Tough Luck (10 page)

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.”

Ralph slowed down, but he still seemed to be going about sixty.

“What the fuck happened up there?” Mickey asked, looking away from Chris, out the window.

No one answered.

“I said what the fuck—”

“Chris got shot,” Filippo said.

“By who?” Mickey asked.

“My uncle Louie.”

“
What?
”

“My fuckin’ uncle Louie, my fuckin’ uncle Louie, all right? What’s wrong with you, you deaf?”

“What was your uncle doing in the house?”

“He stays over sometimes. I didn’t think he’d be there tonight. I can’t believe this shit fuckin’ happened.”

“And he shot Chris?”

“Yes, he shot Chris.”

“What the hell’re you talking about?”

“I was upstairs on the second floor,” Filippo said. “I was in the study or wherever, where all my cousins’ books are, and Chris was in the bedroom. I heard these shots—bang, bang. So I go in there. It’s dark—I can see the guy’s body, but I can’t see his face. Then I see he’s got a gun, so I . . . I fuckin’ shot him. I just fuckin’ shot him.”

“
What?
” Mickey said. “You mean you killed your uncle?”

“I didn’t know it was him.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? You mean your uncle’s body’s in the house?”

“That’s what I just told you.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey said.

“
Jesus Christ,
” Filippo said, mimicking Mickey. “Why don’t you shut up before I smack you? It’s my uncle, not yours. I can’t believe I shot him. I’m gonna go to hell for this.”

Ralph made a sharp right, staying on Shore, and Chris’s body fell onto Mickey again. Mickey shoved it away with so much force, Chris’s head banged against the window on the opposite side of the car.

“Hey, take it easy back there,” Ralph said.

“I still don’t get it,” Mickey said to Filippo. “How did Chris get shot?”

“My uncle shot him, you idiot,” Filippo said.

“Why?”

“Why don’t you go back and ask him?”

Mickey held his head in his hands and closed his eyes.

“So what’re we gonna do now?” Mickey said. “When the cops find your uncle in the house they’ll—”

“It don’t matter,” Filippo said. “So, there’s a dead guy in the house. That has nothing to do with us.”

“You ever heard of crime-scene investigators?” Mickey said. “They’ll know Chris was there. They’ll find his blood and try to match it—”

“Match it to what?” Filippo said. “They won’t have Chris’s body. Without his body they won’t be able to tell nothing.”

“But they’ll have the other body,” Mickey said.

“You love being stupid, don’t you?” Filippo said.

Ralph pulled over near the docks on Sheepshead Bay. It wasn’t far from where Chris and Mickey and Chris’s father used to leave to go fishing all those mornings.

“All right,” Ralph said to Filippo, “gimme the guns.”

Filippo gave Ralph his gun, then Ralph said, “Where’s Chris’s?”

“I don’t know,” Filippo said. “I thought you had it.”

“I don’t have it,” Ralph said.

“I gave it to you before we picked him up.”

“You didn’t give me shit.”

“I took it off Chris,” Filippo said. “I know I did.”

“You left it in the house,” Ralph said.

“I must’ve put it down when we were liftin’ the body.”

“Fuck,” Ralph said, looking away. He waited a few seconds then said, “All right, maybe it don’t matter. The gun’s hot, anyway. Maybe it’s better that way. The cops find a gun next to the guy’s body—it’ll throw ’em off track. They’ll see the dead guy there and Chris’s gun, and then they’ll test the gun and find out it wasn’t used to shoot the dead guy.”

Ralph went outside and walked to the end of the dock. He tossed the two guns into the bay, then he came back into the car and drove away up Emmons Avenue. Looking out the window, Mickey remembered the time he caught that twenty-five-pound striped bass, posing with Chris and the fish afterward.

“Fuck,” Ralph said, looking up into the rearview mirror.

Mickey turned around and saw the police car following directly behind them.

“Shit,” Filippo said to Ralph. “You think he saw you on the dock?”

“It’s all right,” Ralph said, looking in the mirror. “He don’t got the strobe light on—I don’t think he’s after us.”

“What if they see the plates?” Mickey said.

“Don’t matter,” Ralph said. “The car’s hot—I took it in Jersey this afternoon. They probably don’t even got a report on it yet. Just keep cool—both of you. Mickey, make sure Chris is sitting up straight.”

Mickey took a deep breath, then he straightened the body and held it in place, trying not to think about what he was doing. The police car followed them for another two blocks, then it turned left onto Ocean Avenue.

“That’s it, they’re gone,” Ralph said.

