by Jason Starr
“Hey, I’m sorry about your father,” Carmine said, “but he was a good guy. Yeah, he was a good guy.” He started squinting again. “Now I know what’s different about you—it’s your nose. It grew, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, a little,” Mickey said, remembering why he’d never liked Carmine.
“A little?” Carmine said. “You kiddin’ me? You look like the spittin’ image of your father now. See that Ruth? That’s Sal’s nose.”
Carmine and Ruth stayed for about an hour, and Mickey wished they’d left sooner.
The rest of the morning no one else showed up. Mrs. Turner was probably too worried about Chris, and some of the people Mickey had called were too old and sick to travel. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving Day and some people might have left town early. Still, Mickey expected at least a couple of Sal’s old friends from work to come, and he was especially hoping to see Rhonda.
The funeral director returned to the room and offered to get Mickey something to eat for lunch, but Mickey said he wasn’t hungry. Then, about half an hour later, Charlie arrived, wearing a black suit and a tie.
“Guess I’m early,” Charlie said, sitting down next to Mickey.
“Hey, how’s it going?” Mickey said, smiling. “Thanks for coming.”
“What did you think, I’m not gonna show up to your father’s wake? Where’s your girlfriend at?”
“She was here before,” Mickey lied. “She might stop by again later.”
“That’s cool,” Charlie said. “I only came here for you. I thought I was gonna get my ass jumped in this neighborhood.”
“It’s during the day,” Mickey said.
“You wanna come hang out in Bed Sty during the day?” Charlie said. “But it don’t matter—I got protection now.” He looked around. “I know this ain’t exactly the time and place, but feel this right here.”
Charlie patted the front of his suit near his chest. Mickey touched the area, making out the shape of a gun in the inside pocket.
“Jesus,” Mickey said.
“Thirty-eight Special, shoots six rounds,” Charlie said. “My friend Andre got it for me on the street.”
“You don’t want to carry that around with you,” Mickey said.
“Really,” Charlie said. “Why don’t I?”
“You just don’t,” Mickey said.
“What do I look like, I’m five years old?” Charlie said. “You don’t gotta worry about me, daddy, I’ll be a good boy. I won’t go play cowboys and Indians with my friends.” Charlie laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning to use it. It’s just for protection—so if shit goes down like what went down that night, I can defend myself.”
“Just be careful,” Mickey said.
“I will, daddy, I will,” Charlie said. He looked around. “So you gonna have some more family coming later on?”
“We don’t really have a very big family,” Mickey said.
“That’s cool,” Charlie said. “My family’s not big, either. Got my mother and brothers and a couple aunts and uncles, but that’s it. So how old was your father, anyway?”
“Seventy-five,” Mickey said.
Charlie rested a hand on Mickey’s shoulder.
“You believe in God?” Charlie asked.
The question surprised Mickey.
“I don’t know,” Mickey said.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Charlie said. “There’re only two answers, yes or no.”
Thinking about everything that had happened to him lately, Mickey said, “No. I guess I don’t.”
“What about your father?” Charlie asked.
“Yeah, right,” Mickey said. “He used to go to Atlantic City on Easter Sunday.”
“It don’t matter,” Charlie said, “because your father’s in heaven right now. I know a lot of people don’t believe in the Lord Almighty, but all that means is there a lot of surprised dead people.”
Mickey smiled even though he didn’t want to.
Charlie left at around two and no one else came the rest of the day. When Mickey came home he called Rhonda and left a message with her stepmother. He spent the rest of the evening rehearsing what he would say when she called back, but the phone never rang.
AT TEN O’CLOCK the next morning, Thanksgiving Day, Mickey picked up his father’s ashes from the funeral home and headed straight to Aqueduct Racetrack in Queens, where there was an early holiday racing card. Instead of parking in the street outside the track where he used to park with his father, he paid the buck fifty and parked in the track’s parking lot. It was chilly and windy and there wasn’t much sun. With the canister of ashes tucked under his coat, Mickey paid for his general admission and went into the grandstand.
