This collection is comprised of works of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Akashic Books
©2012 Akashic Books
Series concept by Tim McLoughlin and Johnny Temple
Staten Island map by Aaron Petrovich
"When All This Was Bay Ridge" ©2004 by Tim McLoughlin was originally published in Brooklyn Noir and is presented here with the authors permission. All Rights Reserved
"If You Can't Stand the Heat" ©2006 by Lawrence Block was originally published in Manhattan Noir and is presented here with the authors permission. All Rights Reserved
"Hothouse" ©2007 by S.J. Rozan was originally published in Bronx Noir and is presented here with the authors permission. All Rights Reserved
"First Calvary" ©2008 by Robert Knightly was originally published in Queens Noir and is presented here with the authors permission. All Rights Reserved
eISBN: 978-1-61775-146-2
Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-61775-129-5
eISBN: 978-1-61775-146-2
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012939266
All rights reserved
First printing
Akashic Books
PO Box 1456
New York, NY 10009
[email protected]
www.akashicbooks.com
Table of Contents
___________________
Cover page
PART I: FAMILY AFFAIR
SNAKE HILL
BY BILL LOEHFELM
Eltingville
SISTER-IN-LAW
BY LOUISA ERMELINO
Great Kills
WHEN THEY ARE DONE WITH US
BY PATRICIA SMITH
Port Richmond
A USER'S GUIDE TO KEEPING YOUR KILLS FRESH
BY TED ANTHONY
Fresh Kills
DARK WAS THE NIGHT, COLD WAS THE GROUND
BY SHAY YOUNGBLOOD
South Beach
PART TWO: FIGHT OR FLIGHT
MISTAKES
BY MICHAEL PENNCAVAGE
The Ferry
ABATING A NUISANCE
BY BRUCE DESILVA
Tompkinsville
PAYING THE TAB
BY MICHAEL LARGO
Four Corners
ASSISTANT PROFESSOR LODGE
BY BINNIE KIRSHENBAUM
Grymes Hill
PART III: BOROUGH OF BROKEN DREAMS
. . . SPY VERSE SPY . . .
BY TODD CRAIG
Park Hill
BEFORE IT HARDENS
BY EDDIE JOYCE
Annadale
THE FLY-ASS PUERTO RICAN GIRL FROM THE STAPLETON PROJECTS
BY LINDA NIEVES-POWELL
Stapleton
TEENAGE WASTELAND
BY ASHLEY DAWSON
Tottenville
LIGHTHOUSE
BY S.J. ROZAN
St. George
About the Contributors
Also in the Akashic Noir Series
Bonus Materials
Brooklyn Noir Excerpt
Manhattan Noir Excerpt
Bronx Noir Excerpt
Queens Noir Excerpt
About Akashic Books
INTRODUCTION
AN ERRINGLY PERFECT LANDSCAPE
In the always entertaining send-up known as the Urban Dictionary, "Staten Island" is defined as "a floating dump that sits in New York Harbor. Often mistaken for a populated borough." Alternate definitions include: "Brooklyn with parking," "recepticle [sic] of New York City's garbage—paper, plastic, and human," "where the hair is high and the IQ is low," and "name given to the small pile of gristle, burnt ends, and spit-out left on the edge of your plate at the end of a meal," as in:
Have you finished your dinner?
Yep.
What about that last mouthful?
Nah, that's just Staten Island.
Incensed? Insulted? Then you're probably not a native of the island. Some of Staten Island's most vocal detractors are those who grimly populate its clutter. They're the ones spewing expletives after a snowy-white Escalade or a tricked-out Camaro smushes them against the railing on the Outerbridge. They're growling because it's August and there's that certain fragrance wafting on the breeze. They're the ones who consider their entertainment options for the upcoming weekend and realize, once again, that the choices are 1) the mall; 2) the mall; or 3) hop the ferry and get the hell away from . . . the mall.
