Balling the Jack

by Frank Baldwin

  “What is it?”

  “Well … is it just me, or does her story seem pretty shaky?”

  Carter frowns. “Her story is her story, Reasons. And as our client her story is gospel. It’s not our job to poke holes in it. It’s our job to poke holes in the other side. Capisce?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s just that … well, don’t you think, given her appearance, and her money, and her—demeanor—that she’s not going to cut a very sympathetic figure at trial? That a jury might side with the hardworking immigrant, and jump at the chance to stick it to a rich old broad?”

  Carter rubs his hands. “Ah. Now you’re thinking, Reasons. That is precisely why this case is not going near a jury.”

  “Sir?”

  “Prego does all right, but he’s no moneybags. Once he realizes what this trial is going to cost him, he’ll settle.”

  “But he can’t, sir. Settling would kill his business. Nobody would ever hire him again. His only hope is to save his reputation by winning at trial. He’s got nothing to lose.”

  Carter paces again, turning with a bounce at each end of the room.

  “Let’s just say there are ways of making him settle.”

  “Like what, sir?”

  Carter slows. “Okay, Reasons. Welcome to the law as it’s not taught in law school. Think along with me here.”

  I don’t like the sound of this.

  “Prego is one of these guys with a lot of ties to the home country. Always shuttling over cousins, nephews to work in his place. You know—the whole immigrant shtick.”

  “So?”

  “So, I don’t think we’ll have to look real hard to find someone in the pack without a green card. Maybe they’re working in his place, maybe for his brother in construction. Either way, we’re talking big fines. And if we want to press it—end of business, deportation, the works. Trust me, Reasons. Between us and Immigration, Prego will settle.”

  My stomach hints at starting up on me and I fight it down.

  “Which leads me to today. I’ve got a friend over at INS who owes me a favor. I want you to meet with him. Ask him to see what he can dig up. Tell him to start with the niece who worked the party. Wouldn’t surprise me if little Rosie is missing some papers. Tell him not to act on anything he finds, though. For now it stays just between us.”

  Back at my desk I stare at the wall. Life sure can be a barrel of shit sometimes. I start in on the depositions, but it’s slow going. Reading over Prego’s testimony I can’t help but think of him back in his shop, mixing his sauces. Full of worry, a crease in his brow, but confident the good lawyers can iron everything out. You don’t know what you’re in for, Giuseppe. In my year here I’ve seen a few cases with the truth on one side and the money on the other.

  I don’t like your chances.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I’VE TOUGHED out a few hangovers in my time, but this one tops the list. Two days and change. As I walk up the East Side Friday after work, an Oil Can in my hand, I’m just starting to feel human again. Nothing like a little hair of the dog. I’ve yet to have any brainstorms on this Duggan mess, but that will have to wait. First things first—time to pick my game.

  I’ve narrowed it to the Yankees in Chicago or Boston hosting the Angels. Let’s see. Cone is on the mound for the Yanks. My favorite ex-Met, and he’s riding a three-game winning streak. I don’t know, though. Coney’s fucked me twice in the last year and I’m not sure I’m ready to trust him again. The last time I bet him he took a 1—0 lead into the ninth and then flipped out on me. Balked in the tying run and wild-pitched in the winner. I lost all my dough and nearly pissed myself besides. Then, too, you have to like the Angels in Fenway. It’s August, so Boston’s headed down the tubes, and a good lefty like Langston should give them fits.

  At Union Square I lean on a mailbox, close my eyes and wait for a flash from the betting gods. Yanks or Angels? Yanks or Angels? I open them again to see a mother and her little girl eyeing me nervously. I tip my beer at them as they back away.

  “Got it.”

  FOUR HUNDRED on the Angels, Toadie.”

  He takes my money and I feel the pressure go out of me. Even Duggan, whom I’ve sensed around every corner the past few days, seems a hundred miles away. Stella greets me with a big hug, still wearing her smile from three nights ago.

  “It’s good to see you again, Tom. You guys were terrific on Tuesday. Who’s our team tonight?”

  “The Angels.”

  Mason puts an Absolut on the rocks in front of me. “Okay, Reasons. Bonus question, seeing as the season’s over and there won’t be any more dart nights for a while. Ready?”