It was early, about forty-five minutes to post time for the first race. Mickey walked straight past the TV monitors where he used to watch the races with his father on cold winter days, and back outside to the front of the grandstand. Wanting to get this over with, he kept walking, past the paddock, toward the rail.
Opening the canister with his father’s ashes, Mickey remembered when he was eight years old and he’d begged his father to buy him a pet cat. Finally, one afternoon after school, Sal Prada took Mickey to a pet store on Avenue N and Mickey picked out a Tabby. Mickey named the kitten Spunky. Mickey played with Spunky all the time and he took good care of him. He always made sure there was fresh food and water in Spunky’s dishes, and he changed his litter box two times a week.
But Spunky had a problem. He’d been taken away from his mother too soon and he only used his litter box once in a while. One night, when Sal was barefoot and on his way to the bathroom, he stepped on a piece of Spunky’s shit. Sal started screaming at Mickey and the cat, and he told Mickey that if Spunky didn’t learn how to use his litter box they were going to get rid of him. For the next few weeks, Mickey raced home every day after school and searched the entire apartment, making sure Spunky had used his litter box. But one night Sal started screaming, “That’s it! Where is he? Where’s that fuckin’ animal?”
Sal barged into Mickey’s room and found Spunky next to Mickey in Mickey’s bed. Sal lifted the screeching cat up by his tail.
“What the hell are you doing?” Mickey said. “What’s wrong with you?”
“The fuckin’ cat shit in my bed,” Sal said. “I warned you, I fuckin’ warned you! That stupid animal’s outta here . . . for good!”
Sal carried Spunky by his tail into the kitchen and put him in a shopping bag, rolling up the bag so that the cat couldn’t get out.
“Let him go!” Mickey screamed. “Let him go!”
Sal pushed past Mickey and left the apartment. Mickey, barefoot and screaming, ran after his father, but Sal kept pushing Mickey away. Sal got into his car and pulled out of the driveway. Mickey chased the car halfway up the block then collapsed onto the street, crying hysterically.
About half an hour later, Sal Prada returned home without Spunky.
“Where is he?!” Mickey screamed. “What did you do with him?!”
Sal went into his room and locked the door. Mickey banged on the door all night, finally falling asleep in the hallway.
The next day, Mickey demanded to know what happened to Spunky but Sal just said, “Forget about him, he’s gone.” Mickey kept screaming and crying until Sal finally said, “All right, you wanna know where your fuckin’ cat is? I tossed him out the window on the Belt Parkway. Trust me, you’ll never see that stinkin’ animal again.”
Leaning over the rail, Mickey cocked his arm back and flung his father’s ashes toward the racetrack. A strong wind blew most of the ashes back toward him. Seagulls swooped down toward the concrete, thinking someone was feeding them bread crumbs, then took off quickly when they realized their mistake.
Mickey tossed the canister into a garbage can and headed back toward the grandstand with his hands deep in his pockets and his head down against the wind.
14
ON HIS WAY home from the racetrack, Mickey stopped at the White C
astle near Starrett City and bought a dozen minicheeseburgers and a few orders of fries. He took the food to go and ate on the floor in his room, watching the Thanksgiving Day football games.
Except for the meal, it wasn’t much different from Mickey’s usual Thanksgivings. He and his father used to cook a small turkey or buy some presliced white meat and a few legs from the supermarket deli counter. They would also buy cans of sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce and a box of powdered mashed potatoes. Mickey would fix himself a plate of food then go into his room to watch football.
Last Thanksgiving, after the football games, Mickey had gone to see a James Bond movie with Chris. Mickey didn’t feel like going to the movies by himself tonight, and he had nothing else to do. He figured his friends from high school were home for the holiday, but they were probably busy with their families. Besides, no one had tried to get in touch with him.
