Sleepers (17 page)

“You always end up with a six,” I said. “How is that?”

“Lucky,” he said.

“Got any pretzels?” I asked.

“Behind the bar,” he said. “Help yourself.”

“Want anything?”

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Quarter to five,” I said, looking at my Timex watch, a swag present he had given me.

“Too early,” he said.

King Benny never ate before seven and slept only two hours a night. He always carried a thousand dollars in twenties and singles in his pants pocket, never wore a gun, and was said to have a brother in jail, doing natural life on a double murder charge.

I sat back down, picking at a bag of salt pretzels. He sipped his coffee, shuffled the cards, and leaned back in his chair.

“I hear you got trouble at home,” he said, putting the cup back by his side.

“It’s nothing.”

“If it was nothing,” he said, “I wouldn’t have heard about it.”

“My father owes money,” I admitted.

“Who this time?”

“The Greek,” I said. “He’s six months late on the payments.”

“How much?”

“Three thousand,” I said. “As of yesterday. Goes up every day.”

“Yeah,” King Benny said. “It does.”

“The Greek sent a coupla guys over late last night,” I said. “Scare him a little.”

“It work?”

“Scared or not,” I said, “he doesn’t have the money and can’t get it from anybody else.”

“No,” King Benny said. “He can’t.”

“He’s hiding out,” I said. “Until it blows over or he makes a big score.”

“Guys like your father never make big scores,” King Benny said. “They just keep guys like me in business.”

“Will they kill him?”

“No,” he said. “He’ll just wish they did.”

“I got sixty bucks put aside,” I told him. “My mother can come up with another forty. That should be good for something.”

“Forget it,” King Benny said.

“I can’t forget it,” I said. “He’s my father.”

King Benny shook his head. “The loan’s been squared.”

“Who squared it?”

“You did. This morning. The Greek picked up an envelope with three grand and a note from you. Him and your father are even.”

I didn’t show any real emotion. That wasn’t allowed. All I said was “I can’t pay you back right away.”

“You don’t have to pay me back at all,” I was told.

“Why’d you do it?” I wanted to know. “You never liked my father.”

“Still don’t,” King Benny said. “He lives or dies, don’t mean a thing to me.”

I took a drink of the 7Up.

“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks a lot.”

“Always watch out for men like your father,” King Benny said. “They go down bad streets. And they never go down alone.”

“He tries,” I said. “He just gets caught up.”

“There are other ways,” he said. “Better ways. You should walk away from the table knowing that.”

“He wants to make money,” I said. “Same as everybody around here.”

“Looking for easy money,” King Benny said. “Every one of them. And guess what?”

“What?”

“Ain’t no such thing,” he said.

“Does my father know?” I asked. “About the payment.”

“Not yet.”

“Can I tell him?”

“Soon as you see him,” he said.

The room was turning dark, the sun’s shadows giving way to early evening. King Benny’s coffee cup was empty and my soda was warm. The jukebox had abandoned Sinatra and settled now on “Don’t Be That Way” by Benny Goodman. In a corner, an old steam radiator sizzled, despite the outside heat.

“He’s down in a basement apartment on 47th Street,” King Benny said. “Near Ninth Avenue.”

“I know.”

“He’s not alone,” he said.

“I know that too,” I said.

“You want some dinner before you go?” he asked.

“What’s it gonna be?”

“Pasta and snails,” King Benny said.

“Maybe not,” I said.

“It’s good for you,” King Benny said.

“I should go.”

“One thing,” King Benny said. “Before you go.”

“What?”

“The business with the Greek,” King Benny said. “It stays between you and me.”

“He’s gonna ask where I got the money.”

“Lie,” King Benny said.

“Can’t,” I said.

“He lies to
you.”
King Benny pushed his chair back and stood up, cup clasped in both hands. “All the time.”

“That’s different.”

“How?” Now King Benny walked to the bar, his face free of emotion.

“He’s my father,” I said.

