Sunburn

by Laurence Shames

  He poked his head into the narrow kitchen, saw two unwashed coffee mugs in the sink.

  He slipped into the bedroom, let his light explore it like a doctor's shameless fingers. Drawers had been hastily slammed shut with sleeves and cuffs still poking out of them. The bed had not been made, the light quilt was ranged with hills and valleys. "A fuckin' nobody and a fuckin' slob," said Gino. He saw a rickety chair with a couple of T-shirts draped over its arms. He saw a pink scarf on the back of the chair.

  He continued his circuit around the room, found a cheesy lamp, a stack of dog-eared paperbacks, then suddenly yanked his light back to the scarf. He stared at it. It gleamed a lewd and fleshy rose against the darkness all around it. No, he thought, it's impossible. Heavily, he walked around the bed. He picked up the scarf in his obscene gloved hand. He held it tight against his face and smelled it, then let it drop as though it carried some terrible contagion. "That fucking slut," he said. "That two-timing skinny-ass whore."

  He scrunched his fat face into a mug of wronged trust. He started to pace but there was nowhere much to go. He moved back to the chair, picked up the guilty swatch of silk, and started tearing it to shreds. It was light cloth but it was hard to tear; Gino sweated as he ripped it. The fabric made a desolate rending sound as it was destroyed. Charged pink tatters fell from Gino's hand, he had to kick them off his pants leg.

  At length, wet in his clothes and breathing hard, he sat in the dark in the bedroom chair to wait. Outside, breezes rustled the palm fronds, smells of jasmine and salted dust came through the open window. Gino's gun was in his lap, his gloved fingers stuck to it like gauze to a scab. Patiently, he waited for Arty Magnus, the nobody who had to go, and for that fucking tramp whose name he wouldn't say, if she happened to be with him.

  45

  "You like him, don't you?" Sandra said.

  She and Debbi were working elbow to elbow in the kitchen, rinsing dishes, slipping them into the racks of the dishwasher. Water was running in the sink; the sound was companionable, intimate.

  "I like him a lot," said Debbi.

  "It shows."

  Debbi flushed at this; her sunburned forehead got redder at the roots of her red hair. Like everyone with a secret, everyone with a new emotion, she wanted to probe it, tease herself with it, bring herself to the delicious cusp of going public.

  Sandra put silverware into its basket. "Maybe the two of you wanna go for a ride or something. Look at the ocean, go downtown. You're welcome to the car."

  Debbi looked down, her long lashes threw faint fan-shaped shadows on her cheeks. She could not hold back a cockeyed little smile. She knew she was close to spilling the beans as usual, but she couldn't help herself, it felt too good. "If we go for a ride," she said, "we'll go on Arty's bike."

  "The two of you?" said Sandra. "Together?"

  Debbi bit her lower lip and nodded.

  Sandra dried her hands and turned off the water. In the sudden quiet, crickets and tree frogs could be heard. "That's so nice," she said. "Romantic."

  Debbi glanced up at the ceiling, gave a shrug that brought her shoulders almost to her ears, a shrug so big it was almost goofy. "Romantic," she said. "Yeah, it is."

  ———

  " 'Nother big state?" said Bo, the thug who liked geography. "Virginia. People don't realize. Plus ya got them fuckin' tolls in Richmond."

  Bert nodded, stroked his dog, glanced through the kitchen doorway at the clock.

  "But wait a second," Bo went on. "You flew up, didn't ya?"

  Bert nodded again, plucked a short white dog hair from his trousers.

  "It's abrupt, like, when ya fly," said Bo. His scarred face scrunched up in disapproval. "Da things ya miss."

  Bert nodded a third time.

  "So like all of a sudden, boom, you're in New Yawk. I mean like, for you, Bert, how's it feel, you're dropped all of a sudden in New Yawk again?"

  Bert reached up, tugged the stringy flesh beneath his chin. He thought about the oriental guy in earmuffs shelling peas at what used to be Perretti's.

  He thought about working the phone with nobody to call. "Lemme put it dis way, Bo. Y'ever seen a car up on blocks?"

  Bo didn't answer right away. He made a strange face, squirmed a little bit, reached down to straighten out his pants. Bert couldn't tell if he was thinking hard or if he was uncomfortable, if maybe his tubes were starting to shift and gurgle.

