At Home in the Dark

by Joe Hill

  • • •

  “Everything good at the restaurant?” her father asked.

  “Mmhm.”

  She’d quit. She’d go in this afternoon and tell them. She’d go into the city and find a goddamn job.

  “Did you bring me my lasagna?”

  “You saw me, Dad, when I got here.”

  “Right.”

  Her father tilted his head towards Mrs. Moskowitz who was across the room. She was head to toe in powder blue, including a piece of tulle wound around her head with a matching piece of tulle wrapped around her walker. “She wanted me to dance with her,” Nick Conte said in an irritated whisper, “does that beat all?”

  “What?” Lucinda followed his gaze to Mrs. Moskowitz who noticed they were looking at her. She lifted one hand off the walker and gave her father a jaunty wave and a toothy smile.

  “I told her maybe eighty-three times I’m married. What the hell would your mother say?”

  Nothing, Dad, Lucinda thought. She’s probably having a pina colada on Vinnie’s boat. Oh for crissakes. Her eyes filled; she couldn’t help it. “Dad, do you remember Salvatore?”

  “Who?”

  Oh, Jesus.

  “Salvatore who?” he asked, frowning.

  What the hell was she doing?

  “Lucinda?”

  “Nobody. Really. I was just . . .”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  She took a breath. “Nothing. I’m sorry, I . . .”

  He gave her the stare he gave her when she was sixteen and he’d caught her sneaking through the kitchen after midnight due to the fact she’d been kissing John Turner in his car two doors down the street. His eyes narrowed. “He’s the construction guy, right?”

  “Daddy, please.”

  “Goddamn it, Lucinda! Salvatore, my ass! What is it? Plumbing? Electrical? Those sons-a-bitches will take me for all I got. Goddamn it!” he yelled, standing up fast, nearly losing his balance.

  Lucinda shot up, grabbed his arm before he fell. He shrugged out of her grasp, straightened his shirt and ran his hand through his hair. “You tell that son-of-a-bitch Salvatore to call me! I want to know when my house will be ready! You hear me, Lucinda? You tell him I’m the one who pays the goddamn bills!”

  • • •

  She called José. She met him at Dicky Dee’s and watched him eat a hot dog pushed into pizza dough with onions and peppers. It took a half hour to get him to even look her in the eyes after she told him.

  “You believe me?”

  “It is complicated.”

  “José . . .”

  He shook his head. “You cannot quit without another job.”

  “I’ll go to Etta and Bruno.”

  “Nothing will happen.”

  “They’ll talk to him.”

  He laughed. The onions and peppers had left their red-orange grease stain around his mouth. He dabbed paper napkins into a cup of water and wiped at his lips. “We will watch you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Enrique and Chu Chu and Simon and me. Even Carlos, we will watch you. Be next to you.”

  “Etta and Bruno will talk to him.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No,” he said. “And they will be angry.”

  “At me?”

  “He is their family.”

  She inhaled. They will be angry? She hadn’t been this angry since Marty up and died. “José, he is a scumbag. Un hijo de puta. Basura.”

  José visibly flinched.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you don’t say those things. José . . . please . . .”

  He put his hand gently on her arm. “We will watch you.”

  “You will watch me,” Lucinda repeated and felt all the air rush out of her body.

  “Like we watched Rosa.”

  She lifted her head. “Like you watched Rosa,” she repeated.

  • • •

  “Me too, my ass,” Rosa said softly, taking a sip of her martini, extending her glass towards Lucinda, “and you can be ‘me three’, cookie.”

  She put the glass gently back down on the bar and smoothed her skirt under her legs. “So I see those bitches on TV, you know, those actresses, puta movie stars in their black dresses and their sincere eyes and I listen to how they’re going to change the world and bring this sexual harassment thing right to the forefront, you know, like there won’t always be some guy trying to get into your pants and I laugh, I gotta tell you, while I’m trying to get a grip on the fact that after seventeen years at Sorrentino’s those sons a bitches fired me. I go to Etta and Bruno and Bruno says to me, “Leave your apron,” and I think, fuck you, old man, I should take this apron and cut it into little pieces and shove them up your ass, because I ask you, where are we gonna go? Is there a Human Resources Department at Sorrentino’s? Are they gonna lock up Salvatore? Ha ha ha. Another girl gets her tit grabbed in Newark. Call the media! Get that chick a black dress, put her on the Golden Gloves!”

