Skin Games

by Adam Pepper

  There was a small sign that read: Overnight Parking.

  “What? What is it?” I followed Scrubby.

  “The car, you shithead.”

  I looked at the cars. There was an Oldsmobile, a Pontiac and then in the furthest corner, I saw it: a Corolla. It was just a year or two old, and as I got closer, it looked yellow or green, tough to tell in the dark but definitely bright colored.

  “You said you wanted to do a Corolla. Now’s your chance.”

  “I don’t know, Scrubby. Those cops could be right around the corner.”

  “Don’t be a pussy, Shamrock. This is our chance. You wanna walk home tonight?”

  “No, the train is fine. I’m sure it will be along soon.”

  “Not a chance. Let’s do this.” He pulled a screwdriver from his back pocket and handed it to me.

  “You took that from the car?”

  “Hell, yeah. Better than having the cops take it.”

  We walked up to the car. Scrubby took off his jacket and wrapped it around his arm. Then, he elbowed the glass and it shattered. He opened the door and gestured for me to jump in.

  “Let’s go! Let’s do this.”

  I jumped into the car and quickly reached across to unlock the passenger door. While Scrubby hopped in, I popped the ignition cover off, just like Vinny Macho showed me back at his shop.

  “Come on. Come on. Hurry up!”

  Scrubby’s panicked yelling and constant bouncing in his seat was throwing me off, but I fought to maintain composure. My fingers were shaking, and he kept at me.

  “Let’s go! We gotta move.”

  “I’m moving. I’m moving.”

  I pressed the ignition wires together, and the Corolla’s engine instantly turned over. I took a loud, deep breath, and then I turned to Scrubby and smiled.

  “Nice,” Scrubby said, suddenly sounding calm. “Let’s get moving.”

  I put the car into reverse, as if it was mine, and eased the car back. Then, I put it into drive and gunned the engine. I put my elbow down on the window but quickly pulled it back as I felt the broken glass rub my arm.

  I had never driven a car on the open road before, but I didn’t let on. I just acted natural, and for some crazy reason, driving came naturally. I got us onto the parkway, and heading south in no time. Before long, we were back in the Bronx, and safely in the alley beside Vinny Macho’s shop.

  “Cool,” Scrubby said. “Leave the car here. No one will see it. Just pull to the back.”

  I drove to the back of the alley and then put the car in park.

  “Nice job, Shamrock. You did good.”

  I looked over at Scrubby Mike. He slapped my back and smiled.

  * *

  By the time I caught a cab back home and slithered up to the door, it was somewhere close to six in the morning. The sun was starting to peek out. I opened the door and heard my mother shuffling around upstairs; she was already awake.

  I slid up the steps and closed the door to my room softly. I quickly ran to my bed and undressed under the covers. I heard footsteps outside my room, but the door didn’t open.

  All was normal at school that day. I was just another student, not some underworld car thief. Yep, I was just a kid. After school, I went straight to Vinny Macho’s shop to collect my money for the Corolla: five hundred. Vinny promised me five hundred for a nice Corolla. And the one I brought was more than nice. It was practically brand new. Maybe he’d even give me six or seven hundred.

  I walked into the shop and saw Jose standing under an old Cutlass he had up on a lift.

  “Hey, Jose.”

  Jose popped out from underneath the car. He shook his head and said, “Man. Vinny is pissed at you, my friend.”

  “What?”

  “Cops were here. Looking for you. You better get out of here.”

  “Shit!”

  “You mess up, buddy.”

  I wanted to say: Me? I messed up?

  But what was the use? If I blamed it on Scrubby Mike, I’d just look like a whiner, or worse, a rat. There was nothing I could do.

  “I guess I’m not getting my five hundred bucks.”

  Jose laughed. “You never know.”

  “You think?”

  “I think you’ll be lucky not to get your ass kicked. The fucking cops were here looking for you and Scrubby. Vinny hates attention.”

  “What’d he do with the car?”