Next time you're on the island, slow your stroll and take a good long look at the oft-falling faces of its citizenry. There is very little veering toward glee. Sure, you can find giggling children romping in a kid-sized anthill at the Children's Museum or picture-book couples strolling hand-in-hand through the Greenbelt. There are raucous side streets that feel like a family reunion, with neighbors conversing from their stoops and a cool clash of salsa and Sinatra blaring from open windows. Indeed, there are sometimes whole gaggles of happy people doing apparently happy things and looking damned pleased to be living in . . . in . . . uh, that other borough.
But in front of, behind, and on either side of these perky few plods a Greek chorus on Thorazine, shuffling in the shadows and moaning a soundtrack of regional discontent. The tragic chorale seems to be made up mostly of my writing students at the College of Staten Island. When I ask them to write anything about where they live, they sigh and roll their eyes so dramatically they can see who's behind them without turning around.
Each semester I confront a different group of eye-rollers, but when the topic is Staten Island the consensus varies only slightly:
"Nothing ever happens."
"Nothing ever happens."
"Nothing ever happens."
As a writer, I firmly believe that 1) there's nowhere where nothing ever happens; 2) something eventually happens everywhere, even nowhere; 3) everything is bound to happen somewhere; and 4) there's no such thing as nothing whenever you're somewhere.
Nothing ever happens on Staten Island?
Nothing happening on the glitzy Uggs-trodden paths of the Staten Island Mall, no steamy intrigue in Frederick's of Hollywood or in the cinnamon-dusted confines of Auntie Anne's? No memorable drama on the relentless to-and-fro of the ferry? Nothing cool about the counter guy at the neighborhood bodega who always has a great story, or that gay club that opened up for a while then disappeared? How about intrigue in the lives of the dude and dudette of Staten Island stereotype—she orange-tinged, deftly manicured, and helplessly attached to her cell; he muscled, sticky-coiffed, and primping behind the wheel of that aforementioned Camaro?
Nothing interesting at all? I ask, and, after another round of eye-rolling, they're aching to elaborate.
"This place is too damned small."
"Everybody knows everybody else's business."
"Same people you grew up with, all the time. Never anybody new."
"There's no place to go but the mall."
"Being made fun of all the time gets tired real fast. I don't even tell anybody I'm from here."
And until I finally shut them up, all they do is continue to serve up more reasons why Staten Island is an erringly perfect landscape for noir, the ideal hangout for scoundrels, swindlers, liars, thieves, murderers, adulterous vixens, and assorted hooligans. Let's review:
1.
The place was too damned small. On all sides, water ate away at the island. Every day, the brick of the buildings inched closer to him, until Eddie could feel their soft scrape against his skin. Every street seemed to sweat, panting poisons through its many open mouths. There was no street he hadn't seen, no corner that didn't hiss hi
s name. People walked toward him, through him, past him, all smirking on the edge of a smile. Laughing at him. But there it was, the sweet weight of the gun in his pocket. Soon he'd be able to breathe again. Eddie would blow a hole in the way the city touched him, and he'd climb through.
2.
"Everybody knows everybody else's business," Eddie spat, "and I don't want nobody knowin' mine." He held the bartender's wiggling little head in a vise grip until it stopped wiggling. He looked down, and the little guy's scalp was glowing red. Eddie got real pissed real fast because here it was, an interruption in his day, now he had to figure out if he felt like killing this guy. One minute, he's looking forward to the zarzuela and a nice chianti at Espana, now here's this loudmouth prick with his eyes popping out.
3.
Same people you grew up with, all the time. Never anybody new. Alexis could swear she said the words out loud, but there was Eddie, still asleep, snorting, his mouth open, his mountain of belly radiating heat. Just because their families had lived next to each other in New Dorp. Just because he'd given her that stupid ring in high school. Just because he was the first one to ask, she had to say yes, had to stand up in front of God and family and sign up for this? She sighed, fingered the little blade, studied his sweating pink neck.
4.
