Joe's Liver

by Di Filippo, Paul

  “I’m not fucking crying.”

  “Roy, I recognize tears when I see them.”

  “They’re not tears. I got some piece of sooty shit in my fucking eye.”

  “Roy, please — Here, use my handkerchief. All right, Roy, listen to me. Your cause is just, your heart is pure. I was wrong to prejudge you. Let me at least hear your plan out. Exactly what am I expected to do? If it seems sensible and non-violent, I might agree.”

  “All right! Man, I knew you’d come around, once the justice of the situation penetrated!”

  “Roy, please do not preach to me. I am consenting solely for personal reasons. It has nothing to do with abstract principles. If I may admonish you briefly, Roy, much of the trouble you constantly find yourself in stems from trying to apply rigorous ethical formulas to the shifting fluidity that is the world. As the Digest is fond of saying, ‘Life is a mystery to be lived, not a problem to be solved.’”

  “Anything you say, Ardy, I hear you, damn straight, I agree one hundred percent. Now, about your role in this affair. All we need from you is a speech or two, maybe handle a few interviews, we’ll brief you in advance, don’t worry. In general, just stay visible as a token of what we’re fighting for.”

  “Fighting?”

  “Figure of speech, Ardy. No fighting, just a big, peaceful rally, you dig ?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Great!”

  After this conversation, Roy is seldom home. Students are dribbling back into town prior to the commencement of the spring semester, and apparently Roy is busy recruiting, planning, writing manifestos, and, in general, massing the troops. Ardy is not called upon yet to supply any motivation. Roy tells him that he is being held in reserve for the big day. There is no point in parading his symbolism at this stage of events. That time will come soon enough. Ardy dreads it.

  So Ardy once again is left to keep Dawn company. But their time together is not quite so carefree as before. For one thing, Ardy experiences a constant undercurrent of nervous tension about the upcoming rally, and this background buzz serves to diStract from the most happy occasions.

  And of course the relationship between Dawn and Ardy has been permanently altered by their drunken intercourse on New Year’s Eve.

  After a few days, when Dawn has not approached him again in an amorous fashion, Ardy tries to ascertain her exact feelings for him.

  “Miss Shattuck?”

  “Oh, jeez, don’t get all serious on me now, Ardy.”

  “Miss Shattuck, I must know where I stand with regards to the likelihood of ever again enjoying carnal relations with you.”

  “Ardy, what happened between us last week was wonderful, and I will always treasure it, but I know we’ll never do it again.”

  “I regret any lack of delicacy or experience on my part.…”

  “Oh, Ardy, it wasn’t that, you were just fine. Its only — well, it has to do with Roy. I’ve realized that he’s the one I really care for — even if he doesn’t have a spare minute for me — and I just can’t have sex with another man while all three of us are sharing the same house.”

  “Perhaps we could rent a hotel room.…”

  “Be serious, Ardy, you know what I mean.”

  Ardy sighs. “I was reluctant to let go of my fantasy, Dawn. But now I realize how selfish I was. You may count on my continued resolute friendship, Dawn, and I will do all in my power to pry Roy away from his obsession.”

  “Thank you very much, Ardy. You’re real noble and sweet.”

  “I suspect this may be my problem.”

  “No, it’s not. Don’t ever change, Ardy.”

  “Have no fear on that score, Dawn. I don’t believe I ever could,”

  One day Ardy hears Dawn struggling outside the apartment door, as if she is laden with packages, a not unlikely possibility.

  “One minute, here I come.… My goodness, Dawn, what is that apparatus ?”

  “It’s a laser. I got it from the school.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “It’s my new major.”

  “Death rays?”

  “Of course not. Surely you must have heard of holograms, making pictures by bouncing laser light off an object.”

  “Oh, now I remember. ‘Lasers, Those Bedazzling Beams.’”

  “Right. Well, I’ve been through every other possible field, and this is the only one left. Hologram art. I’ve got to familiarize myself with this gadget before the semester starts. Help me set it up.…”

  “Dawn, I don’t know, this seems to require an advanced degree in physics.…”

  “No, it’s simple, this switch here …”

  “Dawn, the curtains are on fire!”

  “Quick, get some water!”

