Tough Luck (14 page)

“What the hell’s going on here?” her father asked.

Rhonda rushed to her father and stood next to him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” her father said to Mickey.

“He just came in,” Rhonda said, crying. “He wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t leave!”

“That’s not true,” Mickey said, “I just—”

Rhonda’s father grabbed Mickey’s arm near the shoulder and pulled him toward the door. Her father wasn’t a big man—he was several inches shorter than Mickey and probably about ten pounds lighter. Mickey stopped, a few feet in front of the door, and her father couldn’t pull him any farther.

“Get out of here, you son of a bitch, or I’ll call the police,” her father said.

“This is just a misunderstanding,” Mickey said. “I was just trying to talk to her when the vase broke—”

“I don’t give a shit what happened, I want you out of my house right now!”

He yanked on Mickey’s arm again. Mickey wouldn’t budge and her father was pulling the sleeve of his shirt, stretching the collar, twisting Mickey awkwardly. Mickey pushed him back, trying to get free, and then her father pushed his open hand into Mickey’s neck. Mickey had a sudden gagging sensation then he cocked his fist.

“Don’t!” Rhonda shouted.

Mickey lowered his fist, realizing what he had almost done.

“I didn’t mean that,” Mickey said to Rhonda. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

Rhonda was crying again. Mickey knew it was too late. Whatever he said now would come out all wrong.

Rhonda’s father said, “Just get the hell out of here right now before I call the police!”

Mickey looked at Rhonda. She ran into another room. Mickey turned and walked slowly out of the house as the door slammed behind him.

16

THE NEXT MORNING at work, Mickey called Rhonda every fifteen minutes or so, but the line was constantly busy. Finally, at around one o’clock, he reached the answering machine.

“Rhonda, I hope you’re listening to this message. Rhonda, it’s Mickey. Look, I’m sorry, okay? I wish you could understand how sorry I am. Please, try to understand. It was just because of my father, I think. It’s just been really rough on me, you know, and now I found out my best friend is dead too. He was shot and . . . Look, I know that’s no excuse for doing what I did, but I’m just asking you to call me, just to talk, okay? You’re all I have right now and I can’t lose you too. And if Rhonda’s father or stepmother are listening to this, I want you to both know that I’m sorry from the bottom of my heart. Please call me, Rhonda, okay? Please.”

The rest of the day, Mickey continued to take breaks, calling his answering machine to see if Rhonda had returned his call. She hadn’t. After work, he went to meet Artie at the bookie joint to make a payment on his debt. He turned onto Kings Highway and saw Angelo Santoro walking along the sidewalk toward East Twenty-seventh Street. Angelo looked nothing like he usually did. He was wearing jeans and a navy blue hooded sweatshirt, his face all scruffy. Mickey tried to pull over but a van was riding his tail and he had to make a right onto Bedford Avenue. He went around the block and turned back onto Kings Highway on Twenty-fourth Street. He drove slowly, looking around in every direction, but Angelo was gone.

“SORRY I COULDN’T make your old man’s wake, how was it?” Artie said.

Mickey was sitting next to Artie at a bridge table in the corner of the bookie joint. There were about twenty other people crammed into the room, sitting at the other tables or walking around.
Racing Forms
, betting slips, and partially eaten doughnuts and bagels were spread around the tables.

“Only a few people showed,” Mickey said.

“Shit,” Artie said, looking up from a
Lawton
, the tip sheet he was reading. “If I’da known I—”

“It’s all right,” Mickey said. “It’s his fault anyway. I mean my father wasn’t exactly the most likable guy in the world.”

“I know what you mean,” Artie said. “I remember I’d try to talk to him at the track sometimes, say, ‘Who do you like in this race?’ or something like that and he’d say, ‘Why, you writing a book?’ I’m not saying that’s such a bad thing, but if a guy asks you who you like you can tell him, I mean even if you’re gonna go off and bet a different horse. It’s just called being polite, you know what I mean?”

“My father sure as hell wasn’t polite,” Mickey said.

“You got that right,” Artie said. “So you cremated him, huh?”

“Yeah,” Mickey said.

“What did you do with the ashes?”

“Dumped ’em at Aqueduct.”

“No shit?” Artie said, smiling. “Maybe I’ll do that, I mean put it in my will. That wouldn’t be so bad, being at the racetrack forever. Beats the hell out of rotting in some cemetery in butt fuck. But I wouldn’t wanna be at Aqueduct. I’d like to be at some classy racetrack, you know? Maybe Saratoga or one of those French tracks. You know, with all that nice green grass.”

