Skin Games (29 page)

“And you’re still friends with Griffin?  After what happened.”

“Griff is my only true friend.  He’s the only one I can truly trust.  He doesn’t work with them anymore.”

“I understand.”  Maria pulls a tissue from her pocketbook and wipes a tear from her eye.  “Thank you for sharing your story with me.  Now I know I can trust you.  I know now that you are surely a man of your word.”

“Yes.  I am that.”

“Can you help me?”

“What is it that you want me to do?”

“I have a son.  I just want to make sure that he is safe.”

“I see.”

“I want you to kill Mario and his men.  That’s why I came here.”

“You want me to get revenge for you?”

“They killed my father and my brother.”

Skin nods.  “I know.  I understand.  But revenge isn’t necessarily the answer.”

“I know I will never be safe, and neither will my son.”

Skin nods again.  “I’d like to help you.  But I have made a promise.  I promised that I would never hurt Mario.  I can’t just forget my promise to Nicole.”

“Even after all that’s happened?”

“Yes.  Even after all that’s happened.”

“I understand.  I will leave now.”  Maria stands up.

“No.  I will help you.”

“I don’t want you to break your promise.  That is too important to you.”

“I won’t break my promise.  But I will help you.”

Tommy Guns steps out of the shower in the tiny bathroom of the two-bedroom home he shares with his mother.  Forty-three years old and still living with the old lady.  Never wanted to get serious about a woman of his own.  Living with mom is good.  She still does his laundry.  Still cooks dinner for him just about every night.  Still makes sure his coffee is ready for him in the morning.  Still takes his suits to the cleaners.

So she nags a bit.  All and all she isn’t a bad housemate.  Tonight she’s out.  Went to the VFW to play bingo.  Every Tuesday and Friday.  She just loves that stupid game.  Good for her.  Nice to have a hobby and it keeps her out of Tommy’s hair two nights a week.

Since he’s alone, Tommy uses a towel to dry off and then walks buck naked into his bedroom just across the hall.  He pulls open the top drawer of the dresser.  Steps into his pale blue boxer shorts.  Looks up at his clock.

He’s due at Scrubby’s in ten minutes, then the two of them are stopping by Vinny’s shop to get his ass.  Then the three amigos are going into Manhattan to check out that hot new club in the meatpacking district.  Gonna get some tail tonight for sure.

Confidence, baby.  Bitches want some of this tonight.

Tommy holds up his thumb and pointer fingers like a pistol, then fires a shot at the suave gentleman in the mirror.

“Nice.”

Back to the bathroom.  Quick spray of deodorant under each pit.  Shave.  Splash on some aftershave, then back to the bedroom.

He puts on an undershirt, then opens his jewelry box that sits atop the chest of drawers.  Tough choice between the gold link chain or the thin rope with the horn medallion.  Tommy opts for the horn.  The horn brings him luck and attracts pussy.

The closet doors are usually open.  Tommy hates closed doors and always leaves it open at least a crack.  But the sliding doors are touching one another.  Fuckin’ Mom must have been cleaning up after him again.  She should know better than to be in his closet.

Tommy slides the doors open.  There are twelve clean suits lined up in a row.  Tommy is meticulous.  He always keeps the rows straight.  Why are there nine on one side, then a gap, then three pushed to the other side?  Very odd for Mom to fuck with his suits.  She knows better.

Tommy pushes the suits to the side.  He sees something weird in the dark corner.  He smells something: it’s gun powder.

* *

Scrubby Mike is sitting on the toilet bowl, whacking off to an issue of Black Tail.  It’s always best to blow a load before going out.  It helps him stay calm when he’s flirting with the ladies, and if he gets any tonight, he won’t bust his nut too fast since he’s already blasted a bullet from the chamber.

He finishes into a washcloth, rubs the jiz off the tip of his cock, then drops the washcloth on the floor.  Scrubby walks into his bedroom, stepping over his filthy boots that sit in the middle of the floor, a floor cluttered with shirts, pants and socks strewn about.  The ashtray on the night table hasn’t been dumped in some time and is overflowing with butts and ash.  There’s a garbage pail, without a bag or liner, filled to the brim, mostly with soda and beer cans.

Mike sits back, flips on the television and finds a college basketball game:  Kansas vs. Illinois.

“Fuckin’ aye,” Mike mumbles when he sees the scoreboard.  Kansas is laying twelve points, and they’re losing by four.  “I can’t fuckin’ believe this team is losing.  At home no less.”  Another nickel in the garbage.

