by Tony Black
'Is everything all right?'
The barman's intervention stilled the air. The man and woman eyed each other over the table, but said nothing. A new, gravid threat filled the room. I felt my shirt collar tighten, the heavy beat of my pulsing neck hardened. In the second or two of uneasy silence it seemed like we had entered an alternative reality – a parallel universe perhaps, where this type of thing actually happened to me; surely this was not my existence any longer. I couldn't comprehend the turn of events. Nothing seemed real. I waited for someone to speak, but everyone seemed trapped, frozen in our surreal tableau. I longed for the barman to intervene once more, but from the corner of my eye I could tell he, too, was waiting for someone else to take the initiative. Before I knew why, or even how, I had risen to face the rangy man.
It was instinctive, the thinking, reasoning part of the brain had been overcome by some autonomic drive. No one was more surprised than me. We stood eye to eye over the small table, for the briefest moment my leg brushed the table's rim and the small glass of Pernod trembled. We stared on some more and then he looked back to the woman and turned down the corners of his mouth, revealing a jagged, uneven row of teeth. He muttered, something in a Slavic tongue again, it was beneath his breath and cut off abruptly by a sudden turn towards the bar as he strutted across the open floor, all the way towards the door. A few customers in the bar followed his brisk steps; he may have been muttering still. I watched him all the way. As he went he loosened the buttons on his double-breasted jacket and ran an open palm along his thick hairline. At the exit he turned and, swivelling on his heels, he spat in our direction; he looked like an angry snake spraying its venom.
I apologised to the barman – I still heard the door swinging to and fro on its slack hinges, 'Deux Pernod, s'il vous plaît ...'
He shook his head and retreated. At the bar I watched as he removed the bottle from the shelf, inflating broad cheeks as he poured two small, thin glasses.
I didn't know what to say to the woman at my side. I watched as she took up her drink and, after a few deep breaths, downed the last of the liquid in one swift motion.
As we sat waiting for the barman to bring two more shots I wondered just what I had got myself into. I knew I should get up right away, pay for the drinks and leave, but something kept me right where I was. I was surprising myself in new ways; ways I had never even considered possible until the moment the dark-haired woman walked into the bar.
'I'm Frank,' I said.
'My name is Elena.'
First Day in the Job
'Now listen, you get a good grip of them, boy.'
'It's Bobby.'
'What ...?'
'My name's Bobby.'
'Aye, right you are; now, like I say, get a good grip of them keys, boy. Count them.'
'... Eleven.'
'And it's eleven I'll want back at the end of the day. Hundred and forty bar it costs to get them cut if you lose them – you hearing me boy?' Bobby nodded. The Old Giffer listed off the keys' uses. Red top: stock room; blue top: back stairwell; green top: shop floor; other red top: supply cupboard and fuse box ...
The Old Giffer handed Bobby a dustcoat. It was mustard-coloured with two pockets at waist height and one at the breast. There were pens in the breast pocket and inky stains. Bobby touched the stains and looked at his fingers.
'Get it on, boy,' said the Old Giffer. Bobby put the coat on. There was a tear in the seam of the first sleeve he tried to put on and his hand popped out like a puppet. The Old Giffer laughed.
'You'll have to get your mammy to sew that for you, boy.'
Bobby did up the dustcoat's front buttons. The Old Giffer's coat was flapping open, exposing a prominent gut.
'Right, at least you look the part; now follow me, we've a lot to get through the day.'
They set off down the corridors. The Old Giffer pointed out the air-con vents and flanges, the thick black iron-riveted pipes of the plumbing, the service elevators, waste chutes, the Big Man's office, fire exits, the stairwell ingress and some floor tiles that needed replacing; all the time pointing out 'wee jobs' that had been messed up by Bobby's predecessor.
When they reached the basement the Old Giffer sat down. There was only one seat in the room. Garbage was flowing from a hole in the wall into a big tin container with wheels, like a supermarket trolley. It was a noisy process.
'Do you smoke?' said the Old Giffer, stoking his pipe with tobacco.
'Aye.'
