City of Margins

by William Boyle

  He doesn’t puke. He just stays that way for a while.

  He gets up and goes back out into the upstairs hallway. There are three other doors. He tries one. It’s a closet full of stiff towels and ragged comforters.

  The next door opens on a cold room. He goes inside and shuts the door behind him.

  It’s Gabe’s room, he can tell almost immediately. Bare mattress, desk, a beat-up old dresser, a closet full of high school kid clothes, a calendar on the wall.

  He touches the clothes in the closet, the jackets and sweatshirts and pants.

  He puts the machete on the bed and looks through the desk. In the top drawer, he finds a black-and-white picture of Donna from when she was a teenager. He imagines Gabe loved the idea of his mother in high school. Mikey never had a picture of Rosemarie like that. In fact, he’s never seen a picture of her in high school or even from before her wedding day.

  He looks closely at the picture. Donna must be fourteen or fifteen in it, which means it’s from almost twenty-five years ago. The late ’60s probably. She’s wearing a knitted sweater dress. Her hair is pulled up in a bun. She’s laughing. Mikey can’t help but wonder who took the picture. She looks truly happy. He bets that’s why Gabe loved the picture so much and kept it in his top drawer. It’s the kind of picture that transmits joy. He traces his finger over Donna’s young face. He feels close to her, close to Gabe.

  He puts the picture in the pocket of his father’s corduroy coat. He realizes how hot he’s been in the coat on the walk over, how uncomfortable. It feels good to be in the cold room. He can feel the sweat drying on his forehead. He goes and sits on the bare mattress and stares at the back of Gabe’s door. He unsheathes the machete and rests it across his thighs, at the ready. He’ll wait right here for Donnie.

  NICK BIFULCO

  Alice stares daggers at Nick as he climbs into the passenger seat of her shitty Hyundai Sonata. She looks good. She’s got that post-school glow. She’s wearing a polka-dot-print sleeveless summer knit dress. Her hair is pulled up in a ponytail.

  “What are you thinking?” she says. “You’re gonna get fired. Sechiano’s gonna hand you your ass. That’s what you want?”

  Nick moves around, uncomfortable in his seat, buckles his belt. “Just give me a sec here, Alice, okay?”

  “Have you been drinking? And you haven’t changed your clothes? Your breath fucking reeks. You look like a homeless guy.”

  “What else you got for me on your laundry list of complaints?”

  “Now you talk in clichés? You hate clichés.”

  “Can’t you be excited for me?”

  “Excited for what?”

  He starts rambling about his script idea, about Donnie Parascandolo picking up Ava when her car broke down, about Mikey and Antonina, about getting in touch with Phil Puzzo. He tells her about calling Ava and Donnie picking up. He leaves out the part about being with Antonina at Spanky’s Lounge. He’s not sure he’s making sense. They’re just sitting there, windows open, parked on Cropsey Avenue, people out on the sidewalk.

  “Jesus,” she says. “I’m worried about you.”

  Nick is looking at her and she looks good, but he can’t help but let his mind wander back to Antonina, hunched over that Knight Rider pinball machine, jutting her hip against it to shake loose a ball.

  “Hello? Nick? Are you there?” Alice pokes him in the shoulder. “I’m worried about you, I said.”

  “We’re going to the house, okay? Phil’s going to meet me there. He’s taking the train from his place.”

  “You said Ava’s there with this Donnie?”

  “Crazy,” Nick says, nodding. “We’ll see. I’ll take Phil to my room to talk to him. I need a few minutes in private, that’s it.”

  Alice pushes the car into gear and thrusts away from the curb. It’s a short ride back to the house, and Nick is antsy the whole way. He’s anxious to talk to Phil. He knows Phil will be able to give him guidance and direction. Nick’s always wanted to be taken under the wing of someone like Phil Puzzo. Ava’s fine. Donnie was just messing with him. Maybe it’s a good thing if Donnie’s there. Maybe it’s good if Phil meets him.

  When they pull up outside, Nick notices a strange car in the driveway. An Olds Cutlass Ciera. He wonders who it belongs to. Alice asks if that’s Donnie’s car. He says he doesn’t think it is, unless he has another one.

  “Is Ava dating this guy?” Alice asks.