There's no place to go but the mall. There's no place to go but the mall, and there's no way to walk but in well-lit circles, then ride the escalator with its silver teeth, and the girls. There's no place to go but the mall, and the girls. Sheep boots and sequin skirts, low-cut tops, red-tipped nails, hair color of falling sun, skinny wrists, big perfect mouths, and the girls, swing purses, smack gum, talk the island, girls. Blindfold left pocket this time. Tape on the right. There's no place to go but the mall. There's nothing to do but wait.
5.
I don't even tell anybody I'm from here. I can hit Brooklyn or the Boogie B, sling it like I'm a gangsta, point my ride down the middle of the street. I can flash my piece, hold it against a throat, have a man whimpering my name. I can lay a woman down, then leave her, make her unknow my name if that's what I need. Then I get on that great big boat, and I'm gone. In the Bronx, some guy with a gun is searching the back alleys for me. Some big-hipped redhead in Brooklyn is aching to stake a claim. But I get home and the island closes around me, names me all over again. There's something about water. It cleans you.
* * *
So there.
Staten Island = 0 is a popular equation outside the confines of the borough. During Bouchercon, an annual national crime fiction convention, I sat fuming as a panel on "crime fiction set in New York" went on and on and on, with panelists bellowing darkly about nefarious goings-on and iconic characters in Manhattan, the Bronx, Queens, Brooklyn, and . . . and . . .
Finally, nudged by an irritated attendee who suddenly knew why her students didn't want to write about their home town, members of the panel acknowledged their omission with what amounted to, Oh yeah, there's crime there too, and went back to a spirited discussion of the Big Four.
Yep, there's crime here too. Good crime. Mystery. Dark, scary stuff. Big crime. The noir kind, without a good guy in sight. Just scan the headlines: Skeleton in Staten Island Basement Points to Unsolved Murder; Staten Island Man Commits Murder after Victim Had Spit in Wife's Face. Then there's the haunted Kreischer mansion on Arthur Kill Road. Mob Wives, for Chrissakes, with all that squalling, hair-pulling, and Botox. A recent spate of hate crimes against blacks, Mexicans, Muslims. Mist-shrouded abandoned psychiatric hospitals. Guys named Eddie. Underground caverns. Willowbrook. The ghostly ship graveyard. The legend of Cropsey. That rolling landfill and all those secrets buried beneath it.
Even the one movie that was named after the borough got it exactly right. Here's the synopsis: A Staten Island mob boss Parmie is robbed by septic tank cleaner Sully who has a pal Jasper, a deaf deli employee moonlighting as a corpse chopper.
That's a damned sunshiny day on the island.
I'm not sure why Staten Island is the borough bringing up the rear in Akashic Books' Noir Series (okay, okay, yes I am), but here we are, the shiny coin in New York's back pocket. (You can't really buy anything with it, but throwing it away would definitely bring bad luck.) We will prove that SI is as rotten, vengeful, unforgiving, and badass as any one of its quartet of brothers.
This gang I've gathered is unrelenting. Among them is island native Bill Loehfelm, who crafts a stark and breathless character study on Snake Hill. In "A User's Guide to Keeping Your Kills Fresh," Ted Anthony chronicles the haphazard adventures of a murderous mob bungler. The blade-edged tenets of street justice rule the day, and night, in Todd Craig's ". . . spy verse spy . . ." Michael Largo's "Paying the Tab" sits the reader on a barstool, then lifts you out of one world and into another. S.J. Rozan's "Lighthouse" moves with a chilling, elegant rhythm, and Linda Nieves-Powell arranges a jazzy introduction to the siren of the Stapleton projects. And lest you think that nefarious island hijinks are a recent development, Bruce DeSilva builds upon a true story of unbridled power and privilege, set in 1858.
That said, I'm slightly disappointed that there are no appearances by corpse choppers, which may be because it's become a perfectly respectable Staten Island job description. Nevertheless, I'd like to meet one.
