Man Gone Down (39 page)

I don't say anything. I turn from one to the other, but neither one cracks his expression. Feeney walks past us. KC and Bing Bing suck their teeth in unison. He stops and turns to KC, refusing to make eye contact with me.

“Problem, officer?”

“I ain't the one with a problem, man.”

“You don't have a problem.”

“Not me.” He slowly takes his toothpick out of his mouth and examines it. Feeney turns to Bing Bing and points at him from the hip. The bathroom-to-lunch exodus halts at the door. Chris watches Feeney from behind, nodding, either in some kind of agreement or to the beat
in his headphones. Feeney turns to go, which draws another teeth suck, which makes him turn, shrug his shoulders, and open his arms to us. He finally looks at me, shrugs his shoulders again, and waits. KC and Bing Bing both lean away from me. His eyes follow them.

“You all seem upset. Something I said?”

They both look to me, as if no one else saw my cue to speak.

“What did you say?”

“I don't know. You guys are standing there like you want something—like you want to do something—I don't know. You tell me.”

“What did you call me?”

“What, you're here a day and you're getting in my face?”

“I'm not in your face. I'm standing here asking you a simple question.”

“Simple—oh fuck you. Get the fuck out of here. Go eat, drink—whatever. Think about it, pal.”

I take one step at Feeney and he holds his ground. He's conscious about not moving—not making himself any larger or smaller than he already is.

“Don't get stupid, brother.”

I feel my head cock to one side. My neck pops. It feels right to look at him slanted so I leave it there.

“I just asked you a question.”

“I don't care. Asshole.”

I hear KC suck his teeth again and I remember the scraper in my hand. I drop it at my feet and it lands with a muffled clang in the dust.

“That was your second mistake, fuck.” He curls his lip and slaps his thighs, then closes his hands into loose fists. Nancyboy grabs his shirt, but Feeney knocks his hand away with an exaggerated swipe. “Come on!” He waves me in with both hands. I go.

I want to see if I can still take a punch, so I let him hit me. A right. He's surprised at the ease and so he stops his blow midway. It loses power, focus, and only grazes my cheekbone. Because he misses, he panics a bit, yanks his arm back crazily, and throws again, this time
he lands squarely on my shoulder, forces me back, but I pivot on my right foot and square-up southpaw. A left goes past my ear. I counter right left. Nose and cheek. Blood and snot on him now and my knuckles. He throws a wild right off the top of my head, a weak left that bounces off my wrist to my ear. He doesn't bring it back. I slide inside him. Right hook flush on the jaw. He whinnies and his legs buckle. Johnny wraps him up and walks him back. He's too small and they both almost go down. Feeney finds his legs and tries to break free. Chris gets him from behind, then Dewey—now Feeney can start yelling.

“Son of a bitch! Fuck you cocksuckin' bastard! I'll fuckin' kill you!”

He keeps screaming, his voice on the point of breaking, until they get him to the elevator. I don't know if it was there or if out of my sight he stops, but it's quiet in the loft. KC slides up in front of me, nodding his head in agreement with every one of his thoughts.

“You a crazy man, you know?” He offers me his hand. I take it. He slaps my shoulder with his other hand and then inspects my face for damage. “I think you really fucked him up.” He stops his examination and turns to Bing Bing, who's grinning broadly and nodding, too. “G'wan get de mon's tings na.” Bing Bing rubs his hands together, turns his shuffle into a bounce, and starts looking for my bag. I let go of KC's hand and get my bag myself, which prompts Bing Bing to skate over to the scaffold, get my loose tools and my belt, and rush them back to me.

KC's by the window looking down on Greene.

“I don't see 'em nowheres. I thought they'd take him to cool him out, maybe give you some room to get out, but they gone.” He presses his head against the glass. “I don't even see that little fucker's truck.” He turns, leans back against the window, folds his arms across his chest, and rocks his body at the shoulder from side to side—gathering momentum. A quick blast of air escapes from past his lips. He rocks his head with his body. He looks pained—but it's a smile, trying to
hold back laughter. “You really fucked him up.” He lets it go, bends forward at the waist, and wheezes silently. He straightens, shakes his head once more as though to dispel the feeling, and weakly points a long finger at the doorway.

