by Daydreams
Ellie supposed, if anything ever did happen, which it probably wouldn’t since she didn’t even know the man, that she would bake him cookies on his birthday, make gentle fun of the nickname-not wanting to picture too clearly the places, circumstances, the ortions of seconds in which he’d earned it. That was another house for Sally to have written about-the house of terror. -But she’d only visited there once, and then it was too late.
Ellie couldn’t imagine herself making love to Phil Shea.
She supposed she could imagine him making love to her!
Fucking the daylights out of her, to be precise…. He’d screw a baby into her in no time flat. A Catholic baby, like Sonia’s lost brother.
-And Tommy would be very pleased. He’d liked Shea right away at the cemetery, been worried Shea wouldn’t call after all…. would hurt her.
-Then, he and Connie would come out and visit the mama-to-be, very happy for her, and Tommy would go fishing with Phil-and there’d be Tommy’s ex-partner, left behind on the dock with Connie for health reasons, the baby coming soon. There she’d be, with her belly stuck out a mile, advertising it to everybody at the grocery, all the waiters in the seafood restaurants out there. -This lady has spent some time on her back with her legs in the air, getting laid but good, and it’s turned her into something different from what she was.
If it came to a choice at St. Margaret’s emergency, between her and the baby which would Phil Shea choose?
Ellie thought of his big-knuckled hands, his face’s coarse, weather-scraped skin, his chill gray eyes when she’d compared her painting to the practice of law. She supposed he’d choose her, after all.
She put on her bathrobe, and went out to the kitchen to put the groceries away . . . decide about dinner. After dinner, she thought she’d do a load of laundry. Maybe do sheets, too, make an evening of it. Read Sally’s second letter carefully.
There was a Swanson’s Macaroni-and-Cheese Dinner and a Bird’s Eye Spinach Lasagne in the freezer. Ellie took out the Swanson’s, peeled the foil top off, and put it in for power medium, six minutes. Mayo’s saucer was still sliding, clinking under the table. It took him longer to eatliver.
Nardone had bought an umbrella on his way to court in the afternoon-and that evening, on the courthouse steps, a gust had broken one of the ribs of the thing so it flapped like a black half-broken wing. It was still better than nothing, and he held it up over his head now, walking out of Headquarters into the rainy night, then along the wet red bricks of the Mail, through the Municipal Building’s high arches, and across Centre Street to the Lexington’s City Hall stop. The rain was slanting down through the streetlamps’ yellow light pretty hard, hissing across the pavement, then letting up. In the dark beyond the streetlights, you couldn’t see the stuff coming down, but you could hear it. His shoes were wet. Water poured off the broken fold of the umbrella about right to wash his hands in out of a faucet.
Curtis had offered him a lift over to Clinton, but getting home from there was more trouble than just taking the train right across. Most times, the train was fine. -This late, this kind of weather, not so good.
Nardone crossed the street, jumped an overflowing gutter, and trotted down the subway steps, trying to shake some of the water off the umbrella without breaking it any more. Wound up stroking the water off, furling the thing very gently. It had one of those thin little tie strips on it, about halfway down, with a snap—or supposed to have a snap. Nardone fumbled for it, found the little metal thing supposed to snap in, but couldn’t find, farther down, any place to snap it into.
He looked, felt around the base of the strip, the umbrella’s cloth there, while he went down the second flight of steps. Nothing. The thing had half a snap, and that was it.
You get what you pay for. Four bucks and fifty cents, you get half a snap. He tried to wrap the tie around the umbrella, get some sort of knot there. -No dice. Let the frigging thing flap. Nothing to eat for dinner, either, thanks to that asshole of a judge-and poor Marty, bending his ear for an hour on the phone with nothing but complaints and promises. Scared to death, convinced old Vinnie knew it all, was going to have a blow torch put on his face. . . . No dinner. Connie’d make him a bacon and tomato when he got home. Marie could come sit with them.
The man in the change booth was a man Nardone knew, an old black man named Broughton, and Broughton waved Tommy through while he was still reaching in his jacket for the tin.