  ———

  Arty and Debbi walked across the lawn in front of Joey Goldman's house. The moment seemed to call for holding hands, but Arty's arms hung limp at his sides, and the blandness in his posture sent a small dart of disappointment through Debbi. Had her new lover already lost the habit of aimless affection? Was he in fact no more romantic than other men she'd known?

  When they reached the place where the writer's old fat-tire bike leaned against a palm, Debbi thought it would be wonderful if he took her in his arms. He did not. He only dropped his spiral notebook in the basket, then steadied the bicycle for her to climb aboard. Saddened and suddenly uncertain, she did.

  They crunched along the gravel driveway, headed for the beach. The bicycle's wide tires made soft sucking sounds as the treads rolled off the asphalt. Wind tossed the enormous pendant fronds of the royal palms; they billowed up like lifted skirts. Debbi shifted her thin behind on the crosspiece of the frame, leaned back against Arty as he pedaled, but no longer felt quite safe with her flank against his chest.

  At County Beach, they left the road and swerved onto a narrow zigzag path that wound through shrubs and sand and picnic tables. A gibbous moon hung high above the Florida Straits, it threw a jagged beam that rose and fell with the ripples in the water and tracked them as they rode. By an ancient slatted bench, Arty stopped the bike and said, "We have to talk."

  They sat, neither one at ease enough to settle back. Arty said, "I don't know where to start."

  Debbi said nothing. She didn't know how to help him start and she didn't like what she imagined was coming. Would it be the no-commitment speech? The old-girl-friend-in-the-wings routine?

  "I'm writing a book with Vincente," Arty blurted. "I'm not supposed to tell anyone. I haven't told anyone. But it seems like everyone's found out. Those FBI guys—that's why they're hassling me."

  Debbi's eyebrows pulled together. This was not what she expected the talk to be about, and it was a lot to take in all at once. "I don't think I understand—"

  "My notebook," Arty said. "They want my notebook. They seem to think it's full of things they can use against him."

  "Is it?"

  Arty threw his hands up, let them slap down against his thighs. "Who knows what they can use these days? He's on record that there's an organization, they make their own rules, and he's the head of it. Smart prosecutor, that might be enough to jail him till he dies."

  "But they can't make you—"

  Arty looked out at the water. It was placid, gorgeous. But life could turn impossible in beautiful places too. "Debbi," he said. "Debbi. They're threatening me. They're threatening you, if I don't cooperate. I don't know how much longer I can stall. This thing with your probation—"

  She yanked in a quick breath, bit her lower lip, pulled her eyes away. Shame and frustration scraped at her insides. She thought about how hard it was to change a life, how tough to escape the old neighborhood. The neighborhood—she used to think it was made of buildings and street signs and fire hydrants; now she understood it was really built of old mistakes, old humiliations, everything that marked you, if only in your own mind, everything that shrank your world and held you back. "Arty, I guess I should have told you. There's been so little time—"

  "It doesn't have to matter," Arty said, hoping to his soul he meant it. "It's just that—"

  "I want to tell you about it," Debbi said.

  "I've got no right to ask."

  She reached up, grabbed her red hair in her fists. "These secrets! These fucking secrets, Arty. They're really not worth going crazy over. . . . Listen, I have
a long sad history of picking Mr. Wrong. Maybe a shrink could tell me why I did it, maybe it's just the guys I met. Ya know, neighborhood guys. A year or so ago I dated a guy named Mikey. Seemed nice at first. They all do, right? Well it turns out he's a lunatic, a cokehead, a major dealer. A couple of months, I do the typical stupid thing, I try to look the other way. Then finally I've had enough, I go over to his place to break it off, and that's the day he's busted. He's away for five years.

  Me, no record, never done anything worse than playing hookey, I get probation. Lady judge. She says to me, 'Miss Martini, I think you're innocent. I could let you off, but I don't think I'd be doing you a favor. Probation'll give you a reason to think a little harder.' "

  "So you fall in with Gino," Arty could not help saying.

  Debbi sighed. "Stupid. I know. But it's not like he said, 'Hi, I'm Mafia, wanna go out?' You don't know at first. By the time ya find out, you're a little bit involved—"

  Arty touched her hand. "You don't have to go on with this."

