Skin Games (24 page)

I stood still.

Scrubby turned back and said, “You still there?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re dismissed.”  He waved at Kim behind the bar, “Refill.”

I walked towards the staircase, then descended into the dimly lit hallway.  The dining room was quiet, as usual.  Mario was in his usual seat, a plate of cold antipasto in front of him.  Gucci Mike sat across the table.  When he saw me approaching, Gucci Mike said something quietly to Mario and then got up just as I got to the table.  He didn’t say anything to me but grunted and gestured to the seat he was vacating.

I sat down in the seat.

Mario looked somber.  “I’m sorry to hear about your mother.”

I nodded and my lips kind of curled.  I didn’t mean to mumble, but did anyway as I said, “Thank you.”

“It’s tough losing a loved one.  I’ve been there.  I know.”

“Yes, sir.  I’m sure you have.”

“I’m not incapable of feeling, Shamrock.”

“I’m sure you aren’t.”  I reached into my pocket for Wally McGee’s cash, still rubber banded and neatly folded.  I put it on the table.  “I appreciate your patience on this.  I’m sure you wanted this money sooner.”

He nodded and his nostrils whistled.  “Normally, that’d be true.  I expect to be paid immediately.  I don’t make many exceptions.”

“I appreciate you making one here.”

He didn’t reach for the money.  He seemed to be deep in thought, his lungs continued to sing out as the room was silent.

“You keep that money, Shamrock.”

“Sir?  Are you sure?”

“Use that to bury your mother.  Funerals aren’t cheap, you know.  Trust me.  I’ve paid for more than my share and they cost.”

“Yes, sir.  Of course they do.  But I can’t accept.”

“I insist.  But you’ll earn it.”

“How?”

“First, let’s talk about McGee.”

“Okay.”

“You took Griff with you.”

“Yes, sir.  I’ll pay him out of my end.  You don’t have to worry about him.”

“Money’s not the issue here.  Griff works for my nephew now.”

“Did Scrubby make a beef?”

“Griff belongs to Mike now.  If you want to use him for a job, you have to clear it with him first.  You understand?”

“I’m sorry, sir.  It was my fault.  I should have gone through the proper channels.”

“It’s a disrespect to my nephew.”

“My fault.  Totally my fault.”

“I know you won’t let it happen again.”

“Of course not, sir.  Never again.”

“Good.  I have another job for you.  I see you’re a natural at this stuff.  Got McGee to fess up without a hassle.  No bloodshed.  Not so much as a punch thrown.  A ballbreaking hump like McGee.  That’s impressive.”

“Beginner’s luck.”

“I need you to pay a visit to another late payer.”

“Who?”

“307 LaFayette Street, Apartment 1B.  It’ll be a piece of cake.  In and out in no time.”

I knew the neighborhood.  It was a supermarket for junkies, one-stop shopping.  All you needed in a two-block radius.  Dope, coke, weed, you name it.

“Okay.  I’ll get your money.”

“Good.”  Mario put his hand on mine.  “You’re a good kid, Shamrock.”

I took McGee’s money off the table, put it in my pocket, then I got up and headed upstairs.

Vinny Macho and Tommy Guns had joined Scrubby and Griff at the bar, and the four of them were making quite a ruckus as I passed.  Scrubby was pissed off that the Lakers didn’t cover last night, and Tommy Guns was saying only assholes lay wood with the Lakers.

“Smart money is always on the underdog,” Tommy said as he laughed his ass off and slapped a hundred-dollar bill on the bar.  “I’ll get the drink, you broke ass bitch.”

Scrubby shot me a sideways glare.  Griff pretended not to see me.  I could’ve used Griff to back me up on the job Mario had just given me, but Scrubby wasn’t gonna okay it.  I kept walking on a straight line out of the Cucina and into the BMW.

* *

It was pitch dark by the time I got up to Lafayette Street.  I slowed to a crawl as I looked out the window trying to find an address number on one of the apartments.  They all looked about the same, four to five stories high, dilapidated but not abandoned.  Finally, I saw the number 311, so I pulled to the side of the road and parallel parked.

I had to be crazy, parking Nicole’s BMW there.  Bright red, no less.  It was sure to catch someone’s eye be it a scumbag looking to rob me or a cop figuring I was passing through from the suburbs looking to score some shit.

