“Hey,” he called out, stepping away from her and toward the blowhard, blocking her view, which was bad. “Excuse me.”
The drunk turned on him. “What the fuck do you want? Directions?”
“If the lady wants to go, let her go,” Gary said, stepping closer, his wide back to Donna now.
“Mind your own goddamn business,” the drunk said and turned after the woman again. She was walking away fast, trying to just exit the whole scene. The drunk reached for her, she pulled away, and the strap of her dress tore. She screamed. Gary grabbed the guy by the arm, yanking him back, which was no problem, because he was pretty strong and relatively sober, but also left his body wide open and with his weight all on one foot, off balance, which became a problem when, with the sudden focus and viciousness mean drunks are prone to, the guy whirled around, breaking free of Gary’s grip and pulling a switchblade from his back pocket. Gary now jumped back, stumbling, and fell to the ground as the drunk came at him, blade first.
That’s when Donna moved. Gary, by exacerbating the situation and also placing his body between herself and the drunk, had left her with only two real options. The first was to draw her weapon and order the suspect to freeze. The problem with that was he was really close to carving Gary open and so, if he didn’t freeze, like instantly, she would most probably have to shoot him. Having a random encounter escalate from yelling and a torn dress to lethal force in ten seconds was not something she looked forward to explaining.
So she went with option two: she jumped over Gary, kicking the knife from the assailant’s hand, then swiveled, her other foot coming up to catch him hard in the belly and knock the wind out of him. As he bent forward, gasping, she stepped to the side, tripping him by kicking his ankle and then using all her weight to force him down, so that he flopped onto his face, right beside Gary, who was just getting his bearings. She ground a knee into his back to keep him in place, bent his arm back to keep him in pain and under her power, and then drew her weapon, pressing the barrel against his neck so he could feel it in his alcohol-and-rage-sodden brain.
“FBI,” she yelled, standing up now, gun in two hands. “Do not move, or I will shoot and kill you.”
“Okay, okay,” the guy yelled into the concrete against which his face was being smushed by her foot.
“You okay miss?” she asked the woman, who was watching all this in a daze, one hand holding up her dress. She nodded.
Then she turned to Gary, who was now on his knees, unharmed but stunned. “Gary, can you do me favor?” she asked. He looked up at her, his expression one of amazement. “Can you get your phone and call 911?”
Actually one of the passersby who had witnessed the fight had already called 911 and some cops, who’d been patrolling the park nearby, appeared almost immediately. Donna identified herself and showed them her ID, then explained what had gone down. The older, male partner cuffed the suspect and led him off. His younger, female partner dealt with the victim, or victims if you counted Gary. But once she took down all their info, and the woman was safely in the back of a patrol car that had arrived meantime, Donna pulled her aside. She was an Asian woman in her mid-twenties with bobbed hair.
“Listen,” she asked her in a low voice. “I know you have a ton of paperwork to do, but I was kind of on a date here. You mind if I come by and finish all this tomorrow?”
The officer shrugged. “I don’t see why not. He’s so drunk, by the time we book him and dump him in a cell he’s going to be passed out anyway. You enjoy the rest of your evening.” She glanced at Gary and smiled. “He is pretty cute.”
“Isn’t he?” Donna agreed, regarding Gary, who was back on his feet and looking fine, if still a little dazed. “Thank you so much.”
“It’s a pleasure,” the cop said. “And Agent Zamora?” She extended her hand. “Nice work.”
“Thank you, officer,” she answered and shook. “I appreciate that.”
Then she went over to Gary.
“Hey how you feeling? Are you okay?” she asked, her voice low and soothing, though she herself actually felt pretty great. She gave him a hug and he squeezed her back with real feeling.
“Wow,” he said, “that was something. I’m a little nauseous. You were amazing back there.”
She hid her grin. “I’m just glad no one got hurt. Especially you. And nausea is normal. It’s the adrenaline and the shock. It will pass. But you’re okay otherwise? Feeling fit?”
“Sure,” he said. “Thanks to you.”
“Great,” Donna said, taking his hand, and leading him away from the crime scene. “Because when you were giving your statement, I couldn’t help overhearing that your address is very close by.”
13
“YOU ARE A NO good, lying, cheating, adulterous bastard!”