  “Golden Globes.”

  “Okay.” She sighed. “Do you want to eat something?”

  “Sure,” Lucinda said.

  “They make a really good fried calamari here,” Rosa said, “as good as Chu Chu’s,” she said, lifting her hand and holding her fingers tight against her lips as tears softly covered her face. “I promise,” she said, and laughed. “I’ve gained like maybe twelve pounds.”

  “You wouldn’t know it. You look great.”

  Rosa cleared her throat and dabbed at the skin under her eyes with the cocktail napkin. “So, you want that? Calamari?”

  “Absolutely,” Lucinda said. She waved her hand at the bartender.

  “My husband wanted to kill him. I said oh, that’s good, Jack—then the girls and I can come visit you in prison. Wonderful.” She folded and refolded the little damp napkin. Her hands were shaking. “You have a daughter, right?”

  “She’s six,” Lucinda said.

  “I have two. Twelve and fifteen.” She shook her head. “Don’t ask.” She smiled at Lucinda. “We shoulda had boys, huh?”

  Lucinda smiled back. Jesus.

  “Before me he got Denise,” Rosa said. Did you know Denise?”

  “No, I didn’t know Denise.”

  “She could do six tables of eight without blinking.” Rosa took a breath. “Great waitress. Really. She taught me lots of stuff.” She lifted her glass and took another sip, “he hurt her,” she said in a whisper, “he got her bad in the hallway.” She put the glass down. “We could have prosciutto and melon with the calamari,” she said, “would you like that?”

  “Okay,” Lucinda answered. She didn’t fall off the stool. She moved her icy glass off the bar. The stem left a perfect wet ring.

  • • •

  They watched her. Especially Enrique, as if he were guarding Shakira while she was on tour. She was never alone with Sal. Never. One of them even waited in the hall when she went to the Ladies Room. They never discussed it—whatever José had said to them was enough. And she was calmer; she actually forgot about it every now and then. And when she came to the restaurant with her family on Sundays, because Angie made a big stink when she suggested they go somewhere else—“What do you mean, go somewhere else? Where would we go?” looking at her as she’d lost her mind—if he walked through the dining room while they were there you couldn’t possibly imagine he was the man who would do such things—shaking her father’s hand, giving Angie the right amount of sweet attention, and when he spoke to Maria he bent down so he was on her level. He even bought her a book about bugs; she’d been fascinated with creepy crawling things since she was maybe eight months old and saw her first rolly-polly bug on the porch.

  • • •

  Valentine’s Day. It seemed like all of New Jersey wanted to be at Sorrentino’s for Valentine’s Day Dinner. They had stopped taking reservations weeks before. You probably couldn’t get in even if you were Al Ruban. José and Marco and Tino were swapping out all the white line
ns for red, there were red roses going on the tables, red sauce, red velvet cake in the red booths—she was surprised they weren’t making the pasta red—thank you, Jesus—and the wait staff was going to wear red ties instead of black which Lucinda thought was truly tacky and totally hysterical. Marty had been the one who went overboard for Valentine’s Day—he had actually cut hearts out of red construction paper and thrown them all over the bed and her. “These are itchy,” she said to him, paper hearts crackling under her naked butt. “Shut up, Lucinda,” he said, laughing, a damp red heart stuck to his chin.

  They were ready; everything was humming. Anything that could be cooked ahead of time was cooked, the water was boiling, the garlic was chopped, the tomatoes, the basil, the parsley; the heavenly smell of Bolognese floated from the parking lot out back to the pink neon sign in front.

