Picture Perfect (3 page)

He had been watching TV, his thoughts on Lenny Lombardi, who, Cudge knew, would soon be pounding on the door, demanding repayment of the borrowed fifty dollars. There was a crap game in the neighborhood tonight and Lenny would want to sit in well heeled. Little bastard. He didn't need the fifty. Lombardi got more than he could spend from his drug-dealing racket. It was only pot, none of the big stuff, because he didn't want trouble with the syndicate. Still, Lombardi made more in a week than Balog would see in a month of breaking his ass on construction jobs.

Cudge's short, thick fingers dug into the threadbare fabric covering the chair. Pressure crowded the back of his brain, driving his squarish head into his neck as his powerful shoulders hunched to bear the weight. Soon, he knew, the hooves would pound through his skull—an unleashed power, irrevocable and ruthless. A dark, hulking shape would break loose from that area of his mind where he kept it penned, under control. Thinking about Lombardi had opened the gate.

As far back as Cudge could remember, the hoofed beast had lived inside his head. As a kid, he'd thought of it as a huge prehistoric monster with a long, arching neck and rows of jagged, fierce teeth. But then, at a summer camp for underprivileged city children, he'd seen a bull. He'd known then, he'd recognized the thick hulking body, the menacing drift of weight. Black, with dagger-sharp horns and fiery snorts of breath. He feared it but, in doing so, he feared a part of himself. When he was provoked and lost control of the gate, it was there—lurking, skulking, ready to burst forth from the recesses of his brain. A pounding, all-powerful force, hooves striking, horns slashing, searching for escape. Finding none, it would stampede wildly, smashing his reserve, pulverizing his restraint, compelling and dominating him until he
became
it.

Some said it was temper. Cudge knew better. It was the bull.

Brenda Kopec—or Elva St. John as she preferred to be called—sat on the lumpy daybed, her back against the wall. Her attention was riveted on the man in front of the television. She watched his profile with feral alertness, knowing he was a firecracker about to go off.

The instant Cudge had turned on the TV, she'd immediately lowered the volume of her small cassette player and jammed the earphones onto her head. Elva knew the words to Elvis Presley's “Blue Suede Shoes” by heart, but she wanted to hear the song from beginning to end. As her foot tapped to the rhythm, the scowl on Balog's face deepened. Elva knew he wasn't really watching the TV. She'd known that from the minute he had turned it on. He was thinking about that little rat-faced Lenny Lombardi. Cudge was mad and getting madder by the minute.

As though feeling her eyes on him, Balog turned and glared at her. His square, snub-nosed face registered contempt. Veins swelled in his short, thick neck. With a speed that belied his bulk, he tore the earphones from her head; when she grappled for them, he struck her. Hard.

Elva brought up her arms defensively. “Why'd you do that?” she whined. If she cried, Cudge would hit her again.

“ 'Cause you're breathin'. Shut that damn thing off and sit still. I'm trying to watch TV.”

“No, you're not. Anyway, you've seen that one before. It's the one where—” Instantly, she was sorry she'd opened her mouth. Cudge sent her another look which made her cower and slip off the end of the daybed.

He stood and loomed over her. “How many times you heard that dumb song, Brenda? Oh, 'scuse me,” he sneered at her, “you wanna be called Elva now. In honor of Elvis Presley. Well, he's dead and you're nothin' but a dummy. Say it, Elva—you ain't nothin' but a dummy.”

Elva swallowed hard. The side of her head smarted from the blow. She knew better than to argue with Cudge. “So, okay, I'm a dummy.”

“You always get hit because you never know when to shut up.” His words were accusing, placing the blame for his actions on her. “Now, shut up, if you know what's good for you. Already I missed the first part of the show.”