  She looked down at the place where they were touching. Loss washed over her like clammy water, she felt it far more intensely than before he'd reached for her, when they'd been separate, guarded. "You don't wanna see me anymore," she said. It was not a question.

  "I didn't say that."

  She looked off at the water. There were no waves, but small ripples collapsed on the shore and made a soft boiling sound against the rocky sand. "Arty, don't do anything against Vincente because of me. Promise. I couldn't live with that. I made mistakes, I'll pay for them."

  "But—"

  She shushed him with a long finger placed against his lips. "Maybe you should take me home now."

  He looked at her. Her face was soft, the big eyes chastened, the mouth pouting with the knowing irony of someone watching a chance go by, a dream become a perfect absence. He looked at her, and for an instant he imagined that what he felt was merely pity; it was his own loss masquerading as compassion. Then he understood with throat-closing clarity that her chance to change her life was his own best chance as well, her winning-through his own best stretch toward the high victory called happiness. He took her face in his hands and kissed her. Her surprised mouth was not ready to be kissed, the pout ripened to passion only slowly. "Home with me?"

  She didn't answer for a moment, then nodded a yes against his neck. Buoyant on the wing of second chances, they headed toward the cottage where Gino waited, his pistol in his lap.

  46

  "Yeah, I think about dat sometimes," said Bo the philosophic thug. "In a vague kinda way, I mean. Gettin' old. Feelin' useless. Like ya can't do duh things ya useta do, everything's an effort. Mus' be a bitch. What the fuck can ya do about it?"

  "Ain't nothin' ya can do about it," said Bert the Shirt. His half-blind shedding dog was in his lap, twitching in and out of sleep. The silent television threw random splats of color around the room.

  Bo squirmed, plucked at his trousers, seemed to be trying to rearrange his guts, get his tubing at a different angle. "Like Pretty Boy," he said. "My partner. He don't think about it. He don't think about nothin'. Sometimes I think he's better off. 'Course, he's all fucked up wit' drugs."

  Bert nodded.

  Bo winced, just slightly; the spasm made the scarred side of his face hike up like a rising curtain. His pants squeaked as he shifted on the vinyl couch, then he said with delicacy, "You'll be OK a coupla minutes, Bert? I gotta go ta duh bat'room."

  Certain things the old man could do as well as ever, maybe better. He kept his voice gruff and natural, his long face perfectly composed. "Sure," he said. "I'll do the dishes."

  Bo rose, a little gingerly. Bert got up with him and headed for the kitchen.

  He put his dog down on the counter, went to the sink, turned on the water as hard as it would go. He counted to ten, then turned and peeked down the narrow hall, saw that the bathroom door was firmly closed.

  He left the water running, picked up his dog. He tiptoed to the living room window that gave onto the fire escape. He opened it wide, used his arms to help lift his legs as he stepped stiffly over the sill.

  Out on the rusty landing, he tucked the chihuahua under his arm as though it were a football, then launched himself down the skinny metal stairs. He didn't so much run as fly, as in a dream of spiraling downward, giving in with an ecstatic trust to gravity, pivoting with ease around the frigid railings. The skyline wheeled around him as he spun, and in the freezing air the old man felt light, fearless, giddy. He was closer to eighty than to seventy and he was taking it on the lam.

  ———

  Arty Magnus locked his bike to a Christmas palm, then kept a hand on Debbi's back as they walked through the moonlight to his cottage. He ached for a vacation from the hazards and the clamor of the world, a visit to a small safe universe of making love. They kissed once in front of the torn screen door, then he led her over the scuffed, uneven threshold.

  "I can't see a thing," she whispered when the door had shut behind them, blotting out the moonlight. The darkness seemed to call for whispering; it was an intimate, caressing darkness, but if it was sanctuary it was also peril. There were edges to walk into, rugs and wires to trip on.

  "Don't have to see," Arty whispered back. "I've had this dump so long, I know which floorboards squeak."