“Jesus, I think I’m gonna have to change my underwear,” Filippo said.

Mickey let go of Chris and shifted back away toward the window. Then he threw up onto his legs and onto the back of the front seat.

“What the fuck?” Filippo said.

The back of Mickey’s throat was burning; he was about to throw up again.

“He blew fuckin’ chunks,” Filippo said to Ralph. “What’d I tell you? We shoulda brought my friend Jimmy tonight instead of this fuckin’ faggot.”

“Don’t do that no more,” Ralph said to Mickey.

Ralph turned onto Bedford Avenue and the car got quiet. Mickey opened the window a crack and the cool breeze helped relieve his nausea. He started thinking about Chris’s mother, how she used to go on about Chris when Chris was a little kid—telling all the other mothers in the neighborhood how smart Chris was and how proud she was of him. That was before Chris started getting into trouble, but even after that she always stood by him. She took good care of him, or tried to, anyway, after Chris’s father took off. Even lately, when she was on the couch, getting drunk all the time, she never yelled at Chris or treated him badly.

On Avenue Z, Ralph pulled into a parking lot next to a closed hardware store. He drove to the back of the lot, where it was dark, and parked next to his beat-up Oldsmobile Omega.

“All right, first lemme take care of the body,” Ralph said.

Ralph went out and opened the trunk of the Omega, then he came back to the stolen car and pulled Chris out. He lifted Chris up over his shoulder and put him inside the trunk of his car. Chris was small and fit inside easily.

Leaning inside the stolen car, Ralph said, “All right, both of you—get out of the car and take off all your clothes and put them inside your laundry bags.”

“What for?” Mickey asked.

“Because you might have Chris’s blood on them and I don’t want his blood inside my car. Come on, just do it.”

Mickey, Filippo and Ralph stood outside in the dark parking lot, and started getting undressed. Mickey took off his jacket and sweatshirt and felt the sting of the cold wind against his chest.

“Why are we putting the clothes in the laundry bags?” Mickey asked.

“So I can get rid of everything together,” Ralph said.

“You mean you’re not gonna try to sell the stuff we got?” Filippo said.

“That would be really bright,” Ralph said. “With a dead body in the house and another one in my trunk—this shit is way too hot.”

“Yeah, and it don’t matter,” Filippo said. “I didn’t find the ring, anyway. We probably only got a few hundred bucks here.”

Ralph and Filippo had taken their shirts off, and they were taking off their pants. Mickey took out his wallet and keys, then he took off his pants, pulling each leg off over his shoes. He started shivering.

“Shoes too,” Ralph said. “They coulda tracked blood. Come on, faster—we gotta get the fuck outta here.”

Mickey took off his shoes and added them to the laundry bag.

“And don’t forget the gloves,” Ralph said.

Mickey added the dishwashing gloves and then tossed the laundry bag into the trunk, where Ralph and Filippo had already tossed their bags, on top of Chris’s body.

“Okay, you two, wait in the car,” Ralph said, “and I’ll take care of the rest.”

Wearing just socks and underwear, Mickey and Filippo got into Ralph’s car—Mickey in the back and Filippo up front. Ralph, also in socks and underwear, took a wrench out of the trunk and returned to the stolen car. He kneeled down and started removing the hubcaps.

“What’s he doing that for?” Mickey asked.

“Why do you think?” Filippo said. “He’s makin’ it look like the car was stolen for parts.”

Ralph took off each hub cap and put them in the trunk of his car. Next, he opened the hood of the stolen car and took out the battery, then he went underneath and removed the muffler. Finally, he went inside the front of the car and, after a couple of minutes, came out with the car radio. He put all the parts in the trunk of the Omega with Chris’s body. Still holding the wrench, Ralph returned to the stolen car and shattered the windshield in several places. Then he got into the Omega with Mickey and Filippo, put the wrench in the glove compartment, and drove away.

“So far so good,” Ralph said as he turned back onto Avenue Z.

“So what are we gonna do now?” Mickey asked.

“
We
ain’t gonna do nothin’,” Ralph said. “I’m gonna drop off you and Filippo at home, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

“What do you mean?” Mickey said. “What’re you gonna do with everything in the trunk? What’re you gonna do with Chris?”

“Better you don’t know,” Ralph said. “That way, the police come talk to you, you got nothing to tell them. The only thing you gotta worry about is where you were tonight. I don’t think the cops’re gonna come talk to you—they should have no reason to—but if they do, what’re you gonna say?”

“I don’t know,” Mickey said.

“Well you better think of something quick,” Ralph said.