  “Hold on, stay calm, there, it’s out. Dawn … why, you’re crying! What’s the matter, we’re safe now.”

  “Oh, Ardy, I’ll never succeed at this art shit! I’m just not cut out for it. If only I could just get married and go shopping every day, I’d be so happy.”

  “Don’t worry, Dawn. Someday Roy will want to settle down.”

  In between worrying and putting out fires, Ardy continues to follow the course of the gang warfare that is shocking the city. Various headlines form an alarming progression.

  SCOZZAFAVA UNDERLING SLAIN!

  TWO MONTAGIOIA BOYS

  GUNNED DOWN IN REVENGE!

  SUBSTANDARD HIGHWAY BRIDGE

  COLLAPSES — FOUR HOSPITALIZED!

  MAYOR ISSUES WARNING: “WON’T TOLERATE

  ANY MORE VIOLENCE OR GRAFT!”

  MAJOR MOB FIGURE AGREES

  TO COOPERATE WITH DA!

  MAYOR INDICTED!

  GOVERNOR DENIES

  INFORMANT’S RELIABILITY!

  Not long before the projected day of the rally, Roy and Ardy are walking through the commercial district downtown. They are returning from an errand. Roy has insisted on ordering several dozen hard-hats from a dealer who supplies the local construction industry.

  “Roy, I fail to see the utility of such headgear for a peaceful assembly.”

  “The members of the Action Committee are gonna wear ’em, to identify themselves. That’s all, man, just like a badge.”

  “Oh.”

  As Ardy and Roy stand on the corner of Weybosset and Dorrance, shivering against the cold wind that gusts down through the intersection, a black stretch limo with smoky brown glass pulls up to the curb abreast of them.

  “Roy, I believe these people intend to ask us directions, for they are rolling down their window.”

  “Fuck ’em, we gotta get back home. I’m freezing my ass off.”

  “Youse two boys —”

  “Yes, sir …?”

  “Getcha kiesters in the back seat. We’re takin’ you for a little ride.”

  “Fuck off, buddy!”

  “Roy —”

  “No, I don’t care if some rich queer or Blackstone Boulevard bitch in the back is lost or horny or what, I’m not hanging around.”

  “Roy —”

  “I’m sick of your good deeds, Ardy. We don’t have time now for that shit.”

  “Roy, this gentleman is pointing a gun at us in a manner that makes me believe he knows how to wield it, and actually might, should you resist any further.”

  “Holy Christ …”

  “Yes, that one fact tends to put his wishes in a whole different light.”

  “Quit jawin’, you fuckin’ meatballs, and get in the car.”

  Ardy looks around wistfully for a policeman or heroic bystander. The sidewalks have miraculously cleared, and although the sun is at its noontime height, it might as well be three am, insofar as any activity is visible. Someone drops a coin half a mile away. Ardy hears it clearly.

  Roy and Ardy hurriedly pile into the back seat — which proves to be empty. A tinted partition separates them from the driver and the gunman. The rear door locks snick closed with the sound of solenoids activating. Through a speaker comes a voice.

 
; “Mister Scozzafava wants to have a brief chitchat with youse lads. He hopes youse would be gracious enough to join him for lunch.”

  “I assume we will be sampling Italian cuisine.…”

  “Ardy, shut up, for Christ’s sake.”

  The car heads west out of downtown. At the crest of Federal Hill it passes under a huge cement arch spanning Atwells Avenue. From the middle of the arch hangs an enormous carved representation of an object that might be either a pine cone, a hand-grenade, or a pineapple.

  “Roy, what does that sculpture represent?”

  “A pignoli nut.”

  “A-ha, I see.”

  The car pulls up into the parking lot of a restaurant with a Stucco façade.

  “Roy, what’s a pignoli nut?”

  “Ardy, shut the fuck up.”

  Ardy and Roy are hustled out of the car by the two extremely large and ugly men who had occupied the front seat. The goons both hold their hands in their jacket pockets in a highly suggestive manner.

  “Okay, boys, up to the front door.”

  Crossing the paved lot, Ardy stumbles over a bump. Looking down, he sees the raised outline of outflung arms, torso, legs, a hint of facial features beneath the tar.