Nardone, sporting his broken umbrella, walked across the long ramp over the IRT trains, and was passed by some kids coming up the other way.
White kids-high school jocks from Queens, they looked like, red-and white varsity jackets and so forth-probably walk over to the Village, see if they can find some excitement in town.
Had girls with them; the girls would keep it all cooler than otherwise.
Nardone remembered being just such a jerk, a Brooklyn jerk in his case, coming over to town-looking for what, he didn’t know, Trouble … start trouble, duke some guy out. Maybe get laid. Some different kind of girl … Manhattan girl. -He didn’t even know what the hell he wanted.
Then Connie wised him up, grew him up, and he stopped coming over, stopped being such a jerk.
“I was a beauty,” Nardone said to himself, walking through the long yellow-tiled tunnel for the J train for Newkirk Avenue. “-I saw me like I was, I’d kick my ass.” He’d developed the habit of talking to himself when he was alone. Company. And he could tell if something he was thinking of saying to somebody sounded stupid.
Plates … second time Ellie said to find out. First thing he got home, before he called … that was the first thing he had to ask Connie. Then the Gaither thing. It was a break-and it wasn’t. Ellie’d be going nuts; she’d figure they had the case solved or something with just a little more work, and the truth was they just had a shitload more suspects dumped on them. Now, the guy did it didn’t have to be a john, didn’t have to be a lover boy, didn’t have to give a damn about Sally Gaither. Just wanted some bucks. —Could even be some ordinary junkie cruising the building while the back was open, walked in-jackpot. Scares her, ties her up-maybe she gives him some shit-he scares her worse, plays with the bananas, sticks her with the knife. She tells him about the money, he takes it-and leaves her to cook.
So, then, we got a rich junkie somewhere-and we wait till a buddy of his turns him, or he OD’s and we never know about it at all. The money blows away. -None of it what El’ would like to hear….
“I’ll pass on that with her,” Nardone said to himself, 11-t oo discouragin’. ” A young black woman walking toward him grinned and rolled her eyes at her boyfriend as they went by. -Heard him talking to himself, thought he was a nut case. For one thing, he’d like to know when that transvesto plumber went into New York Hospital. Could be the guy had had enough strength to do in his old buddy-her old buddy-and grab a hundred thou sand bucks for himself. Herself. Plenty of sick people can get up and walk if they want to. -There was an old movie on TV about that very thing. Jose Ferrer gets up Out of a hospital bed and goes and kills somebody. Not an unheard-of thing.
Ellie could tell him how sick that lady was. “-If she’s that sick, then that’s a different matter. he said to himself, and walked out of the tunnel, across the upper level, and down the long flight of stairs to the southbound platform just as the J pulled in.
There were only a few people waiting for the train in that vau ted,,gn wo-story space, and two men came my’ t trotting do the long platform when the train doors opened. One of them called, “Hold it … !” as Tommy, stepping into the doorway of the second car from the front-noticing an old Hispanic man asleep on the bench opposite-reached behind him with his right hand to hold his side of the sliding door open, careful of the umbrella in his left. -Anybody step on that piece of crap, kick it, that would be the end of it.
A short, blackhaired guy with wide shoulders reached in and held the other half of the door open as both sides jolted, tried to close. He glanced at Nardone,
said ” 0. K.”
to somebody out on the platform, and Tommy felt right then a hard push, more like a very hard punch in the middle of his back. Somebody-some asshole had really hit him hard … and punched him again!
Nardone hit out behind him with the umbrella, turned in the doorway and saw a guy, then stepped out onto the platform and saw the motherfucker had a knife-a goddamn dagger with blood on it. A tall white son-of-a-bitch with red hair.
Guy came at him too quick for Tommy to reach for his .38, so he dropped the umbrella, put out his left hand, took the guy by the wrist and pulled him in and hit him in the face twice. He held the till man’s knife-hand up as if they were dancing together, then pulled him in again the man a pretty strong guy, which didn’t make a bit of difference-and stomped down on his foot and felt some le bones break in there-and he was slugging and he SlImttacked the guy a good one, doing just fine except for his back.