  “Don’t worry. He got rid of it.”

  “Before the cops got here?”

  “Of course, man. First thing this morning we took everything worth shit off the car, then he called his cousin and they covered it and put it in the back of his trailer. That car’s probably in Philadelphia by now.”

  “Philadelphia?”

  “Or Jersey. Or Boston. Who knows. Vinny can unload a car anywhere.”

  I nodded.

  The front garage door began to rattle, and then it opened. Vinny, sitting behind the wheel of a bright orange Corvette, drove inside the shop. Thick black exhaust filled the air, but Vinny continued revving the engine.

  He glared at me, exhaled, then summoned me towards him with just a flick of his pointer finger.

  I ambled over, hands in pockets, head down. I think I even whistled.

  The engine continued to roar, Vinny’s foot pumping the gas in short spurts, then holding it down for long ones. I could barely hear him. Barely...but I could hear.

  “You fucked up, kid.”

  I nodded.

  “How the hell did the cops get your ID?”

  I didn’t answer.

  Vinny cut the engine off. Then, he said, “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then answer.”

  “We got pulled over.”

  “Before the job?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you still snatched a car?”

  I shrugged.

  He shook his head. He just looked at me, still sitting in his car.

  I stood, completely and totally still, as if I had a wasp on my arm, and I didn’t want to provoke its sting.

  Finally, Vinny opened the door to the ‘Vette, and without really looking at me, he said, “I should have known better than to send you with Scrubby for your first job.” He got out of his car and reached into his pocket. He counted out two-hundred and fifty dollars and handed it to me.

  “Fair is fair, kid. You did a half decent job. You get half.”

  I nodded and took the money.

  “Get out of here. Go home.”

  * *

  There were two cars outside my house when I walked up. One was a pristine dark brown Chevy Caprice Classic with blacked-out windows and three antennas popping out from the back of the trunk. Everyone in my neighborhood knew what that was. The other was a dingy-looking gray Dodge, also with tinted windows and a bunch of antennas sticking up.

  My first instinct was to run and hide. But where? Where would I go? The cops were at my house. So, I just walked right in, ready to take on whatever was coming at me.

  They couldn’t prove shit.

  When I opened the door, I was a little surprised. There were three cops in my dining room, standing around the table. Two guys in beat-up dark suits, and a polished-looking older guy with well-trimmed hair and a much cleaner suit.

  My mother was the only one seated. There was an open bottle of Beefeater in front of her and a half-full glass. She looked up at me and took a swig. I guess I expected her to sound excited. Or upset. But instead, she gulped down her gin and stated the obvious to the cops.

  “That’s him.”

  The well-dressed cop walked towards me. “Sean O’Donnell?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s me.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “Uh, last night?”

  “Yes. Last night.”

  I hesitated, then threw my arms up and let them fall limply back to my sides.

  “I’m Detective Mulrooney from the Pelham Manor Police Department. These two fella
s are from the NYPD.”

  The two nodded and adjusted their sloppy suits. I nodded back and raised my chin.

  Mulrooney continued, “We know where you were last night. And we know what you did. Your best bet is to come clean.”

  I licked my lips.

  “That’s right kid,” one of the other cops said. He was tall, with an olive complexion. Other than the sloppy, generic cop suit he was wearing, he could’ve passed for any Italian guy in my neighborhood. “Come clean and make it easy on yourself. You’re just a kid. No reason to fuck up your entire life over some scumbag. You probably think he’s your friend, but he’s not. Just tell us what we need to know and we’ll let you go.”

  I looked over at my mother. She was slugging gin and looking away, feigning disinterest, but I could smell the disgust spilling out the sides of her lips.

  Mulrooney said, “Well, kid? Are you gonna make it easy on yourself?”

  I continued looking at my mother, looking for a sign, some guidance. Something.

  Finally, she looked up and squinted her eyes at me. Very subtly, she shook her head.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  Mulrooney looked over at my mother. “Suit yourself,” he said.

