Gravesend (13 page)

A long, dark corridor that smelled like the VFW hall where Grandpa Tony used to take him led Eugene to a no-windows room where Mr. Natale and five others, double-thumb cigars poking out of all their mouths, were engaged in a poker game. Eugene only recognized two of the other guys: Hyun the Numbers Runner, who he saw on the bus home from school three, four times a week, and Mike Hickey from Eighty-Third Street, who was Philip Benvenuto’s cousin—People called him Hockey Head. A cloud of smoke hung ribbony over the table. Two guys sat on stools behind Mr. Natale with their arms crossed. A cash drawer filled with hundreds and fifties rested on a scattered pile of red and black chips in the middle of the table. Had to be nine, ten grand there. Maybe more.

Eugene couldn’t get anyone’s attention. He stood there and took it all in. Mr. Natale was wearing a DiMaggio jersey, the top two buttons undone, and dark glasses. He looked like an actor playing a mobster. Swollen cheeks. Dark eyes. Serious mouth. Chomping on his cigar until it was a spitty stump.

The guy next to Mr. Natale, hooded eyes, drooping mouth, dealt a new hand.

Mr. Natale said, “I fucking lose again, I’m going apeshit.”

Everyone around the table laughed. “You won’t lose,” Hooded Eyes said. “I’m dealing here. I’m on your side.”

“You better deal me a good fucking hand, I’m telling you.”

“Here comes a winning hand, Mr. Natale.”

Mr. Natale noticed Eugene then. “You got something for me?” he said.

Eugene went over and handed him the package.

“Ilya sent you?”

“Yeah.”

“‘Yeah?’”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re Ray Boy Calabrese’s nephew, huh? I hear your uncle’s back around.”

“He’s back.”

“He used to do some jobs for me, too. Before his misfortunate occurrence.”

Eugene had never heard that, but he wasn’t surprised.

Mr. Natale reached into the cash drawer and grabbed a fifty. He handed it to Eugene. “Extra ten for being expeditious. You got what, a bad limp?”

Eugene tucked the fifty into his jeans. “I got shot when I was a kid.”

“Even more impressive you were so expeditious.” Mr. Natale paused, took the cigar out of his mouth. “You know what
expeditious
is?”

“I don’t.”

“See, I’m a fan of words. These ten dollar words especially. I read the dictionary. For fun. Ten words a day. I got one of those word-of-the-day calendars, too. I’m learning new words constantly.
Expeditious
is like speedy. I guess it’s hard for a gimp like you to be speedy, but you were. You dealt with your job in a manner that was efficient.”

“Thank you, Mr. Natale.”

“You know of me then?”

“Who doesn’t? You’re famous.”

“Famous? Famous?” He patted Eugene on the shoulder. Hard. “I love this kid. Famous.” It was a scene from
Goodfellas
. Eugene was Henry Hill. “You believe this kid? I’m famous. You write? You want to write my life story?”

“I don’t write.”

“Okay, kid. Good job. Get out of here. Come back here tomorrow you want to do something else for us.”

Eugene nodded and limped back down the corridor. He passed the Gravy Stirrer. Then he went outside, the clammy gray sky seeming a stupid kind of bright after being in the smoked-out back room, and he nodded at Bloody Birdshit Cheek and the Folding Chair Crew. They all nodded back. He felt electric.

Sixty dollars made him a king. He’d never had so much money in his pockets. He’d made some decent dough for his confirmation, but his mother had snagged it and opened an account for him at HSBC that she claimed was his but she was the only one who could make any transactions. He wanted to blow it all on Lutz or Quincy or Knee Socks.

Instead he went to The Wrong Number and bellied up to the rail like an old pro alkie. Teemo was behind the bar, watching a rerun of
Center Stage
on YES. Eugene said, “Can I have a screwdriver?”
Screwdriver
: the word was gristly in his mouth. Booze screwed into juice, that sounded good. Eugene also wanted to order a kamikaze, whatever that was.

“A screwdriver, huh?” Teemo said, his eyes laughing.

“A big one.”

“How about just the juice part?” Teemo poured orange juice from a can with a peel-off label into a pint glass flowered with fingerprints. He brought it over to Eugene and set it on the bar.