  José and Marco and Tino were bustling dishes and serving pieces to the tables, Simon was stepping in and out of the building to catch a cigarette, Chu Chu and Carlos were pulling filets out of the big freezer, Tino was walking around on his cell phone, having a fight with his wife about when his mother-in-law was finally leaving, and Lucinda was coming back from the ladies room pulling a stray piece of hair back into her pony tail for maybe the sixth time when she realized Salvatore was at the stove. There was no one else in the kitchen.

  He was watching her.

  She froze.

  He smiled.

  He had a kitchen towel in his left hand and was reaching for the giant sauté pan behind the huge pots of water.

  He didn’t take his eyes off her.

  She couldn’t make her legs move.

  The smile became a grin. He put his right hand on the front of his pants and rubbed himself. “I fuck you, Lucinda,” he said, in nearly a whisper.

  A corner of the towel dipped into the fire under the pot. The flames leaped from his cuff up his shirtsleeve. He yelled and jerked his arm back and his fingers caught the handle of the enormous pot of boiling water that tipped and fell down the front of him—scalding his hand and his pants and his everything. He screamed and fell.

  Doors flew open, Carlos and Chu Chu were running, José was shouting but Lucinda didn’t move. She just stood there, her hand covering her mouth, and then she smiled.

  The Eve of Infamy

  Jim Fusilli

  The judge gave Billy Malone a choice: an 18-month stretch in a state prison or the Army. Malone saw the offer as the light of good fortune. His play was drying up and his sinewy, green-eyed charm only went so far. He was thinking he needed a change.

  It was coming up on 1941 and the marks had gotten wise. No one in the Bronx, Brooklyn or Manhattan would sit at a poker table with him, so he was reduced to taking down half-wit tourists. On top of that, the precinct cops were aware of his violent record as a juvenile so they were keeping a hard eye on him. They pounced when Billy Malone shattered the jaw of an auto-parts salesman from Akron who accused him of marking the deck with a thumbnail.

  “Army,” Billy Malone told Judge Steigel in open court.

  “I understand you are something of a card sharp,” said the judge who, to Billy Malone, looked like a walrus. “Wherever you go, let it be known.”

  “Yes, your honor,” said Billy Malone, a man of few words. He had gotten what he wanted. Why agitate? He figured the Army would give him a free shot at the wide, wide world, a place littered with rubes.

  • • •

  Malone was stationed in Fort Irwin, out in the California desert, north of Barstow and about 150 miles from the nightlife in L.A. He figured his luck had run out, the sandstorms stinging his face, his throat parched from first call until he collapsed in his bunk. A 20-mile run under the scorching sun was a punishment far worse than prison back east.

  He heard Los Angeles calling. After a while, he thought he’d go AWOL and lose himself in the big city. Slinging rocks or scrubbing a latrine, he dreamed of a place he’d seen only in the movies: the clubs, the broads, the action, all accompanied by palm trees and orange groves and the cool breeze off the Pacific. He heard the pounding of foamy waves, the seagulls’ caw. Fuck this, he thought, broiling in the sun, his blond hair trimmed to bristle. I’m gone.

  Then his unit learned they were shipping out to Oahu.

  Suddenly, Billy Malone took to Army life. What the fuck. Do what the screaming sergeant tells you to. Hump, dive, crawl, climb. Shoot, stab. A piece of cake in a climate out of Eden. Free room and board. Lie on the bunk and read the magazines as the scent of ginger and hibiscus wafted into the barracks. Listen to the wind humming through the trees.

  On and off the base, the poker action was pitiable. It was theft. He had to bite his cheek to tamp down a smirk. He hung back but within months he’d cleaned out every man in the barracks including a corporal Malone sized up as weak. Next game, Malone threw him cards and the petty prick went to his rack up $600. A three-day pass ensued.

  • • •

  The club was less than two miles from the base. The first night, Malone in his floral shirt ran through a December downpour and played the Filipino card sharks straight. He managed to leave up a sawbuck and a half, more than enough for a taxi back to bed. Next night, he won $440, when a rubber trader from Guam dealt him a third jack on the night’s last hand.