The Old Giffer lit his pipe and blew grey plumes into the heavy basement air. Bobby took out his packet of ten Regal.
'Filter tip!' said the Old Giffer, before his voice trailed off into a hacking laugh. Bobby lit up. There was no talk between the pair of them. The smoking tasted good to Bobby. He bit the tip and drew it deep into his lungs and it reminded him of home.
'When's lunch?' he asked.
'Don't you concern yourself with that, my boy. I decide who eats, and when, around here,' said the Old Giffer. Bobby looked around the basement, but there was only the two of them.
'Twenty year I've been here, boy, I'll no' have you dictating to me one day in the job!'
'I was just ...'
'I was just. I was just. I was just nothing! I make the rules up – have done for twenty year – and you'd do well to remember that!'
The Old Giffer tapped his pipe off the side of the tin container and stamped the black soot into the cement floor with the sole of his shoe. He took Bobby over to the far corner of the basement and flicked on the four rows of light switches. The room lit up like a fairground and Bobby screwed up his eyes. The Old Giffer saw this and smiled, then turned them off again and the dim bulb in the centre of the room took over on its own.
'Never put all the lights on like that, boy, it's a waste – a pure waste. I pride myself on keeping the electric down.'
There were tins which held paint stacked in the far corner. There were no colours on the outside, just a number on the top of each lid which corresponded to a chart on the wall. 00176 was magnolia. 00177 was pure white. 00181 was duck-egg blue. There was only one tin of 00181.
In his doocot the Old Giffer showed Bobby how to stack the brushes. They were held in coffee jars half-filled with turpentine. He took one out and rubbed it on the back of a newspaper. The bristles were shining.
'You see – clean,' said the Old Giffer, 'that's what this job is all about – cleanliness. Look after your equipment and it'll look after you. I'll be minding you, boy, keeping an eye on you.' He touched the side of his nose and squinted at Bobby, 'You keep this clean, and do as you're told, and we'll get on fine in here, boy.'
Bobby said nothing. The Old Giffer handed him a broom and told him to go and sweep out the basement, top to bottom. He was told to start in the far corner, so he did. It was dark and had a dank smell and Bobby couldn't see what the end of the brush was doing, but he persisted.
The Old Giffer was sorting out nails and nuts and bolts in his doocot. Bobby swept around the edges, in the alcoves and dark hollows, round the boxes and planks and under the trestle until he had worked into the middle of the floor, under the light bulb which gave off a dim glow.
A little mound of sweepings was gathered in an ash-coloured molehill. Bobby smoothed its sides with his hands. It looked like the earth rugby players moulded to kick from. Bobby wanted to kick the sweepings high into the air. He looked for the Old Giffer, who was still in his doocot, sorting out his bits and bobs. Bobby approached him.
'I've done the sweeping.'
'Oh, aye?'
'Do you have a shovel?'
The Old Giffer didn't look up, just motioned to the back of the door with his hand. Bobby took the shovel from the back of the door. It was weighty. He gripped the handle in his hands and raised it above his head. The waxy shine of the Old Giffer's head was an inviting target. One blow, just one swift blow, he thought, and I could be free of him … free to go home and have a smoke in front of the telly.
'When you're finished up
with that you can have your lunch break – an hour mind, only an hour!'
Bobby slowly lowered the shovel and went back to his little mound of sweepings. He hurriedly piled the dusty debris onto the face of the shovel and dumped it in the big tin container with wheels like a supermarket trolley. He undid the buttons on his mustard-coloured dustcoat and flung it over the back of the chair. The Old Giffer didn't look up as Bobby left the basement and quickly lurched up the stairs.
Outside the building Bobby walked briskly. He thought about glancing back but knew this would slow his pace. By the time he reached the Old Brig he was beginning to tire and could feel a sticky layer of sweat between his shirt and his skin, so he stopped.
He looked out over the flowing waters and felt calmed. His breathing settled and a craving in his chest called out for nicotine. He took out the packet of ten Regal and pressed the filter tip between his lips, then he reached for his lighter. Something jangled in his pocket. It was the Old Giffer's keys. He counted them and smiled: there were eleven.