Eugene tried to pay with a ten.

“On the house, Eugene,” Teemo said.

“You seen my Uncle Ray Boy in here? I’m looking for him.”

“I haven’t seen him since the other night.”

Eugene suddenly realized that Teemo could maybe know his mother was looking for him, but then he stopped worrying because nobody would guess he’d be at The Wrong Number. “I need to talk to him,” Eugene said.

“Your uncle’s different now, you know that?”

“I know.”

“That guy everybody loved is dead.”

“I’m gonna help him.”

“You’re gonna help how?”

“I’m gonna make him be like that again.”

Teemo, leaning over to Eugene, said, “You got heart, kid. That’s cool. ‘I’m gonna make him be like that again.’ You do that.”

Eugene said, “I’m working for Mr. Natale now.”

“Your mom know that?”

“No. I just started. I was at his card game today. I brought something to him.”

“Ray Boy used to do some stuff for him, too.”

Eugene nodded.

Teemo said, “On the sly. Your grandparents didn’t know. But Mr. Natale screwed him over. Forget it—I shouldn’t tell you. It wasn’t anything big.”

“Tell me. Please.”

“It was nothing. He had Eugene knock off this doctor’s office. Heard the guy, this doc who owed him on gambling losses, had a safe with fifty grand. Lady at the office told Mr. Natale. She was on his jock, one of his goomars, and the doc didn’t know. So Ray Boy went in, no experience with safes, cracks the thing, gets the code, I don’t know. That was your Uncle Ray Boy back then. Talent. He’s sixteen, seventeen. Cracking safes. At this point, he’s been working for Mr. Natale almost two years. Small fries to start out, dropping things off, picking things up, getting food, surveillance. And then some strong-arm stuff. Breaking legs. Threats. Like Rocky at the beginning of
Rocky
. Then Mr. Natale has him do this, says he’ll give him ten percent of the dough, if it’s there. He brings it back to Mr. Natale, honest, could’ve maybe run off, said there was less in there than there was, but he brings back the full amount. And Mr. Natale says five hundred’s what he’s getting for his work. Five grand’s what he was promised. Ray Boy’s going crazy on the inside, but he can’t let it show. He’s gonna what, complain to Mr. Natale? He’ll wind up face down in the fucking Gowanus Canal.”

Eugene took it all in. Maybe this was the way to get Uncle Ray Boy back. The promise of revenge. It was crazy to think about, way over the top to imagine taking on Mr. Natale, but why not? Eugene was already on the lam, and maybe Uncle Ray Boy—in the right frame of mind and given the right circumstances—would really hit the road with him. Live motel to motel, crime to crime. Sounded like heaven. He thought about the pile of money at Mr. Natale’s card game—nine, ten grand, however much it was—and thought about going after it with Uncle Ray Boy, guns blazing, like that episode of
The Sopranos
when Jackie Jr. robbed Eugene Pontecorvo’s card game, except they’d do it right.

“Looks like your little brain’s working in there,” Teemo said.

Eugene said, “I really need to find my uncle.”

“I see him, how can I tell him to touch base?”

“I don’t know. Not my phone. I’m avoiding my mom.”

“Trouble at the house?”

“School.”

“Fucking OLN. I don’t miss that place at all. Aherne still a douche?”

“Big time.”

“I always hated Brother Dennis the worst. That guy was definitely a kid-fucker. Always giving us the once-over like he was imagining twiddling our dongs. Place was full of fruits. Should’ve gone to Ford, Lafayette. But then you gotta deal with an army of
tizzuns
.”

“Fuck Brother Dennis. And Bonangelo.”

“Bonangelo, that fucking gimp.”

Eugene looked down.

“Kid, I’m sorry,” Teemo said.

“I don’t give a shit,” Eugene said. He backed away from the bar.

“I’ll let Ray Boy know when I see him.” Teemo turned around and went back to watching YES.

Eugene walked outside. Fucking Teemo had to go and say that.
Gimp
. He was talking about Bonangelo, sure, but later when he was telling Andy Tighe or whoever that Ray Boy’s nephew had come in, he’d probably say,
You know, the gimp
.