Mickey decided to take a drive, just to get out of the apartment and clear his head. It was only seven o’clock but the Brooklyn streets were dark and empty. The only stores open were a few newsstands and all-night grocery stores. Mickey turned on the radio to kill the silence in the car, then he got tired of listening and turned it off.
Mickey made a left off of Flatlands Avenue onto Avenue I. He drove past Albany Avenue and continued along I to East Twenty-third Street—Rhonda’s block. He parked across the street from her house and got out. There were lights on in most of the rooms, and as Mickey walked closer he could hear people laughing inside. He walked up the driveway and looked in through a window. About ten people, including Rhonda, were seated at a long table. Mickey couldn’t understand why she hadn’t invited him to dinner tonight. She knew his father had died and that he probably didn’t have anyplace else to go. He wondered if he had said something to upset her.
For about ten minutes, maybe longer, Mickey stood in the driveway, looking in the window, then he returned to his car and drove home.
In front of the open refrigerator, he ate leftover cheese-burgers, getting angrier at Rhonda with each bite. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. He picked up the phone in the kitchen and dialed her number.
“Hello,” her father said.
Mickey was silent.
“Hello,” her father said louder.
Mickey held the receiver up to his ear for a few more seconds, then he hung up. He grabbed a plate from the dish rack and smashed it on the floor.
MICKEY TRANSFERRED THE fresh lobsters from the crates to the tanks, then he got to work gutting the tuna and cutting them into steaks. It was good to be busy, to forget about the rest of his life for a while.
In the middle of the afternoon, Mickey took a break, sitting on a stool in the corner, drinking a Pepsi and looking through the Daily News. There was nothing about Chris or the robbery. He looked up from the newspaper and watched Charlie making change for an old man at the register. The man handed Charlie a bill and then Charlie opened the register and gave the man his change and said, “Thank you.” The man left the store and Charlie closed the register without putting the twenty inside.
Charlie walked behind the fish stands, his hands disappearing out of view, then he came around to where Mickey was sitting.
“Damn, it’s been a long day,” Charlie said. “Sometimes I think time moves slower in this store, like we’re in the Twilight Zone or something. I gotta put on some tunes to keep me awake.”
Charlie knelt down to his boom box and a few seconds later rap music started blasting. Charlie started nodding his head to the beat of the music as he cleaned the countertop.
Mickey didn’t know what to do. He really didn’t care if Charlie was stealing from Harry—let him take all of Harry’s money if he wanted to—but he didn’t want to see him get caught.
Mickey went over to where Charlie was working. Charlie looked up at him, still bobbing his head to the music and said, “What’s the matter, don’t like my man Kurtis Blow?”
“I saw you,” Mickey said.
Charlie turned away, looking down at the counter he was cleaning.
After a few seconds of silence, Charlie said, “Saw me what?”
“I saw you take that money,” Mickey said. “You never put it in the register.”
“I did too put it in the register.”
“I was watching,” Mickey said. “You took change out but you didn’t put the money in.”
“Then you must not’ve seen what you thought you seen,” Charlie said, “ ’cause I didn’t take no money.”
Charlie stared at Mickey, Kurtis Blow rapping about basketball in the background.
Mickey said, “Look, I wouldn’t even say anything about it, but Harry said he was gonna fire you if he catches you stealing—”
“I wasn’t stealing,” Charlie said.
“Do whatever you want to do,” Mickey said. “I’m just trying to help you out, but if you don’t want my help, that’s fine with me.”
Mickey walked back to the stool and sat down and opened the newspaper. He was staring at the hockey scores without reading them.
Charlie shut off the music. For a while, Charlie remained behind the fish stands, then he came over to where Mickey was sitting.
“All right, I took it,” Charlie said. “But it was just twenty bucks.”
Mickey closed the newspaper.
“But the other day,” Mickey said, “when I asked you—”
“I didn’t want to get you involved. It’s just something I’m doing myself, on my own.”
“I could give a shit about the money,” Mickey said, “but Harry was serious—he’ll fire you.”
