Gravesend (20 page)

Eugene watched people at the gas station. A trucker slugged from a giant Gatorade bottle. A woman who worked there came out and smoked a cigarette, ashing in a coffee cup.

A cop car that looked different from city cop cars rolled in to fill up, and Eugene got back in the car. They didn’t need to catch a glance from any cop. Sweat probably looked older than a sophomore, but they still stuck out and he couldn’t imagine a cop not wanting to draw a bead on them.

“What’s up?” Sweat said.

“Let’s hit it,” Eugene said.

“My mouth’s nasty. I gotta brush.”

“Where you gonna brush?”

“Bathroom. I’ll buy some shit.”

“Fuck it, we gotta roll.”

Sweat shrugged and started the car. He pulled back onto the road, swerving to avoid a car in the oncoming lane.

Back on the Palisades, Eugene stared out the window at the trees. He’d stopped being afraid of deer. He was thinking about the card game now. “Here’s what’s gonna happen when we get there. We’re going right by those old guys outside and the Gravy Stirrer.”

“Gravy Stirrer?” Sweat said.

“No one’ll think nothing of it. Ain’t gonna wear masks. None of that. We get in there and I take out the gun, say, ‘Gimme the money.’ Straight up in Mr. Natale’s face.”

“There’s how many guys around?”

“I don’t know. A bunch.”

“And none of them have guns?”

Eugene shrugged.

Sweat said, “Us, one gun, against all these old hard-ass gangsters? How you think that ends? They don’t want any trouble, so they just let us have the money?”

“They’re not gonna shoot us up.”

Sweat opened the window and threw his empty orange juice container outside.

Eugene looked back and saw it sputter under the car behind them. In his mind robbing the card game couldn’t and wouldn’t go wrong. He hadn’t readjusted his thinking to account for Uncle Ray Boy not being there, but he knew that things like this went down all the time and that people dumber than him got away with them.

This time they had to stop for a toll at the GWB. Eugene was pissed because the EZ Pass was in Mrs. Scagnetti’s Escalade. As they got closer to the tolls, Eugene said to Sweat, “Just go through the EZ Pass.”

Sweat said, “I don’t have it in here.”

“I know. They send you a ticket, that’s it.”

“They don’t chase after you?”

“They’re gonna chase after every guy who blows the toll? No way. They shoot your license plate, you get a ticket in the mail.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. We go through the toll-toll, we’re fucked.”

Sweat tensed up and gripped the wheel hard. Eugene could smell that he was nervous. They went through an EZ Pass lane at twenty. No alarms sounded. Eugene looked through the back window. He wasn’t sure if he was right. Part of him expected to see a cop car bust out behind them.

But nothing happened. No chase over the bridge.

“I told you,” Eugene said. “Your mom’s gonna get a ticket in the mail, be like, ‘Motherfucker!’”

Sweat laughed .

The neighborhood had a glow to it now. Maybe it was just that Eugene was different. He thought about his house. He’d probably never see it again. He thought about lighting candles in his room to get the smell of jerking off out of the air. He thought about playing Suicide in the backyard with Timmy Mumps and Jimmy Schiavo. He thought about Sunday dinners.
Braciole
. Meatballs. Spaghetti with his mother’s gravy. Veal cutlets. He thought about peppers-and-eggs on rolls from Villabate for lunch during the week. He thought about his grandmother bringing over warm mozzarella from Bay Ridge. He thought about rainbows and sprinkles and pignoli cookies on big trays covered in colored plastic. He thought about the smell of fresh
basinigole
. Squash flowers frying on the stove. He thought about his grandfather’s homemade wine on the table in dark bottles. He’d miss those things.

They were on Cropsey Avenue, not far from Mr. Natale’s club. Sweat was gripping the wheel like he was trying to squeeze something out of it again.

Eugene said, “Park up the block. Not too close.”

Sweat found a spot across from a hydrant and had trouble parallel parking the car. He went up on the curb and then had to pull out and try again.