“You better get going, man.”

Bing Bing tightens the straps on my bag. I shoulder it and start walking. Bing Bing gives me a light slap on the back. KC stays by the window.

“You gotta number man? You in the book?”

“Yeah, sure.” I walk out, stop and turn at the elevator. I knock the button with my knife handle. The light goes on. KC calls from inside.

“Like I said, I get jobs of my own. I call you next one na.”

“Thanks, KC.”

He finally moves out of my view so he doesn't have to watch me wait.

Johnny is outside waiting for me with his hands in his pockets. He looks like a lost kid. He slouches when he sees me, drops his head, and then rolls his eyes up to look at me.

“Qué pasa, professor?”

“What's up, Johnny?”

He tries to smile but stops at kind of a half-grimace. He takes his hands out of his pockets, then stuffs them back.

“Nothing, man, nothing. It's cool. Here.” He pulls out a billfold.

“What's this?”

“Tuesday, yesterday, and today. I owe you. Take it.” I open my hand and he places the bills in them. I put them in my pocket without looking. “I paid you for a full day today.” He looks down again. “I paid you like a lead guy. I wasn't trying to be a dick. I was just trying to get you back into it, you know.”

“Thanks, man.”

“It's cool.”

“Where's your friend?”

He snaps up, spitting. “That fucker ain't my friend.” He checks himself. “Chris took him to St. Vincent's.” He kicks at the curb. “You gotta watch out. He's the type that'll sue you.” He looks at me, perhaps waiting for me to acknowledge his warning, or say something he can understand—an apology, but when I look past him at the people entering and leaving the jeans store, I know that I don't need to apologize for anything. And I feel a surge of adrenaline, greater than when Feeney's fist grazed my face—so large that I feel if Nancyboy looks at me with the slightest bit of malice, I'll backhand him into the street.

He flares his nostrils.

“I gotta go, man.” He points at my hand. “Nice hook.”

He heads north and I take out the money—seven-fifty. I haven't had this much cash on me in years—maybe ever. My first feeling is that I'm rich. I start for the jeans store to get Claire a pair of pants.

The store isn't as posh as I thought it would be—not posh at all, actually. The shelves are painted wood, the jeans are just—jeans. There are tributes to America, splashes of red, white, and blue paint, and actual flags, too, both painted and cloth on the wall, hanging from the ceiling. There's dust, on the wide-plank floor, seemingly in the air. I don't seem out of place here. A slim, pale-faced brunette is leaning against the shelves, looking lost, but not in thought. Her face is blank until she sees me, then she crosses her arms behind her, and smiles. She put on a lot of lipstick today along with low-cut jeans and a short, tight pink T-shirt that's cut an inch above her navel. Her white skin looks a bit goosey.

“Hi, sir, can I help you?”

“I'd like to buy some pants—jeans.”

She tries to keep her smiley-faced sexy innocence going.

“Well, this is the place.”

“Perhaps a sweater as well.”

“We've got some great ones.” She puts her palms on her thighs and bends as though she's about to address a child. “Would you like to see some things?”

“I'd love to.”

“Great, follow me.”

She leads me toward the back of the store, to the great racks of jeans—floor to ceiling—checking a couple of times to make sure I'm still with her.

“This is a gift for . . .”

“My wife. My wife.”

“Great. Do you know her size?”

“Four.”

We stop in the back corner. There are two blown-up photographs: one is of Dylan and the other Jim Morrison. Both are famous shots: Dylan with his Wayfarers and Minnesota afro, looking like he's about to let somebody know just how stupid they really are. The Lizard King arms spread, shirtless, leather pants, like he's auditioning at a cattle call for a bacchanal.

“We have five different styles.”

“I'm sorry?”

“What cut do you think she'd like?” She steps back and frames her jeans with her hands. “These are the Urban Cut.”

“I don't think so.”

“Hmm.” She starts into one of the piles on a shelf. “Classic?”

“Classic?”