  “Shoot.”

  He rolls the toothpick in his mouth from right to left, clamps it in the middle. “Every cheap hood strikes a bargain with the world.”

  I drop my head. “Man, I know that one. Give me a few minutes.”

  “You got till game time.” He walks down the bar.

  I’m just dicking him—I could finish the stanza. Go as deep into the album as you want, you won’t slip any Clash by me. Just before first pitch he saunters over.

  “Let’s have it, tough guy.”

  “Wouldn’t be ‘Death or Glory,’ Clash, London Calling?”

  “Damn.” He pours my drink with a scowl. “You better pull out your thrash tapes, Reasons. You’re starting to piss me off.”

  I take a deep drink of vodka and feel it spread down my neck and into my arms and chest. How did anybody make it through the week before this stuff? How did they blow off steam? Threw rocks at each other, I guess. No wonder.

  Nabholz is the surprise starter for the Red Sox. He’s the last pitcher I want to see out there. A big, sloppy lefty, no great shakes, really, but somehow the guy has it in for me personally.

  When he was in the National League he couldn’t beat anybody but the Mets. He’d get knocked out of the box three starts in a row and then come into Shea and pitch a shutout. Used to kill me. Now banished to the AL, he’s trying to fuck me out of four hundred bucks.

  “Mason, one more down here. And easy on the ice.”

  This is it. Three to two Boston in the ninth. Two on, two out. If I told you how the Sox took the lead I’d pop an artery. Edmonds is up there for me with a chance to win it, facing the Boston closer. Come on, Edmonds—I could get a hit off this guy. The count is 2–2. The pitch: Oh, that’s hit! I’m up on my chair, waving it on. Get out of there! Get out of there!

  Caught at the wall.

  I slump in my chair. Toadie walks over, pats my shoulder and slides me a beer.

  “Tough one, kid. Hey, how ’bout that Cone? Shut out the White Sox tonight three zip. Son of a bitch went all the way.”

  I slide off the stool and walk out the door into the night.

  The purity of the big bet comes from the gulf between winning and losing. It is absolute. No second place, no moral victories, no nice try. I’m feeling that gulf right now, as I stand in the street. Forty-seven dollars until next Friday. No Irish band tonight and no night on the town with Dave. A week of hot dogs and instant noodles to look forward to. And this whole Duggan business still hanging over me. Christ.

  All the introspection I don’t have time for when I’m out spending my winnings comes down hard when I lose. What kind of guy gambles away his paycheck, anyway? What kind of guy lives with a couple of clowns, for that matter? Or works a job he doesn’t believe in? Or bets forty grand he doesn’t have?

  I’m too depressed to go straight home, so I make a left and start uptown. At Forty-second Street I cut west. As I pass the big public library the blood in me starts to move a little faster and I pick up the pace. This part of town always gives me a boost.

  At Seventh Avenue I see the corner preacher in his usual spot, going strong. Tonight he talks about the Lord Jesus, about the light that came down from the mountain, the fire that awaits the sinner, and the high, the only true high, the all-natural, everlasting high of the believer, for which we need only drop to our knees an
d accept the Son of God into our hearts. It all sounds pretty easy the way he tells it. Next he drones on about the thousand paths to hell. He mentions a few I haven’t covered and I make a note of them for the weekend.

  As I come into the heart of Times Square, his voice loses out to singing. I sit for a minute on a low wall in the middle of the square and listen to three bums singing barbershop, one voice starting just as the others fade. Two low, one high, more peaceful than any lullaby I heard as a kid. I start awake a while later and realize I’ve been sleeping. The singers have pooled their money and bought a six-pack, and sit tapping the cans to the rhythm of the rappers, who dart and glide through traffic. The air tastes sweet, with the barest hint of autumn, and I feel better already. Money or no money, it’s still a charge to be young in this town.

  Spread out behind me is the grand dame herself, Broadway, lit up like the morning star. She offers her neon hand to me, as she’s done before, asks if I won’t come dance awhile. Lose myself in her many skirts, breathe in the perfume that is hers alone. Some other night, my lady, when I’m flush. Tonight I’m happy just to sit here and soak it all in.

