by Jason Starr
“Yeah, it is, it’s ten-thirty already.”
Mickey was surprised—it was nine o’clock the last time he’d checked his watch, which seemed like just a few minutes ago.
Mickey paid the bill at the register, then he and Rhonda went outside. On the way to the car in the parking lot, Mickey held Rhonda’s hand. It felt warm and soft.
As they drove down Nostrand Avenue, Mickey couldn’t get a full breath. He was trying to decide when to kiss her— in the car, or in front of her house.
“Hey, I have an idea,” Rhonda said. “Do you want to teach me how to drive sometime?”
“Sure,” Mickey said.
“I still have a learner’s permit,” Rhonda said, “but I never got around to taking a road test. And, oh my God, my father’s the world’s worst teacher. Seriously, he’s really smart, but he can’t stop looking over his shoulder while I’m driving and it makes me so nervous. But I have a feeling I’d be a lot more comfortable around you.”
“I’d love to teach you,” Mickey said. “Anytime.”
They turned down Avenue I, then onto Rhonda’s block. Mickey had been hoping to pull into a spot and make a move on her, but there were no spaces, so he had to double-park. With the motor running he looked into her eyes for a few seconds, then she said, “Well, good night.”
She opened the door and started to get out. Mickey was kicking himself for blowing his chance.
Then Rhonda looked back at him and said, “You want to walk me to my door?”
“Sure,” Mickey said, thanking God.
He shut the engine and went around and held Rhonda’s door open for her. They walked up the concrete path toward the stoop to the house. Rhonda stopped and turned toward Mickey. Mickey was about to lean toward her when she said, “Do you like shows?”
“Shows?” Mickey said.
“Yeah, shows,” Rhonda said. “You know, Broadway shows.”
“I don’t know,” Mickey said. “I mean I’ve never been to one before.”
“You’ve never been to a Broadway show?”
“Nah,” Mickey said. “I mean I saw one on TV once. Jesus Christ Superstar.”
“Oh my God, I’m definitely taking you Sunday. I have two tickets to Cats. I was supposed to go with my stepmother but she can’t make it. You can go Sunday, can’t you?”
“Sure,” Mickey said.
“Great. I guess we can take the subway together or—”
“No, I can drive,” Mickey said.
“Really? Okay, the show starts at three, so maybe you could come pick me up at about eleven. We can go to lunch first.”
“Okay, I’ll be there—I mean here.”
Mickey laughed, his mouth suddenly dry. Rhonda’s eyes were aimed down slightly, toward Mickey’s lips. Mickey knew this was his chance, but he didn’t move. He just stood still, doing nothing, and he was hating himself. Then he was doing it. His tongue was in her mouth, swirling against her tongue, and he felt like everything else disappeared—it was just their tongues and mouths and nothing else.
Mickey didn’t want the kiss to end, but finally Rhonda pulled back and said, “Good night, Mickey.”
“Good night,” Mickey said.
Mickey watched Rhonda go into the house, and he stayed there long after the door had closed.
9
ALL DAY SATURDAY Mickey couldn’t get Rhonda out of his head. He kept replaying conversations from last night, remembering how easy it was to talk to her, and how proud he was to be with her. He also remembered how good it felt to hold her hand and especially to kiss her. It wasn’t like kissing other girls for the first time; he wasn’t nervous at all and he’d felt like he’d kissed her hundreds of times before. At work, every time the bell above the door rang, Mickey looked up from whatever he was doing, hoping to see her, feeling the disappointment a moment later. He didn’t know how he would make it until tomorrow to see her again. He wanted to be with her right now—just throw down his apron, run to her house, and hold her. He had definitely fallen in love.
Mickey was surprised because he had thought it would be years before he fell in love, and he didn’t expect it would be with someone like Rhonda. He’d always imagined his future wife as a simple, plain-looking girl. She wouldn’t be ugly, but she wouldn’t be beautiful, either. She would be a nice girl, though, someone he got along with, anyway, and they would get together because they were tired of being alone and just wanted to settle down and start a family. But now he had Rhonda, the type of girl he’d never thought would like him. She was beautiful, smart, funny, and the best part was that she seemed to like him as much as he liked her. He imagined how great it would be in the spring, when he had started college and they could go to the library, or just hang out in a park somewhere and study together. Then, next year, she might be going to NYU or Columbia, and they could ride to the city together on the subway, meeting for lunch and dinner all the time.