Righting herself, cautious to stay out of his reach, Elva put the cassette player in the paper shopping bag on the floor beside her, where she kept all her meager possessions. If Cudge decided they were moving on, he wouldn't give her five minutes to get her gear together. Wishing she were invisible, she settled herself again on the worn daybed. She wanted to cry. She wanted to run. But she never would. Cudge scared her sometimes, but the outside world scared her more. At least Cudge took care of her. Sometimes he wasn't so bad, she told herself. Once he'd bought her a purple scarf, and he often took her to the movies. Every Elvis cassette she owned had come from Cudge. So why did she take such pleasure in goading him the way she did? Even when he was raging at her, even when he hit her, there was a small part of her that took abject pleasure in it. Not that she was a pervert, or an S&M freak, or anything like that. No, it was more that she was little and helpless, so it felt good to be able to get a rise out of a hulk like Cudge. It gave her a kind of power, knowing she could set him off anytime she wanted. It made her stronger than him, in some strange way. But Cudge was right—she
was
a dummy. Someone smarter would know how to get a rise out of Cudge and aim it at somebody else. Whenever she set him off, she was bound to get the brunt of it.

Suddenly she felt contrite with tenderness for Cudge. He had his own problems to deal with. And he wasn't so bad, not really. So what if this dumpy room wasn't the Ritz? People like her and Cudge would never make the Ritz. They'd be lucky if they ever saw the inside of a Holiday Inn. She risked a quick, sidelong glance at Cudge to see if he really was watching TV. If he was, she could lean back and relax. She stared at the screen, fearful that any movement would alert Cudge that she was restless or scared. Her toothache was coming back and she wanted to massage her cheek but she was afraid to move.

“Someday I'm gonna get one of those portable satellite dishes so's I can see some really sexy shows,” Cudge said during a commercial.

Elva shrugged.

“Why ain't you sayin' anything?” he demanded irritably.

“You told me to shut up, that's why. I'm a dummy, remember?”

“That's your trouble, you never know when to shut your mouth. Here,” he said, fishing in his pocket for money, “go get us a pizza, and I want the change. And listen—”

“I know, I know—I should tell that guy to put on extra cheese and not charge me for it.”

Cudge laughed. “You really think that old man has the hots for you, don't you? Well, he don't. And if he did, he knows better than to mess with you. Thirty minutes, Elva, and you better be back here handing me my first slice. Don't lose the change!” He laughed again, his flat blue eyes narrowing.

Feeling like a trapped rat, Elva scuttled away. If she ran, she might make it there and back again in thirty minutes. Tony might be nice and give her somebody else's pizza when she told him it was for Cudge. Tony would do that for her, maybe.

Her skinny body bent into the wind, she hurried along the deserted streets of Newark's Ironbound section. The tap of her high heels echoed hollowly off the sleeping, brick-fronted tenements. She was wary, jumping at imagined shadows, at the prowlings of a conspiracy of cats lurking in an alley. Her worn navy parka was warm but it hung loosely on her slight frame. She pulled it higher, burrowing her chin into it against the late October cold.

Just ahead, less than a block away, she saw the dim red halo outlining the storefront of Tony's Pizzeria. She broke into a run, eager to be near the warmth of Tony's ovens and out of the menacing darkness. For an instant she panicked. Pushing her hand deep into the pocket of her parka, she searched for the ten-dollar bill Cudge had given her to pay for the pizza. Torn tissues and gum wrappers tumbled out, were caught in the wind and fell onto the sidewalk. Biting her lower lip, she prayed silently that the ten would magically appear. The last time Cudge had sent her out to buy something, she'd stupidly lost the money and had to go back to face his rage. She gave an audible sigh of relief when her skinny, twitching fingers found the bill. Holding tightly to the money, as though fearful some unseen force might pluck it away, she made a dash for the pizzeria.

The glass-paned door was steamed up, dripping moisture from the heat of the ovens meeting the cold outside. Throwing her weight against it, she entered into the light and warmth of the restaurant. The jukebox was playing a popular song and Tony, behind the counter, was singing along in his broken English.

“Hey, Elva! Whatcha doin' out so late? Don't y'know li'l girls should be in bed by now? I'm just closin' up. Business, she's bad tonight. Every Monday, it's the same.” His white apron was stained with tomato sauce and the bright overhead lights accentuated the stubble on his jowly face.

“I ain't so little,” she protested shyly. “I told you, I was eighteen last month.”

“Elva, you always gonna be a li'l girl. It make no difference how old you gonna get.” He smiled at her, showing a space between his front teeth.

Elva liked Tony. He was always friendly and he seemed to know instinctively how scared she was of everything and everyone. “Cudge wants a pizza.”