Behind him, Nardone heard the doors shut, the train jolt, starting up, and another guy came jumping right in-maybe a cop, Nardone thought-came jumping right in and grappled and grabbed Nardone, giving him a bear hug or some shit, so Nardone couldn’t get to his gun.
“I’m a fuckin’ cop … !” Everything seemed to be moving slowly …
underwater. Tommy’d noticed that before, on other violent occasions.
Guy still hanging on-another strong guy. Both in it.
Nardone got a look at his face; it was the short, blackhaired man who’d held the other door.
Big close-up fight now, lots of slugging. Somewhere in there, Tommy lost sight of the knife, didn’t know if the asshole still had it or not.
He hit out left and right as hard as he could, shook the short, blackhaired guy loose and hit him in the mouth-tooth went flying out of that then turned and stooped down when the tall man came in again and swung up from the platform and hit him in the balls-and that was it for the tall guy. Busted foot, busted nuts.
The tall man doubled up all the way, and even when the blackhaired one came in again and was hanging on hard, Tommy managed to get room enough to kick the tall one somewhere when he was bent over-then drag the short guy along to get closer, and kick the tall man again (this time hard in the head) and send him over the edge of the platform onto the tracks.
The short guy was a strong motherfucker. He was hanging on to Tommy’s right arm, to keep it away from the gun-and with his free hand, trying to stick fingers in Tommy’s eyes. Tommy hit the guy hard along the side of his head, hit him again and knocked him loose, just for a breather, just to get his breath, get the .38 out-but the man came for him again right away-a stocky guy, big shoulders on him. Tommy caught his fingers when he went for the eyes this time, got two of them gripped in his left hand, bent them back and broke them. -And if his back hadn’t been so bad, he would have killed the guy right there, gone after him and busted his fucking skull, because the man didn’t like those broken fingers.
-But give the guy credit, he made a sound when the fingers went, but came right back hanging on to Tommy’s arm with his good hand, so he couldn’t reach for the gun.
“You want some more?” Tommy said, out of breath from his back, and leaned into the short man, kneed him, butted him, nuzzled in close, took a nice bite into the guy’s cheek there, and tore at it, trying to rip out a chunk. Man was yelling, then. —Go on an’yell,” Tommy tried to say, chewing. “I’m going’ to kill you!” Losing his temper. Blood all over the place … all over the place.
Man yanked his face out of Tommy’s jaws, left some meat-still got you by the arm, motherfucker! Still got your arm! You can go-the fuckin’ arm stays … !Tommy hauled the blackhaired man in again, and tried to break the arm across his knee. Too tired to get it done right away.
Things were moving so fast and seeming so slow.
Blood coming out all over, spitting it out all over.
From that guy’s face and coming up from inside, too.
The short man kicked and kicked and struggled free, and Tommy let him go. Time for a breather … That back was taking the strength out of him. He reached down for the .38, but the jacket was in his way-and the short guy was on him again, hanging’ on to that arm. A stubborn guy …
They wrestled, the short man snorting blood and snot, and Tommy was turned to the left and saw the tall one down there between the tracks, just now getting up on his hands and knees, shaking his head. Tommy, turned again, slugging hard, hit the short guy three times with his left, felt a bone or something break in the man’s face, and saw a big black guy standing a way away. Black guy nodded to him. -Called out something.
“Pretty damn good . . .”
That’s what he called-and came running. The short man sounded like he was crying, out of gas-blood down his face, just hanging on-but still holding that right arm.
That fucking .38 could be on the moon all the good it was doing! -And the big black guy was there and had Tommy’s left arm. The black guy held the same kind of knife the tall jerk had, holding it in his right hand, looking for a place to stick it-and Tommy lifted his left leg, kicked out, and caught the black guy in the gut and backed him off-and kicked and kicked at the short man’s knees, hit him good in the neck with the left and almost pulled away. The short man was sagging, stumbling.