“I could say I was home,” Mickey said.

“Who saw you there?” Ralph asked.

“Nobody,” Mickey said.

“That’s no good,” Ralph said. “Somebody’s gotta see you there or it’s no good.”

“I can say my father saw me,” Mickey said. “He has Alzheimer’s. He can’t remember anything, anyway.”

“That’ll work,” Ralph said. Then he said to Filippo, “What about you?”

“I was with you,” Filippo said. “We were watching pornos.”

“Okay, then that’s the story, but we all gotta stick to it no matter what,” Ralph said. “Mickey, check out the TV schedule when you get home, so if the cops ask, you can tell them all the shows you were watching. Filippo, what video were we watching?”

“
Flesh of the Lotus
with John Holmes as Johnny Wadd. I know all the scenes by heart.”

“All right, then that’s the story,” Ralph said. “Me and Filippo was watching
Flesh of the Lotus.
The cops’re gonna ask us all about Chris too. They’ll say when’s the last time we saw him, shit like that. When was the last time we saw Chris before tonight?”

“I saw him Thursday night,” Mickey said. “After bowling.”

“All right, so the cops ask, that’s what you say. Me and Filippo saw him Thursday night, leaving the diner—eleven o’clock.”

“What about Chris’s mother?” Mickey asked.

“What about her?” Ralph said.

“Chris must’ve told her he was going someplace tonight. What if he told her he was meeting us?”

“Chris wasn’t stupid,” Ralph said. “He wouldn’t tell his mother he was gonna rob a house.”

“I know, but he could have told her he was doing something else with us,” Mickey said, “like going bowling or something. Then if the cops ask us we’ll have a different story.”

“It still don’t matter,” Ralph said. “Maybe he told his mother he was gonna go out with us, what difference does it make? Maybe he was lying to his mother, maybe he wasn’t really going to meet us. All we gotta say is we never saw Chris tonight. If we stick to that we’ll be all right.”

The car hit a pothole, and Chris’s body and the rest of the stuff in the trunk banged around.

“So does anybody got any questions?” Ralph asked. “Everybody know exactly what they’re gonna say?”

Mickey and Filippo said, “Yeah.”

“Good,” Ralph said. “And remember, the cops’ll try tricks on you. They’ll say one of us confessed so you might as well confess too, or they’ll tell you some other BS. Whatever you do, don’t talk—no matter what. If something goes wrong— if something happens and the cops find out that one of us was in that house—no squealing. If you go down, then you go down on your own and that’s it. I’m telling you right now, if I take a murder rap because you ratted me out, I’ll kill you. I don’t care if I have to wait twenty years till I get out of jail, I’ll still kill you. Remember that.”

Ralph drove on and there was no more talking in the car until Ralph turned onto Albany Avenue and pulled into Mickey’s driveway.

“Another thing,” Ralph said to Mickey, “no talking to me or Filippo for at least a couple of months. We can’t make it look like we’re scared. Chris is probably gonna be reported missing in a day or two, and we gotta pretend like we’re as surprised as everybody else. Right after the news about Chris breaks, I’m gonna drop us out of the bowling league. I’ll tell the guy in charge we can’t get a fourth guy to take Chris’s place. This way we don’t have to see each other at all anymore. Got any questions?”

Mickey shook his head.

“Good, then go inside and get right to bed,” Ralph said. “We gotta make this look good.”

Mickey left the car and jogged up the driveway in his underwear and socks. When he entered the house and headed upstairs, Blackie started barking like crazy.

10

IT WAS FIVE in the morning and Mickey still couldn’t fall asleep. Lying in bed, he kept seeing Chris’s dead face in the ski mask, the blood dripping from his mouth.

Finally, he turned on the clock radio next to his bed to WINS all-news radio. There was no news about a robbery in Manhattan Beach and a dead body. Mickey was surprised because he’d thought the old man on the street would call the police right away.

Mickey spent a long time in the shower, staying under the hot water until the skin on his fingers wrinkled. After he got dressed, he listened to the news again in his room for a couple of hours, but there was still nothing about the robbery.

Mickey didn’t feel like sitting through a Broadway show today, but he knew that staying home, waiting to hear something on the news would be torture. Besides, it would be good to see Rhonda again.

As Rhonda had promised, at eleven o’clock she was waiting on the corner of Bedford and J. She looked great in a black miniskirt, black high heels, and a big red sweater belted at the hips. Mickey, in jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt, felt underdressed.

When Rhonda got in Mickey kissed her on the lips, then she ducked down under the dashboard and said, “Drive.”