  “Sir, may I ask the exact nature of this protuberance?”

  “That’s the last guy what displeased Mister Scozzafava.”

  “Perhaps you might run through a brief list of Mister Scozzafava’s dislikes before we meet him.…”

  “Just keep walkin’, wise guy.”

  The restaurant is dimly and amberly lit. It is decorated with thick carpeting, flocked wallpaper, and velvet paintings. The diners in the front part of the establishment ignore Ardy and Roy and their two shepherds as they move toward the back.

  In a private room Ardy and Roy are left alone with a seated man. The man is a robust specimen with thick features. His thinning hair is slicked back with a fragrant pomade. He wears suspenders beneath his pin-striped suit.

  Surprisingly, Ardy feels no fear of this man. Perhaps it has to do with the absence of weapons.

  The man wears a red cloth napkin tucked into his collar. The table before him is spread with lasagna, chicken cacciatore, veal parmesan, linguini in clam sauce, crusty bread, wine, antipasto, olives, and sausage. All that is missing for full Roman ambiance is the Trevi Fountain purling gaily in the background.

  “Have a seat, boys. Help yourselves.”

  “Thank you, Mister Scozzafava. I do feel a bit peckish.”

  “Ardy …”

  “Roy, the gentleman asked us to join him.”

  The visitors sit. Ardy helps himself to generous portions, then assembles a similar plate for Roy. Mister Scozzafava and Ardy eat, while Roy pushes the food around on his plate.

  Finally the meal is over. Mister Scozzafava, sipping at his wine, calmly inspects his guests. Ardy grows a bit uneasy under his beady gaze. Has he mistaken this mans intentions …? Can he indeed rely on the legendary Sicilian code of honor …?

  Mister Scozzafava’s gaze seems to be making Roy mad. Ardy prays his friend will “keep his cool.” At last the mobster speaks.

  “Whadda you boys want all those hard-hats for?”

  Roy explodes.

  “You kidnapped us in broad daylight to ask us a fucking stupid question like that! Ardy, c’mon, we’re getting out of here.”

  Wall panels which had formerly appeared merely decorative now slide aside, the better to facilitate the protruding snouts of automatic weapons. Simultaneously, the door opens. Three thugs bearing rubber truncheons enter.

  Roy sits abruptly down. His face is a shade most often associated with leeks.

  Satisfied, the men leave and the guns retract.

  “Roy, that wasn’t polite. The least we can do after Mister Scozzafava entertained us is to answer his questions nicely. Sir, we ordered those helmets for our rally.”

  “Some sorta union march?”

  “Oh, no, sir, a student rally. Roy and I are members of the Brown University Action Committee, which is staging a peaceful demonstration next week on the campus. The distinctive headgear is to be our symbol.”

  Mister Scozzafava appears to relax. “The University? Well, why didn’t this little asshole just say so? The University and me got an understanding. Okay, kid, I believe you. You know why? ’Cause you talk intelligent, although maybe a little like a pansy. I like guys with whom I can converse intelligently to. Not little pricks who use words what would cause the Sisters to wash out their fucking mouths with lilac soap and make ’em recite six ‘Hail Saint Cyrils’ through the bubbles.”

  The ritual is all too familiar to Ardy. “Sir, you do not by any chance refer to the Sisters of Eternal Recurrence?”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s who runs our orphans’ school here on the Hill.”

  “Oh my goodness, what a coincidence. Sir, I was raised in one of their orphanages. I owe everything to them.”

  “Jeez, it’s a small world, ain’t it? Well, listen, the Sisters never turned out a bad egg yet, which testimony my own fucking person is a witness to. Okay, I got no doubts now about what you say. You understand how I gotta stay on top of these things, don’t you? It wouldn’t do me no good to let just anyone into the construction racket. I’m fighting for my ass now against this Montagioia rat.”

  “I understand, sir. No hard feelings.”

  “Okay, you boys can go now. And you, Mister Dirtymouth — clean up your fucking act.”

  Out on the sidewalk, Ardy experiences a sudden delayed reaction to the whole experience. His enforced calm vanishes, to be replaced by tremors and a confusion of emotions. Apparently Roy feels much the same.

