Tough Luck (17 page)

21

MICKEY DROVE OUT of the Waldbaum’s parking lot with his foot all the way down on the gas. When he got home he went right to the phone in the kitchen and called Vincent’s Fish Market. Harry answered and Mickey hung up. He waited an hour and called again. This time Charlie said, “Vincent’s Fish.”

“Charlie, it’s Mickey. I know Harry’s there today, but can you come to my house after work? I need a favor.”

AT A FEW minutes before eight, Mickey called Information and got the number for Ralph DeMarco on Fillmore Avenue. Then, at exactly eight, he dialed the number, let it ring seven times, and hung up.

The rest of the evening, Mickey stayed in his room. Although he hadn’t eaten since breakfast he didn’t have an appetite. He kept rehearsing the plan over and over in his head, positive it would work. At a quarter to twelve he left his apartment. Usually Blackie started barking like crazy when Mickey went down the stairs, but tonight the old dog didn’t make a sound.

It was another cold night, but it wasn’t as windy as it had been lately and Albany Avenue was still and quiet. Shivering, Mickey got in his car. It took a few tries on the ignition before the engine caught, and then he drove away toward Avenue J.

As Mickey turned onto Flatbush Avenue he was still shivering. Feeling his warm forehead with the back of his wrist, he wondered if he had a fever.

Passing Avenue I, Mickey realized that he had forgotten to make sure the cops weren’t following him. He slowed down and pulled over to the right, looking around and back through his rearview mirror. A couple of cars had been directly behind him, but they kept going and were soon out of view. Mickey sat in his car, leaning forward, close to the heating vent, which seemed to be blowing out cold air. Finally he decided he hadn’t been tailed, and he continued along Flatbush.

He pulled into a spot, right before the bridge over the train tracks, and got out of the car. Growing up, he used to play on the tracks sometimes. On the Fourth of July, he and Chris would enter through a hole in the fence near Albany Avenue, and Chris would set off his stash of illegal fireworks. Once in a while, a freight train would come by. When Mickey was eight or nine, he used to imagine hopping on board one of the trains and going someplace far away, like California or Florida. Mickey remembered how disappointed he had been when Chris explained that the Long Island Railroad freight train tracks didn’t lead to anywhere much farther than Eastern Brooklyn and Queens.

Mickey used to enter the tracks through a hole in the fence farther up, near Albany Avenue, but he wasn’t sure how to get there from Flatbush. He walked past the dark Sizzler restaurant on the far side of the tracks, looking over his shoulder, and then he continued past the restaurant parking lot. He was exhausted and slightly dizzy. It was getting darker, away from the lights on the street, and he wished he’d brought a flashlight.

At the far end of the parking lot, he spotted a small hole in the bottom of the fence and he decided he could make it through. He crouched down and went in headfirst. The ground on the other side of the fence slanted down steeper than he expected, and his hands slipped. He managed to push himself back up when something sharp on the bottom of the fence jabbed through his jeans into the back of his right leg. He started to scream, then he checked himself, not wanting to make any noise. It felt like a nail, or something just as sharp sticking out of the fence, had punctured him, but he didn’t think he was bleeding badly. Biting down on his lower lip, trying not to feel the pain, he managed to wriggle his way under.

He made his way slowly and carefully down the steep, frozen ground. He had forgotten how dirty the tracks and the area around them were. He stepped on beer bottles, tires, hubcaps, plastic bags, and other garbage; at one point, he thought he felt a rat pass over his right foot.

When he reached the tracks he saw Filippo standing with his hands by his sides in front of the entrance to the tunnel. He was wearing his khaki army jacket and the dim orange light from the avenue above was shining down on him. The jacket had a lot of pockets and Mickey figured he had a gun in one of them. Mickey put his left hand in his pocket, squeezing the handle of Charlie’s .38 Special.

“You got my money?!” Mickey yelled.

“Yeah!” Filippo yelled back.

“Lemme see it,” Mickey said.

As Filippo reached into his pocket Mickey squeezed Charlie’s gun tighter, then Filippo’s hand came out with a wallet. He opened it, held up some bills. Mickey drew Charlie’s gun and aimed it at Filippo.

“Put your hands up and leave the money right there,” Mickey said.

“Ooh, big shot, got a gun,” Filippo said.

“I’m serious,” Mickey said. “Drop the money and put your fucking hands in the air!”