Patricia Smith
July 2012
PART I
FAMILY AFFAIR
SNAKE HILL
BY BILL LOEHFELM
Eltingville
We came over the top of Snake Hill too fast, and started our drop down the other side at the same speed. My father's giant old station wagon slalomed deep into the snaky curves like a fat skier in wet snow. The tires didn't screech, but they squeaked now and again. Streetlamps were few and far between. The trees were black shadows on both sides, the foliage dense and dark, close to the roadside. I tried to keep the headlights focused on the winding double yellow lines in front of me, keep those lines centered in the crossed beams of light. I hoped to hell that no one was coming up the hill in the opposite lane.
My brother snored over on the passenger side of the wagon's big bench seat, having passed out sometime in the first three minutes after we left the Haunted Café back on Bay Street. I hadn't seen him put back more than two or three drinks, less than half of what I'd had, and I got that sick, nervous feeling in my stomach that had been coming on more and more lately, the feeling that he was messing with more powerful stuff than booze. Pills, maybe. Powders. He hadn't, I noticed with a quick glance, despite my insistence and his assurances, fastened his seat belt. Couldn't even do that for me. I wanted to slam on the brakes and bounce his head off the dashboard, just to make a point. But I didn't do it. I kept riding the sharp, blind curves in the road. He shifted in his seat with the back-and-forth motion of the car.
Why, I wondered again, tightening my grip on the steering wheel, was I driving like a maniac to get us home by curfew when there was so much more to worry about? Because, I reminded myself, curfew was what our folks cared about. Curfew and the car. They wouldn't ask what Danny was getting into, because they didn't want to know, and I sure wouldn't tell. Wouldn't say anything about a seventeen-year-old with a grown-up hangover. They never did anymore, not after the past two years in our house. We'd had all the bad news we could handle.
I looked over at my brother again. His forehead was pressed against his window. I couldn't see his face, but I knew he always smiled in his sleep—the benefits of an empty conscience. Another quick check of the road and I glanced at the dashboard clock. One fifteen in the a.m. Well, we'd blown curfew. That was a lost cause. Seemed I was losing causes by the minute. More important now was the matter of getting down the hill. If I couldn't deliver us home on time, I could at least deliver us home in one piece. That plan hit the skids, literally, barely a moment after I had that thought.
I don't know if it was oil, or gravel, or the greasy entrails of something dead and left to rot, but coming out of an especially sharp turn, the back end of the statio
n wagon fishtailed hard left, as if God had flicked the ass-end of the car with his finger. I didn't panic. I didn't overcorrect. I didn't make a sound. I held steady and hit the brakes.
The back left corner of the station wagon slammed into the guardrail, the back tires sliding and scratching on some roadside gravel. A deep thump pulsed through the car on impact, as if someone had whacked an empty pot with a spoon and we were inside the pot. It wasn't that loud, considering, but it lingered in my ears for an extra second nonetheless. The chassis bounced once or twice and the car settled, still, on the side of the road like the collision had knocked the wind out of it. My brother groaned beside me. He touched his fingertips to his forehead. One eye was open, the other still closed. I guess he wanted to make sure the incident was worth the effort of opening both. I was glad he seemed okay. I grimaced in sympathy at the goose egg already rising over his right eye. Maybe that's why that left one had stayed closed.
"What the fuck, Kev?" he said. "We dead?"
"No," I said. "We're fine."
At least he knew we'd had an accident. He couldn't be that far gone.
He nodded as if I'd given him a lot of information to process. He squinted through the windshield with his one open eye then turned and did the same out the back window. He was looking, I realized, for the other car.
"Just us," I said. I turned around too. A cloud of thin gray dust hung suspended in the ruby-red glow of the brake lights. I realized I still had the brake pedal pinned. "I tagged the guardrail coming out of a curve. Too much of a rush, I guess."
"I don't know why you give a fuck about curfew anymore," he said, turning to me, both eyes open now, bewilderment all over his face. He sniffed. "You're the only one who does."
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