Tough Luck (7 page)

Donna used to be shy and plain-looking, but after Connie died Donna started wearing slutty outfits, teasing up her hair as much as possible, always wearing what looked like a quarter of an inch of makeup.

While Filippo was getting his bowling shoes, Chris started talking to Donna. They were both laughing and then Chris put his arm around her shoulders.

When Filippo came back he said, “Hey, watch where those hands go.”

“What?” Chris said. “There’s enough to go around.”

Chris and Donna both laughed, but Filippo didn’t seem to think it was funny.

Chris and Donna continued talking—Chris was so into the conversation he didn’t even seem to notice Mickey, sitting a few feet away from him. Meanwhile, Filippo sat next to Ralph and put on his shoes. Ralph looked over at Mickey a few times, with his lower lip hanging down.

The other team—four big, rowdy drunk guys wearing white T-shirts with “The Kings” written across the fronts— were sitting on the other side of the scorer’s table.

Mickey was still feeling the pain of giving half of his life savings to Artie, and he took his anger out on the pins. He bowled his best three-game set ever—184, 204, and 244. In the third game, he had a perfect game going until the eighth frame, and a crowd gathered around watching and cheering.

The Studs won easily, by fifty-five pins, moving into second place in the standings.

“Way to go, Mick,” Filippo said, patting him on the back. “I knew you were gonna have a big game tonight, stud.”

“Do us a favor,” Chris said, “forget your ball next week too, huh?”

Even Ralph shook Mickey’s hand and spoke to Mickey, mumbling, “Good game.”

When Mickey was returning his shoes, Chris came over to him and said, “Hey, we’re gonna hit the diner to get something to eat. Wanna hang?”

“Why not?” Mickey said. He was in a good mood from bowling, and he didn’t feel like going home.

Outside the bowling alley, Filippo was making out with Donna in the parking lot.

“Hey, save some for me,” Chris said.

Filippo stopped kissing Donna, but he didn’t move his mouth far away from her lips. His hands were squeezing her ass. He said, “Go ahead, I’ll see you in a few.”

Chris, who’d gotten a ride to the bowling alley with Filippo, went to the diner in Mickey’s car, while Ralph waited for Filippo.

“So what do you think of Donna? Fuckin’ hot, huh?” Chris said to Mickey in the car.

“She’s all right,” Mickey said.

“All right? You see that rack on her? Swear to God, they get bigger every time I see ’em. And wanna know the best part? She just turned sixteen last week. Man, I’d love to get a piece of that sometime.”

They pulled into the parking lot of the Arch Diner, just up the block from the bowling alley. When they got out of the car, they breathed in the stench of raw sewage, drifting over from across the street.

Mickey and Chris sat in a booth near the window, and Maria came to take their drink orders. Maria was about forty, but she looked good for her age, with long thin legs and high pointy breasts. She was always nice to Mickey and Chris, smiling and winking at them, and calling them “sweetie” and “doll.”

Mickey ordered a Coke and Chris asked for an egg cream. As usual, Chris started hitting on Maria. He told her how sexy she looked tonight, and he asked her if she’d marry him someday. Maria was a good sport, laughing and playing along, even though Mickey could tell she was sick of coming to work every night, just to get hit on by horny teenagers.

Ralph and Filippo showed up and joined Mickey and Chris in the booth.

“I shouldn’ta come here,” Filippo said. “Donna wanted me to go back to her place with her. Last night, I fucked her four times and she was begging me for more. My balls hurt so bad I couldn’t fall asleep.”

“You gotta be careful,” Chris said. “Her old man’s really protective and shit. Remember when he caught Kenny Thomas in her sister Connie’s bed in eighth grade? He came after him with a baseball bat—almost broke his fuckin’ head open.”

“I’m not stupid,” Filippo said. “I don’t fuck Donna in her house. I take her to
my
house. My mother doesn’t care, as long as I keep my sheets clean.”

“Hey, Mickey,” Chris said, “I got a joke for you. A rabbi and a priest are on an airplane, right? The plane’s goin’ down and there’s only one parachute. So the rabbi says to the priest, ‘You take the parachute, my father owns a candy store!’ ”

Chris started laughing hysterically at the punch line, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, and Filippo and Ralph joined in. Mickey didn’t get the joke but he started laughing too.

“Sucker!” Chris yelled, pointing at Mickey. “It’s not a real joke. I knew you’d fall for it.”