Mickey headed toward Ocean Avenue.

“My father went out and I’m afraid he’s gonna come back,” she said. “Don’t worry—I won’t make you do this again. I just need to break my father in slowly.” Still bending down, looking up at Mickey, she said, “So how are you?”

“Okay,” Mickey said.

Mickey noticed Rhonda was wearing a different perfume today. He didn’t like it as much as the one she’d worn on Friday.

“Is something wrong?” Rhonda asked.

“No,” Mickey said. “Why?”

“You look kind of tired.”

“I didn’t get much sleep last night,” Mickey said. “The landlord’s dog.”

“Oh,” Rhonda said. A few seconds later she added, “You’re not mad because I’m hiding from my father, are you?”

“No, not at all.”

Mickey turned right on Ocean Avenue and Rhonda sat up.

“I think we’re safe now,” she said. “Look what I have.”

Rhonda reached into her pocketbook and took out a photograph, and Mickey glanced at it while he was driving. The picture was from Ronny Feldman’s birthday party. Mickey, nine years old, with crooked bangs, was watching Ronny unwrap his presents. Rhonda was standing next to Mickey wearing a light blue party dress with white lace trim. Her face hadn’t changed at all.

“Recognize me?” Rhonda asked.

“That’s incredible,” Mickey said, smiling.

“I wonder if we talked to each other.”

“That would be funny.”

“I think I remember you.”

Mickey stopped smiling, seeing Ralph and Filippo carrying Chris’s body down the staircase.

Putting the photograph away, Rhonda said, “So you excited about your first theater experience?”

“Yeah,” Mickey said, still distracted.

“You really sound it.”

“No, I am—really. I just didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, like I told you.”

Rhonda went on, talking about her favorite Broadway shows—
Pippin, A Chorus Line, Sweeney Todd.
Mickey was barely listening. Scenes from last night kept flashing in his head—Chris’s body falling against him in the car, the old man screaming on the street, Ralph tossing the guns into Sheepshead Bay.

“What’s that?” Mickey said, realizing that she had asked him a question.

“I asked you what your favorite movie of all time is,” Rhonda said.

“Oh,
Star Wars,
I guess,” Mickey said.

“That’s
so
original,” Rhonda said. “I like
Reds, Sophie’s
Choice,
and
Amadeus
. Did you see that?”

“What?” Mickey asked.

“
Amadeus.
”

“Nah,” Mickey said.

Rhonda kept talking to Mickey about the movies and other things, but there were a lot of long silences too. Entering the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, Rhonda said, “Oh my God, I know what’s wrong.”

She sounded like she really
knew.

“This is the spot, isn’t it?” she said. “The car accident your mother was in—you said it happened right here, on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Did we just pass the spot or something?”

“Yeah,” Mickey said, even though the accident had happened on a different part of the BQE, near the merger with the Gowanus Expressway.

During the rest of the trip into the city, they didn’t talk much. They parked in a lot on Forty-eighth Street and walked down Ninth Avenue. Mickey didn’t feel comfortable in this part of the city, especially with a girl. On every block there were porno theaters and sleazy-looking people hanging out in front of doorways and drugged-out homeless people asking for change. They passed a couple of Guardian Angels—Hispanic guys walking around in their red berets, looking tough, trying to protect the neighborhood—but Mickey still didn’t feel safe and he held Rhonda’s hand tightly.

Mickey asked Rhonda what kind of food she was in the mood for.

“Whatever,” she said, looking away.

They went to an Italian restaurant on Restaurant Row. Lunch was going to cost at least thirty bucks and parking would cost around twenty. It would be no problem for today—Mickey had a hundred bucks with him—but he knew this would be the last time he’d be able to spend fifty or sixty bucks on a date. He remembered the Rolex from last night and he wished he’d kept it. He could have hocked it or sold it and used the money to pay off the rest of Angelo’s debt and still had some left over.

Mickey ordered lasagna and Rhonda had a veal dish. As they ate, Rhonda did most of the talking. Mickey must have been staring off because Rhonda said, “Are you still upset about your mother?”

“No,” Mickey said.

“Then is it something I did or said because—”

“No,” Mickey said. “It’s nothing.”

“Well, you don’t seem very happy to be with me today.”

“Of course I’m happy,” Mickey said. “I’m very happy.”

During the rest of lunch, Mickey didn’t say anything. He paid the bill, thirty-five bucks with tip, then they walked uptown a few blocks to the Winter Garden Theater on Fiftieth Street and Broadway.

