Queens Noir (25 page)

"You comin' back here, Paulie? Huh?" I center the Colt on
his forehead. "Because if you do, I'm gonna personally serve
you with the only order of protection that really matters."

But my words don't penetrate the wall of his obsession,
and Paulie responds by listing his grievances. Although he
once made forty bucks an hour working the high steel at
construction sites, Joanna spent every penny and more. She openly flirted with men, even with family members, even in
his presence. She not only refused to cook, clean, or do laundry, she wouldn't lift a finger to augment the work of a weekly
housekeeper. Worst of all, though she'd known how much he
wanted children, she'd had an abortion without his permission or knowledge.

Nice, right? But not relevant. I lower the Colt and shake
my head. "Shut up for a minute, Paulie." When he quiets down,
I continue: "Look, I don't like Joanna either. But I handle it
by avoiding her as much as possible. Whereas you, Paulie, you
keep comin' back. What's the point? You can't win."

I squat down about six feet away and lean against the
front door. While it's nearly 6 o'clock and the sun has dropped
behind the house, the air is still warm enough to caress my
neck and face. From down the block, I hear children arguing,
the echoing clang of a basketball against a hoop. "What's the
point?" I repeat.

Paulie strips off his T-shirt, wads it up, and presses it to his
mouth. "I can't let her go."

"Why not, Paulie? It's not like she's the only game in
town."

"I know she loves me, Jill. The letters she wrote ... She
always said she loved me."

"The letters were a setup. You understand that? Joanna
doesn't love you because she doesn't love anybody except herself." When he doesn't respond, I push his buttons again. "Joanna was your punching bag for eight years. You can't get her
back. You'll never get her back. I'll kill you first."

After a moment, Paulie opens up. "I don't understand
it," he admits. "When I was with my counselor or with Father O'Neill, it always seemed easy. Turn my back, start over,
there's a new life right around the corner. But at night, af ter the final count, Joanna would march into my brain like a
storm trooper. It was an invasion, Jill. I'd try to throw her out,
think about something else, but she stuck to me like a leech.
You ever get so mad you felt as if you were gonna fly apart?"

"Recently, Paulie. In fact, just this afternoon, when I saw
what you did to Joanna's face."

He pulls the T-shirt away from his mouth and stares down
at his own blood. "Something's wrong with me," he says, "and
I can't fix it. When I think about losing Joanna, I feel like my
heart's gonna fall out." He probes his ribs, as if checking for
leaks. "I came here yesterday sure that Joanna really wanted
me back. I thought she was gonna give me another chance.
When she wouldn't let me in the house, I was just blown out
of the water. I asked her about the letters, what she'd written,
and she told me she wrote them because she was bored. She
said, `I shouldn't have done it. Like I'm sorry, all right?' Jill, I
went nuts. I couldn't help it."

Any sympathy I might have felt dropped away with the
last bit: I couldn't help it. That's what all the wife beaters say. I
couldn't help it. She made me do it. It's not my fault.

"There's still a way out, Paulie. Go to your parole officer,
tell him what you just told me, get yourself violated. That way
you'll have some time to think it over." I'm wasting my breath.
I can see it in his eyes, see the pain marching back through a
hundred lifetimes.

After a struggle, Paulie manages to stand upright. He
limps across the yard, through the gate, and out into the
street. When he releases the gate, it snaps back into place so
hard the fence quivers on either side. "I came," he calls back
over his shoulder, "to tell Joanna how sorry I am. I came to
make it up to her."

Joanna comes down at 6 o'clock to throw a pair of frozen dinners into the oven. She's wearing navy slacks over a pale blue
top, an outfit that not only complements her jewelry and her
eyes, but the sheen in her inky-black hair. She keeps her back
to me as she unwraps the dinners and sets the timer on the
stove. "You want a drink?" she asks.

"I want," I tell her, "to get so drunk I aspirate my own
vomit."

"Does that mean yes?"

"It means no."