“You’re so fuckin’ stupid, Mickey,” Filippo said. Then, suddenly angry, he said, “What the fuck’re they doin’ here?”

Filippo was looking toward the front of the diner where four black guys were seated at a booth.

“It’s a free country,” Chris said.

“Free my ass,” Filippo said. “Niggers should stay in East New York.”

Filippo was about to get up when Chris said, “Come on, just get something to eat and forget about it.”

“How can I forget about four spooks sittin’ behind me?”

“Come on,” Chris said.

Filippo settled down and said, “Two nights ago I was out drivin’ with Kenny, drinkin’ beers, when we saw this nigger walkin’ up K and Forty-third—right in our fuckin’ neighborhood. So I say, ‘Check this out,’ and I went up on the sidewalk. You shoulda seen the spook’s face when he saw this car on the sidewalk, comin’ up behind him.” Filippo laughed. “He got away, but it was still a fuckin’ riot.”

“So what’re you guys having, I’m starving,” Chris said, looking at his menu.

“We shoulda pulled a Mill Basin on that nigger,” Filippo said. “You hear about that the other night? They beat the shit outta those niggers with a fuckin’ baseball bat? Serves ’em right—fuckin’ spook bastards, tryin’ to fuck our girlfriends.”

“Shut up,” Mickey said.

Filippo stared at Mickey, looking shocked. “What’d you just say?”

“You heard me,” Mickey said. “I’m sick of listening to your bullshit, so why don’t you just shut up?”

Filippo leaned over the table and tried to punch Mickey. Mickey moved back in time and the fist breezed past his face.

“Come on, chill out,” Chris said to Filippo.

Filippo laughed. “Scared you, huh?” he said to Mickey. “What’s the matter? You a nigger lover
and
a faggot now?”

“I work with one of the guys who got attacked that night, all right?” Mickey said.

“Holy shit,” Chris said to Mickey. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was
that
guy?” Filippo said. “I never liked that fuckin’ nigger—always looks at me like Kunta Kinte when I buy fish from him. I always wondered why they hired a nigger at that fish store in the first place. I mean why wouldn’t the owner of the store just hire a normal white guy?”

Mickey shook his head, looking out the window.

“I was just curious,” Filippo said to Mickey, “what’s it like workin’ with a spook all day? He teaching you all about watermelons and fried chicken?”

“All right, leave him alone,” Chris said.

“Ooh, look how mad I’m gettin’ him,” Filippo said to Mickey, smiling. “What’s the matter? You and that nigger queer together now or what?”

“Give him a break,” Chris said.

“What? I’m just asking him a question,” Filippo said. “The guy has a mouth—he can use it.”

“Come on, just leave him alone,” Chris said. “He bowled good for us tonight, didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Filippo said, “but that don’t mean Mickey Mouse here don’t suck black dick.”

“Come on,” Chris said, “let’s get cute Maria back here so we can order.”

“He’s right,” Mickey said, putting down his menu.

“Right about what?” Filippo said.

“Charlie and me,” Mickey said. “We try to keep it a secret, you know, but during the day we go to the back room together and fuck each other’s brains out.”

“See? What did I tell you?” Filippo said to Ralph.

Ralph just sat there, staring.

“He’s bullshitting you,” Chris said to Filippo.

“Nah, I can tell he’s telling the truth,” Filippo said. “I always knew he was queer—since he was a little kid. Remember when we were kids we used to play hockey in the street sometimes? Mickey would never play with us. That’s because it was too rough for him. He was probably sitting home in his room, playing with his Barbie dolls.”

“You’re right, I was,” Mickey said. “I have a whole Barbie doll collection. I have a Ken doll too. But I play with Ken a lot more than Barbie.”

“I don’t even wanna sit at the table with this fuckin’ guy no more,” Filippo said. “I might catch AIDS.”

“What’s AIDS?” Chris asked.

“Some new faggot disease they got,” Filippo said. “If you shake hands with a faggot you die.”

“Come on, let’s just order some food,” Chris said.

“And I knew that nigger he works with was a fudgepacker too,” Filippo said. “He always walks funny, like he’s got dicks up his ass.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey said.

“What?” Filippo said. “You don’t like it when I make fun of your boyfriend? You want me to call him a spearchucker instead?”

Mickey glared at Filippo.

“What’re you gonna do,” Filippo said, “hit me with your nail file? Or you gonna call your monkey boyfriend to come beat me up?”