  “When I talked to him on the phone, he said he’d just got done . . .” Nick trails off, pauses, thinks of what phrase might be least upsetting. “He said he’d just got done giving her oral sex.”

  “What the hell happened in the last day? Ava? Ava? I mean, she looks good, I guess, but she seems so icy. I thought she’d just moon over your dad forever.”

  Nick shrugs. “I don’t know. I thought that, too.”

  They go inside. The kitchen light is on. Empty coffee cups are on the table. A half-filled box of pastries and cookies from Angelo’s, as if Ava’s been entertaining. The Cento can full of cigarette butts.

  Alice sits at the table, exploring the cookies. Nick takes a lap around the house.

  In Ava’s room, he notices her robe’s just tossed on the bed. Unlike her. He goes back to what Donnie said to him on the phone: I ate her pussy until she howled. The bed doesn’t look like anything or anyone has been on it. It’s still made. There’s no mess. Just the robe. Nick shudders at the thought of Donnie eating out Ava. Maybe it really happened. Maybe on the floor or in the kitchen.

  He goes to his room, and everything’s in order. He gets his copy of Phil Puzzo’s book off the shelf over his bed. The True Story of the Diamond Den Murders. That great cover with the chalk outline on the mirrored floor of the Diamond Den, that skanky old Bay Ridge club. He looks at the picture of Phil on the book. Toothpick in his mouth. Squinty, tough eyes. Nick puts the book under his arm. He’s thinking he might as well get it signed by the great man himself.

  On his way back through the kitchen, Nick takes a pignoli cookie and eats it while he’s standing there. Alice is eating a rainbow. When he eats a rainbow, he does it in one big bite. Alice is taking these tiny bites, and it’s unnerving him.

  “So, what now?” she asks.

  “We wait for Phil.”

  “You think Ava’s out on a date with this Donnie?”

  Nick shrugs. When he’s done with his pignoli cookie, he takes another one. He looks down and there are crumbs all over his shirt and jacket. He swats at himself until the crumbs disappear. And then he goes into the bathroom and brushes his teeth with his finger. He should change his clothes, but he doesn’t. He sprays on some deodorant. He doesn’t like the spray kind, but he uses it now because he’s thinking it’ll freshen up his clothes a bit. He looks at his face in the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot. His hair’s a mess. He runs a hand through it.

  When he comes back out to the kitchen, he’s met by Alice’s restlessness. “What do you think Phil Puzzo’s gonna do for you?” she asks. “He’s your neighbor’s son, how come you never met him before? All you have is an idea. Probably everybody he knows comes to him with ideas. I knew a guy in college, Nathan, who was a great writer. He put out a book right after we graduated. His whole life after that was people coming up to him and saying they had the best idea for a book.”

  Nick looks at her. “Who’s Nathan?”

  “Oh, come on. Now you’re jealous?”

  “How come you’ve never mentioned him in all this time? He’s a writer, I’m a writer. You dated him?”

  “We did for a little while, yes.” Alice avoids Nick’s gaze. “Don’t take this the wrong way, okay? You say you’re a writer, but I’ve never seen you write anything.”

  “I’m always taking notes in my head. I’ve been waiting for my story to tell. This is it. And it’s a live wire.” He holds up Phil’s book. “I just need a nudge. I need some connections. Phil’s a big shot.”

  Alice shakes her head. “You’ve got so much right in front of y
ou. You’ve got me. You’ve got a good job. And all you can think about is some stupid, farfetched dream.”

  “You don’t think I’ve got it in me, writing this script, getting this movie made?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t. I’m sorry.”

  He clenches his jaw but then settles into a smile. “You’ll see. I’ll surprise you yet.”

  The doorbell rings.

  “Phil’s here,” Nick says, making a break for the door. “That was fast.”

  He opens the door on someone who looks almost like the man from the book jacket. The author photo’s pretty old now, he guesses. He’d seen Phil outside his parents’ house once or twice, back when Nick was a kid and Phil was around more frequently, but he’s never seen him up close. Phil’s probably in his late forties. The True Story of the Diamond Den Murders came out when Nick was in college. Since then, Phil’s shaved his head bald and gotten a little puffier. His skin is Florida tan, and he seems to be wearing lip gloss. His clothes are flashy: a floral-print cotton shirt, linen trousers, leather monk strap shoes. He looks like he’s just disembarked a cruise for assholes.