“Think he cares?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “
I
care.”

King Benny nodded and turned, walking behind the bar, his right leg dragging across the floor.

“See you tomorrow,” he said, his voice even.

“Only if I get to deal,” I said.

“We’ll cut for it,” he said, washing his cup in the sink under the counter.

“You’ll win the cut,” I said. “You always do.”

“Can’t trust a thief,” he said, drying off his hands. “Or a liar.”

“Which are you?”

“Both,” King Benny said.

He folded a hand towel in half and laid it on the bar. Then he walked over to the small wooden door at the end of the hall, turned the knob, and went into the kitchen, closing it softly behind him.

Winter 1966

13

T
HE PIZZERIA WAS
empty except for the four of us at a back table and Joey Retard at the counter, shaking black pepper on a hot slice. Mimi was working the ovens and
the register, his white shirt and work pants stained red with sauce.

“I’m gettin’ another slice,” I said, wiping my mouth with a napkin.

“Me too,” John said.

“Get me a soda,” Tommy said. “Orange. Lots of ice.”

“You lose your legs in the war?” I said.

“I got no money either,” Tommy said.

“Want anything?” I asked Michael.

“Half of Tommy’s soda,” he said.

John and I walked to the counter and stood next to Joey Retard. Joey was fourteen, with an honest face and a ready smile. He was always well dressed and was friendly with everyone in the neighborhood. He spoke slowly, stuttering his way through difficult phrases, his manner gentle, his eyes dark as olives.

Joey was adopted, taken out of a West Side orphanage by a childless Irish couple. He went to a special school on Ninth Avenue and earned pocket money washing cars for King Benny. He was shy around girls, loved pizza with extra cheese, cheap horror movies, and sewer-to-sewer stickball. Every Halloween he walked the streets dressed as Stooge Villa from
Dick Tracy.

“What’s doin’, Joe?” John asked him.

“Good,” Joey said. “I’m good.”

“You want anything?” I asked. “John’s buyin’.”

“Where’d you hear that?” John said.

“No,” Joey said. “Thanks.”

John ordered and I asked Joey how school was.

“I like it,” Joey said.

“Am I really payin’ for this?” John asked me, watching Mimi take the pizza out of the oven.

“You got money?”

“I’ll take the Fifth,” John said.

“I’ll buy tomorrow,” I said, grabbing a paper plate with a slice.

“Swear,” John said, reaching a hand into his jeans pocket and pulling out two crumpled bills.

“Swear,” I said, taking my pizza and soda back to the table.

“Grab the change for me,” John said, patting Joey on the shoulder, reaching for the second slice.

“Can I keep it?” Joey asked.

“Knock yourself out,” John said.

Joey was on his second slice when the burly man walked through the door.

He stood at the counter, hands in his pockets, ordered a large Coke, and watched Joey dust his pizza with black pepper.

“That’s not too smart,” the man said, taking a sip from his soda. “It’s gonna taste like shit.”

“I like pepper,” Joey said, shaking some more on the crust. “I like pepper a lot.”

“There’s enough on it,” the man said, reaching for the pepper shaker.

“No!” Joey said, pulling back, still holding the pepper in his hand. “My pizza.”

“Lemme have the pepper, you fuckin’ retard,” the man said, grabbing Joey’s hand until the shaker came loose.

“My pizza!” Joey said, his voice breaking from the strain, his eyes blinking like shutters. “My pizza!”

“There’s your fuckin’ pizza,” the man said, pointing to the counter. “Nobody touched it.”

“I want pepper!” Joey said, his words coming in short bursts, his hands by his sides. “I want pepper!”

The burly man smiled.

He looked over at Mimi, frozen in place behind the counter, and winked. He unscrewed the top off the pepper shaker.

“You want pepper, retard?” the man said.

Joey stared at the burly man, his body quivering, his eyes filled with tears.

“Here,” the man said, pouring the bottle of pepper out over Joey’s pizza. “Here’s your fuckin’ pepper.”