At one point in the afternoon, Mickey was staring out the front window, daydreaming, when Harry came up behind him and said, “Hey, space cadet, what’s the matter, forget to plug in your brain today? I just told you to go mop the bathroom floor—the pipe in the ceiling’s leaking again.”
Mickey smiled; even Harry couldn’t ruin his great mood.
Later, at home, Mickey thought about calling Rhonda, just to say hi and tell her that he’d had a great time last night. But he wasn’t sure it was right to call so early, just a day after the first date, so he watched TV instead.
At nine o’clock, Mickey couldn’t take it anymore.
“Rhonda, it’s Mickey.”
“Mickey,” Rhonda said, “I’m so glad you called. It’s about tomorrow.”
“You can’t make it,” Mickey said, feeling the letdown.
“No, of course I can make it. It’s just my father being a jerk. It’s nothing personal against you—it’s just the way he is. I’m sure after a little time goes by he won’t mind, but tomorrow can you pick me up at the corner of Bedford and J just so he doesn’t get mad.”
“No problem,” Mickey said.
Mickey had only planned to stay on the phone with Rhonda for a couple of minutes, but they started talking and the conversation didn’t stop. Rhonda told Mickey about her brother who had died of a brain tumor when he was twelve, then Mickey told her more about his mother’s car accident. He told her how he’d been afraid to get in cars for weeks after she was killed and how hard it was to grow up alone with his father. Mickey had never talked to anyone about personal things before, and it felt strange and good to open up.
Later in the conversation, Mickey and Rhonda realized that they knew someone in common. In fourth grade, Mickey had a friend named Ronny Feldman. Rhonda had gone to day camp with Ronny the year before, and Mickey and Rhonda had both gone to Ronny’s ninth birthday party. While Mickey was on the phone, Rhonda found a picture she had from the party where she and Mickey were standing right next to each other. Rhonda said, “See, it must’ve been fate that we met,” and she promised to bring the picture with her tomorrow.
Mickey wanted to stay on the phone, but he glanced at the clock and saw that it was past eleven. He couldn’t believe they had been talking for over two hours.
Mickey said good-bye and then wound up staying on the phone for another fifteen minutes before finally hanging up. He felt light-headed yet full of energy, the same way he’d felt driving home after the date last night.
Still pleasantly dazed, Mickey started getting dressed to meet Chris and the guys.
AT A COUPLE minutes before midnight, Mickey, in black pants, black shoes, and a navy parka, left his house and walked across the street to Chris’s, where a new-looking red Buick Skyhawk with Jersey plates was waiting double-parked.
When Mickey was a few feet away from the car, Chris opened the back door and said, “Hold it.”
Mickey stopped and then Chris tossed him a pair of yellow dishwashing gloves.
“Put these on first,” Chris said. “We don’t wanna get your pri
nts in the car.”
As Mickey was putting on the gloves, Chris said, “What’s with the coat? Didn’t I tell you to wear all black?”
“I don’t have a black coat.”
“Whatever,” Chris said.
Chris slid over. Mickey hesitated, then he got in the car and closed the door. Ralph was in the driver’s seat and Filippo was riding shotgun. Ralph started the car and drove away.
“I got everything you need,” Chris said to Mickey. “Here’s your ski mask—put it on inside the house. Here’s your flashlight—same thing, inside the house. And here’s your laundry bag to fill up with shit.”
Chris sat back, looking straight ahead very seriously. Ralph turned up the stereo—some oldies station playing “Daydream Believer.” A few minutes went by and no one said a word. Mickey was surprised because Chris hated sixties music and he’d usually complain until Ralph changed the station, and Filippo usually wouldn’t shut up.
When Frankie Valli came on singing “Big Girls Don’t Cry” everyone was still quiet and serious, acting like they were on their way to a funeral.