A corner store up the block from The Wrong Number was piping out Middle Eastern music. Eugene walked there and bought a forty of O.E. and some Swedish Fish. The guy behind the counter had a beard that almost connected to his eyebrows and was wearing a pit-stained white shirt. The hair on his arms was like used Brillo. He didn’t even look up at Eugene.

Eugene left and sat on the curb outside. He tilted the forty back, taking a long slug, elbow raised, crinkling the brown bag between his fingers. When he held up Mr. Natale’s card game, when he fixed his Uncle Ray Boy, maybe then people would stop thinking of him as a gimp.

Eleven

Stephanie pulled up at the bus stop across from the Cavallaro schoolyard on Bath Avenue, about a block from Conway’s house. Conway told her he needed to stop and pick up a few things at the grocery store. “You okay?” he said.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“You sure?”

“I’m good. You?”

He nodded. “I’m not coming back to work. I can’t.”

“I figured that.”

“Listen, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“I wanted you to.”

Conway said goodbye, took what booze was left, and got out of the car, figuring it was better just to end the weirdness. He watched Stephanie pull away. He was sorry for how things had gone down between them, but he wasn’t in his right mind with all that was going on. Ray Boy. Pop. She had to know that, some of it at least. He thought more about how it would be to leave all of this behind, finally kill Ray Boy, burn the house, go to Nova Scotia. Fuck was in Nova Scotia anyhow? He saw land. Lots of it. Wind blowing tall grasses. Cliffs. Gray water. Gray skies. No one else around. He saw miles and miles of peace.

It was almost dark. Not wanting to go back to the house just yet, he sat on a bench in the schoolyard and stared across at the Allstate office where a girl named Ludmilla used to work. He wasn’t sure who worked there now, but he knew Ludmilla had been transferred to a Brighton Beach branch six years ago. He’d been obsessed with her, used to stare at her through the window, sit on this bench with a cup of steaming coffee from Augie’s or Jimmy’s and just watch her. Her desk was closest to the window. Depending on the light and the time of day, it was easy to see through the window from a distance, harder up close. Ludmilla always had a pencil behind her ear. She seemed to be constantly on the phone. Her hair was blonde like the cocktail waitresses in Atlantic City, down to her shoulders, and he imagined that it was feathery. He could draw her face from memory. Dropkick blue eyes. Button nose. Purplish birthmark over her mouth. Skin the color of lemon ice. Lips to end the world. For hours Conway would stare at her. She’d push her hair back behind her ears. Take the pencil out and write something down on a lined yellow pad. She’d put her hair up in a pony-tail with a tie. She’d type on the computer. Tender pecks. Posture perfect. Three buttons open on her blouse. She’d scratch her throat. Blow her nose. Sip from a bottle of water with Russian writing on the label. Eat salads from tinfoil trays, slurping up greens as if they were noodles. Conway had wanted to change his insurance just so he could go in there.

The way the light was hitting the window now, he couldn’t see in. But maybe no one was at the desk where Ludmilla used to sit or maybe the desk was done for, retired.

He should’ve gone in there all those years ago. He should’ve asked her out. Maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe he would’ve kept making music because she liked it. Maybe they would’ve gotten sushi every Friday night on Eighty-Sixth Street, walking back to her place (maybe she lived in one of those nice new condos on Twenty-Fourth Avenue) under the El, holding hands.

Conway had always been a first-class fuck-up. No hope and no balls was a rotten combination. And the way he’d dealt with the whole Ray Boy situation defied logic. For years, he’d dreamt about getting revenge on Ray Boy, but he did nothing to prepare. He didn’t learn to shoot, didn’t lift weights. He thought it didn’t matter. Maybe what he really wanted was for Ray Boy to still be Ray Boy. Maybe what he really wanted was to die at Ray Boy’s hands, be overpowered by him, fail in an ultimate and final way.

He was being honest with himself now. That
was
what he’d wanted. For as long as he could remember.

But Ray Boy couldn’t give it to him. Ray Boy had turned the tables. The son of a bitch felt sorry for what he’d done to Duncan.

No one understood Conway. No one ever had. He didn’t understand himself.