  The hatcheck girl took him home. Her name was Lailani. They spend the next day together too. She knew a secret cove. Someone had been there before: melted candles, discarded rum bottles. She lit the wicks and tossed the empties. Afterwards, she walked naked toward the sunlight at the cove’s edge. She returned with a small onyx pipe and a ball of hashish. He waved her off. He had plans, he told her. He was about to play for real dough.

  She nodded discretely when Malone came back to the club. A man sat near him at the bar. A conversation began, the man careful not to come on strong. Malone knew what he was up to, this Hawaiian glad hand, this bullfrog-looking fuck. Malone flashed his bankroll to pay for his drink. The man said no, on the house, and invited him to a private room. Bigger stakes. Saturday night brings in the chumps, he confided.

  By midnight, Malone was at the table with a businessman from China; two GIs in blousy civilian clothes, one from Texas, the other was a skinny guy from the Deep South; and a Hawaiian, bloated, full of himself. The GIs counted their money before they anteed up. The Hawaiian, who hassled the hapless help, threw down bills like he owned a mint. Deep South beamed goofy when he won and Hawaiian stared at him with disdain. Malone looked ahead: he’d sit by while Hawaiian slow-played Deep South into poverty. The frog-faced brush had set up the GIs and the Chinaman.

  Malone figured he’d been set up too. He had wondered why the rubber trader from Guam threw him the third jack last night, but now he knew. He was there to fatten the pot.

  Soon the Chinaman was drained and Texas went in search of a back-alley blowjob. Eight hands in, the Hawaiian showed strong with two kings, but Deep South, who was dealing, raised and re-raised. The Hawaiian called with a boat—kings over sevens. Deep South had four nines. He giggled as he raked in $1,700. The Hawaiian sat stunned, his mouth flapped open.

  • • •

  “You want to keep on, soldier?” Deep South asked Billy Malone after the Hawaiian limped away.

  Malone said, “Why not?” He had ’til dawn.

  Deep South dropped his elbows on the table and leaned in with his long, lanky frame. “What do you say to five-card draw? Plain and simple.”

  “Fine by me,” Malone said. He was surprised the Hawaiian had been gutted. Deep South mucked up the house’s scam. Deep South, who blew into the palm of his left hand when he was bluffing.

  They played even for a while, back and forth. Billy Malone busted up a full house he dealt himself just to see if Deep South was paying attention. Lailani swung by with cocktails, but Malone waved her off. Deep South did too.

  Forty minutes in, Deep South raised after dealing himself three fresh cards. Then he blew into his hand. Malone had taken two: He already had three queens. He re-raised,
pushing in his last $1,200. Deep South called. Malone showed the ladies. Deep South turned over four sevens, one at a time.

  Out $2,600, Malone stood. He dusted his slacks, slipped back into his jacket. Deep South laughed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, as he stacked the cash.

  Malone pulled himself together and left the back room. The staff was sweeping the floor, chairs were up on the tables. As he walked toward the exit, the lights turned off. Beaten down, he left.

  • • •

  Fuck it, thought Billy Malone as he went along through darkness, palm trees quiet against the crescent moon. Deep South took him down square with the false tell. A legitimate play. As payback, he could take his rival’s left thumb or crush his mocking Adam’s Apple. But no. Malone would build up another bankroll and locate another game. A lesson learned. Valuable. In the long run, he’d profit from it.

  He decided he’d go back to retrieve the girl. Grab a bottle and head to the cove. One last good time before he was due at the base.

  The club’s front door was locked.

  Malone went around back to the screen door to the kitchen.

  He entered, passed hanging pots and pans, and there at the bar was everybody but the Chinaman: the rubber salesman from Guam, the Hawaiian who took the beat and the two GIs, Texas and Deep South. They were divvying the pot. The Hawaiian bullfrog came over to pocket his cut. So did Lailani. They moved quickly, efficiently. All business. Good night.

  “Next week?” asked the bullfrog.

  “You bet,” said Deep South. It was easy money, the island full of marks from all over the mainland.

  Sunday dawn was maybe an hour off. Malone hid in the parking lot. The remaining cars were settled close to each other. Malone took off his belt. He figured Texas was carrying, Deep South under his protection.