Mickey coughed. “I better get out of here,” he said, “before I catch cancer.”

Mickey took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Artie. Inside the envelope were two hundred dollars in twenties and tens. Mickey had taken some money from the register at work earlier in the day; the rest had come out of his paycheck.

Artie, looking at
Lawton
again, took the envelope from Mickey quickly and put it right in his pocket without opening it. The bookie joint wasn’t Artie’s turf and he didn’t want anyone to see him collecting money here.

“Look at this,” Artie said, “
Lawton
had four fuckin’ winners today, one of them was a ninety-dollar horse. But you know if you bought this sheet this morning and played all the picks, you wouldn’ta had one winner. When was the last time you heard somebody say, ‘I swept the card today, it was a good thing I used
Lawton
?’ ”

Artie ripped up the
Lawton
sheet and tossed the pieces onto the table in front of him.

Mickey said, “I remember what I wanted to ask you. It’s about Angelo Santoro . . .”

“The mobster who can’t pick a winner at football,” Artie said.

“I know he can’t pick a winner but I don’t know about the first part.”

“What do you mean?” Artie said. “I thought you said you found out he was legit.”

“He paid me the money,” Mickey lied, “but I still don’t know if he’s in the mob. I remember you said you could ask around, maybe somebody heard of him.”

“What do you care if he’s in the mob or not?” Artie said. “I mean let’s say it
was
all a scam. What difference is that gonna make to you? You got suckered any way you look at it.”

“Whatever,” Mickey said. “I just thought if you knew somebody and you could find something out I’d be curious to know. It’s no big deal.”

“All right, I’ll ask around,” Artie said. “See what I can come up with.”

“Thanks,” Mickey said. He got up to leave.

“Hey, who you like tonight?” Artie asked.

“Like?” Mickey said.

“Jets or Dolphins?”

“I don’t like anybody,” Mickey said.

“Smart man,” Artie said. “Smart man.”

WHEN MICKEY CAME home there was one message on his answering machine. Mickey closed his eyes as he pressed PLAY, hoping to hear Rhonda’s voice, but the message was from Mrs. Turner. Last night, Mrs. Turner had called to let Mickey know that Chris’s funeral would be held on Wednesday morning, and Mickey couldn’t understand why she had called again tonight.

After pacing his apartment awhile, Mickey returned the call.

“Hi, it’s Mickey.”

“Mickey,” Mrs. Turner said, sounding strange. Mickey couldn’t tell if his call had woken her up or if she’d been drinking.

“You left a message for me,” Mickey said.

“I did?” she said. “Oh, yeah, I did. It’s about Chris—you know you were his best friend, don’t you? Chris loved you, he really really loved you, Mickey, and I think you should say somethin’ at the funeral.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Mickey said.

“Why not?” she said, suddenly talking louder, almost yelling. Now Mickey was sure she was drunk. “One of Chris’s friends’s gotta say somethin’ and I don’t know who else to ask. I never liked Filippo and I don’t know his other friends too well. You gotta do it, Mickey.”

“All right,” Mickey said. “I mean if you want me to.”

Mickey wanted to hang up but Mrs. Turner said, “You heard that crap they’re saying, didn’t you?”

“Crap?” Mickey said.

“That Chris was robbin’ a house,” Mrs. Turner said.

“Oh yeah,” Mickey said. “That’s what the detectives told me.”

“I don’t believe it for a second,” Mrs. Turner said. “I know Chris had problems, but he wouldn’t rob a house. Not my Chrissy.”

“I’m sure the police’ll find out what happened eventually,” Mickey said.

“They better,” Mrs. Turner said. “If I just knew what happened it’d make it so much easier. It’s all the not knowing that’s killin’ me.”

MICKEY AND CHARLIE were laying out the fresh fish on the ice when Francesca, an old Puerto Rican woman, came into the store. Francesca was a regular at Vincent’s, coming in every Tuesday to buy a week’s worth of fish for her family.

“I got this one,” Mickey said to Charlie. Then he said, “How ya doin’, Francesca? What can I get for you today?”

“What’s fresh?” the old woman asked.

“Fluke’s good,” Mickey said. “We also got some really nice striped bass. Twenty-pounders.”

Francesca ordered a pound of fluke, a pound of striped bass, a pound of porgies, and a half each of shrimp, mussels, and clams. As Mickey filled the order Francesca told him about how her grandson Steven had just been accepted to college at Brown. The order came to a little over forty-two dollars.

“Let’s call it forty-two even,” Mickey said.