The seats were great—in the middle section, three rows behind the orchestra. Waiting for the curtain to go up, Rhonda was still trying to talk to Mickey and Mickey was still quiet. He was worrying about what Ralph had done with Chris’s body, and about Filippo’s uncle’s body, lying there in the house.

Mickey didn’t pay much attention to the show. Rhonda seemed to have a great time, though, smiling, singing along with the cast.

When they left the theater it was about five-thirty, and it was dark outside. They walked along Fiftieth Street toward Ninth Avenue. Rhonda was still singing one of the songs from the show, something about a cat named Skimbleshanks, and Mickey just wanted her to shut up.

On Ninth, Mickey noticed a tall, thin Puerto Rican guy standing in front of a bodega, looking at him and Rhonda as they passed by. Then, when they turned onto Forty-eighth Street, heading toward the parking lot, Mickey looked over his shoulder and noticed the guy following them.

“Come on, walk faster,” Mickey whispered.

“Why?” Rhonda said in a normal tone of voice.

“Just do it,” Mickey said.

Mickey and Rhonda walked faster, but Rhonda was on high heels and Mickey felt like he had to pull her along.

“I can’t go this fast,” Rhonda said. “What’s wrong with you? Why’re you pulling me?”

Mickey looked back and saw the guy behind them was also walking fast, gaining on them. But Mickey and Rhonda had reached the parking lot now, where the street was lit better, and there was a parking attendant sitting in a booth only a few feet away. The guy who’d been following them turned around and headed back toward Ninth Avenue.

Mickey paid the parking attendant then headed toward the car with Rhonda.

“What’s wrong with you?” Rhonda said. “Why did you have to pull me like that?”

“That guy was following us,” Mickey said.

“What guy?”

“The guy behind us. He followed us from that bodega.”

“So why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t tell you.”

“Then why’d you have to pull me? I almost twisted my ankle.”

“Sorry,” Mickey said, “I didn’t have a choice. The guy would’ve mugged us.”

They got in the car and drove out of the lot.

“You okay?” Mickey asked.

Rhonda didn’t answer, her arms crossed in front of her chest. Mickey tried to hold her hand but she moved it away.

“Look, I didn’t know what to do, all right?” Mickey said. “I really thought the guy wanted to mug us. You’re lucky you didn’t get your purse snatched.”

“I really wish you’d tell me what’s wrong,” Rhonda said.

“Wrong with what?” Mickey said.

“Everything. You’ve been acting weird all day. You didn’t talk at all during lunch, and you haven’t said anything about the show.”

“It was good,” Mickey said.

“It was
good?
That’s it? What was good about it? Did you like the singing, the dancing?”

“I liked all of it.”

“It didn’t seem like you liked any of it. You were just sitting there the whole time looking angry. Is it me? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, it’s nothing, I told you. I had a great time today.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Sure you are.”

They were driving down Eleventh Avenue and it was starting to drizzle. Mickey turned the wipers on with the slow setting. For a few minutes the only noise in the car was the occasional rubbing of the wipers against the windshield.

Finally, Mickey said, “Look, I really am sorry. I know I’ve been a little out of it today. But, believe me, it has nothing to do with you. I swear to God it doesn’t.”

“It’s all right,” Rhonda said quietly.

“No, it’s not all right,” Mickey said. “I’ve been acting like an idiot all day, but this isn’t me. You know what I’m really like.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Rhonda said. “It’s not a big deal.” As they continued back to Brooklyn, Mickey tried to make conversation. He told Rhonda how much he liked the show and how he would love to go to another show with her sometime, but he couldn’t keep his act up for long. Soon he started thinking about last night again and the dead silence returned.

Rhonda asked Mickey to drop her off at the corner of her block, instead of in front of her house, so her father wouldn’t see. Mickey pulled into a parking spot on the corner of Avenue I and East Twenty-third Street and put the car in park.

“Let me take you out to dinner one night this week,” Mickey said. “How about Wednesday night?”

“Maybe,” Rhonda said.

“Maybe?”

“I don’t know what night’s good for me.”

“I’ll call you.”

Mickey was trying to look into Rhonda’s eyes, but she was looking away, fidgeting with the door handle. Mickey leaned around and kissed her, but it wasn’t anything like the kiss the other night. She didn’t open her mouth and she pulled back quickly and said, “Good night, Mickey.” Then she left the car and headed up the block toward her house without even looking back or waving.

Mickey drove away, hating himself for ruining everything, for acting like such a jerk, then he turned onto Albany Avenue and saw the police car parked in front of his house and the two officers out front talking to his neighbors.