“All right, all right,” Filippo said. “Chill out.”

Filippo dropped the wallet and the bills on the ground.

“Hands in the air!” Mickey yelled.

Smiling, Filippo raised his hands.

“Back up,” Mickey said.

Filippo backed up a few paces and stopped.

“All the way to the tunnel,” Mickey said.

Filippo continued to back away and he stopped right near the tunnel’s entrance.

The pain in Mickey’s leg was getting worse. Still aiming the gun, he started to walk slowly, straight ahead, watching for any movement, but Filippo just stood there, perfectly still. As Mickey got closer, Filippo smiled wider. It was the same smile Mickey had seen at the supermarket today and so many times before.

Mickey stopped, still aiming the gun at Filippo’s head, but it was starting to shake in his sweaty hand.

“What’re you gonna do, shoot me?” Filippo said. “Ooh, look how scared I am. You can’t shoot me. You’re too much of a faggot. Come on, you little dick-sucker, let’s see you do it. Come on, I want it so bad!”

Mickey wanted to make that sick smile disappear forever, but he couldn’t pull the trigger. Keeping the gun aimed, he continued along the tracks toward the money.

“I knew you couldn’t do it,” Filippo said. “You little fuckin’ faggot. You pussy.”

Mickey reached the wallet and realized there were only a bunch of dollar bills on the ground.

“Where’s the five grand?” Mickey said.

“Up your faggot ass,” Filippo said.

A gunshot rang out from behind Filippo, from inside the tunnel. Mickey ducked and when he looked up Filippo was aiming a gun too, about to shoot. Mickey had never used a gun before—he’d never even held one before this afternoon—and he fired a wild shot, the backfire jerking his arm back high in the air. Filippo’s shot whizzed by Mickey’s head. Then another shot came from inside the tunnel and Filippo went down.

Mickey turned and ran toward the hill as fast as he could. He was disoriented and he wasn’t sure he was running in the right direction. Someone was still shooting at him and Mickey kept his head down, telling himself if he made it to the hill he would have a chance. It was darker by the hill.

“Ralph, you fuckin’ dick,” Filippo groaned.

Mickey started to look back over his shoulder when he heard another shot. Keeping his head down, he ran, feeling no pain. The hill was only a few feet away and Mickey was thinking about the hole under the fence, hoping he was in the right spot to reach it. Mickey tripped over something, maybe a railroad tie, and fell, his right knee hitting the ground. He managed to get up and continue climbing, grabbing onto weeds and garbage and whatever else he could grab to keep his balance. Behind him, Ralph’s footsteps and heavy breathing seemed closer, and Mickey kept going, praying the hole in the fence would be there.

At the top of the hill, Mickey bent down and felt around in the dark, but he couldn’t find the opening. He heard Ralph behind him, gasping. Mickey decided he was in the wrong spot, he would never find his way out and Ralph would kill him.

Mickey was about to give up when, right in front of him, he found the opening. He started crawling through but Ralph was behind him now, probably a few feet away. Mickey turned and fired. He heard a deep, aching groan and then a heavy body tumbling down toward the train tracks. A few seconds later there was silence.

With his face close to the ground, Mickey made it through under the fence, and he continued toward Flatbush Avenue. He reached his car and started the engine. He made a U-turn—just missing a speeding van—and drove away. He wanted to go home, get into bed, and pretend this night had never happened, then he realized he was still holding Charlie’s gun. He was about to pull over at a corner, figuring he’d drop the gun down a sewer grate, but he decided it was too risky. There were two people shot, maybe dead, on the train tracks, and the gun that had shot Ralph wasn’t there. The police would comb the entire area looking for it.

Flatbush Avenue seemed like it was spinning, and Mickey had to squeeze the steering wheel to keep the car straight. He remembered the sound Ralph’s body made when it landed on the bottom of the hill and Filippo moaning, “Ralph, you fuckin’ dick.” Ralph had obviously set Mickey and Filippo up, maybe hoping to make it look like they’d shot each other.

At Avenue U, Mickey made a sharp right, past the Kings Plaza shopping mall, and he pulled into a parking space. He got out of the car, looked up and down the deserted sidewalk, and continued past a small burned-out building. When he could see the water of the Jamaica Bay inlet, with the orange lights of the lampposts flickering on the surface, he threw the gun as far as he could, hearing it splash maybe twenty yards away.