  “Jesus, Ardy, thanks for getting us out of that one. I guess shooting off my mouth didn’t do any good.”

  “No need to apologize, Roy. I understand your indignation.”

  The two begin walking back home. As they pause beneath the Damoclean pignoli nut a limo pulls up alongside them.

  “Get in, c’mon, haul ass.”

  “There must be some mistake. We have just come from seeing Mister Scozzafava.…”

  “That don’t cut no ice with us, asshole. We’re takin’ you to Mister Montagioia.”

  “Oh my God …”

  A few blocks further down Atwells Avenue the limo turns left, right, then left again, pulling up in front of an innocuous office building. Roy and Ardy are directed inside.

  In an anteroom complete with Stone-faced secretary of Eisenhowerian vintage, they are told to sit. One of their captors vanishes into an inner office. When he returns he says, “Okay, The Banker wants to see you now.”

  The inner sanctum holds a broad mahogany desk, a couch and a coffee table. Several tastefully expensive paintings adorn the walls. Behind the desk is a high-backed chair turned away from the door, its occupant invisible. A cloud of cigar-smoke rising up is the only indication that anyone is present in the chair.

  Since they have little choice, Ardy and Roy wait.

  A voice finally says, “All right, gentlemen, I must know what that reprobate Scozzafava wanted with you two.”

  Simultaneous with this inquiry, the chair spins around, revealing Ruggiero “The Banker” Montagioia.

  “Dad!”

  “Son!”

  “Mister Mountjoy!”

  The door bursts open and several armed men rush in. Recovering first, Roger Mountjoy waves them off.

  “Roy, son, I can’t believe this.…” The big blubbery man seems ready to cry. “What are you doing here in Providence? And is this Mommy’s former chauffeur …?”

  “It’s a long story, Dad. What the hell are you doing here? Are you really Montagioia?”

  Roger Mountjoy sets his cigar in an ashtray and manages to look both proud and chagrined.

  “Yes, son, yes, I am. It’s a role that was forced on me by this brutal society of ours, a society that chooses to treat white-collar criminals with a good education in the same manner it treats a common second-story man. Perhaps you never heard
that I busted out of jail.…”

  “No, no, I read about it.…”

  “Well, after I paid a brief visit to your mother, I was left with two options. I could have turned myself in, and become a broken man. Or, since I was already branded as a common criminal, I could pursue that branch of my destiny, only in a way more consonant with my innate managerial talents and skills. I guess I don’t need to tell you which I chose.”

  “But Dad, the Mafia …?”

  “It’s really not so different from banking, Roy. In fact, I still deal with a lot of the same people I used to work with.”

  “I suppose.… Hey, how’s Mom?”

  “Oh, she’s fine, Roy, aside from worrying a bit about what’s happened to you. Her precious Beacon Hill escaped the worst of the radiation — isn’t that always just the way? — and I see her every weekend. I asked her to come live with me, but she indicated that Providence really couldn’t support the lifestyle she was accustomed to.”

  “That figures.…”

  “Roy, I know we haven’t always gotten along, but I want to extend a helping hand now. I realize that you and your friend are on the run, in connection with the reactor bombing. No, don’t say anything in your own defense! God knows how I’ve wanted to lash out at this unjust world sometimes myself! Roy, there’s a place for you by my side. If I’m ever to fully grasp the reins of power in this burg, I’ll need a lot of good men. Well, what do you say?”

  “Gee, Dad, it’s all so sudden, I just don’t know.… And I’ve got this thing going now on the campus.…”

  “You consider it, Roy. The offer extends indefinitely.”

  “Well, thanks, Dad.”

  “My pleasure, Roy.”

  Father and son regard each other in embarrassed silence for a moment. Then Ardy speaks.

  “Mister Mountjoy ?”

  “Yes?”

  “Does this mean we will not be donning cement overshoes after all?”

  9

  Campus Comedy

  In an attempt to distance himself from the imminent events — which his intuition persists in telling him will be awkward at best, and fatal at worst — Ardy tries to imagine that he is reading about it all afterwards, safely supine on the spavined mattress in his comfortable, palmleaf-shadowed room at the orphanage.