The trick was to get in and out fast.  The longer I stuck around, the higher the chances of getting spotted by an unfriendly.

I got out of the car and walked quickly towards 307.  I didn’t see a sign, but it had to be two doors down from 311.  Wasn’t hard to figure out.  I glanced both ways, and all seemed clear.  I grabbed my piece from my waistline and discreetly clicked off the safety.  While putting the gun underneath my belt in the front of my body and securing it tightly in place, I looked around again.  There were a couple of kids on the stoop across the street, but they didn’t seem to be paying me any mind.

There was a door to the lobby that was propped open with a crinkled soda can.  I stepped through the door and let it go; the door fell back quickly as its hinges were busted.  The hallway smelled like piss.  There were metal mailboxes on the near wall, and the far wall was marked up with graffiti.  The floor was a neutral, brown tile, but half of the tiles were missing, and the other half were cracked.  As I stepped through the hallway, I saw a wet spot on the wall and a puddle below it on the floor and figured out where the piss smell was coming from.

I walked up to 1B and put my ear to the door.  It was quiet.  I knocked twice.

Someone spoke.  It wasn’t quite clear what they said, so I didn’t respond.  But when they spoke again it sounded like, “Who’s there.”  The accent was heavy.  English was not this guy’s first language, but I was pretty sure that’s what he said.

“Yeah,” I said.

The door opened a crack and a round face peeked out between a chain.  The man smiled and closed the door.  I heard a rattle as he took off the chain, then opened the door.

“Enter.  Enter,” he said, while waving me in.

I nodded and walked inside.  The guy had on a collared shirt that once was probably expensive, but now it was faded, stretched and permanently stained under the armpits.  He had pockmarks on his face and a receding hairline he was trying to hide by growing out his hair and combing it to the side.

The room was dim; there was just one lamp on the far side of the room.  The floor was just a sub-floor, as if there once was carpeting that now was removed.  Or maybe the carpeting never got finished.  Litter was strewn about; cigarette packs: Newport, Camels, Kools; empty bags of chips; a crushed carton of orange juice.  Used drug paraphernalia, too: countless ripped and empty little plastic baggies and glassine envelopes covered the floor.

A woman, middle-aged and just a slight bit overweight, sat on a couch next to the lamp.  She was smoking a cigarette, and in front of her was a scale resting on a coffee table.  There was a stuffed Hefty bag leaning on the wall next to the couch.

“What can we get you?” the man asked.

I heard shuffling to my right and looked over.  There was a man kneeled down in the corner.  It was dark, but I think he was shooting up dope.

I wasn’t really into drugs, but I knew a thing or two about how operations were run.  These guys were amateurs.  When the cops came through on a sweep, something that happened at least once a week in this neighborhood, these guys were finished.

The woman smiled.  “What you need?”  Her English was a little better than the man’s.

“I’m here to collect,” I said.

“Collect?”  She acted surprised, but I wasn’t buying it.  She wasn’t born yesterday, even if she probably did open up shop yesterday.

“You know who this neighborhood belongs to, don’t you?”

“No.”

“Come on.  Don’t make me spell it out for you.”

Suddenly, her English got fuzzy.  “No comprende.”

I walked to the dead middle of the room, doing my best to keep all three people in my view.  The man was standing about two feet from me, the woman about five feet in front of me, still sitting.  The guy in the corner seemed to have finished what he was doing; he was still on the ground, but now sitting up and looking at me.

My gun was nuzzled against my gut.  I moved my hand towards my belly, slowly as I said, “Listen, guys.  You have a nice little business here.  You probably made some nice money today.  If you want to continue making nice money, you have to pay the piper.  It’s the cost of doing business.”

“Who you work for?” the man asked, while pushing his overgrown strand of hair to the side.

“I think you know.”

“No.  You tell me.”  He closed in and was now just a few inches from me.

I didn’t like him in my personal space, and he was blocking my view of the junkie in the corner.  I took a step back.  He immediately took a step forward.

“Listen.  You know who I work for.  You know why I’m here.  You can play by the rules of the neighborhood, or you can...”

He cut me off mid-sentence and said, “Or what?”

I raised my arm up to keep him back, and he grabbed it.  I thrust forward with force and shook him off which sent his arms flailing.