  The two other cops walked towards me, and one said, “Let me help you with this.”

  “He’s all yours,” Mulrooney said.

  The Italian cop reached in his back pocket and pulled out a pair of bright steel handcuffs. “Okay, Sean. Turn around.”

  “Is that necessary?” my mother asked as she lit a cigarette.

  “Your son is under arrest,” the other sloppy cop said. He was shorter and stockier than his partner with light skin and a small, well-trimmed moustache. “Handcuffs are proper protocol.”

  She shook her head. “Arrest. For what? The boy hasn’t done anything.”

  “He stole a car,” the other sloppy cop said. “Your boy is no little angel, ma’am.”

  Sloppy cop one turned me by my shoulder and pulled my arms behind my back, then snapped on the cuffs. The steel was cold, and he tightened them pretty snug.

  I tried not to react.

  “That hurt, kid?” he asked with a chuckle.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Mulrooney led the way out the door and he stepped into the pristine Chevy. Sloppy cop two got into the gray Dodge on the driver’s side while Sloppy number one yanked my arm all the way to the back seat, then pushed my head firmly as he said, “Watch your head, kid.” He nodded to Mulrooney and flashed a quick wave. Then we buzzed off towards the stationhouse.

  * *

  They put me in a small room. There was nothing in there but a table, three chairs and a long light fixture that ran along the ceiling: two halogen bulbs, one constantly flickering while the other glowed strong. I was still cuffed. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but I wasn’t in any great pain. They left me in there for a while.

  A long while.

  Maybe an hour passed. Maybe two. I was kind of hungry but mainly I just needed to take a piss. Finally, the door opened and the two sloppy cops walked in.

  “Sorry for the wait, kid.” It was the short, stocky cop talking. “We had some business to take care of. But now we’re ready. Are you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. So, let’s try and do this nice, okay kid? I’m Detective Owens. This is my partner Detective Gambini.”

  Gambini nodded an easy smile, but it was awkward, too. They were trying to be nice to me. But why? I guess I was about to find out.

  “How ‘bout we take off those cuffs now, huh?” said Owens.

  “Great.”

  Owens took a key from his pocket and walked behind my chair. He removed the cuffs.

  I rubbed my sore wrists.

  “Sorry about that. Those things can smart after awhile, can’t they?”

  I nodded.

  “So, listen, kid,” Owens continued. “We want to do this the nice way. You see how nice we can be?”

  “May I pee? I really gotta go.”

  Owens looked at Gambini. Gambini shook his head.

  “Sorry kid, not yet.” Owens turned a chair backwards and sat down on it, cupping his arms around the back of the chair.

  Gambini didn’t sit. He stood, licking his lips and grinding his teeth about two steps away from the table.

  “So listen, Sean,” Owens said, still speaking in a soft, friendly tone. But with an awkward tinge to it, like he was about to sell me a shitty old used car. “We want to help you here. But you have to help us.”

  “You have to help yourself,” Gambini added.

  “That’s right. Like my partner said. You have to help yourself. Get it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, let’s start with the obvious, who were you working with last night?”

  “I wasn’t working, sir.”

  Gambini shook his head and dimples popped from his olive cheeks, but he wasn’t smiling.

  Owens said, “Okay, well who were you hanging out with.”

  “Huh?” I asked.

  “In Pelham Manor. The cops in Pelham Manor saw you and another man last night. Who is he?”

  “Just a friend.”

  “What is your friend’s name?” Owens asked, still trying to sound calm but his throat was starting to fill with phlegm.

  “His name is Mike.”

  “Yeah, we know,” said Gambini. “And your friend, Mike, has a rap sheet long enough to wallpaper this room. You know that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Come on, Sean,” Owens said. “You seem like a good kid. You got a nice mom who loves you. What are you doing hangin’ around with that piece of shit?”

  What could I say? So I said nothing.

  Gambini started pacing the length of the small room. It only took about four steps each way. Four steps forward, turn, four steps back. He was muttering.