He missed it again and bumped the car behind him. It was a Prius and its alarm started to sound. “Fuck,” Sweat said, and he pulled out of the spot and raced away up the block, almost clipping a passenger door as it was thrust open by a hunchbacked old man in sweatpants and a Knights of Columbus jacket.

Eugene said, “Just park around the corner.”

Sweat blew through a stop sign and turned right. He slowed down, creeping for another spot. A mid-forties lady pushing a shopping cart up the sidewalk gave them a look like she was their mother and what did they think they were doing. And then she thought better of it, not wanting any trouble, and continued walking.

Eugene got out of the car first. He looked around. They were parked in front of the Ulmer Park Library. Nobody was on the sidewalks, except the mid-forties lady with the shopping cart, and she was busting her ass to get away from them. He circled the car and went around to the trunk. “Pop it,” he said to Sweat.

Sweat pulled the latch for the trunk.

Eugene took the gun out from under the spare tire and checked it. One bullet left. He ducked his head back into the trunk and rummaged around under the tire and found one of the boxes of bullets. He set the gun down in the trunk. He reloaded it and then he put it in his pocket. He took out the other box of bullets and emptied them into his hand and put them in the front pocket of his shirt.

Sweat got out and made sure the doors were locked and the windows were closed.

Eugene pulled his hood up.

“I wish we had two guns,” Sweat said.

“Let’s go,” Eugene said.

They walked down the block to Mr. Natale’s club. The Folding Chair Crew wasn’t outside. No boombox blasting WCBS. The place looked deserted, the way it had when they’d staked it out. Eugene tried the front door. Locked. Sweat was close behind him. Eugene tried to push the door in. It didn’t budge. He jiggled the handle. “Fuck,” he said.

“We don’t even know they’re in there now,” Sweat said.

Then the door opened up. The Gravy Stirrer stood there in a wife-beater with a gravy-stained towel slung over his shoulder. He was sweating. Gravy bubbled on the stove behind him. A bag of semolina bread sat on the counter. He had a cannoli in his hand. “Yeah?” he said.

“I’m the one dropped off that package for Mr. Natale,” Eugene said.

“So?”

“I need to see him.”

“In regards to what?”

“He said come back.”

“He said come back or you need to see him?”

“He said come back.”

“Who’s this
citrullo
?” He pointed at Sweat.

“My associate.”

The Gravy Stirrer laughed. “Your associate? That’s good, kid.” He motioned for them to come in.

The front room smelled of gravy on a medium heat and sausage frying in olive oil. Eugene looked around. Bottles of Pellegrino and wine were lined up on a foldout table against the wall.

“It’s good you’re here,” the Gravy Stirrer said. “We need a new kid in the neighborhood. And your buddy here, he’ll help too?”

“I’ll help,” Sweat said.

The Gravy Stirrer led them down the long hallway to the no-windows room where Mr. Natale, the Russian in the tracksuit, Hockey Head, and Hyun the Numbers Runner sat around a table with sandwiches in tinfoil—veal cutlets, meatball, mozzarella and tomato, sausage and peppers—on paper plates in front of them. Mr. Natale puffed a cigar. He was wearing a Mantle jersey this time. There was no money on the table.

“Look at this kid,” Mr. Natale said. “The gimp. Walks right in.”

“Hi,” Eugene said.

Mr. Natale peeled the tinfoil away from the bottom of his meatball sandwich and took a bite. “Who’s this?” he said, nodding at Sweat.

“Get this,” the Gravy Stirrer said. “His associate.”

They all laughed, Sweat too.

The Russian said, “Associate. Very good.”

“You want more work, that’s why you’re here?” Mr. Natale said to Eugene.

Eugene said, “I wanted to talk.”

“About what?”

“Your card game,” he said.

“You want to work my card game? Sweep up, that kind of shit?”

“Maybe, yeah.”

“Come on Friday. We play on Friday. Come at four in the afternoon. We start playing at five. You could sweep up, get drinks for the guys.”

“That’s not what I want,” Eugene said.