He wanted to see Alessandra, wanted to apologize to her. She didn’t know what he was, hadn’t been home for so many years. Maybe she’d forgive him. Picturing her while he was fucking Stephanie had made him feel closer to her, like they’d bonded somehow.

Before going back to Pop’s coffin, he’d stop at her house, see if she’d talk to him.

Mr. Biagini opened the door. Fur poured out of his ears. He wore slippers patched together with duct tape. His nose was damp-looking. He reminded Conway too much of Pop.

“Mr. Biagini.” Conway folded his arms across his chest. “It’s Conway D’Innocenzio.”

Eyes adjusting, Mr. Biagini glanced at him sideways. “Sure, sure. Come inside.”

Conway stepped inside. “Alessandra home?”

“She’s home, my daughter. Not for long, though. Got places to be. Too good for her old man, for the old neighborhood. Just got here and already she’s talking about moving out.”

“She’s upstairs?”

Mr. Biagini nodded. “I’ll call up to her,” he said. He went to the stairs and put his hand on the railing and leaned forward, his chest punching out, as if it were taking all his energy to call up. “Alessandra, you’ve got a visitor down here.”

Her voice came from the top of the stairs. “A visitor?”

“Conway. From school.”

Conway heard Alessandra huff. “One minute,” she said.

“Get you anything?” Mr. Biagini said.

“No, sir. Thanks.” Conway sat down on the couch. Mr. Biagini sat across from him on a recliner. The TV was on low. News. Mr. Biagini picked up the channel changer and flicked around. “How is everything?” Conway said.

“Huh?” Mr. Biagini strained forward.

“Everything’s good with you?”

“Good? What’s good? Waiting around to die, that’s it.”

Alessandra came downstairs a few minutes later. Her hair was wet, crayon black, glossy. Conway could see beads of water on her neck. Her shirt clung to her. She was wearing gym shorts, and she was barefoot. Conway pictured her in the shower.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

Conway said, “I wanted, I just wanted—”

“What?”

“Could we talk somewhere, just me and you?”

“About?”

“I just . . . I need to, I just want to,” he lowered his voice, “apologize.”

“Apologize here and then get out.”

“I need to talk to someone. I thought maybe I could talk to you. I was drunk when I saw you, I’m sorry. I’m just, it’s this, it’s . . . with Ray Boy out, thinking about Duncan, I don’t know, I just, I’m sorry how I acted toward you. I was way out of line,” Conway groveling now, “and I just hope you’ll forgive me. I don’t want you to think bad things about me. I’m not a bad guy. I didn’t want to give you that impression. I’m not like the guys around here.”

Alessandra clenched her jaw. “I’ll give you five minutes.”

They went in the kitchen and Alessandra put on espresso and turned the small clock radio next to the microwave to WCBS, cutting down on the burning silence. They sat across from each other at a Formica table with one of those flecked tops. A few issues of the
Daily News
were folded open to crossword puzzles, horoscopes, the Metro Section, Mike Lupica’s column. “How’s it being back?” Conway said.

Alessandra took out a cigarette and lit it. She blew the smoke over her shoulder. “You kidding?” she said.

“I just . . . I was just wondering if it was weird being back.”

“Yeah, it’s weird. Next question.”

“Los Angeles—”

“You want to make small talk, that’s what you’re after?”

“I’m sorry. It’s hard for me to talk about any of this. I’ve never talked to anyone about any of it. Hardly anyone.”

The espresso bubbled over. Alessandra got up and took the Laroma off the burner. She poured the espresso and rubbed the rim of her cup with a lemon wedge. She came back to the table and put the cup in front of Conway. He spooned sugar into his espresso from a small bowl on the table and stirred.

“I don’t know what you’re hoping for here,” Alessandra said. “You want me to say you’re forgiven? I already said it.”

“We used to know each other.”

“You can’t help who you grow up with. We were kids.”

“I’ve been a wreck since Duncan. My whole life fell apart after that.”

“I always felt sorry for you.”

“I don’t want you to feel sorry.”

“What do you want?”