  I sat in classrooms for four years, listening to lectures and theories, and then I moved to the city, came up from the subway into Times Square and forgot everything. At last I wasn’t looking at life anymore but living it. Now, anytime I’m all out of gas, a little jaunt to the old quarter picks me up again. Something in the air here stirs my juices. The buzz and hum, the talk of the grifters. People gripe that it’s a hard part of town, depressing, but not to me.

  To me, Forty-second Street is beyond despair. The lost causes wander in the background, but they’re bit players in the performance that starts anew every night. In the spotlight are the stars—pimps and pushers, card jacks, shell men, barkers with silver teeth calling out show times. Rough boys and hookers and pickpockets and men of God who’ve strayed off the path for a few hours. When evening comes, the curtain lifts on them all. And tonight I have the best seat in the house.

  The script changes a little every night, sure, but the grand themes are the same. The bestsellers—sex, drugs, violence, and twisted in there with them something else. Each night, all these people come to Times Square with a little money and with something missing inside, some void that nothing in their life is filling, and for a few hours they try to fill it.

  Some fill it with drugs. Crack, speed, heroin. Pot if you want it, but who smokes that anymore? Big pills and small pills and vials and tin foil and squares. You name it, they got it, and if they don’t they’ll say they do and give you something close. Smoke it, snort it, and wander the streets dreamlike, giggling at the jugglers and the mimes, touching sweatshirts for the feel on the fingers, spinning from the lights and the rhythms and the candy that is everywhere, in the air even, and just let it last, let this night go on and on and never end.

  Or are weapons your game? Duck around the corner, Chief, and check this out. Spring knives, choke strings, Mace. Meet the men in the personal-protection business. It’s a rough world, but they’ll get you ready. A gun, you say? Well now, that’s a little tougher, but I know a guy who knows a guy and twenty bucks gets you a meeting and fifty more gets you a piece. You don’t want weapons—hey, no sweat, I got everything else. IDs? Step inside. We take a picture, do a little artwork, and in fifteen minutes your own mother will swear you’re twenty-one.

  Or maybe sex is what you need. Well, you’ve come to the right place, because every storefront is selling it. The two-dollar theaters and the dirty bookshops and the porn halls extraordinaire. Slip behind the curtain and you have a choice of thirteen channels. You can watch women and you can watch men and you can watch animals, and if none of that does the trick you can step downstairs and climb into a booth with the real thing, just a plate of glass between you and the girl, who wiggles and poses and does pretty much whatever you tell her to, so long as the coins keep falling. And this is just the minor-league stuff. In the back rooms and the run-down hotels, sometimes in the corner of an alley, the real action goes on. The one-on-one, the personal stuff, where the wallet calls the shots and anything goes.

  This performance, like I said, starts again every night. And it’s one show that won’t be closing anytime soon. Oh, the cops haul a few stars off the stage, sure, but before they even reach the squad car, new players step forward without missing a line. And the critics will rail against it, as always, but she’ll keep right on running. Just off Broadway, outlasting all the others. The cops can’t kill this show and the critics can’t kill it and the mayor himself couldn’t kill it, because the people just can’t stop coming.

  As I step down into the subway to head home, I feel better. Buck up, Tom—things could be worse. Hell, I don’t have to work tomorrow, and there’s a twelve-pack left at home. Not to mention the place to myself. Mike and Molly are in the Catskills for the weekend for some kind of sensitivity seminar. I can’t wait to hear the lowdown on that one.

  Back in the pad, I open the fridge to find the beer gone and a note in its place.

  Tom,

  We’ve asked you repeatedly to respect our abstinence and not leave beer on the premises. Perhaps this lesson will encourage understanding.

  Sincerely,

  Mike and Molly.

  P.S. Be sure to recycle.

  In the sink sit the empty cans, in three rows of four.

  I’ll kill them. I’ll wait right here until Molly comes through the door and I’ll beat her to death with a copy of Esquire. If the shock of seeing that doesn’t do Mike in, I’ll toss him out the window. Crime of passion. You show me twelve guys in a jury box who wouldn’t see my side of it. Acquittal, hell—they’ll give me a standing O.