In the drawer of the night table is what’s left of his blow.  He was planning to save it for later, but what the fuck.  Tommy’s late, and Mike is getting bored.  He reaches into the drawer and pulls out a folded dollar bill.  He unfolds it and then grabs a matchbook off the night table.  With the folded edge of the matchbook, Mike dips into the small pile of white power and pinches out a blast.  He sticks the matchbook into his nostril and inhales.  He sniffles and feels it immediately.  He takes a blast up his other nostril, then refolds the bill.

There’s noise outside.  Mike looks out his window and sees Tommy’s car running at the edge of the driveway.  That’s fuckin’ weird.  He didn’t hear Tommy’s Caddy pull up, and Tommy usually just honks the horn.  But the Caddy’s running.

Mike grabs his boots from the floor and puts them on.  Tommy and Vinny are sure to bust his balls about his sloppy shirt and dirty boots when those two Casanovas will be dressed to impress.  But fuck them.  They think all that bullshit helps them with the ladies, but Scrubby knows how you get laid.  You wait until late at night and just zero in on the fattest chick left at the bar.  If a few compliments don’t work, you offer a blast of blow.  Worst case there’s Black Tail and self-service.  Mike’s dignity is more important than trying to nail some uptown broad those two have their sights set on.

He walks towards the door, grabbing his jacket off the hook in the front hallway.  As he’s sliding the jacket on with one arm, he opens the door with the other.  Mike feels a sting in his gut.  Then he’s on his back.

The door slams shut, and Mike finds himself clutching his side, trying to stop the flow but it’s doing no good.  The pool of red next to him is collecting fast.  He can’t quite see the face of the man standing over him.

“You’ve ruined your last life,” Scrubby hears the voice say.  “Your own.”

Scrubby tries to say something, but words won’t leave his lips.  Even though it’s more weathered and scratchier than he remembers, Scrubby still recognizes the voice.

“I always hated you,” Scrubby says.  At least, he thinks he says it.  Maybe he just thinks it.  “I always fuckin’ hated you.”

“Why?” the voice responds.

Scrubby can’t answer.

* *

The garage door slowly rolls down.  Jose’s rusty, brown Sentra pulls away, its muffler rattling while the engine screams,
Please shoot me and put me out of my misery.

Vinny Macho walks over to the restroom.  He gets out the strong scrubbing soap and a coarse pad to get all the grease off his hands.  Once his hands are pretty clean, Vinny walks to the back office.

He takes off his shirt and pants, tossing the greasy clothes in a hamper.  He pulls on a nice pair of tight designer jeans and buttons up a black dress shirt, leaving the top three buttons undone.  Vinny flicks at the chest hair poking out the top of the open collar.

A draft of cool air shoots up the back of Vinny’s neck.  Vinny turns around.  The side door looks closed.  But he walks over to it anyway.  It’s shut.  He turns the knob.  It’s not locked.

“Fuckin’ Jose.”

In his hurry to get home to his girlfriend and two infant kids, the guy forgot to lock the door.  The guy needs to get some sleep at night before he really fucks something up.

A metal pipe pangs against the floor in the dark, far corner of the shop.  Vinny walks quickly to the bank of light switches and flips the one on for that corner.

Half of a busted tailpipe is lying in the middle of the floor, still rocking back and forth like a seesaw.  In one motion with his arm, Vinny flips on the entire bank of light switches, and the shop is fully lit up.

“Is someone there?” he calls out.

As Vinny walks to the corner, just out of sight from the street, he feels something pressed against his back.  He’s felt it before.  He knows what it is.  Vinny puts his hands up in the air.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Vinny.”

“Shamrock?  Is that you?”  Vinny starts to turn around but the gun is pressed tighter to his back and he feels a push against his shoulder.

“Don’t look at me.”

“Alright, alright.  What do you want?”

“It’s time for you to pay for what you’ve done.”

Vinny feels something come across his neck.  He looks down to see the handle of the knife.  It touches his flesh and cuts, just at the surface.

“Ouch.  What the fuck do you want?”  Shamrock doesn’t answer.  The knife is at his throat.  The gun is pressed into his spine.  “Come on, Sean.  I was nice to you.”

“Don’t call me Sean, you piece of shit.”

“Okay, Shamrock.  Whatever you want.  I was the only one who was nice to you.”

“Fuck you, Vinny.”

“I was nice to your mom.  I tried to help her.”