Conway thought about it. He wasn’t sure what he wanted and he wasn’t sure why he was with Alessandra now. Did he really think this was going to play out like a bad movie? She’d forgive him, they’d fuck, and then they’d run off to Nova Scotia together? That wasn’t going to happen. So what was he hoping to accomplish? He didn’t know. Things weren’t neat like that in real life. “I don’t know,” Conway said. “Nothing.”

“I wish you’d go.”

Conway toyed with the handle of his espresso cup. “Remember that time in Ms. Lacari’s class? You kept turning around and passing me notes, asking me who I liked, what my job was gonna be when I grew up, what my favorite color was?”

“I don’t remember that, no.”

“You kept turning around, smiling. You’d put these little balled-up notes on my desk. Your handwriting was all bubbly. The notes smelled like you. Ms. Lacari yelled at you and you blushed. Made you read your notes in front of the class.”

“Conway, you were a nice kid. We were friends. What else do you want to hear?”

“I don’t know. I liked you. I see you again now, and I still like you. You’re beautiful. No one I’ve liked has ever liked me back. Not really.”

“You should really go.”

“I heard you had a girlfriend now or something.”

“You heard that where?” Alessandra stood up.

“Stephanie.”

“You saw Stephanie?”

“She said you had a girlfriend. That true?”

“I think you should go. Really.”

“I’m not going.” Conway slurped down the rest of his espresso. “I want you to hear me out.”

Alessandra went over to the rotary phone on the wall and started the long act of dialing. “I’m calling the cops,” she said. “You’re not out of here in a minute, I’m calling the cops.”

“Don’t,” Conway said.

“Daddy!” Alessandra said. She dialed the nine and then started on the one.

Mr. Biagini came into the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”

“Conway’s—”

Conway ran over and took the receiver from her hand. He ripped the cord out of the base on the wall. “Don’t call the cops please,” he said. “I just want to talk to you.”

“Kid, leave,” Mr. Biagini said.

“Mr. Biagini,” Conway said, his hands out. “You know, I’m just . . . I’m desperate.”

“You ripped the fucking phone out of the wall,” Alessandra said. “Psycho.”

“I ripped the cord out.” He paused. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I should’ve known, soon as I saw you,” Alessandra said, “what you were, what you are.”

“What? I’m not, I’m just . . . I’m not bad. I’m good.”

Alessandra still had the receiver in her hand. She was waving it around. Conway played out a scenario in his mind: Grabbing the receiver and smashing it over Mr. Biagini’s head, Mr. Biagini letting out a defeated sound, part wail, part deflated oomph, and collapsing to the floor. Alessandra would shriek. Conway would hit her in the face, as if his hands weren’t his own. He’d grab her T-shirt at the neck and rip down and it wouldn’t be easy to rip. His hands would be leading him. His mind would tell him to stop, this was wrong, very wrong, but he wouldn’t be able to stop because his hands had all the power. He would finally make the shirt rip. Alessandra wouldn’t be wearing a bra. Her nipples would be hard from standing barefoot on the cold linoleum. She would be screaming in a way that he had never heard someone scream. Primitive. Guttural. He would hit her again. Feel her teeth under his knuckles. Then he would put his hand over her mouth. She would try to bite him. She’d be crying, snot stringing out of her nose. “Please,” she’d say. He’d get her shorts off. No underwear. He’d hit her again. He’d push her over the table. Take her.

But that wasn’t happening. It was just some fucked-up fantasy. Conway didn’t really want to rape-rape Alessandra, but he almost got a hard-on thinking about it. What was really happening was pathetic. Alessandra was coming after him with a phone receiver, trying to chase him out the back door like he was a moth that had gotten in by mistake. She swung the receiver. He raised his hands to block the blow. Mr. Biagini picked up a broom from the corner and started to swat at him. “You get outta here now,” Mr. Biagini said. “My daughter tells you to leave, you leave.”

Conway said, “I just—”

“No just,” Mr. Biagini said.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” Alessandra said.

Conway opened the back door and skittered across the threshold. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Alessandra said, “You don’t know what you are. I’ll tell you: You’re a psycho.”

“You got a screw loose,” Mr. Biagini said.

The door slammed in Conway’s face. He looked at the house, the red bricks, the awning over the door, and he felt paralyzed, empty, unable.