  Phil bypasses a proper greeting. “Listen, kid,” he says, his voice almost as Kathleen Turnerish as his mother’s. “I don’t have long.”

  Nick holds up his book. “I’m a big fan.”

  Phil’s heard it all before. “That’s nice.”

  “Come on in.”

  Phil follows Nick into the kitchen. His eyes light up when he sees Alice. “And who’s this?”

  “My girlfriend,” Nick says.

  Alice stands and extends her hand. “Hi, I’m Alice.”

  Phil takes her hand, almost brutal in his tenderness, and kisses the back of it with his greasy lips. “Pleasure’s all mine. I’m Phil Puzzo.”

  “Take a seat,” Nick says. “You want a cookie?”

  Phil’s still taking in Alice. “This is your girlfriend? No offense, but you’ve been called up from the minors before your time. She’s major league, bud.”

  Nick laughs it off. “My script idea, it’s a good one, right? Donnie might be here with my mother any minute. You can tell me what you think of him in person. He’ll be a great subject—”

  Phil cuts him off: “Let me stop you right there. I was talking to Bobby the other day—Bobby De Niro, who’s a good pal—and we were talking about some project he’s working on he wants to get out of. The guy doing it, he’s an absolute hack. Thinks he knows Brooklyn, thinks he knows the mob. Bobby’s kicking himself for signing on. I says to Bobby, I says, ‘Someone should’ve discouraged that guy along the way.’ Bobby laughs. ‘You’re right,’ he says to me.”

  “I don’t get it,” Nick says.

  “I’m here to discourage you. This Donnie’s not only a bad subject. He’s no subject. You don’t know shit from a hole in the ground. I’ve got stories. The guys I’ve met. The guys I’ve studied. Gaspipe Casso, Stacks Brancaccio. Listen, kid, I’m giving you free advice. I wanted a home-cooked meal from my mother, that’s why I’m here.”

  Nick’s hurt. He can feel it in his chest. Everyone thinks this idea of his is a joke. It’s the worst hearing it from Phil because it means he doesn’t look at him and see a fellow artist. He sees a wannabe hack.

  Phil continues: “Anyhow, I’m really glad I came because I’ve had the great pleasure of meeting Alice.”

  Nick looks at Alice. He can’t imagine that she’d be flattered by this kind of attention. She’s probably not genuinely, but she does seem to be putting on some enjoyment of it to get back at Nick for his shortsightedness.

  “You want to come over to Mama and Papa Puzzo’s for a nice home-cooked meal, Alice?” Phil asks. “My mother’s got the gravy going. My old man made the manicotti from scratch.”

  Alice turns to Nick and then stands up and approaches Phil. Nick figures she’s going to slap the shit out of the guy. “You know what?” she says. “Sure, I’ll come with you.”

  “What?” Nick says.

  “Maybe you’ll learn something,” Alice says.

  “Don’t.”

  Phil puts his arm around the small of Alice’s back and guides her down the hallway and out the front door. Alice doesn’t look back.

  Nick sits at the table with his head in his hands. Too fucking much, that’s what this all is. He feels like crying. A real artist would sit here and get out his typewriter and channel the pain into his script. This neighborhood, this place, put down on the page all the ways it’s tried to wreck him, get across the way he carries it in his blood like a disease. But he doesn’t move. He’s not even sure where his typewriter is. Anyhow, he doesn’t know where to start, how to start, especially now with Alice having abandoned him. Even if it’s just to prove a point, it stings. She’s gonna be over there with Paulie and Nina and Phil, stuffing her face full of manicotti, Phil ogling her.

  He eats a couple of more cookies and throws his copy of The True Story of the Diamond Den Murders in the direction of the trash, missing wide. Fifteen, twenty minutes he sits there like that, defeated, a bum who lost what he didn’t even have.

  When Ava comes in, wearing—to his surprise—her stupid scud missile T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, she goes on the offensive before he can say anything. “I’m just having a little fun, that’s all,” she says. “I don’t have to explain myself. If I want to go away, I can go away.”

  “Slow down,” Nick says.

  “I’m going away with Don. I’m packing a bag right now, and we’re going to Italy for a couple of weeks.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  Nick shakes his head. Unreal. “Where’s Don, Donnie, whatever?”