She fixes herself a stiff one, three fingers of Wild Turkey
and a splash of ginger ale. "Are you gonna tell Uncle Mike
about the letters?"

"He doesn't know?" It's the first time Joanna has ever surprised me. Before this moment, I'd always assumed that her
brain and body were equally free of angles.

"Uh-uh."

"Tell me why you wrote him, Joanna, if Uncle Mike didn't
ask you to. Make me understand."

"I don't know. Paulie sent me a couple of letters and, like,
I was bored."

"Then why'd Uncle Mike secure the house? If he didn't
know about the letters?"

"Uncle Mike knows about some of Paulie's letters because
I showed them to him."

"But not all of them?"

"Not the ones that said about me writing back."

"And if he finds out, he'll make you wish you were still living with Paulie. That about right?"

Joanna's crimson lips fold into a childish pout. The effect
is nearly pornographic. "I'm not like you, Jill. You can't expect
other women to be like you."

"Yeah? Well, answer me this, Joanna. How come Uncle
Mike didn't arrange for your protection before Paulie knocked
on the door yesterday? How come he waited until after you
took a beating? You think maybe he used you to set Paulie up?
Or do you think he forgot to check his calendar?"

That night, long after Joanna has gone to bed, I'm lying awake
on the living room couch. I'm not worried about Paulie getting past me. By the time he breaks through the door, I'll be
ready. No, it's Joanna who keeps me awake, Joanna and Michael Xavier Kelly.

I slip into a T-shirt and jeans, then walk out onto the
porch. The quiet eases over me, comfortable as an old sweater,
the one you only wear in the house. A few fireflies, the first of
the year, dance above the lawn, and I can smell, very faintly,
the lilacs blooming in a neighbor's yard. There are no nightclubs in College Point, no theaters, no after-hours bars. The
locals are committed to work and church, to the small, neat
yards that surround their small, carefully maintained homes.
There's not a lit window anywhere.

A few blocks away, MacNeil Park leans out into the East
River. I ate more than a few meals in the park when I was stationed at the 109. I liked the sullen odor of the sea on summer
nights and the slap of the waves against the bulkhead. The
view, on the other hand, is less than spectacular. No glittering skyline. No ladder of bridges. Across the river, the South
Bronx is a jumble of low-rise warehouses and isolated tenements. To the left, the many jails of Rikers Island rise into the
night. They do glitter, those jails, because the lights are on
24/7. But they somehow lack the panache of Manhattan.

Suddenly I find myself wondering what, if anything, Joanna
feels when she undresses for Uncle Mike. Does she pretend she's somewhere else? With someone else? Uncle Mike is past
sixty and Joanna's still four years short of thirty.

Maybe, I think, I've got it all wrong. Maybe she basks in
his approval. Maybe she can see it all in his eyes: admiration,
gratitude, even worship. Maybe she likes what she sees.

But what I can't imagine is Joanna being aroused in any
way, and I know that sex is a chore that brings out the actress
in her. I know that she squeals in the right places, urges him
on, groans with delight, screams when he comes. And then
she defends herself by saying, I can't be like you, Jill.

So what am I gonna do? I'm as bad as Paulie now. I can't
get Joanna Kelly out of my mind.

I fall asleep somewhere in the early morning hours and
wake up at 8 o'clock when Joanna comes down. She's wearing
a gray terry cloth robe and plaid, down-at-the-heels slippers.
No makeup, no jewelry. Maybe this means she's in a sober
mood. For her sake, I hope so.

Without a word, I rise, head upstairs to the bathroom.
When I come back down, Joanna's sitting with her elbows
on the table and her chin cupped in her palms. Her eyes flick
toward me, then back to the tabletop. "What a mess," she
announces.

The coffeemaker emits a final burst of steam, then goes
quiet. I fumble through the cabinets until I find cups and saucers, spoons, and sugar, then set the table. Joanna leans back
in the chair and crosses her legs.