“Bullshit.  You didn’t even come to her funeral.”

“Come on, man.  Did you really want me there?”

“You didn’t even send flowers.  A card.  Don’t tell me you tried to help my mother.”

“Alright, I could’ve been better, but I wasn’t all bad.  I gave her money when she needed it.  I made sure she never lost that house.  Give me a break, man.  I’ll do whatever you want.”

“It’s too late, Vinny.”

“Come on...”  Vinny can’t finish the sentence.  His words begin to gurgle.  His breath slips away.  He watches the knife pull away from his throat.  He sees the dark figure step aside.  Then Vinny falls to the floor.

* *

Don Mario sits at the table in the basement dining room of the Cucina.  The calamari is chewy, and worse, it’s fucking ice cold.

He spits out a ring of breaded squid and shouts, “This shit is horrible.”

Gucci Mike sits across the table and runs through his sports book, seeing who’s late with this week’s payments.  He drops the book and hops to his feet.  Gucci Mike grabs the plate and says, “I’ll run upstairs and get you a fresh plate.”

“Tell them to hurry it up.”

“Okay, boss.  I’m right on it.”

“That fuckin’ chef makes the worst calamari in the Bronx.  Tell him he’s fuckin’ fired if he can’t get me tender calamari.”

“Okay.  I’ll tell him.”

Mario sticks his fork angrily into a plate of pasta with red sauce.  Red sauce is the only thing that asshole can make half decent.  Red sauce and clams casino.  That’s fuckin’ it.  That’s why he’s losing tons of business to Costa’s.  He needs to hire the chef away from Costa’s and fire this asshole.

With his back to the room, Mario hears Gucci Mike walk in.  “It’s about fuckin’ time,” Mario says; then he hears the clanks of a plate hitting the floor.  Mario turns and sees Gucci Mike lying face down, and the plate of calamari busted in pieces.

A man is coming at him.  He’s moving awkwardly, almost pogo-sticking on one leg, yet he’s advancing quickly.  The room is dimly lit, but Mario can make out a bloody knife in one hand and a pistol in the other.  Before Mario can get his fat ass off the bench, the gun is inches from his eyeballs.

“Close your eyes,” the man orders.

Mario complies, but then quickly opens them again.

“Don’t look at me,” the man shouts as he moves the gun closer.

The gun is so close, it makes Mario cross-eyed.  He stares at the tip of the pistol.  He can smell gun powder.  The gun has been fired.  Recently.

“Okay.  Okay.”  Mario closes his eyes and puts his hands high in the air.  “Sean, is that you?”

“Don’t call me that.  Don’t you ever fucking call me that.”

“Okay.  Whatever you say, Shamrock.”

“Your whole crew is dead.  Tommy Guns.  Scrubby, Vinny, Gucci Mike.  They’re all done.  And you are next.”

“Easy now, Shamrock.  I understand you’re pissed.  You have a right to be.  What’s done is done.  But I’m the boss.  No one kills the boss and lives.  You know that.”

“You think I care?  You should know damn well by now that I am willing to die.”

“Okay.  Okay.  You’re right.  I’m sorry.”

“Fuck you.  You’re not sorry.”

“Look, what is it that you want?”

“I want you to give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow your fucking brains all over the linguini?”

“Come on, Sean.  Easy now.”

Mario feels the butt of the pistol smack his skull.

“I told you not to call me that.”

“Sorry.  I’m sorry.”  Mario rubs his head.

“Up.  Keep your hands up.”

Mario puts his hands back up.  “Look, kid.  If you wanted me dead, I’d be dead already.  Just tell me what it is you want.”

“I told you, I want one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”

“We both know the reason.  Because you’re a man of your word.  You gave Nicole your word that you wouldn’t hurt me.  Right?  That’s it, isn’t it, kid?”

“Why should that matter now?”

“Oh, but it does.  It does.  It’s admirable, Shamrock.  It really is.  I know you’re pretty pissed at me, but I can still admire you.  Even after you killed my whole crew.  I’m kind of in awe of you.”

“Don’t fuckin’ flatter me.”

“I’m not.  I’m serious.  Listen, you aren’t the only man who keeps his word.  My word is my bond, too.  I know you think I’m a shit, and I understand.  But I’m a man of my word, too.  Let’s work this out.  Tell me what you want.”

“There’s a Greek restaurant.  Scrubby and Vinny burned it down.”

“Yeah, yeah.  I know the place.”

“Maria is going to rebuild it.”

“Okay.”