Bobby held up the keys and looked at them for a while. They're just a bunch of keys, he thought, bits of metal that open doors. He drew his fist around the bits of metal and pulled his arm back with a force that hurt his shoulder, then he launched them into the sky. Each little key sparkled in the sun as they whirled and whizzed through the air, before skimming the surface of the water, and sinking, fast.
Take it Outside
I ain't saying I'd sooner be a bum, but working at Delago's made me wonder. I knew as soon as I stepped off the sidewalk and into the diner I was in for a ride. But I kept my head down.
I nodded to Allie to bring me a coffee and my usual Danish.
'With you yesterday, handsome,' she hollered at me.
Already I was hearing the sniggers, blowing down from the back of the diner and smacking me upside the head. I didn't bite, none. I tucked my nose in the newspaper, read about a gang rape in the Lower East Side, a thirteen-year-old girl got her neck snapped ... that whole neighbourhood's a God-damn war zone.
'Here you are, honey.' Allie placed the plate down in front of me, two Danish with a pile of whipped cream smiling at me like the luck of the Irish.
'You sure are some piece of work,' I said.
Allie flicked the bar towel over her shoulder and draped a slender arm around my neck. 'Ah, hell ... what's a girl got to do to get noticed by you, Mickey?' She was close enough for me to smell the scent on her neck as she bent over and showed me a sight more flesh than I'd seen this side of the Joint.
'Hey, I'm lookin', ain't I?'
That made her smile, pushed a row of pearly whites through those big red lips. She turned tail and left me hanging, hanging on the sight of a fine piece of ass.
'Hey, boy, put that pecker away!' yelled Mr Delago.
Allie just about fell on her fine ass, shook her head in such a frenzy her blonde locks dropped some pins. Her sweet legs quickened as she ran for cover behind the counter, when she got there she put a cold blue eye on me, then turned fast to the wall.
'Ho-ho-ho ... breaking up already,' roared Mr Delago. A chorus of laughter followed from his fawning little pack of deadbeats. They pointed fingers at me; shit, I could take that. I'd had worse things pointed at me inside, and elsewhere. This job was always gonna be a hard time, parole officer finds always were.
'Little lady won't be getting no action out on the trash cans tonight,' hollered Mr Delago.
Allie dropped a cup. It smashed louder than Fourth of July firecrackers as she ran from the diner and headed out back.
I stood up, called out, 'Allie ... Allie ...' but she was kicking dust clouds.
The deadwood thought this was top-notch, real dime-store drama. I turned to watch them back-slapping Mr Delago. He grinned like a piranha, and then some pencil-neck reached over and placed a Lucky behind his ear.
Till now, I coulda kept a lid on things. I was counting to ten, reached five when I saw the Lucky passed over. This was goon kudos. In the Big House, a Lucky gets things done you wouldn't wanna think about.
I put a bead on Mr Delago and took off for the back of the diner. My heart pumped harder than Niagara Falls and adrenaline raced all the way to the point in my head where the slow-down switch was kept. As I walked, I saw the expressions changing. The pencil-neck with the Lucky looked filthier than a back-alley tom.
I am not a violent man, but there is violence in me.
The State Pen' tried to beat it out, and for most parts it did a good job, but that kinda thing don't just go away. Mr Delago knew it, I wasn't the only ex-con he took on so he could cream off half their wage packet. He should've known better than to test me.
The deadbeats eyeballed me like they'd just spotted a twister out at sea. I know I'm a big guy, 6' 4'' and 220 lbs, but I don't carry it like a threat. I work out, still do my five hundred push-ups a day, but hell, I never put it to use, till now.
At their table I stood for a second or two. The air was still, save a few curls of tobacco smoke heading for cover. If I was smart, I'd join them, get the hell outta Dodge. But I was never the brains of the outfit, that was always someone else's job.
He sat back and grinned, slowly, drew the Lucky from behind his ear. 'Got a light for me, boy?'
I gulped my heart all the way down into my stomach. In my coat pockets I felt my fists tightening like deadbolts. He was riding me again, worse than ever, but I found some strength, tapped a line of cool.