Mickey wanted to tell Ralph to stop the car. At the next red light, he could get out, walk home, and forget about the whole thing. The car stopped and Mickey put his hand on the door handle, but he couldn’t turn it. He was thinking about the money they might get from the ring and his take—five thousand dollars. He’d have to be crazy to get out now.
Driving down Ocean Avenue, the sixties music went on and Mickey sat in the back of the car, as quiet and serious as everyone else.
THE HOUSES IN Manhattan Beach were even bigger and more expensive than the ones in Rhonda’s neighborhood. Filippo’s cousin lived in a huge three-story house with a big front lawn and stained-glass windows. Mickey figured the place must have cost a half a million bucks easy. Mickey couldn’t imagine what it would be like to grow up in one of these houses, with all that space, never having to worry about anything.
Ralph shut off the ignition, the headlights, and the radio. Suddenly, it was almost totally quiet, as if they were parked on a country road instead of on a street in Brooklyn.
“Okay,” Filippo said. “Everybody ready?”
“Remember,” Chris said to Mickey, “you and Ralph got the first floor, me and Filippo are gonna take the second and third floors. Ralph’s gonna get out of the car first and take care of the lock and the alarm. He’s gonna go in through the door in the back, then he’s gonna come out and open the front door. When the front door opens we all move. But not fast—we walk across the street to the house. When we get into the house, we put on our ski masks and get to work. Ralph’s on lookout. If he yells, ‘Let’ s go,’ that’s it, we leave. Remember, take whatever you think we can get money for, but it can’t be too big. Whatever we take’s gotta fit into the laundry bags. No TV sets, no stereos. Got it?”
Mickey didn’t say anything.
“Okay,” Chris said. “Here we go.”
Ralph got out of the car, carrying his rolled-up laundry bag, ski mask, and flashlight. He walked casually across the street, looking like a guy on his way home from work, or just passing by on his way to visit a friend. He went up the driveway and disappeared behind the house.
In the car, nobody said a word. Mickey wasn’t wearing a watch, but he figured about five minutes must have gone by since Ralph had gone around the house. Chris was taking deep breaths, but up front Filippo was still.
After another few minutes passed, Filippo said, “What the fuck’s taking him so long?”
“Relax, will ya?” Chris said. “He knows what he’s doing.”
Chris sounded nervous, Mickey thought, not nearly as confident as he had the other night when he was talking about the robbery.
Another few minutes went by and then, finally, Ralph poked his head out of the front door of the house.
“All right, let’s do it,” Chris said.
Filippo left the car first and headed across the street, and Chris and Mickey followed. The air was clean and fresh— the Atlantic was just a few blocks away—and Mickey took deep breaths, trying to stay calm.
At the top of the stoop, they put on their ski masks, and then they entered the house. It was almost pitch-dark inside and they turned on their flashlights right away. Chris followed Filippo straight ahead, toward the staircase, and they went up. Mickey stayed on the first floor with Ralph. Ralph was busy, looking for stuff in the living room, so Mickey went into the dining room. He opened the drawers to all the cabinets of a big armoire, searching for anything that looked valuable. In the first two drawers, he couldn’t find anything, but in the third he found a bunch of old stamps in a box and he dropped the box inside the laundry bag. In a cabinet in the dining room he found a Polaroid camera. Continuing on, he shined his flashlight on a framed picture of a couple on a beach. They looked like they were in their forties—the guy heavyset with dark hair, a little gray in it, in a bathing suit; the woman, also heavy but with blonde hair, wearing a bikini.
Mickey finished in the dining room and went into the kitchen. He searched a few drawers and didn’t find anything worth taking. In a cabinet above the refrigerator he found a box of fancy-looking silverware and he added it to the laundry bag, but he couldn’t find anything else. He went into the next room, a den, and started looking around. There was a Betamax hooked up to a TV. Mickey knelt down, unplugged the wires, and put it inside the laundry bag. He saw some videocassettes nearby on the floor, but he figured they weren’t worth taking, then he shined his flashlight on top of the TV and spotted a watch—a Rolex. His heart started pounding, as if he’d just hit the triple at the track. The watch had to be worth a thousand bucks, maybe more. He dropped it in the bag and started on the other side of the room. He opened a drawer to a desk and saw coins— silver dollars mostly, about twenty of them. He scooped them out and dropped them in the bag, when he heard what sounded like a gunshot. He dropped the laundry bag on the floor, then there was another shot. It sounded like both shots had come from upstairs. He picked up the laundry bag and rushed to the foyer, near the staircase. His mind was churning too fast to think clearly. He’d never heard live gunshots and he hoped that he’d made a mistake—it was just a car backfiring or kids playing with firecrackers.