“I know . . . I’m sorry . . .”
“You betrayed me, our family, everything . . .”
“I know . . . you’re right . . . I deserve to be punished . . .”
“You deserve to be beaten, whipped . . .”
“Yes! Please! Punish me . . .”
In a rage, Carol swung the belt up high and then brought it down, hard, across her husband’s back. The buckle knocked hard on the side of his head.
“Ow! Damn it, Carol . . .” He grabbed his head and rubbed the spot where no doubt a small contusion would rise.
“What happened? What happened?” Carol bent over him, suddenly frantic.
“Don’t use the buckle end, Jesus . . .” Gio said, pissed.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think about it.”
“Obviously not.”
“I’m really sorry. Do you want me to get you some ice for it?”
“No, no, it’s okay. Maybe after. Just hold it the other way and try again. Double it up. Gives you better control.”
“Okay. That’s a good idea.”
“And whip my ass, not my head for Chrissakes.”
“Yes, Gio. Sorry. I’ll try.”
Carol tried. She doubled up the thick leather of Gio’s belt, the casual one he wore with jeans, gripped it tightly in her fist, and tried to focus, but she felt like maybe the moment had passed. It had, she admitted, been all her idea. After their attempt at couple’s therapy failed spectacularly, she was depressed, but one point the therapist made stuck with her: she’d asked why Gio’s special needs couldn’t just be incorporated into their marriage. At first, she’d been defensive—he was the betrayer, the violator, the weirdo. Why should she adapt? But then she began to think that maybe this would promote deeper understanding and communication and eventually healing. It could be a breakthrough.
So she brought it up, and though he seemed irritated and embarrassed by the idea at first, totally dismissive, she told him they had to do something, so tonight, with their son out at a movie and their daughter eating dinner at a friend’s, they decided to try. It was super awkward at first, and sexually it did nothing for her, but once she got into it, Carol had to admit it was a release. Just as, according to Gio, being dominated like this was a chance to give up control, to be free of the tension and responsibility he carried all the time, so for her, it was kind of liberating to let out all the anger and outrage she’d been holding in (well, not exactly holding it all in, she did shoot that man) but which she had not been able to voice directly to Gio in this way, and with him in a posture of supplication and surrender, accepting it.
It was amazing, she thought, her mind drifting for a second, how much we therapists could learn from our supposedly “sick” patients, how people instinctively found their own solutions, their own strategies for psychic survival. Maybe this could be theirs.
She lifted the belt again, high up, and was bringing it back down with all her might, when her hand, a bit sweaty, slipped, and the end of the doubled belt snapped out of her grip, catching her in the eye. She squealed in pain and Gio jumped up from the floor, standing over her solicitously.
“What’s wrong, baby? Are you all right?”
“My eye . . .”
“Let me see.” He took her face gently in his hands. She blinked up at him, tears flowing from that one eye. “Looks okay,” he told her.
“Guess I’m a pretty crappy dominatrix,” she said.
“The worst,” he told her with a smile.
“Sorry . . .”
He started laughing.
“What?”
“Stop apologizing! I mean it’s hard enough to just keep a straight face . . .”
“Oh right, sorry!” And with that, hearing herself, she burst into laughter too. Then she caught her own image in the mirror: there she was in her best stockings, garters, and a bustier she hadn’t worn in ages, holding a belt and laughing. And there was Gio, her husband, squeezed absurdly into her largest pair of cotton panties, which were still basically choking him. It made her laugh harder. “You can’t keep a straight face?” she yelled, pointing in the mirror. “Look at you!”
He saw himself and started to howl, clutching his stomach as he laughed. He lay down on the bed and she flopped beside him. It felt so good to be laughing together like this. It had been forever. She felt all of her tension and anger, all of her grief and bottled up fear exploding out of her. She was purging, they both were, as they rocked back and forth laughing, and suddenly, as one emotion after another passed uncontrollably through her body, she felt an overwhelming lust, an animal horniness that seemed to erupt out of the wild, primitive laughter that contorted their bodies. She rolled on top of Gio, straddling him, and furiously, they began to make love.
“Mom! Dad! Anybody home?”
It was Nora, their daughter, stomping up the stairs and yelling. Both Gio and Carol froze. “Did you lock the door?” he asked.