“The fuck do I care?” Charlie said. “You think I need this shit-ass job? I can ring people’s bells, ask ’em if I could rake the leaves off their lawn, and make more than I’m making here.”
“So if you think you can make more money doing something else, then quit,” Mickey said.
“Why is it any of your business what I do?” Charlie said.
“Because I don’t want to see you get in trouble,” Mickey said. “If Harry catches you he’ll press charges.”
“He won’t catch me.”
“What do you mean? He already found money missing one time. If he sees you—”
“Shit, I been takin’ from that dumb-ass for two years,” Charlie said, “and he ain’t caught on yet.”
“What’re you talking about?” Mickey said. “He found money missing.”
“All right, so I fucked up one time, but it won’t happen again.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I got it all figured out,” Charlie said. “The money on the receipts adds up to the money on the register. Like the old man who was just here, right. Fish he bought cost twelve-fifty. I don’t ring it up as a sale, I just open the drawer. I take the twenty, give him the seven-fifty change out of the register. Then, the end of the day or whenever, I go back to the register and put the seven-fifty back inside, so I get my twelve-fifty and the receipts add up. I usually take home an extra forty or fifty bucks a day.”
“If you make a mistake again, he’ll find out about it,” Mickey said.
“But I won’t make another mistake,” Charlie said. “I’m gonna be careful from now on. I used to keep track of the numbers in my head—now I write them down on a piece of paper.”
“You sure you want to do this?” Mickey said.
“I got no choice,” Charlie said. “I got two brothers and my mother makes shit, answering phones for doctors, and Harry’s money I can wipe my ass with. So I just do a little supplementing of my income—what’s wrong with that? You think Harry and his rich-ass brother in Miami need that money? You don’t think they got money to burn? I hear Harry on the phone with his stockbroker, talking about all these stocks he’s buying—thousand shares of this, thousand shares of that—the guy’s got money comin’ out of his asshole. So what’s the difference if I take some extra home with me or not?”
“If you need money why can’t you get another job?” Mickey s
aid. “Can’t you work nights or weekends?”
Charlie was shaking his head.
“I got stuff to do at home, man. I gotta take my little brother to school in the morning, I gotta help him with his homework at night. I gotta keep an eye on him, make sure he don’t join up with the wrong crowd. I got responsibilities.”
A woman came into the store. Charlie took the order and Mickey watched as he made change from the register, then, when she left, he pocketed the ten-dollar bill she’d given him.
“Just be careful,” Mickey said. “You better be keeping track of how much money you take out of the register.”
“Twenty-two dollars and forty-five cents so far today,” Charlie said.
“Still, you better watch out,” Mickey said.
“I will, daddy, I will,” Charlie said, smiling.
HEADING BACK TOWARD Albany Avenue, carrying a warm pizza box in front of him, Mickey spotted Filippo hanging out with his girlfriend Donna and a bunch of guys—Eddie Dugan, Rob Stefani, John Lyle—on the corner. They were all drinking beer out of paper bags, and Filippo had his arm around Donna’s waist. Filippo looked over and saw Mickey. They stared at each other for a few seconds, then Filippo turned back toward the other guys and started talking again. As Mickey continued up the block, he looked back over his shoulder. Filippo was still talking to the other guys, but Donna was looking right at Mickey now with a blank expression. Mickey kept staring at Donna as he turned the corner.
Seeing Filippo hanging out with his friends, acting like he would on any other night, angered the hell out of Mickey. Filippo should have been home mourning, and he definitely shouldn’t have been out enjoying himself.
In his apartment, Mickey sat on the floor in his room, eating his meatball pizza. After a couple of slices he was full and he went into the kitchen and put the rest of the pie away in the fridge.
Mickey returned to his room and started watching Dukes of Hazzard, but he couldn’t concentrate. He kept thinking about Rhonda, wondering what she was doing, if she was thinking about him right now too, if she missed him as much as he missed her. He imagined her with another guy, a Jewish guy, someone her father wanted her to be with.