“What then? You want to rob the game?” Mr. Natale stood up and tousled Eugene’s hair. “Gimp’s gonna rob my game. Should be good. You wanna sweep up, you could do that. Rob it?—Hell, why not? Give it a shot, kid. I’d be entertained.”

Hyun the Numbers Runner said something in Chinese.

“Get a load of this fuck,” Mr. Natale said, cocking a thumb at Hyun. Mr. Natale walked back to the table and sat down.

Eugene didn’t know what to do. He didn’t even know if there was anything to rob. There must have been, though. A safe in the room. A box of cash. A package. Something. He was going to miss his chance. He took out the gun, almost fumbled it out of his grip, and aimed it at Mr. Natale. His hand was shaking. “I want the money.”

Mr. Natale doubled over on the table. He was laughing so hard that the room seemed to be rattling. The Russian took out a gun that looked like it did other things too and fixed it on Eugene. So did Hockey Head. “Put your guns down,” Mr. Natale said to the Russian and Hockey Head. “This shit’s too good. For real he wants to rob my game. The balls on this gimp.”

The Russian lowered his gun and held it across his crotch. Hockey Head put his gun on the table.

Eugene was shaking.

Mr. Natale said, “Get the camera. Someone. The instant camera. We need a picture of this kid.”

Hockey Head leaned down and went through a cardboard box on the floor. He took out a throwaway camera wrapped in plastic. He ripped open the plastic and took a picture from his knees of Eugene holding the gun. “Flash didn’t work,” he said.

“Press the button,” the Russian said.

Hockey Head pushed a black button on the front of the camera and took another picture. “That one’s good, I think.”

“I’m being serious,” Eugene said.

“You got a list of demands?” Mr. Natale said.

“Helicopter ride over the city?” the Russian said. “New Xbox?”

“I want the money?” Eugene said, turning it into a question.

“You’re asking me if you want the money?” Mr. Natale said. “This gimp’s too cute. Take another picture.”

Hockey Head snapped another one.

Eugene said, “Stop calling me gimp. Stop taking my picture.”

“This kid’s too much.” Mr. Natale stood up and put his arms out. “Come over here, kid. Give me a hug. I got a lot of respect for you. You got balls.”

“Give me the money.” Eugene turned the gun sideways.

“Look at this. Holds it like a
mulignan
now.”

“The money.”

“What money, kid?”

“The card game money.”

Sweat said, “Yeah, the card game money.”

“Look,” Mr. Natale said, “the fat one talks.” He paused. “There’s no money right now. You come back Friday, you try to hold us up then, how about that?”

Eugene knew he couldn’t hesitate. He squeezed off a shot and the bullet went in right above the Yankee insignia on Mr. Natale’s jersey. Mr. Natale put a hand on his chest and fell back into his seat. Blood started to blossom out around his hand. The Russian and Hockey Head looked at each other like maybe this was a hoax. Hyun had hit the floor at the crack of the gun and covered his head with his hands.

“Holy shit,” Sweat said.

The Russian lifted his gun and leveled it at Eugene.

Hockey Head picked his up and fired at Sweat in one motion. Sweat didn’t have time. He got hit in the throat and went down, squealing, blood erupting over the collar of his shirt. Hockey Head turned with his gun to Eugene. Sweat was twisting around on the floor, coughing blood-coming-up sounds.

Eugene pissed himself and felt it hot down the side of his leg.

“Very big mistake,” the Russian said. He fired, and Eugene dove toward Sweat, managing to hold onto his gun. Hockey Head got a shot off across the table. Eugene tried to use Sweat as a shield. Bullets whizzed by them. One caught Sweat in the knee. He saw Sweat’s eyes and they looked empty.

Eugene fired twice over Sweat and missed the Russian but hit Hockey Head in the arm. Then he got up and made a break for the hallway. Shots crackled in the walls around him. He was little enough that they were having trouble hitting him. The Gravy Stirrer was in front of him now, and Eugene busted a shot into his gut. The Gravy Stirrer crumbled to the floor, his hairy shoulders thumping against the linoleum. Eugene skirted him and took off out the front door, dragging his leg.