“So? He wants a pizza. I'm just closing up.” Tony saw the dread in her dark eyes. “Why you wait so long? It's late. I've got a family waitin' for me,” he complained, leaning over the counter. “Hey, how's your eye? It's not so nice what he does to you, that guy. Why you wanna stay with him?” His finger touched her cheek just below her left eye where, only last week, she had been black and blue from another of Cudge's beatings. “Poor little thing,” Tony commiserated. “You oughta leave that son of a bitch.” He stared at her, pity in his eyes. “Sure, Elva, for you, anything. What kinda pizza you want?”

 

Cudge heard the door slam as Elva ran out. He really had to hand it to her—when she wanted she could really get that skinny ass of hers moving.

He wished he had a beer. The dull thudding in his head was getting louder; a beer might help. It was a piss-poor world when a man couldn't have a beer. Elva always had her Kool-Aid in the fridge. His sullen mouth turned down. He was starting to hate Elva almost as much as he hated that sticky-sweet, artificial drink. It was getting to be time to rip the rug out from under old Elva. Time to move on and he liked to travel light.

Cudge let his eyes drift back to the blurry picture on the TV. It was an old rerun. Hutch was saying something to Starsky. Now that Starsky was a real man.
Starsky, if you hoot with the owls all night, you won't be able to soar with the eagles in the morning.
Cudge rolled Hutch's words around in his head then said them aloud. He liked the sound and the meaning. He repeated the sentence four times, till he was sure he'd remember it. It was just the kind of thing a guy would say to his best buddy.

A knock sounded and the door opened. “Cudge, you in here?”

Lenny! The thudding in his brain matched the beating of his pulses. He knew it! It'd been a sure bet that as soon as Lenny'd heard about the floating crap game, he'd come looking for that fifty. Some best buddy Lenny was. Lenny Lombardi would pick the gold from a dead man's teeth; he didn't deserve the words Cudge had just heard on the TV. He was a jerk. The whole world was full of jerks.

The muscles in Cudge's neck went into a spasm. He feigned a smile, showing his teeth. “C'mon in, Len. Wanna drink? Elva's got some Kool-Aid in the fridge.” He liked the stupid look on Lenny's face.

“Nah. I didn't come for Kool-Aid. I saw that Olive Oyl old lady of yours runnin' down the street. What did you do? Threaten to beat her again?” Lenny loved to torment Cudge about his uncontrollable temper.

“What's it to you?” Cudge drawled menacingly.

“Nothin'. I come for the bread you owe me. There's a hot crap game and I want to sit in.” Lenny sauntered around the room, hands jammed into his pockets. “Cough it up, I'm in a hurry.”

Cudge's fist tightened. The lone ten-dollar bill in his pants pocket seemed to be burning his leg. He didn't need this cocky little dude with his pointed shoes giving him grief. “I ain't got it.”

Lenny's pinched face flattened. He worked his tongue between the space in his front teeth, making a hissing noise that set Cudge's nerves on edge. “You told me that three weeks ago. Your time ran out, now pay up.”

Cudge laughed, an obscene sound. “I told you I ain't got it. Gimme another week. Christ, Lenny, we been friends for a long time. You gonna blow it all for a lousy fifty bucks?” He watched Lenny keenly.

Lenny looked nervously over his shoulder before turning back to Cudge. It was a habit Cudge found irritating. Always looking away and then back again, diverting his attention, making him look over Lenny's shoulder himself, making him half expect to see someone there.

“Looks like I'm gonna have to take it in trade, old buddy.”

Cudge's mouth tightened. Both hands balled into fists. “Yeah? How?”

“By taking that camper sittin' down at the curb, that's how. And your truck goes with it. Give me the keys. When you come up with the bread, you get it all back. Simple.”

“You ain't taking my rig so get that idea right out of your head. You want collateral, take Elva's cassette player and tapes.”

“Hey, man, I don't want your junk. Just give me the keys to your wheels. I gotta get going if I wanna sit in on the game.”

Cudge's mind raced. The hooves pounded in his brain. Without his truck he'd be sunk, unable to get to the construction sites where he could pick up some money, even though he had to work his balls off just to keep body and soul together. He had to think of something. Think fast. Before the thundering hooves blotted out all reason. Lenny was a sneak, a real bastard, when it came to money. He had to get rid of him somehow.