  He dropped his notebook on the ratty unseen table, then led his new lover through the bedroom doorway. He found the mattress with his knee, leaned down with the slow precision of a blind man, and grabbed the box of wooden matches he kept on his bedside table. He struck one. It flared to life with a rasp, a hiss, an acrid whiff of phosphorus. He reached the match toward a plain white candle glued with wax to a saucer, and that was when they saw the gun pointing at them from the far side of the bed.

  They saw the gun before they saw the person holding it; it hovered gray, glinting, disconnected, as rude and stripped of context as a dildo. Next they saw the thick and hairy hand smeared inside its glove, and only after that the damp and slovenly bulk of Gino Delgatto sprawling in the chair.

  The assassin clicked on his flashlight, drilled the beam at Arty's face. "Hello, Romeo," he said. He shifted the beacon toward Debbi, thrust it at her loins, her breasts, slashed at her face with the light as though it were a razor. "Hello, you fuckin' whore. Either a you makes a sound, you're dead."

  ———

  Bert d'Ambrosia, in a monogrammed blue shirt without even a sweater over it, puffed and jogged to the corner of Sullivan and Bleecker, then turned west toward the bar where he hoped Pretty Boy would still be drinking, would by now be drunk. He found the place then paused for breath on the freezing sidewalk; wreaths of steam rose from his head. He petted his dog and went inside.

  The tavern was crowded, smoky, dizzying after the blast of cold. The jukebox blared, laughter erupted here and there. Bert nestled the chihuahua against his wizened tummy, tried to shield it from the beery crush of bodies. Squinting against the smoke, he found Pretty Boy sitting near the far end of the bar, exactly where he'd been several hours before. But certain things had changed. Alcohol had conquered pills, and now the handsome thug's posture was hulking, his nervous mouth slack and surly. His high hair seemed to be deflating, whorls of it hung greasily over his forehead.

  Bert approached his blind side and was right under his chin before he spoke. "Pretty Boy."

  The thug looked at him stupidly. Recognition came on slowly, like an old tube radio warming up. He remembered Bert. They'd even had a drink together. But hadn't that been a different day? "Fuck you doin' heah?"

  "Bo sent me. We're goin' back ta Florida."

  In front of Pretty Boy was a glass with something brown in it. He took a swallow and said, "Wha'?"

  "Word came from Messina. Bo's gettin' the car. Gino's business down there, it didn't go right."

  Synapses were slowly coming alive in Pretty Boy. Vindication helped them wake up. "Send a boy ta do a man's job," he said. "We shoulda just did the fuckin' thing ourselves."

 
"Dat's what Bo says too," ventured Bert the Shirt.

  "Yeah?" gloated Pretty Boy. "So now Bo says I was right?"

  "Yeah. All along. Messina says so too."

  "Fuckin' A." The gratified thug went back to his drink.

  "Yeah, Bo tol' me all about it. No reason not to now. I said you were right. Thing like dat, ya don't trust it to somebody else."

  Pretty Boy drained his drink, gestured with the empty glass. "I said dat from the start."

  "Somethin' 'at important."

  "Thing is, it didn't have to be that big a deal, we did it my way from the start."

  Bert nodded sagely. "De other way, they made it too complicated, people goin' back and fort'."

  "Fuckin' A." Pretty Boy lowered his voice a notch, breathed liquor mist in Bert's face. "My way, I tol' 'em, I said first chance we ice the fuckin' writer, and 'at's the end of it. We don't wait. We don't send fuckin' Gino. Am I right?"

  Bert the Shirt summoned up a lifetime's practice in the poker face, the voice revealing nothing. "Yeah," he said. "You're right. . . . Listen, Bo's comin' wit' the car. Ya wanna take a leak or somethin' before we staht?"

  This struck Pretty Boy as a good idea. He double-checked that his glass was really empty, then woozily slid down from his barstool and lumbered toward the men's room. Bert held his dog like a football and lowered his head like a fullback. He was on the street again in fifteen seconds.

  47

  "You don't go off on your own like that," Ben Hawkins said. "It's not the way it's done."

  Mark Sutton looked down at his plate and sulked. He thought he'd done a pretty good day's work, deserved a pat on the back and not a scolding. "Ben," he insisted, "I'm telling you, the guy is this close to turning."

  "So what? Who is he, the under-boss? He's a journalist, Mark. A civilian. What's he gonna have?"

  "We'll never know unless we work him, will we?"