He shined his flashlight up the stairs and saw nothing. Then he shined his light around downstairs in every direction, wondering where Ralph was.
“Ralph,” Mickey whispered, but there was no answer.
Mickey wondered if Ralph had taken off. The front door was right behind Mickey. He thought about running himself, but decided not to. Not without Chris, anyway.
Mickey whispered loudly, “Chris,” but there was no answer. He said it again, louder, and there was still nothing. He tried calling for Ralph and Filippo, but that didn’t get a response, either. Seconds went by, although they seemed like minutes. Mickey thought about going upstairs. No, it was better to stay near the front door, just in case.
Then Mickey heard a noise behind him, coming from outside the house. It sounded like someone was out there.
Mickey put the laundry bag down on the floor next to him and turned off his flashlight. He stood still, listening for another sound from outside, when he heard a different noise behind him. He turned around quickly and shined the flashlight toward Ralph and Filippo coming down the stairs. They were holding Chris upright between them.
“Get that shit outta my face,” Filippo whispered harshly. He was still wearing his ski mask, and Mickey could see his squinting eyes through the holes.
Mickey shined the light away, toward the floor.
“What the fuck happened?” Mickey whispered.
No one answered. Mickey waited until they were at the bottom of the stairs, then he shined his flashlight straight ahead again, directly on Chris’s blood-soaked shirt. Shifting the light higher, he saw Chris’s head, still covered with the ski mask and tilted limply to one side. Blood was dripping out of Chris’s mouth and his eyes were half shut. Suddenly, Mickey felt dizzy an
d numb and everything went white.
Filippo and Ralph, still holding up Chris between them, walked past Mickey, toward the front door.
“Wait.” Mickey was breathing heavily now, barely able to talk. If he hadn’t grabbed onto the banister he might have passed out. “I think . . . I think someone’s out there.”
Filippo and Ralph stopped and looked at each other. Then Ralph put his index finger up to his lip. Filippo held up Chris on his own while Ralph went toward the front door, aiming his gun.
Filippo shut off his flashlight then whispered to Mickey, “Shut your fuckin’ light, you dick.”
Mickey shut the flashlight and stood next to Filippo in the dark.
After about a minute Ralph returned and said, “I don’t see nobody there.”
“Fuck it,” Filippo said, “Let’s just get outta here—fast. And keep the masks on.”
Filippo and Ralph, carrying Chris’s body between them, walked ahead of Mickey. Ralph opened the door slowly with his gun drawn, checked both directions, then he and Filippo exited the house. Over their free shoulders, Ralph was carrying his laundry bag and Filippo had two laundry bags— his own and Chris’s. Mickey followed, carrying his own laundry bag slung over one shoulder.
It seemed to take forever to cross the street, but they finally made it to the car. Ralph opened the back door and put Chris’s body inside, sitting him upright as if he were still alive. Mickey felt like he might throw up. Ralph opened the trunk and everyone dumped their laundry bags inside, when an old man’s voice said, “Hey, what’s going on over there?”
The voice sounded close by, maybe the guy was across the street, but Mickey didn’t check to see.
Ralph and Filippo scrambled to get in the front of the car, and Mickey got in the back next to Chris’s body. One of Mickey’s legs was still outside the door as the car pulled away, but he managed to get his entire body inside and close the door as the car peeled up the block.
At the corner, Ralph made a sharp left onto Shore Boulevard, and Chris’s body shifted onto Mickey. Mickey pushed it away frantically.
“Chill out,” Filippo said to Ralph, “the last thing we need is to get pulled over for speeding.”
