by Jason Starr
“Fuckin’ moron!” the driver shouted, leaning out of the window.
Continuing across the street, Mickey didn’t see a motorcycle coming from the other direction. The motorcycle sped past Mickey, barely missing him. Mickey waited in traffic for two more cars to pass, then he sprinted toward the sidewalk where the girl was staring at him, with her mouth partway open.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Mickey said, catching his breath. “I’m fine.”
“You almost got killed.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I just saw you and I was afraid you’d get into a car or something and drive away.”
Mickey stared at the girl. He noticed she was wearing the same great perfume she had worn yesterday.
“Do you want to go to dinner or a movie sometime?” Mickey asked. “If you don’t want to that’s okay too. I mean I—”
“I’d love to,” the girl said.
“You would?” Mickey said. “I mean that’s great. So do you have a phone?”
“Do I have a phone?”
“I mean phone number.”
“Do you have a piece of paper?”
“No, but if you tell me I’ll remember it.”
The girl told Mickey her phone number then said, “But how will I know it’s you when you call?”
“Sorry, I’m Mickey.”
The girl sang, “Oh Mickey, you’re so fine, you’re so fine you blow my mind, hey Mickey.”
Mickey smiled then said, “Who do I ask for when I call?”
“Rhonda.”
“Rhonda,” he said. “Great.”
They both laughed nervously. Mickey noticed the way Rhonda’s teeth weren’t perfect—the two front ones stuck out a little too far and overlapped slightly—but it was still the best-looking smile he’d ever seen.
Mickey realized he was staring at her again and said, “So I’ll definitely call you soon.”
“Okay,” Rhonda said. “Bye.”
Mickey watched Rhonda walk away, liking how her thighs rubbed together in her tight jeans. When she reached the end of the block, she looked back at Mickey and smiled, then she turned the corner and was gone.
When Mickey returned to the fish store, his face glowing, Charlie said, “See? Now ain’t you glad I came in to work today?”
ON SUNDAY, MICKEY’S day off, he woke up around ten and cooked bacon and eggs, leaving some extra in the pan for his father, who was still sleeping. After breakfast, Mickey watched some of Davey and Goliath, then he flipped through old Sports Illustrateds until the Jets-Colts game came on at one o’clock.
During halftime of the four o’clock game—the Giants-Buccaneers—Mickey took a walk to Rocco’s Pizzeria on Avenue J and picked up a pepperoni pie for dinner. When he returned to his apartment, he heard his father screaming from inside the bathroom.
“What’s going on?” Mickey said from the hallway. “What’s wrong?”
“Get me outta here!” Sal screamed. “Get me the fuck outta here!”
“Just unlock the door,” Mickey said, trying to twist the handle.
“You locked me in here, you son of a bitch,” Sal said. “I’m gonna kill you!”
Sal started banging against the door. Then someone started knocking on the door to the stairwell.
It was Joseph, the landlord who lived in the apartment downstairs.
“It’s all right!” Mickey yelled. “It’s just my father!”
“Will you shut him the fuck up?” Joseph yelled back. “It’s Sunday for Chrissakes!”
Sal was still screaming and cursing, banging frantically on the bathroom door. Blackie, Joseph’s German shepherd, was barking furiously in the apartment downstairs.
“Stand back,” Mickey said.
Sal was still screaming and banging.
“I said stand back!”
Finally, it was quiet for a few moments, then Mickey rammed against the door, shoulder first, but the door didn’t open.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” Joseph yelled from the stairwell.
Mickey rammed against the door again and again, and on his fourth try, the lock gave way and the door swung open.
Sal was standing huddled in the corner near the toilet bowl, looking terrified.
“It’s all right, Dad,” Mickey said. “It’s okay.”
Mickey took a step forward, reaching out to touch his father, when Sal suddenly pushed by him, almost knocking him into the shower stall.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Mickey said as Sal went down the hallway into the bedroom and slammed the door.