Mickey tried to go after Filippo, climbing over the table. Chris leaned over, holding Mickey back.

“Don’t hit me,” Filippo begged. “Please don’t hit me! I don’t wanna die from AIDS. Please! Please!”

“Come on, you douche bags,” Chris said. “You wanna get tossed from here or what?”

Mickey stood up, put two bucks on the table, and headed toward the door.

“Hey, where you going?” Chris said. “Come on.”

Mickey left the diner and headed toward his car at the end of the parking lot.

“Hey, Mickey!” Chris called out from behind him. “Mickey!”

Mickey didn’t turn around. As he was getting into his car, Chris grabbed his shoulder from behind.

“Lemme go,” Mickey said.

“Come on,” Chris said. “Come back inside.”

“Fuck you. I’m going home.”

“Don’t pay attention to Filippo. You know he’s just full of shit.”

“I don’t care about Filippo.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Just leave me alone, all right?”

“Lighten up, man,” Chris said. “Jesus, you’re eighteen and you sound like my fuckin’ grandfather. I don’t know what’s wrong with you.”

“You wanna know what’s wrong with me?” Mickey said. “I lost half my life savings today—how’s that for having something wrong with me? Now can you lemme get the fuck outta here?”

“What’re you talking about?”

Mickey hadn’t meant to tell Chris about the money he’d given to Artie, and he was sorry he had.

“Forget it,” Mickey said.

“No, tell me, what’d you do,” Chris said, “blow all your money at the track?”

Figuring it didn’t make a difference now, anyway, Mickey told Chris what had been going on.

Afterward Chris said, “You’re such a fuckin’ idiot. Why did you put in bets for him?”

“Fuck you,” Mickey said.

Mickey got in his car and slammed the door. As he was warming up the engine, Chris knocked on the window. Mickey rolled his eyes, then cranked the window open.

“I can’t believe you took money out of the bank,” Chris said. “Why didn’t you come to me first?”

“What for?”

Mickey started to close the window. Chris put his hand over it.

“You want your money back?” Chris said. “Because if you do, I can help you get it.”

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

Chris looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was around, then he said, “I can’t give you your money back, but I can help you get it. Me, Ralph, and Filippo—we’ve been doing this thing. I’ve been putting away under my mattress, saving up for a new Firebird.”

“What’s the
thing?
”

“Just a thing to make money. If you get in on it, you might be able to make back all the money you lost today in a week, or in a day if you’re lucky. I don’t think they’ll want you in, but they’ll let you in if I put my foot down, and I will if you want me to.”

“Is it something illegal?”

“You said you want your money back, right?”

Mickey stared at Chris for a few seconds, then said, “Lemme go.”

Chris moved his hand from the window, then stood there, watching Mickey drive away.

WHEN MICKEY OPENED the outer door to his apartment, he was greeted by the odor of urine. Blackie, Mickey’s landlord’s dog, had a bladder problem and sometimes couldn’t hold it in before he got outside.

Blackie started barking venomously as Mickey headed up the dark steep stairwell, leading to the door to his apartment. Mickey opened the door and reached for the light switch when someone grabbed him and pushed him against the wall, and Mickey felt the sharp edge of a knife against his chin.

The person holding Mickey was breathing heavily, panting.

“Dad?” Mickey said weakly.

“What the hell’re you doing in this apartment? Huh? You trying to rob us?”

“It’s me, Dad. It’s Mickey.”

“Who? What the hell’re you talking about you son of a bitch?”

Mickey felt the tip of the blade going into his chin, and he realized that his father could easily slit his throat. Mickey grabbed his father’s wrist, above the hand that was holding the knife, and squeezed as hard as he could.

“You fuckin’ bastard,” Sal Prada said.

When the tip of the knife was no longer piercing his skin, Mickey kneed his father in the balls. Sal grunted, then Mickey heard the knife fall onto the floor. Mickey went to his knees and felt around. The apartment wasn’t completely dark—there was some light coming from the lampposts outside—but Mickey’s eyes hadn’t adjusted yet and he could barely see. Finally, Mickey felt the blade part of the knife, but before he could grip the handle, his father grabbed it. Mickey went for his father’s wrist again; he could only squeeze with his right hand, the one without the stitches. They struggled on the floor. Mickey didn’t know where the knife was, and he was afraid it would go into his chest.