'Mr Delago, could I talk with you, please?'
He snickered. Showed that piranha smile again, then a full out laugh. The deadbeats followed suit. Soon they were all laughing loudly; they thought the trouble had passed.
'Sure ... sure we can talk, Mickey boy ... go on, speak your mind.'
'In private,' I said softly, taking as much of the threat out as I could.
'Oh, he wants to talk in private ...' his jibe got some more laughs, 'maybe he wants me to tell him how to keep a piece of ass in check!'
I was on the mat, taking a ten count from these bums as they laughed me up. Then Mr Delago rose to his feet.
'Lead the way ... I'll show you how to make her smoke!' He brought the Lucky up to his thin lips and pursed tight round the filter, sucking it like a teat. I coulda grabbed his neck and snapped it like a match, but I held out.
'Let's go out back,' I said.
'Sure ... sure ...' Back slaps and high-fives encouraged Mr Delago on his way.
My blood lapped like a race car as we walked through the diner and on to the fire escape. All the while my employer smiled at me like Satan.
He stopped dead in the back lot, right next to the dumpsters. 'What the hell are you playing at, asshole?' he said. 'Are you trying to make an fool outta me? Well, are you?'
I didn't answer. The time for words had passed. I thought of Allie; she'd given me a chance, if nobody else had. Maybe that's why I couldn't see her spoken to that way.
'Nothing to say, boy? No ... and I'll tell you why, 'cuz you don't want to go back inside. One call, that's all it would take.' Mr Delago laughed in my face, then threw up his arms and pushed past me. 'Now get to those dishes and make 'em shine till you can see your ugly mug in them.'
As he turned from me I rabbit-punched him. It felt good, a clean connection that sent him face first into the dirt. Where he fell, he turned over. Blood streamed from his nose like red ticker tape. I grabbed him by the collar and threw him against the dumpster, put a kidney punch on him. He let out a screech like tyres on a getaway car.
'Ah ... you dumb son of a bitch, you just bought your ticket,' he said.
I hit him again, cracked a knuckle on his bony jaw. It tore a flap of loose meat from under his chin.
'No, you bastard ... I'm not going anywhere,' I said.
'You're busted good, boy. I'll rat you out for this. I got witnesses, see … stacks. Me and my boys are gonna jail your sorry ass.'
I hit him again, in the gut this time, lifted him a good five inches clear of the asphalt.
; 'How's that feel ... in your gut?' I raged now, shook him left to right. 'Well, how's it feel ... you hurtin'?' His eyes rolled up in his head, all I saw was their whites; I thought he'd passed out.
I shook him again, slapped him round. 'Tell me how it feels! I want to know how it feels.' He looked at me, his mouth spilled open, but nothing came out. 'What I thought ... it don't feel nothing like what you dished out that night to Allie.'
He raised his head, his bug-eyes stared out into a wilderness of the unknown. The dread, the despair. The knowledge that he'd went too far fell on him like a funeral pall.
'A man can only stomach so much.'
He stared on, looking through me now. He wasn't with me at all. He was back in Allie's cold-water apartment in downtown Queens. He was pressing her against the wall and saying how good he would be for her. But she was wailing in terror, her eyes wide and wet like the night she cried on my shoulder and said she needed the job.
I spat in his face. But he didn't move. 'You quit riding me and Allie, hear?'
He still didn't move. I shook him by his scrawny coat-hanger shoulders. But there was no life in him.
I drew back my hand and slapped Mr Delago's face. The force of it stung my palm and sent electricity up my arm. This time he looked at me, but his eyes were still dead.
'You quit riding me ... leave me and Allie in peace, d'you hear?'
He said nothing; his eyes dropped from me fast as dimes in a pay-phone.
I grabbed his bloody jaw, forced him to look at me; 'I said, do you hear me?'
This time, he nodded. Slowly I stepped away. At the edge of the lot I pulled down the ladder to the fire escape. When I turned back to Mr Delago he was curled up on the asphalt, legs tucked to his chest like a sleeping child.
I climbed from the lot, and called out to Allie.
We'd some talking to do.