Joey started to cry, full sobs rising from his chest, his hands slapping his sides.

“What’s your problem now, retard?” the man asked.

Joey didn’t answer. Tears ran down his cheeks and over his lips, snot ran out of his nose.

“Go on,” the burly man said. “You fuckin’ retards turn my stomach.”

Joey didn’t move.

“Go,” the man said. “Before I slap the shit outta ya and really make you cry.”

Michael walked past Joey and stepped to the counter, next to the burly man. He reached for the salt shaker, loosened the top, and poured the contents into the man’s soda.

“You can leave now,” Michael said to him, stirring the drink with his finger. “You and Joe are even.”

“A tough little punk,” the man said. “Is that what I’m lookin’ at?”

“A dick with lips,” Michael said. “Is that what I’m lookin’ at?”

Tommy put an arm around Joey and moved him from the counter. John stood behind the burly man, hands in his pockets. I was across from the burly man, arms folded, waiting for his move.

“Four tough little punks,” the burly man said. “And a cryin’ retard.”

“That’s us,” Michael said.

The burly man lifted a hand and slapped Michael across the face. The blow left red finger marks on Michael’s cheeks and an echo loud enough to chill.

Michael stared at the man and smiled.

“The first shot should always be your best,” Michael said. “And your best sucks.”

“I’ll show you my best, punk,” the burly man said, moving off his feet and taking a full swing at Michael. “Your fuckin’ teeth are gonna be all over the floor.”

Michael ducked the punch, throwing his body against the burly man’s stomach. Tommy and John jumped on the man from behind, pulling at his hair and neck. I grabbed the pizza slice with all the pepper on it and rubbed it into his eyes.

“Take it outside!” Mimi screamed.

John chewed on the man’s ear, his bite hard enough to draw blood. Tommy started pounding at his kidneys. I took a red pepper shaker and rammed it against his face.

“My eyes!” the burly man said, trying to shake us off. “My fuckin’ eyes.”

Michael picked up a counter stool and started ramming it against the front of his legs. John had grabbed his thick hair and was knocking his head on the edge of the front door. I kept hitting him with the red pepper shaker until it broke above the bridge of his nose. Shards of glass mixed with blood ran down the front of his face.

The pain brought the man to his knees, one hand reaching for the counter.

“Never come in here again,” Michael said, kicking at his crumpled body. “Hear me?
Never.”

Mimi ran from behind the counter and grabbed Michael around the waist, pulling him away.

“You no wanna kill him,” he said.

“Don’t be too sure,” Michael said.

O
UR LIVES WERE
about protecting ourselves and our turf. The insulated circle that was life in Hell’s Kitchen closed tighter as we grew older. Strangers, never welcome, were now viewed as outsiders bent on trouble. My friends and I could no longer afford to let others do the fighting.

It was our turn to step up, and we were led, as always, by Michael.

Outside events meant little. In a society changing
radically by the hour, we focused on the constants in our own small, controlled space.

It was the ’60s, and we watched the images scattered nightly across TV screens with skepticism, never trusting the players, always suspecting a scam. It was the way we were taught to look at the world. Life, we had been told, was about looking out for number one, and number one didn’t waste time outside the neighborhood.

On television, the young protesters we saw spoke about how they were going to change our lives and fix the world. But we knew they didn’t care about people like us. While they shouted their slogans, my friends and I went to funeral services for the young men of Hell’s Kitchen who came back from Vietnam in body bags. That war never touched those angry young faces we saw on TV, faces protected by money and upper-middle-class standing. They were on the outside yelling about a war they would never fight. To me and my friends, they were working the oldest con in the world and they worked it to perfection.

Civil rights had become the battle of the day, but on our streets it was a meaningless issue. There, gangs of different ethnic backgrounds and skin colors still waged weekly skirmishes. A growing army of feminists marched across the country, demanding equality, yet our mothers still cooked and cared for men who abused them mentally and physically.