Francesca gave Mickey exact change. Mickey saw that Charlie was busy, laying out fish, and Mickey opened the register and closed it, keeping the money in his hand.

“Have a great day,” Mickey said.

During the rest of the day, Mickey stole another sixty-four dollars. At six-thirty, Harry returned to the store and checked the day’s receipts. Mickey was cleaning up the front of the store, getting ready to close, and Charlie was cleaning in the back.

“Another slow day, huh?” Harry said.

“Yeah,” Mickey said, continuing mopping, not looking up.

“I wonder why that is,” Harry said. “I mean the weather’s been good.”

“Probably just one of those things,” Mickey said.

On the way home, Mickey stopped at the supermarket and bought groceries with some of the money he’d stolen. Walking up Avenue K, carrying the paper shopping bags, Mickey spotted a car from a driving school, with a triangle-shaped advertisement on its roof; it reminded him of how Rhonda had said that she wanted him to teach her how to drive sometime.

When Mickey got home his appetite was gone, so he went into his father’s room and continued cleaning out the closet and drawers. He took the filled garbage bags out to the curb, making several trips.

At around seven-thirty, Mickey called Artie.

“Gotta hang up on you,” Artie said. “People are trying to call for the Knicks.”

“I just wanted to see if you found out anything about Angelo Santoro,” Mickey said.

“Oh yeah,” Artie said. “I talked to a guy I know’s connected. Like I thought, he said there’s no Angelo Santoro in the Colombo family. The only Santoro he’s heard of is Salvadore Santoro in the Lucchese family.”

“Is he sure?” Mickey said.

“I’m just telling you what he told me,” Artie said. “Maybe Angelo’s in another family—Gambino, Bonanno. Or maybe I was right and he was putting one over on you. Lemme go, people’re trying to get through.”

Mickey slammed down the phone. Later, he started working on a speech for Chris’s funeral. He kept writing sentences, crossing them out, and starting over again. Finally, he tore the paper into pieces, deciding he would just have to wing it.

17

WEARING THE SAME outfit he’d worn to his father’s wake, Mickey arrived at the Guarino Funeral Home on Flatlands Avenue. A woman at the door directed Mickey to a room in the back where people for the Chris Turner funeral were gathering.

There seemed to be at least fifty people standing around, talking. Mickey saw Chris’s mother, crying as some other woman was consoling her; then Mickey spotted Chris’s father, on the other side of the room. Mickey hadn’t seen Mr. Turner in years and he was a little surprised to see him at the funeral. Mickey didn’t think Mrs. Turner had stayed in touch with him.

Mr. Turner made eye contact with Mickey, and Mickey went over to say hi.

“Mickey, hey, look at you,” Mr. Turner said, putting his arm around Mickey’s back. “You’re what, a foot taller than me now?”

Mr. Turner had lost more of his hair and the rest of it had turned gray; otherwise, he hadn’t changed much. He was about Chris’s height and he looked a lot like Chris, especially around the mouth and eyes.

“I’m really sorry,” Mickey said.

“Thanks, Mick, I appreciate that. I just wish I was around more these past few years. I wish I knew him better, you know?”

Mickey wanted to say, If you wanted to know him better maybe you shouldn’t’ve run off and left him with an alcoholic to raise him. Instead he said, “I know Chris didn’t have any hard feelings about it.”

“You mean that?” Mr. Turner said.

“Yeah, he talked about you all the time,” Mickey lied. “He was always talking about all the good times he had with you when he was growing up.”

“Yeah, we did have a lot of good times, didn’t we?” Mr. Turner said, managing a smile.

As Mickey and Mr. Turner talked about their memories of Chris, Mickey noticed Ralph, Filippo, and Donna, standing near the entrance to the room. Donna noticed Mickey first then Ralph looked in Mickey’s direction. Ralph and Mickey stared at each other for maybe a second, then Ralph turned away and Mickey shifted his attention back toward Mr. Turner.

Mickey was hardly paying attention as Mr. Turner went on about the times he drove Chris and Mickey to Little League baseball games and to play in the video arcade at Kings Plaza. Finally someone came over to pay their respects to Mr. Turner, and Mickey was able to slip away.

Mickey went over to Mrs. Turner—smelling alcohol on her breath as he kissed her—and told her how sorry he was. Then he left the room and went down the hallway to use the bathroom.

On the way out of the bathroom, a girl’s voice said, “Hey, Mickey.”

Mickey looked over and saw Donna standing off to the side. Mickey had never spoken to Donna before and he was surprised she knew his name.