Later, Joseph installed a temporary hook lock on the bathroom door and told Mickey there would be a one-hundred-dollar surcharge on the rent next month to replace the original lock and repair the damage to the door.
Mickey spent the rest of the day alone in his room. After the Giants game, he picked up the phone and dialed the first six digits of Rhonda’s number, then he hung up, deciding he was just wasting his time.
AROUND TWO O’CLOCK on Monday afternoon, Angelo Santoro strutted into Vincent’s Fish Market. He was wearing a long black wool coat over a dark suit.
“How ya doin’, kid?” Angelo said.
“Pretty good,” Mickey said, hoping Angelo would take out his wallet.
Angelo noticed Charlie in the store and said, “What happened to you?”
“Fell off my bike,” Charlie said.
“Sorry to hear that,” Angelo said. Then he turned back to Mickey and said, “Can we talk in private? Maybe step outside or something?”
Mickey looked at Angelo’s coat, not seeing any bulge where his gun might be. He grabbed his jacket and followed him out the door.
“Sorry I’ve been a little incognito lately,” Angelo said to Mickey when they got outside. “I’ve just had a lot of business to take care of lately with my boss, you know? I hope you understand.”
“I understand,” Mickey said. “Of course I understand. I mean I knew it had to be something like that.”
Angelo took out a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket.
“Smoke?”
“No thanks,” Mickey said.
“Smart man. Probably save ten years on your life. Me? I’ll probably never know my grandkids. It’s all right, though. You gotta live life to love life, right?” Angelo lit his cigarette and took a long drag on it. After he blew smoke out of his mouth and nose, he said, “So you got the lines on tonight’s game?”
Mickey smiled, hoping that Angelo was just joking. But by the way Angelo was looking at him, waiting for him to answer, Mickey knew he wasn’t.
“I don’t know what the lines are,” Mickey said, not smiling anymore.
“It don’t matter,” Angelo said. “I’m gonna take it easy this week. Just put in two dollars on the Seahawks, will ya?”
“Two dollars” meant two hundred times, or another eleven hundred real dollars with the vig.
“I’m sorry,” Mickey said, “but I can’t do that. Not can’t— it’s just my bookie says I need the money from your other bets first.”
“I know my figure,” Angelo said, “and if you want to know the truth, that’s pocket change for me. I take a junket to Vegas, I drop ten g’s in a weekend. I never heard of a bookie don’t give a guy a chance to get even on a thousand bucks.”
“I know what you’re saying,” Mickey said. “I really do. Maybe if you just paid off your debt this one time, I could talk to my bookie and—”
“How come you didn’t tell me this before I made my first bet?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why didn’t you tell me your bookie makes you keep a low number?”
“I don’t know,” Mickey said. “I mean I—”
“Maybe if you told me, I wouldn’t’ve wasted my time. I would’ve known if I bet any serious money, I wouldn’t be able to get even. The way I look at this, this is your fault. So what do you think we should do about that?”
“I don’t think it’s my fault,�
� Mickey said.
“So what’re you saying? You saying you think it’s my fault?”
“No,” Mickey said, his face burning up. “I don’t think it’s anybody’s fault. I think—”
“Call your bookie,” Angelo said.
“I’d like to, Angelo, but—”
“Will you let me finish? Call your fuckin’ bookie. If the bet loses, I’ll be here tomorrow at noon to pay off my whole figure, clean the slate. If the bet wins, we’ll roll it over to next week. Tell your bookie I want the line in the paper today—Seattle minus three and a half. He has a problem, tell him to call Angelo Santoro from the Colombo family. You think he’ll have a problem with that?”
“I’m not putting your bet in,” Mickey said.
Angelo stared at Mickey for a long time, maybe five seconds.
“Excuse me?” Angelo said.
“I said I’m not putting your bet in,” Mickey said. “I shouldn’t’ve put in your other bets, either.”
“You know who the fuck you’re talking to?” Angelo said.