When he got back in his car Mickey realized he had only made things worse. He had gotten rid of the gun, but if Ralph lived he’d tell the cops that Mickey had shot him. Mickey could say it was self-defense, but the cops would never believe it. Dumping the gun made him look as guilty as hell.

Mickey sat in the car with his head resting against the steering wheel for a long time, trying to think. Finally, he started the car and headed back toward Flatbush. He drove to East Twenty-third Street and pulled into Rhonda’s driveway. The lights inside the house were out, but there was a floodlight shining along the side of the house. He went up the stoop and rang the bell, deciding that the first words he’d say to her would be, I’m sorry. If she loved him the way he knew she did, she would have to forgive him.

After waiting awhile, Mickey rang the bell again. He realized it was well after midnight, probably close to one A.M., and he could be waking up Rhonda’s entire family.

He rang the bell several more times, then a light in the living room went on and Mickey saw the curtains behind the front windows rustle. He rang the bell again and then he started knocking—normally at first and then banging on the door with his fists.

“Rhonda, if you’re there, it’s Mickey. Come on, open up. I have to see you.”

He banged again.

“Come on, open the door. It’s freezing out here. Please, Rhonda, please.”

He rang the bell several more times.

“Come on, this isn’t fair. Open the door. Please, I have to see you. Just open the door.”

For a few minutes, Mickey continued to bang against the door and ring the bell, screaming for Rhonda to open up. Finally, he heard heavy footsteps approaching, then the door swung open. Rhonda’s father was standing there, wearing a dark blue sweatsuit.

“Get the hell off my property,” he said.

“I need to see Rhonda,” Mickey said.

“Just get the hell out of here, you little son of a bitch!”

Mickey thought he saw Rhonda, in the shadow inside the foyer. He pushed by her father, trying to get into the house. He might’ve jabbed him with his elbow too because her father stumbled backward and lost his balance. Mickey looked back over his shoulder and saw her father falling down the stoop, trying to grab onto the wrought-iron railing, but missing, and landing hard on the concrete. A gash appeared on the side of his head and he was squirming, trying to get up. Rhonda’s stepmother ran out of the house, screaming, rushing to her husband’s side, then Mickey saw the police car pulling up to the curb. He started down the stoop when a cop came out of the passenger-side door. Mickey looked at his car in the driveway, thinking he could get to it and drive away, but then thought, What’s the point?

Another cop came out of the other side of the car, and they approached Mickey together.

22

MICKEY WAS TAKEN directly to Central Booking. After he was charged with aggravated assault, he was brought down to the maze of cells. The guard put him in a cell crowded with derelicts and he sat on the floor in the corner, staring out through the bars at nothing.

Throughout the night, prisoners were added and removed from the cell, but they all left Mickey alone. But then, toward morning, Mickey was leaning his head back against the concrete wall, with his eyes closed, when he heard a man say, “Hey.”

Mickey looked up and saw a homeless guy standing over him. The guy’s face was nearly black, covered with dirt, and he had long, greasy hair. He was wearing ripped, filthy clothes that he’d probably found in the garbage and been wearing for weeks, and he had horrible body odor. Mickey closed his eyes again and turned away, hoping the guy would leave him alone.

“I said hey,” the guy said. “Why won’t you look at me?”

“Go away,” Mickey said.

“Hey,” the guy said, “what’s your name?”

Mickey didn’t answer.

“I said what’s your name? Huh? What’s your name?”

Mickey turned farther away. Several seconds went by and Mickey knew the guy wasn’t gone because he could still smell him. Then Mickey felt warm liquid on his head and the back of his neck and guys in the cell started laughing. Mickey stood up and ran to another side of the cell as the homeless guy chased after him, holding his penis between his thumb and forefinger, continuing to pee. A guard came and took the homeless guy out to another cell, and Mickey was given some paper towels to clean up with.

In the morning, Mickey refused the rolls-with-butter breakfast. He just sat in the corner, waiting to be taken out of his misery. He didn’t know what was taking the detectives so long. If Ralph and Filippo were dead, their bodies should’ve been discovered by now.

Around noon, Mickey’s lawyer showed up. He said his name was Alan Greenberg. He was a tall, very thin guy with curly brown hair. He was probably about thirty, but he seemed much older.