No. In a panic she jumped up and ran for her robe. But where was it? She’d flung it somewhere when first revealing her role-play outfit.
“Hey, you guys . . .” Nora’s voice rang out from the hall. Realizing he had no time, Gio just put a pillow over his groin, hiding the flowered panties and the erection that distorted them, and then clutched at the blankets as the door opened. Carol simply turned to face her daughter in a fake casual pose, hands absurdly on her hips.
“Oh my God,” Nora blurted as she stormed in.
“Haven’t you heard of knocking?”
“It’s like 7:30,” Nora replied, somewhat off topic. “Who’s in bed or undressed at 7:30?” Her eyes widened. “You guys weren’t doing it were you?” Her face was a mask of horror.
“Don’t be silly,” Carol said.
“We were just talking,” Gio added, having now got most of his body under cover.
“In your underwear?” Nora asked.
“Why not?” Carol asked, sitting on the bed and crossing her legs casually. “We’re comfortable with our bodies.”
“Gross,” Nora decided.
“Anyway,” Carol said, “Why are you home at 7:30?”
Nora shrugged and sat on the bed beside her. “I don’t know. Mr. and Mrs. Turner are nice but sooo boring. And they’re vegan, which is totally cool and like commendable, but the food had no taste, so . . .” She shrugged. Carol rubbed her back.
“Want me to heat up some sausage and peppers?”
“Nah . . .”
“I’ve got an idea,” Gio said, glancing at his watch. “I’ve got to pick your brother up at the movies. What do you say we go by the warehouse after?”
“Yes! Can we?” Nora jumped around on the bed and Gio made sure to hold his covers down.
“Sure. It’s a hot night. Just let me get dressed and we’ll go. We can catch the last run before it goes out.”
And so, Gio and Carol threw on some clothes, decidedly nonfetish, though he did grab the belt and loop it through his jeans, picked up Jason, and headed to the warehouse where his family’s fleet of Italian Ice and Soft Serve Frozen Custard trucks were headquartered. In a tradition that had begun when his kids were small and that, he realized suddenly, they would soon be too old for, he requisitioned one of the trucks, giving the driver a paid night off, and drove the route himself, with his kids handling sales, scooping ices, dispensing ice cream into cones, and squirting whipped cream and syrup onto sundaes, under Carol’s supervision.
The truth is, that ice cream truck song can turn you into a psycho after a while, but otherwise it was pretty perfect, steering the old truck along the road, pulling in at beach parking lots and boardwalks, in the square white box with Caprisi’s painted on the side in red cursive. He’d done this with his grandfather, who liked to personally take a truck out now and then and give out free ices to the neighborhood kids, who ran to line up when they saw his kindly face behind the wheel. Good memories. He’d kept up the tradition with his own kids as a lesson in hard work and in the family’s working-class immigrant roots. Though he’d decided to spare them the lesson he’d learned another time when, on a different run late at night, with his father and grandpa, he’d had to dig in the freezer under the cartons of ice cream bars and retrieve the plastic bag which contained two hands, both rights, which they’d saved when disposing of a couple of rivals months before and used to plant misleading prints at a crime scene. The experience almost turned him off toasted almond bars, his favorite.
His family were complicated people. No wonder he had issues. But for now, for tonight, those issues seemed far away, and he felt calm, happy, and grateful, feeling the ocean breeze touch his skin, the sultry night air mingling with the frozen drafts from the ices, hearing his children laugh and the happy shouts of the customers ordering, and beyond that the sound of the ocean, crashing softly on the sand. He parked facing the beach, so he could hear the kids while watching the water, a dark wave under a dark sky, lit here and there by the moonlight, ceaselessly appearing and disappearing on the shore. While she talked to their kids, Carol reached over and stroked his head affectionately from behind, playing absently with his hair. Unknowingly, she kept touching the place where she’d hit him, which was now bruised and tender. But he didn’t say anything or let himself flinch: the perfect joy he felt was more than worth the pain.
14
THAT NIGHT, WHEN HIS brother died and returned from the dead, Liam was more grateful than ever to have Josh there with him.