“Yeah, I know who I’m talking to,” Mickey said.
Angelo grinned. He looked both ways, seeing no one was around, then he punched Mickey in the gut. Mickey keeled over, wheezing, trying to breathe.
“Sorry, did that hurt?” Angelo said, then he punched Mickey again, harder. Angelo said something in Italian Mickey didn’t understand, then he grabbed Mickey by his neck, under his chin, and lifted him up.
“You better watch what you say and who you say it to, unless you wanna wind up in pieces. You disrespect me, you disrespect my whole family, you got that? I said, you got that?”
Mickey couldn’t get the breath to speak, so he just nodded.
“Good,” Angelo said. He looked at his watch then said in a suddenly friendly voice, “I gotta run, kid. Root for the Seahawks tonight, will ya? Hey, and I didn’t forget about those Jets-Giants tickets, neither—I’ll bring ’em for you tomorrow afternoon. You take it easy now.”
Angelo walked calmly up the block and turned the corner.
Mickey straightened up slowly. He felt nauseous and the pain in his stomach wouldn’t stop. Gradually, he could breathe again, but he wasn’t ready to walk. He stood there, holding his stomach, for about a minute, then he went back into the fish store, cursing.
“What’s wrong?” Charlie asked.
“Nothing,” Mickey said. He went behind the counter and tried to get busy cleaning up with a wet rag, but his stomach hurt with every movement.
“Second ago you was all smiles,” Charlie said, “now you actin’ like somebody died. Who is that dude Angelo, anyway?”
“Nobody,” Mickey mumbled.
“What’s that?” Charlie asked.
“Just a guy I know,” Mickey said louder.
“So what’d he want to talk to you about out there?”
“Nothing much,” Mickey said, rubbing the countertop so hard his wrist hurt.
“He give you them Jets-Giants tickets yet?” Charlie asked.
“No,” Mickey said, hoping Charlie would shut up.
“When you get those tickets, I hope you gonna take me with you. New York versus New York. That game’s gonna be the joint, man.”
Mickey brought a couple of pounds of flounder fillets home from work, but he wasn’t hungry and he didn’t feel like cooking for his father. He left the fish in the fridge then he got in his car and drove to Kings Highway. He found a spot at a meter and went up to the bookie joint.
“I hope you got my money,” Artie said to Mickey.
“We gotta talk,” Mickey said.
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“I’m serious,” Mickey said.
“Look,” Artie said. “I got you a few extra days, that was the best I could do. I’m sorry, no more extensions.”
“I don’t want an extension. Can’t we go somewhere?”
“I just walked in.”
“The hallway at least. Give me two minutes. Just two minutes, I promise.”
Shaking his head, Artie followed Mickey out of the bookie joint. They went down the stairs, outside, and stood under the subway el, by the pizza place.
“You eat yet?” Mickey asked.
“I thought you wanted to talk,” Artie said.
“But if you’re hungry, I’ll buy you a slice. Come on.”
“Look, can you tell me what the fuck is going on?” Artie said. “And I don’t want to hear that Angelo isn’t paying up, because I warned you about that before he made his first bet.”
“It’s more complicated now,” Mickey said.
“I’m going back upstairs—”
“Come on, listen to me. I’m in trouble now. Big trouble.”
“Just get me some money,” Artie said. “Five hundred bucks even. We can work on a payment plan for the rest.”
“He wants me to put in more action for him.”
“Forget about it—”
“Please, just hear me out.”
“I don’t care what you say, I’m not putting in any more action for you or Angelo till I start seeing some money.”
“He said we don’t have a choice.”
“We? Who are we now, Fred and Ginger?”
“He said he’s in the Colombo family.”
“It’s not very hard to pretend you’re a wiseguy,” Artie said. “You just gotta watch The Godfather a few times, and anybody can do it.”
“I thought about that,” Mickey said, “but it doesn’t make sense. Why would someone just pretend to be in the mob?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” Artie said, “maybe to get some free football bets?”