Greenberg sat across from Mickey in the cell and opened a little spiral notebook.

“So it looks like you’ve been pretty busy lately,” Greenberg said. “Grand larceny, questioned about a robbery and murder, and now you’re in for aggravated assault. What’re you gonna do next?”

Mickey looked away. He didn’t feel like talking to some smart-ass lawyer when it was only a matter of time until he was charged with murder.

“Don’t look so down,” Greenberg said. “The guy you assaulted needed some stitches, but he’s already home from the hospital. If you plead guilty, and I suggest that you do because his wife saw the whole thing, you’ll have to wait a few months for a trial date. If you’re a good boy you’ll get off with time served. As for the grand larceny charge, I’ll have to talk to the D.A., but there wasn’t much money involved, so I think we could get that reduced to petty larceny and you should get off on probation, community service, something like that. You should be out on the street ready to assault somebody else in four months tops.”

Mickey was looking away.

“What’s the matter,” Greenberg said, “no sleep last night? It’s kind of hard when you’re getting peed on. I heard.”

“Can you just leave me the hell alone?” Mickey said.

“Easy,” Greenberg said. “It’s not the end of the world. You’re just lucky that guy wasn’t more seriously injured— then you could be looking at a few years. I have some other good news for you—it looks like you’re off the hook for that whole Manhattan Beach thing.”

Mickey looked at Greenberg for the first time since he’d come into the cell.

“What’re you talking about?” Mickey said.

“I just heard about it upstairs before I came down here,” Greenberg said. “Some guy Castellano was found dead on the LIRR freight train tracks this morning.”

“Filippo Castellano?” Mickey said.

“That’s it,” Greenberg said.

“What happened to him?” Mickey asked.

“He was shot,” Greenberg said.

“So why am I off the hook?” Mickey asked.

“Ralph DeMarcus shot him,” Greenberg said.

“You mean DeMarco,” Mickey said.

“Whatever,” Greenberg said. “They arrested him leaving the tracks. He had a broken leg or foot or something—he was still holding the murder weapon. He’s in the hospital now, but they already booked him.”

Mickey remembered shooting Ralph last night and the loud groan Ralph had made. The shot could’ve missed and Ralph could’ve just stumbled down the hill.

“You sure you heard that right?” Mickey asked.

“Positive,” Greenberg said. “Why? Don’t tell me you were involved in this too?”

Mickey realized that even if he hadn’t shot Ralph, it didn’t make a difference. Ralph had been caught and he was going to rat on Mickey for the robbery, if he hadn’t already.

“What if I was?” Mickey said.

Greenberg stared at Mickey then said, “You’re not kidding, are you?”

“What do you care?” Mickey said.

“Look,” Greenberg said, “if you want to help yourself you’ll tell me exactly what you know.”

Figuring it didn’t make a difference anymore, Mickey told Greenberg everything about the robbery, and how Filippo had shot Chris, and everything that had happened on the train tracks.

When Mickey was through talking, Greenberg said, “Maybe it’s not as bad as you think.”

“What’re you talking about?” Mickey said. “Ralph knows I was at the robbery.”

“So, he didn’t rat you out already, what makes you think he will at all? He’s got nothing to gain by fingering you. Besides, I took a look at his rap sheet. He’s gone away for robbery before, so the D.A. won’t let him cut a deal this time. Even if Ralph did talk, why would anybody listen? He’s the one they were after, not you.”

“So you really think I’ll be out of here in a few months?” Mickey asked.

“If you’re smart and keep your mouth shut,” Greenberg said. “If the cops want to talk to you about last night, make sure I’m in the room with you and play dumb. But I really doubt they’ll give you a hard time. Like I said, DeMarco was their man and they got him.”

Mickey was thinking it through—three months in jail then he could get a job, save up, start taking accounting classes in the fall.

“You feeling okay?” Greenberg asked.

“I’m fine,” Mickey said. “Hey, don’t I get to make a phone call?”

As the guard led him down the corridor, Mickey was still imagining the future. At twenty-four, he’d have his C.P.A. license and he’d be making forty a year. He’d be living in the city, in a great apartment on a high floor, with a view of Brooklyn in the distance.

In the calling room, the guard unlocked Mickey’s hand-cuffs and said, “Go ahead.”

Mickey dialed the number excitedly and said into the phone, “Hi, is Rhonda there?”