“Come here a second,” she said, waving Mickey into a room off the hallway.

Mickey looked around and didn’t see Filippo, Ralph, or anyone else who might be watching, and then he followed Donna.

It was hard to believe Donna was only sixteen. She looked thirty, in a tight low-cut black dress with her cleavage pushing out. Her hair was big and frizzy, spreading out in every direction, and she reeked of perfume. She was wearing so much makeup it was hard to tell what her face looked like underneath.

Mickey remembered how good Rhonda always looked, wearing hardly any makeup.

“I gotta ask you somethin’ about Chris,” Donna said.

“What?” Mickey asked. He really didn’t feel like talking to her or anyone.

“Do you know what happened to him?” she asked.

Mickey hesitated, wondering if Filippo had told her anything about the robbery. He was dumb enough to do something like that.

“No,” Mickey said. “All I know is he was shot in some house in Manhattan Beach.”

“The police talked to you?” Donna asked.

“Yeah,” Mickey said. “I mean just to ask me if I knew anything, but I said I didn’t. Why?”

“Just curious,” Donna said. “You were friends with Chris, right? I mean like
good
friends.”

“Yeah,” Mickey said.

“Did you see him that night?”

“No,” Mickey said. “I was home watching TV.”

“Filippo said he was by Ralph’s watchin’ pornos. I don’t know if I believe him or not. I mean I believe he watches pornos, but I don’t know if I believe he was watchin’ pornos that night.”

“Why not?” Mickey asked. “I mean, why would he lie to you?”

“I don’t know,” Donna said. “It’s just . . . I just wanted to see if you knew something, something Filippo didn’t tell me, but I guess you don’t know nothin’ else, huh?”

“Sorry,” Mickey said.

“Thanks, anyway,” Donna said, then she smiled at Mickey, looking at him up and down. “You look pretty good all dressed up, you know?”

“Thanks,” Mickey said.

“I don’t know what’s goin’ on with me and Filippo,” she said, “but maybe you wanna come over to my house sometime just to, you know, hang out.”

Donna gave Mickey another sexy smile.

“Maybe,” Mickey said, thinking about Rhonda again.

“You better go out before me,” Donna said. “Filippo’ll get mad if he knows I was talkin’ to you.”

Mickey left the room and saw that people had started to file into the chapel, where the service was going to be held. Mickey took a seat in the second row, by the aisle, so he could get up easily when he was called to make his speech.

First the funeral director spoke. Although the old, pale, gray-haired guy knew a lot of details about Chris’s life— when he was born, what schools he went to, his parents’ names—it was obvious he didn’t really
know
Chris, and he kept looking down at an index card while he was talking, squinting to see the words on it.

When the funeral director finished, Chris’s cousin Joey went up to the podium and told stories about some of the good times he and Chris had growing up. The stories made people cry. Mickey was crying too, thinking about what Mrs. Turner had told him, how “the not knowing” was killing her. For years, after Mickey’s mother was killed in the hit and run, Mickey had wondered who the driver was. Sometimes, when Mickey was riding in the backseat of his father’s car, he’d look at the drivers of other cars they passed and wonder if he or she were the one.

Mickey’s turn came to speak and his mouth was suddenly dry. Except for a few times in school, he had never spoken to a group of people before, and he felt like everyone who was staring at him knew the truth, that he had been with Chris the night Chris was killed and that he’d lied to the police. Mickey started talking, but he didn’t know what he was saying. He knew he meant to talk about how Chris was his best friend and could always make him laugh and how much he was going to miss him, but all his words and sentences came out jumbled and he wasn’t sure he was making any sense. A few times, he couldn’t hear himself talk and the faces of the people in the audience seemed to turn white. Mickey ended his speech by saying something about how much Chris loved his parents. Then he said, “Thank you,” and left the podium, feeling dazed and unsteady on his feet. As he sat down, he was surprised to notice several people in the front rows crying, blowing their noses into tissues. Mrs. Turner, sitting in front of Mickey, turned around and squeezed Mickey’s hand and whispered, “Thank you.” Then Mickey looked to his left, and Mr. Turner winked at him and smiled. Mickey decided he probably hadn’t done as badly as he’d thought.

The funeral ended and people filed out of the chapel, the front rows emptying first. As Mickey passed Ralph and Filippo he glanced in their direction, but they were looking away. Donna looked at Mickey, though, and smiled. Her eyes were bloodshot and her mascara was running from crying.

It was after eleven-thirty. Mickey had to be at work by noon, which was fine with him. He definitely wasn’t in the mood to go to a cemetery.