  I scout around and come up with a little tequila from the back of the cupboard. Cut it with OJ and there might be enough for two sunrises. I sit at the kitchen table and curse my luck. Right now, at Finn’s, Aisling Chara is tuning up for their first set. Right now my waitress is dancing with her drinks, working the crowd with that walk of hers, her thin bra showing hard through her shirt as she starts to sweat.

  The phone rings and it’s Dave. “Well?” he asks.

  “I went down with the Angels. Everything’s off.”

  “Damn.”

  “Hey, you feel like picking up some beer and coming over here? The Mets are playing on the coast tonight.”

  “Tell you what. I promised my cousin I’d meet a friend of hers for a drink. I’ll come over right after that.”

  “Yeah, right. See you tomorrow, Dave.”

  “No, I mean it. This one’s strictly pro bono—returning a favor. I’ve seen a picture of her, Tom. We’re talking ten-dollar face. Give me a half hour to give her the slip.”

  Fifteen minutes later he’s back on the line.

  “Uh, Tom.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I have to pass on the Mets.”

  “What about the ten-buck face?”

  “Turns out it comes with a thousand-dollar ass, Tom. And get this—she lives in the Bronx. I owe it to myself to give this one a shot.”

  Dave has vowed to land a girl from each of the five boroughs. Only the Bronx has eluded him.

  “Tell you what, though. Brunch on me tomorrow. How ’bout the Polo Grounds at noon?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks, Tom. Sorry about that. And wish me luck.”

  Dave’s not sorry, and he doesn’t need any of my luck. No point getting sore, though. Just because I’m stuck in here tonight is no reason for him to call off the hunt. Still, does the guy have to get laid every weekend? When you’re not getting any action it doesn’t help knowing guys who are, and right now Dave’s giving Wilt Chamberlain a run for his money.

  I cut Nabholz’s picture out of The Sporting News, tape it over the bull’s-eye, and start firing away. By 11 P.M. all that’s left of him is the bill of his cap. The phone rings again. Don’t tell me Dave struck out.

  “Hello?”

  “Well, I’ll be. I figur
ed I’d be talking to a machine. What are you doing home on a Friday night?”

  Lisa! Wow.

  “I’m broke. Lost my bet and my roommates dumped my beer. So here I am, alone, dreaming of my old girlfriend.”

  “Ha! Which one, I wonder? Careful, Reasons—you’re getting me at a weak time. The date I had tonight makes you look like Mr. Considerate.” She pauses. “You want to hear about it?”

  Lisa has the best voice of any girl I know. Smooth and light, like water, and always just on the verge of laughter.

  “Sure. Say, how about a late-night walk through the Village? It’s beautiful tonight. I’ll let you buy me an ice cream. Just for an hour, then I’ll walk you home.”

  “You won’t try and invite yourself up?”

  “Sure I will.”

  Another pause. “Okay. Let’s meet under the arch in Washington Square. In one hour. But no funny stuff, Tom.”

  I’m in and out of the shower, dressed, and down the stairs in five minutes. Only when I hit the end of the block do I realize I’m almost running. Whoa, there. No sense going round the bend over a little ice cream. I downshift, cruise the street a little slower.

  Under the hood, though, the engine is revving.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  LISA is my ex.

  I broke it off almost a year ago and I’m starting to wonder if I blew it. Not that I’m ready to chuck the single life. Damn, though, hearing her voice was a shot to the gut. Must be all the pressure from this Duggan business. I just need to see a friendly face, I guess. Still …

  I turn onto First Avenue and start downtown, my hands in my pockets. The night is muggy and hot and I wish I had a cold beer to press to my forehead. Through breaks in the buildings I can see the East River, and the lights of Brooklyn beyond.

  The first time I saw Lisa Klein she was at a frat party dancing to “Sugar Magnolia.” I stood at the top of the stairs, holding on to the rail after too much Jonestown punch. I spotted her right away. In some girls you can see the sex in their dancing. In Lisa I could see the joy. She lifted her dress as she moved, her thin legs so pretty. Joy and abandon and restraint all at once, as if she were letting herself go but holding back the best part of her. Soon the other dancers receded into a mass of gray, and she alone in the center had color and form. I couldn’t look away.