It was the black guy Tommy wanted. -This is that Classman thing, he thought, I’m fighting cops…. And reached out with his left as the black man came in again and hit that fucker alongside the head so hard that Tommy felt a bone in his wrist break. The black man staggered back, tripped, and sat down on the platform, looking surprised, but the short man, drawing wailing breaths, still grappled and gripped and Tommy couldn’t get him loose. They spun half around as they fought to the platform’s edge, and Tommy saw the tall man on the tracks try to scramble up–and his back foot slip on the cinders into the third rail with a BANG and brigfit blue flash and sizzle as the black man came back up and drove into Tommy hard-a very, very strong guy, and Tommy spit blood in his face, try and blind him. Plenty of blood ‘all over the place, and there goes the suit. Never get that out. As much wind left as blood, he’d be O.K.
First guy, tall guy, put that knife into him, but good. -That was for sure.
Tommy reached down to grab the black guy’s nuts-tear I em right off the motherfucker-but that hand wouldn’t work because of the wrist. That hand wouldn’t close. Tommy butted the black man in the face to get some room, then raised his left leg, kicked, and again knocked the man back, but not so much this time. Blood on that guy’s knife, too. These motherfuckers all had knives. Would like to see a good cop, right now, coming running down the platform. Not Ellie, though … thank you Holy Mother…. Never around when you need ‘em.
“I can’t get the black one,” Nardone said out loud, noticing he was gargling with all the blood. He was talking to the short man as they fought, and heard a horn blaring as the next train came thundering in.
-Its brakes began to scream and scream. He wrestled and kneed and butted at the short man, and beat at his head-the wrist broken all the way now, the hand flapping and not much use-and Tommy felt the black guy there doing something at his other side, and elbowed him in the face ‘
snapped his head back hard. “Lucky you brought your buddies, pai,” he tried to say, but it didn’t sound like him at aft, and he and the short man-the short man sobbing, “ing, barely hanging on-waltzed and turned and toppled over in each other’s arms down into the noise of a world beneath the world, where great wheels came Measuring over the tall man, to measure them.
Dear Sonny, Mothers are good for something. I found a copy of Green Horses. I just finished reading it, and I’ll send it up to you so you won’t have to wait until I come up. I thought it was a beautiful book, but sort of sad. A child shouldn’t have to wait for death to reunite her parents, even in a jungle paradise. You know me. I’m a life nut’
Life is everything, and death is nothing, and that’s the’
truth . And I know that because like everything alive,
I’ve been dead, zero, nothing, up to just thirty-seven years ago, when I was conceived.
Bef6re that, back to the beginning of the universe, I was dead as dead can be, and so were you, and so was everybody else - And it wasn’t interesting at all.
But there’s one thing about death that is interesting, and that is it’s in the back of most people I s minds all the time. Men, women, and kids, too. They know they’re going to die. It’s there all the time in’a little place in their heads, and a lot of what they do-work, sex, you name it (including, I suppose, civilization)-is just something to take their minds off it. That’s what I think, anyway.
I’m glad y6u called, and we were able to talk about MY first letter. I know you think I treated it all too lightly-your father and so fOrth-but I treat most things lightly, and I didn’t want to make the whole thing a tragedy for you when actually it was more like a face. Hell—it was a farce. And I didn’t mean to underrate your father. He wasn’t an ordinary man. He was much braver than ordinary. Most People are afraid to adinit to half the things they want, or want to do. He wasn’t.
And I suppose if you really want to visit him in Chicago, and he hasn’t moved and is still alive, you won’t be too disappointed. I wouldn’t be in a big rush about it, though.
I’m gJad you don’t miss your brother, Tony, but you better keep in mind that the Tony I wrote you about was the easiest kind of Tony for me to think of without regrets. The real Tony might be a boy I’d love. Ah, the geometry of the heart!
I’m embarrassed that you noticed your oh-so-truthful mother skipped a part of the truth in -discussing her profession. Two questions. One: Does selling sex lower its value to me, personally? Answer: It doesn’t affect it either way. Two: Doesn’t it make me feet crummy to go to bed with ugly, nasty, weird, disgusting people?
Answer: It makes me feel crummy to go to bed with nasty and disgusting people, but not with weird or ugly people. And, as far as the nasties and disgustings go, unlike a wage slave-a teacher, or a waitress or a nurse, for example-I never deal with such people twice.