"You think about what I told you last night?" I ask as I fill
the cups. "That Uncle Mike's risking your life? Because one of
these times, Paulie's gonna come to kill you. It's just pure luck
that it didn't happen the last time."

"Well, that's what I mean," Joanna explains, "it's gotta
stop."

"Maybe it's gotta stop," I say, letting the words drop like
wet sponges into a dirty sink, "but I'm not gonna be the one
to stop it."

Joanna nods, as if at something she figured out a long time
ago. "Tell me what to do."

I reach down into my pocket for Uncle Mike's throwaway
and Joanna's .32. I put the throwaway on the table, then eject
the .32's magazine and the round in the chamber. Finally, I
hold up the .32.

"Did Uncle Mike give you this weapon?"

"Yeah, for protection."

"He show you how to use it?"

She takes the .32 from my hand, grasping the butt with
two fingers like the weapon is a shit-filled diaper she wants to
be rid of in a hurry. "First, you push this thingy here ..."

Suddenly, I'm tempted to reach across the table, grab a
handful of Joanna's hair, slam my fist into her mouth. Suddenly, I'm Paulie Malone.

"Jill?" Joanna's lower jaw is hanging open. "It scares me
when your face gets like that."

"Yeah." I force my shoulders down, take a deep breath.
"I was just trying to demonstrate what happens when you get
emotional." I press the automatic's grip into her palm, force
her to grab the handle, flip the safety, curl her index finger
through the trigger guard. "I scared you, right?"

"Yeah," she admits.

"Good. Now point the gun at the center of my chest."

"What?"

"Do it, Joanna. Point the gun at the center of my chest
and pull the trigger."

She wouldn't be Joanna if her hand didn't tremble, if she
didn't say in her precious little-girl voice, "Jill, I can't."

"You better. Because if you don't, I'm gonna kick your
Slinky ass from one end of the house to the other."

Joanna's pupils go flat, as if they've suddenly decided to
absorb instead of reflect light. Her mouth tightens into a sneer
and she yanks on the trigger.

Clack.

The principle established, I take the .32 back and hold it
up for her inspection. "Now, this gun, it's really small, Joanna.
That's good because it won't jump out of your hand when
you pull the trigger." My goal is to keep it simple, and I wait
until she nods her head. "But it's bad, too, because one shot
won't necessarily stop a grown man. So what you have to do is
center the gun on Paulie's chest and keep pulling the trigger
until it's empty."

"How will I know that? I mean, when it's empty?"

I consider this for a moment, then say, "Put the gun in
your mouth and give it one last pull. If you're still alive, it's
empty."

"Very funny." Joanna glances down at her hands. Her
mouth works for a moment, before she speaks. "You really
think I can do this, Jill?"

"Tell you the truth, Joanna, I don't see as you have a lot of
choice. But you might wanna think about this: If Joanna Kelly
shoots Paulie Malone, Uncle Mike's never gonna be sure that
at some point Joanna Kelly won't shoot Uncle Mike. It's an
edge you can use to your advantage."

Joanna thinks it over, then says, "Now I know why they
call you Crazy Jill."

I ignore the comment. "Two things to remember. First,
this gun with the tape on it? Put it somewhere close to Paulie's
hand. Second, call Uncle Mike. Not 911. Uncle Mike."

She looks at me for a second, then mutters, "Uh-huh."

"Now, I'm going outside to sit in the sun before it gets too
hot. If Paulie shows up, I'm not gonna stop him. I'm not even
gonna slow him down."

Joanna's tongue slides over her lips. She raises her hand
and flicks her fingers in a little wave. As I open the door, she
finds her voice. "Jill," she says, breaking into a heartfelt smile,
"I just want you to know. If I ever decided to go to bed with a
woman, I'd pick you."

I expect Paulie to charge up the walk, but when he comes
through the gate he's limping noticeably and his swollen
mouth is the color and texture of chocolate cookie dough.
Still, his features are twisted with rage and the sledgehammer
he grips with his right hand makes his intentions abundantly
clear.