“Yeah, but why would somebody go to all that trouble,” Mickey said, “coming to the fish store every day, dressing up like a mob guy?”
“Okay, what’s this ‘Angelo’s’ last name?” Artie said. “I’ll ask around, see if I can find out if he’s for real or not.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Mickey said.
“You don’t know his last name, do you?”
“Of course I do—it’s Santoro.”
“Santoro? As in Salvadore Santoro?”
“Who?”
“Salvadore Santoro—Tom Mix. He’s the underboss for the Lucchese family. Don’t you read the papers?”
Now the name Santoro sounded vaguely familiar to Mickey.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Mickey asked.
“You ever think your friend Angelo might’ve lied to you about his name?”
“I guess it’s possible.”
“Possible?” Artie said, smiling. “Angelo told you he’s with the Colombo family, not the Lucchese family.”
“So?” Mickey said, “Maybe there’re two Santoros in two different families.”
“Face it,” Artie said, “you got taken for a ride.”
“Fuck you,” Mickey said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Angelo Santoro could be in the mob. Why couldn’t he be?”
“What’re we talking about here, anyway?” Artie said. “You want to believe Angelo’s in the mob, believe he’s in the mob. I thought we were talking about my money?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get your money.”
“When, Ginger?”
“Put in this one more bet for me.”
“No.”
“Come on.”
“Fuck you.”
“I swear, this is the last time—”
“The answer is no—NO. I’m doing this for your own good, Mickey. You know what they say at the OTB—‘Bet with your head, not over it.’ Well, you’re over your head. Way over it.”
“How about you give me the number of another bookie?”
“Do yourself a favor,” Artie said, “quit while you’re behind. Put off school, get a part-time job, work nights, weekends, park cars, answer phones—do whatever you gotta do to straighten this thing out.”
“Thanks,” Mickey said, walking away.
“You got till Wednesday,” Artie called
after him. “And don’t do nothing stupid. Whatever you do, don’t put in any more action for this guy. I’m warning you—he’s bad news.”
DRIVING HOME ON Kings Highway, Mickey thought it through both ways. If he didn’t put the bet in and the Seahawks lost, Angelo would still be in the hole to Artie for 1,020 bucks. If he put the bet in and the Seahawks won, Angelo would show up tomorrow, thinking his debt was knocked down to twenty bucks and Mickey would have to make up the thousand-dollar difference to Artie. Either way, Mickey would be fucked, so he decided he had to figure out some way to put in Angelo’s bet. At least then there was a chance Angelo could almost break even.
Mickey pulled over at a phone booth and called Nick, Artie’s boss.
“Hey, Nick, it’s Mickey . . . Mickey Prada. You know, Artie’s friend.”
Mickey hardly knew Nick, and Nick waited a few seconds before he said, “Yeah, right.”
“Sorry to call you, but I couldn’t find Artie by Kings Highway, and I wanted to put a bet in on the football game tonight.”
“What do you want?” Nick asked.
“It’s not me, it’s my friend Angelo. He wants two hundred times Seahawks.”
“Angelo?” Nick said. “Isn’t that the guy Artie said’s still shy?”
“Yeah, but Angelo squared that this afternoon,” Mickey said. “I got the money with me in my pocket, right now.”
“All of it?” Nick said.
“Yeah, all of it,” Mickey said.
“Okay, if you say so,” Nick said.
When Mickey opened the front door to his apartment, he smelled cooked fish. He went into the kitchen and saw Sal Prada sitting at the table, eating sautéed flounder and a bowl of spaghetti with tomato sauce, reading a newspaper.
“You cooked by yourself,” Mickey said, surprised.
“Of course I cooked,” Sal said. “Why can’t I cook? There’s more on the stove if you want some.”
Mickey made a plate of spaghetti and fish and ate across from his father at the little two-seat Formica table. They didn’t talk, but at least they weren’t fighting.