She pulls a pair out and models them on an imaginary figure between us. “These are the Classic Cuts. A lot of people like these because they're simple.”

“Perhaps too simple.”

She folds them quickly, in a way I've never been able to master, and slips them back in the pile. “She'll love these.” She reaches up to a higher shelf, pulling her shirt up her ribcage. She has a large birthmark on her spine. She finally gets the pants, turns and unfolds them simultaneously.

“Free and Easy.”

“That's great.”

“Aren't they?”

“Yes.”

“So what else can I help you with?”

“I'll take two.”

“Two pairs. Someone's lucky.”

“Absolutely.”

“Can I find anything else for you today?”

“No, thank you. That will do.”

The two pairs cost $150. I start north with my tool and shopping bag feeling about as good as I can remember feeling in a while. The sun seems to be gathering strength for one last push against the chill. And people of all types line the narrow streets of SoHo—some with tool bags, some with shopping bags, but none with both. Punching Feeney was the best thing I've done for myself in a while. I appreciate the transforming powers of violence. Awake. The air has a new snap to it. The light is sharper, as though some hand has made a small adjustment on my collective focus.

I get a triple espresso from the shop I've been avoiding. It's really not that expensive, after all. The pimply boy at the counter was eager to make it—perhaps even charged me too little, and seemed truly thankful when I dropped a dollar in the tip jar. Outside. North. Shopping bag, tool bag, no lavender spray but tingling knuckles, the notion that I can lick anyone and the anticipation of a solid caffeine high in the afternoon. The streets are crowded, but no one seems particularly busy or in a hurry. They stroll, chat, browse in the windows of the little shops—small inventories, bright paint, and thin women of varying ages and shades. I wonder if the mad Scot still has his little soccer shop up on Eleventh. I make for it, cutting east down Houston toward Second Avenue. This isn't the street I ran down the other night. That road is gone.
Why bother?
Whatever it has to offer has no place here.
Fuck it,
I say at the bottom of Second.
I'll get my boy a shirt if I want to.
I'll get a shirt for both my boys.
Ronaldo! Jogo Bonito!
X wouldn't want one, though. I'll get him a big T. rex model, or one of those fancy picture books—
something like that. And my girl, what? I'm sure I'll know it when I see it. It will speak.

A couple of blocks south of the soccer store I see a narrow shop with a big window, white wainscoting and a few tables, a young woman with a ponytail holding a tray with a teapot. I know I've been in that space before when it was something else. I cross the street, cutting through the lines of stopped cars, and stop at the door to read the menu. I can't really focus on anything—the espresso's kicking in. The ponytail girl turns. Her face is striking: Eurasian, I think is the term that's supposed to describe her. I hesitate at the door. She pushes it open, one handed, and holds it ajar for me.

“Come in.” Her voice is squeaky but not unpleasant. She seems too innocent to be working in the New York City service industry. She couldn't have been here long. She certainly didn't grow up here.

“Come on, we're letting all the weather in.”

Squeaky, pretty—I feel like patting her on the head. I take the door instead. She smiles, wide. No braces for this girl: Her upper left incisor juts out. It must constantly poke her inner lip. I look at the tables to keep from staring at her mouth—one row of birch-ply squares screwed onto simple black tubes with four long feet. They're pushed against a long, tall, blue vinyl banquette. She starts for the counter. I follow.

“Sit,” she says, pointing at the first table. I obey. I stuff my bags under the table and sit on the bench. The tingling that started in my fingers is now more like the presence of a strong pulse, and in between beats they go numb, but not that heavy feeling of frozen or sleeping digits, more like fingers that don't exist. I hold my hands up and tell my fingers to move. They obey, but now they seem with each motion to wave in and out of existence like reeds in a breeze under moonlight, defying sight each time they bend away.

She comes back.

“You look a little sleepy. Are you hungry, too?”

I try my best not to look at her tooth. “I don't think so.”

“Really,” she squeaks. She slides a cream-colored card onto the table. It has indigo writing on it. “You're a big guy,” she points at my tool bag. “You need something to keep you going.”