removed the halter before unwrapping her bagel and taking a bite. A glob of cream cheese dropped from the bagel onto her left breast. Louis pointed to it.

  “Wanna lick it off?” she said.

  “Not until I’m awake,” he said.

  She winked and he noticed another blot of cream cheese had formed at the corner of her mouth. He couldn’t look at it while he sipped his coffee.

  “I have the rest of the day if you wanna hang,” she said.

  “Actually I gotta take care of a few things.”

  “Fuck and run, huh?”

  “What?”

  She slapped one of his legs. “Just kidding,” she said.

  The cream cheese was still there. He pointed to it and she smeared it across her cheek with the back of her hand.

  “Use a napkin,” he said, then handed her one.

  Myra wiped her face a few times with the napkin, then dropped it behind her onto the bed.

  She was a slob. Louis wondered how he hadn’t noticed it last night.

  He felt another itch between his legs and started to wonder if maybe he’d picked up something sleeping with her. His heart started to race when he thought he spotted something on the string of her bikini bottom.

  “Hold on a second,” he told her. “Lean forward.”

  Myra had just taken another bite of her bagel. A second glob of cream cheese dropped, this time onto her stomach just above her bikini.

  “Hey, lucky me,” she said. “You’re definitely gonna have to lick that one off.”

  Louis felt his coffee coming up at the sight of two tiny specs crawling along the bikini string. He pushed away from her and stepped inside the tiny bathroom.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  Louis retched, but nothing came up.

  “Babe?”

  He spit the bile that had formed in his mouth.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  He dry-heaved again. This time his ribs hurt.

  “You sick?”

  He spit a few more times until he was sure nothing would come up. When he was back out of the bathroom, Myra was licking one of her fingers after wiping the cream cheese off her stomach.

  “You got crabs,” he told her.

  “What?”

  “You gave me crabs.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Louis pulled at her bikini bottom. “Check,” he said. “I just saw two on your suit. The string there.”

  Myra pulled the bottom off. Louis pointed at her crotch. “Probably came out of the jungle you have. Shave the damn thing. Trim it at least.”

  Myra was looking down at her triangle of pubic hair. “Maybe you gave them to me,” she said defensively.

  “I didn�
��t give you shit,” Louis said. “I didn’t have any.” He was looking for signs of the insects on himself now.

  “It’s no big deal if there are any,” she said. “They make creams for it. I’ve had them before.”

  Louis was half amazed, half crazed. “You had them before?”

  “A few times. It’s no big deal.”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “Fuck you, man. You’re the one is nuts.”

  Louis dressed, gathered his things, including what was left of the Panama Red, and left.

  “At least close the fucking door!” he heard Myra yell behind him.

  * * * *

  “We can use the recorder or you can go fuck yourself,” Captain Kaprowski told the special agent. “I don’t like feds, never mind trust them. You’re lucky I didn’t shoot your ass you flashed that badge. It’s the first thing came to mind when I saw it.”

  Special Agent Darrel Stebenow, at thirty-six years of age, was an eight-year veteran of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Against Bureau rules of jurisdiction, conflict of interest, and confidentiality, Stebenow had come to Kaprowski for help. Determined to retire as soon as the federal informant he was overseeing safely concluded her obligation to the government, he had brought incriminating evidence against himself in an attempt to validate his sincerity.

  “I brought surveillance tapes should be proof enough I’m not here representing the Bureau,” he said. “You prefer we record this, fine. This is about a witness in over her head. A woman railroaded into something might get her killed for no other reason than she’s expendable in the eyes of an over-ambitious federal prosecutor sees himself president someday.”

  Kaprowski showed no emotion as he leaned forward to hit the RECORD button. “Okay then,” he said. “The particulars first.”

  Stebenow gave his name, rank within the bureau, date of birth, Social Security number, address and a full confession about seeking Kaprowski at his home in regards to federal informant Bridget Malone. He also mentioned copies of surveillance tapes he’d secured from a federal informant having to do with a federal investigation. A short Q and A followed, during which Stebenow answered whatever questions the police captain felt were relevant to ask. When they were finished, Kaprowski turned the recorder off.