They’d first met working for Joe, on his last caper: Liam as the youngest of the Madigan brothers, up-and-coming Irish hoodlums, Josh, freshly arrived from Israel, as a new member of Rebbe Stone’s crew. When Josh was shot, Liam had transported him to safety, and the unspoken attraction between them had bloomed. They’d been a couple ever since.
This day had started early, with a hijacking: a load of digital cameras, Chinese-made cellphones and fancy vacuum cleaners, the kind you strapped to your back. A guy Liam’s middle brother, Sean, drank with had tipped him off to it. He worked in the port of Newark and for a fee would let Sean know when the truck was leaving. The tricky part was how to take it: though more than one gangster had vanished into the surrounding swamplands, there was no way to guarantee that the truck would be heading down an empty road at a conveniently quiet hour. In fact, as it turned out, it was early morning, when the whole area was bustling.
Luckily, Liam had come up with a clever scheme and Josh, with his army training, had been able to implement it quite easily. Brandishing a fake manifest for a missing shipment, they walked onto the shipping company’s yard before the truck ever even left to pick up the container. They found the right vehicle and, while Liam stood lookout, Josh had crept under a wheel well and attached a small explosive device with a tiny radio transmitter.
Next, they got back in their own truck, a tow they had borrowed from their pal Cash, a highly successful car thief from the Chinese section of Flushing, who used a large junkyard called Reliable Scrap as his cover to strip and move stolen cars. They’d painted over the Reliable logo and switched the plates. Then, while the semi they had rigged was inside the port being loaded, they waited, drinking coffee and watching day break over the reed-filled wetlands, looking at the su
n glint on the silver towers of chemical plants and burn through the wavering fumes while planes from Newark Liberty Airport passed, leaving jet trails overhead, listening to the songs of whatever strange birds could thrive in this wasteland and still find something to sing about.
“There it is.” Josh pointed.
“I’ve got it,” Liam said. “Let’s give him a little more rope.”
He put the tow truck in gear and slowly rolled out, while Josh got ready with the radio control. They let the truck get about fifty yards ahead on the road that led to the interstate, and then, as it cruised along between fenced-in waste ground, Josh pressed the button and the truck’s front right tire blew. The whole rig shimmied, as the driver fought to steady it. Air brakes huffing, he slowly pulled over. That’s when Liam drove up, honking, and stopped alongside.
“Hey,” he yelled to the driver. “I just saw that blowout. You need some help?”
“Good timing!” the driver called back.
“Let’s pull off over here,” Liam told him, and guided him slowly onto a broken asphalt side road that ran into the high weeds, screened from the traffic.
“Now then,” he said in his bright Irish accent, as he and Josh got out and met the driver as he climbed down from the cab. “Let’s see if we can be of some assistance.”
A few hours later, Liam and Josh drove the truck into a South Williamsburg warehouse owned by Menachem “Rebbe” Stone. It looked like any of the other Hasidic-owned warehouses that stretched along the street: a brick hulk with a fenced-in yard, weeds sprouting in the cracked concrete. A pimply young man in a wide-brimmed black hat, white shirt, and long coat, with a sparse reddish beard, pulled the gate back, and they backed in, parking with the rear of the truck at the loading dock. Another thickset fellow looked down from the roof and nodded at Josh as he climbed from the cab. He too was in black, and heavily black-bearded, as were most of the men here. A few younger men had short, trimmed beards like Josh and were in regular clothes—jeans and polo shirts or button-downs—but still with yarmulkes and tzitzit, the knotted threads, dangling from their undershirts. They opened the truck and quickly began unloading, passing cartons to a forklift that was likewise operated by a skullcap-wearing bearded man in a white shirt and black trousers—his missing jacket the only accommodation made to the oppressive heat inside the dusty warehouse. Josh sat on the truck fender and lit a cigarette and Liam sat beside him and watched: for a lad from Belfast this was exotic indeed. Then a stout, older man with a stringy gray beard that hung like a tie over his shirt passed by, muttering something that Liam couldn’t understand but that included the words “goyim” and “fagalah,” at least one of which he could guess at. He let it pass, figuring it wasn’t his place to intrude, but Josh felt different. As the mutterer passed, Josh reached out and grabbed his beard, hard, yanking him down so that he was bent nearly double and groaning. “What did you say?”
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