  “He’s right outside, waiting for me. I was going to leave you a note. I’m glad you’re here, so I can say goodbye.”

  “You’re just gonna go to the airport and buy tickets to Italy? You’re not gonna plan ahead? Reserve hotels? Rent a car? I’m no world traveler, but I don’t think you can go just like that.”

  “It’s an adventure. People have adventures, right? I deserve adventure in my life. Too long, I’ve lived cooped up.”

  Now Nick can only laugh. Between Alice taking off with Phil Puzzo five minutes after meeting him and Ava’s proclamation that she’s free and deserves some adventure in her life, what else can he do?

  “Why are you laughing?” Ava says.

  “Why not?”

  Ava disappears back into her bedroom, ostensibly to pack a bag. Nick gets up and goes to the front door, opening it, and looking out at Donnie, who’s leaning against the front fence like the freest man in the fucking world. Nick recognizes his father’s clothes on Donnie. The Atlantic City shirt was a staple. His father would wear it around the house. Nick sees him now, kicked back in his recliner, watching the Yanks, fixing something on his worktable in the basement with a soldering iron, making a sandwich on semolina bread with provolone and capocollo. The shirt is a little tight on Donnie. Nick also notices that it seems like Donnie’s taken a shot to the nose. He wonders what the story is there. Protecting Ava’s honor, maybe?

  Donnie looks up at Nick and smiles. “Hey there, fucko,” Donnie says.

  “Going on a trip?” Nick asks.

  “Already took Ava to the moon. Figured we’d try Italy next.”

  “What do you want from her?”

  “We’re just having some fun, kid. Lighten up. What do you want from me? That’s the real question. You’ve got an angle.”

  Nick looks at this man he’s been thinking of as his possible subject since they met. Who was he to think like that? Alice and Ava were right. Number one was the question of where even to start. He’d read a couple of books on script formatting that he’d bought at a B. Dalton Booksellers in Staten Island, and an actor friend from school had given him a copy of Stallone’s script for Cobra, but he didn’t really have a sense of how he might build the thing. Say he did start with the schoolyard, Donnie hitting Mikey with the bat—where would he go from there? Number two, he wouldn�
�t follow through. He’d get ten pages in and the whole project would lose its luster. He’d get distracted. He ignores Donnie’s question. He had an angle, but there’s no angle now. Just smoke from things backfiring so badly.

  Nick looks up the block at the Puzzo house for any sign of Alice, but she must really be inside, must really be getting a kick out of putting the screws to him good.

  “I bet you want to know where we’re going in Italy,” Don says.

  “Do you even know?” Nick asks.

  “We’re playing it by ear. Maybe we’ll find your mother’s people. Or my people. Calabria. Sicily. Potenza. Bari. Lots of possibilities.”

  “How you gonna afford this? You’re a rich guy?”

  “I struck gold.”

  Ava comes out a few minutes later with a small suitcase, having changed into a white blouse, a blue skirt, and flats. “This is crazy. I’m not even thinking. I called work and told them to whistle Dixie for a couple of weeks.” She turns to Nick and kisses him on the cheek. “Nick, did you see the new car?” She points to the Olds Cutlass Ciera in the driveway.

  “New car?” Nick says.

  “Don bought it for me from Frankie and Sal. So nice of him, wasn’t it? The keys are in the dish on the table. Use it. The Nova won’t be ready for a couple of days. When Frankie calls, you’ll have to go pick it up. Leave the Olds in the driveway. I guess park the Nova on the street. What’s somebody gonna do, steal it? Let them. Don’t miss school again, huh? Last thing you need is to get canned. And—oh yeah—can you take the clothes out of the wash and put them on the line in the yard? Bring them in when they’re dry, please.” She takes a breath. “This is crazy. Italy! Can you believe it?”

  “You’re not thinking here, Ma.”

  “I think too much, sonny boy. I think too goddamn much.” She pecks him on the cheek again and races down the front steps to join Donnie, who throws an arm around her and takes her suitcase.

  “You ready, sweetheart?” Donnie says to Ava.

  Nick can’t take hearing his mother called sweetheart by this fucking guy. How’d she go from getting picked up on the Belt by a stranger to running away to Italy with him? Sweetheart is what his old man called her. Sweetheart, we got any vermouth left? Sweetheart, the braciole is aces.