He yelled something in Spanish as he stumbled, and a blast came from the corner and didn’t miss me by much; I felt a sharp, quick wind and smelled the smoke.  I pulled out my pistol and returned three rounds at the junkie.  Receding hairline-guy rushed at me and grabbed my arm.  The lady on the couch fired several rounds, and receding hairline- guy crumbled in my arms.  I let him go, and as he fell off me I was able to get off two shots at the lady.  She slumped over in the couch, and her face fell flat onto the coffee table.

No one was moving.  I ran to the couch and opened the Hefty bag.  It was full of cash.  I threw the sack over my back like I was Santa Claus and hightailed it out of the room.

Once out on the street, I made a beeline for the BMW.  The kids on the stoop were still there, but now they were standing and definitely not ignoring me.  They probably heard the shots.  I fired up the engine and chirped the wheels of the car as I flew out of there.

My heart pumped fiercely.  Even once I was out of immediate danger, my adrenaline didn’t let up.

I wasn’t stupid.  I was suspicious of Mario’s motives from the minute he offered me more work.  But the money was good, and I was willing to take a few risks.  Wally McGee, the Lincoln at Toasty’s: fuckin’ setups.  He’d gone too far this time.  This was different.  This went beyond the risks of the job.  That son of a bitch was out to get me killed.  There was no sugar coating it anymore.  It was time I settled it once and for all.

The tires screeched around the curve, and I jammed the brakes hard right in front of the Cucina.  I put the car in park and smacked the steering wheel.  I pulled the Beretta from my waist and slid open the magazine.  I left a box of shells in the glove box, and I removed them and reloaded.  I slammed the clip closed.

“Fuck!”

I banged my head backwards into the headrest of the BMW.  Anger is a dangerous emotion.  Acting out of anger could be a huge mistake.

I clicked the safety on the gun, put the car into gear and drove home.

* *

A knock on the door woke me up.  It took a minute to get oriented, but I soon realized I was home on the couch.  In my frustration, and also a little bit from fear, I crashed out on the couch.  The curtains were drawn.  My front door was double bolted.  I was hunched over.

The knocking came again.  I grabbed the gun off the coffee table and slithered along the floor.  Once I reached the door, I slowly stood up and peered through the small side window that was next to my front door.  It was Mrs. Griffin.

“Be right there,” I called out.

I went back inside, put the gun down and grabbed Wally McGee’s wad of cash from a drawer in my kitchen where I’d stashed it.

“Hi,” I said as I opened the door.

“Oh, Sean.”  She burst in and hugged me.  I quickly kicked the door shut while embracing her.  “How are you holding up?”

“I’m okay.  I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t have to be strong for me, Sean.”

“I know.”

“I’ve known you all your life.  It’s okay to be sad.”

“I am sad.”

“Then show it.”

“I’m okay for now.”

“Do you want some help with the arrangements?”

I handed her the wad of cash.  “Actually, I was kind of hoping you’d take care of it.”

She shuffled through the money and shook her head.  “Sean, where did you get this?”

“Don’t worry about it.  I want my mother to be buried properly.  That’s enough isn’t it?”

“Well, yes.”

“So you’ll help me?”

She pushed a smile out of her bright red face and said, “Of course, Sean.  I’ll see to everything.”

I gave her a small kiss on the cheek.  “Thank you.”

“You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.  You should be surrounded by your friends and family.”

“I’m fine.  Really.”

“Sean.  Stop being like your mother.  You are too strong for your own good.”

“I’m gonna head up to Costa’s to have lunch with Nicole.  I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.  Good.  She’s been very good for you.  Your mother liked her.  She approved.”

“Thanks.”

Once a mother always a mother.  Mrs. Griffin finally seemed satisfied, and she left.  I went back to the kitchen and got my piece, then went out to Nicole’s BMW.

The Hefty bag full of cash was still sitting in the backseat.  I felt like a complete idiot for leaving it outside all night, but there it was, safe and sound.

When I walked into Costa’s, Nicole was at her table.  She leaped up and ran to me.

“Oh, Sean.  What are you doing here?”

We hugged, and I said, “I wanted to see you.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“If there is anything I can do to help, you just name it.”

“I know.  Thank you.”

We sat and ate our pizza, not saying much.  Finally, I said, “I need to show you something.”