  “My partner is starting to get a little agitated, Sean. Come on. Help us here.”

  “I don’t have anything to tell you.”

  Gambini stopped pacing and said, “Who do you work for?”

  “Just tell us, Sean.”

  “We already know. So just tell us what we already know. Say his name.”

  “I’m sorry, Detectives. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “Vinny Macho. Vinny fuckin’ Macho!” Gambini came at me. He grabbed my arm and started pinching it. “We know you work for Vinny Macho. We aren’t fuckin’ stupid. Now if you fess up, we can help you. Just admit you stole the car for Vinny Macho and we can get you out of trouble.”

  Owens said, “He’s right, Sean. Listen to my partner. We want to help you.”

  “I’m sorry. I do work for Vinny.”

  They both smiled.

  “At his shop. I change oil and sometimes he lets me help with the brake jobs.”

  Gambini squeezed my arm tighter. “That’s not what we meant and you know it, kid. Don’t fuck with me, you little shit. I will make your life so fuckin’ miserable you won’t know what hit you.”

  “Listen to my partner, Sean.”

  “I’m sorry. I really would love to help you guys. I just don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Owens stood up and gently touched Gambini’s arm. Gambini let go of me then he yanked my arms behind my back and put the handcuffs back on, fastening them much tighter than before. Then, the two of them walked out of the room and shut the door.

  I really had to take a piss.

  They left me alone again. There was no clock in the room, and I couldn’t twist my head around to get a view of my watch. It must have been another hour. All I could do was shift back and forth in my seat trying to hold it in.

  Goddamn, I had to piss!

  Finally, the door opened, and Owens walked in.

  “One last chance to help yourself, Sean. Did Vinny Macho tell you to steal that Corolla?”

  I didn’t say a word.

 
; “We know he did. You know it. I know it. Gambini knows it. Your mother knows it. Why not do yourself a favor. Just say it.”

  I stayed quiet.

  Owens sighed. “Okay, Sean. We’re sending you back to Pelham Manor, where you’ll be booked for grand theft auto.”

  “Can I take a piss first?”

  They didn’t let me piss. I had my legs crossed and a tear in my eye the entire ride from the Bronx to Pelham Manor.

  * *

  The smell of a fresh coat of paint came off the walls of the Pelham Manor stationhouse; nothing like the Bronx. The floors were clean. The rooms well-lit. They put me in a two-man cell, and already in there, sitting on a small cot was Scrubby Mike.

  He stood up and smiled when he saw me and said, “Hey, Shamrock. What brings you here?”

  “Very funny, Scrubby.” I pushed him aside and ran by.

  “What the fuck, man?”

  Once in front of the john in the corner, my fly unzipped, I said, “Sorry, Scrubby. I really had to piss.” I finished, zipped up, then said, “How long you been here?”

  “A couple hours. I’m waiting for Bondo to get me outta here. You?”

  “Just getting here.”

  “Oh?” Scrubby’s smile disappeared. I could tell what he was thinking.

  “They tried to work me over.”

  “Who?”

  “Bronx guys. Owens and Gambini.”

  “No shit? Those guys have had a hard-on for us for a long time. You tell ‘em anything?”

  “No way. Of course not.”

  “You sure, Shamrock? Don’t bullshit me?”

  “Nuh uh.”

  “What they ask?”

  “Who you were. Did I work for Vinny. You know, that kind of stuff. They told me if I ratted they’d let me go. But I wouldn’t say shit. So you know, they sent me here and booked me.”

  Scrubby nodded. “I see. Yeah, that makes sense.” He slapped me on the back. “You did good, Shamrock. You did good.”

  “Thanks.”

  We sat around in the six-by-ten cell for a bit. Scrubby did most of the talking. He was always talking shit about jobs he’d done and women he’d screwed. Most of it was bullshit, probably all of it, but he didn’t care whether I believed him or not. I don’t think he even cared if I was listening.

  The door opened and a uniformed cop said, “Let’s go fellas.”