I had to shuffle the shit in my trunk around. There were some empty feedbags, a small cooler, a horseshoe, and a pair of Stella’s panties. I made room, then hoisted the body in. Dwight Ross was much heavier in death than he’d ever been in life. I had to bunch him into a fetal position to get him to fit. I put the empty feedbags over his body, then closed the trunk. My heart was beating too fast.
I went and put Culprit back into her stall. I stood for a few minutes leaning my head against her muscular neck, getting strength. My mare just stood there, seeming to understand.
I made sure all the horses had enough water before getting in the car, driving it out, and locking the stable gates behind me.
The minute I pulled out onto Linden Boulevard, I found that I needed a cigarette. I hadn’t had one in four years. I drove a few blocks through thickening morning traffic. The sun was up high now, a glowing yellow ball in a faultless blue sky. The brightness made me need that cigarette even more.
I pulled off the road when I came to a little grocery store. Nosed the Chevy near the front door of the place and ran in. Asked for a pack of Newports. I was dying for a smoke but I didn’t want a brand I actually liked. I paid the thin old man at the counter and took the wrapping off the pack.
“No smoking in here,” the old man said. I nodded, pulled one cigarette from the pack, and stepped outside to light it. I figured I would smoke it there so as not to stink up the car. But my car wasn’t there. I looked left and right and ahead, to the thick traffic of Linden Boulevard. My car was gone.
I went back into the store.
“Yeah?” the old man said, cocking his chin at me.
“You seen my car?”
“What?” He sounded angry.
“My car, it was right there,” I said, motioning to the store’s tiny parking lot.
The old man just looked at me like I was a fool.
I went back out. Looked around some more. I felt my body getting heavier. I couldn’t stand up anymore. I sunk down to the lip of the sidewalk and held my head between my hands. Eventually, I lit the cigarette. It scorched my lungs and felt nice. A car pulled into the tiny lot and went right where my Caprice had been. Two teenaged girls got out. They both had oil in their black hair and the sun made it shine.
I smoked.
I’d had a lot of problems in my thirty-nine years of life, but never this many. I lit a second cigarette. I coughed a little but kept smoking anyway. The girls emerged from the store, both clutching bottles of Yoo-hoo. Seemed to me Yoo-hoo would be unpleasant at 7:30 in the morning.
Eventually, the thin old man came out of his store and told me to leave. I guess for the price of a pack of smokes, I was entitled to twenty-some minutes on his sidewalk, but no more. I got up and walked.
The air was getting warmer and the sun looked too big looming above Linden Boulevard. I imagined the giant orb swelling so much it got too heavy for the sky and came plum-meting down, plunging the world into darkness.
As I walked the few blocks back to The Hole, I kept glancing over at the cars that passed by on the busy avenue. None of them were mine.
When I got to Dumont Avenue, I stood there for a minute, at the periphery of The Hole, looking at the newly constructed houses that had recently sprung up all along the edge of the little canyon. Square cement boxes that already looked depressed, even though they were brand new and hadn’t killed anybody’s dreams yet.
I walked on down the dip where paved road gave way to dirt. The barns were humming with activity now. Feed was being dispensed, stalls were being mucked. These were comforting, normal sounds, but I didn’t feel comforted.
I went into Culprit’s stall and started currying her. Taking extra care with every aspect of the grooming procedure, knowing maybe this was the last time.
* * *
Two weeks passed. There was fear in me but I didn’t cultivate it. All I kept thinking was how I hadn’t meant to kill the guy. I’d never killed anything in my life. Not even a goddamned bug.
Now that I had no car, I had to take the bus to work. It was a long ride but I used the time to read some horsemanship books I’d picked up. I studied these books, and every afternoon, when I got off my shift at the pool, I’d take the bus back to East New York, take my mare out, and work with her in the tiny paddock behind the barn. I wasn’t even riding her much, mostly just worked her on a lunge line, getting her used to my voice commands. There were pure moments when it was just me and my horse and we saw into each other. Then worry would creep in and sully the joy.
One afternoon, I was in the paddock with Culprit, working on some things. I called out “Canter,” saying it slow and drawn out. I said it a few times, and then she threw her head around a little, protesting awhile before finally transitioning into the canter. Something red caught my eye and I looked over my shoulder and saw Stella sitting on a barrel outside the paddock. She was wearing a red sweatshirt and she’d cut bangs in her hair. I told Culprit to halt. My mare looked surprised and then obliged and came to a standstill.
“What’s up?” Stella said like it was nothing at all.
“Hi Stella,” I said in the same way, even though I’d never expected to see her again.
She watched as I finished up with Culprit then put the mare back in her stall. As I took care of barn chores, Stella sat on a trunk and didn’t say much. I didn’t ask.
When I’d finished feeding and watering the horses, Stella followed me back to the house.
“Where’s your car?” she asked as we walked up the two crooked steps to my porch.
“Stolen,” I said.
“You reported it?”
“What for?” I shrugged, not wanting to share the details with her.
“They turn up,” she said. “I had one stolen before. Cops found it two months later. You gotta report it.”
“Nah,” I said, not knowing why she cared about the damned car. She kept on about it too. Asking how I was getting to work and whatnot. She’d never asked so many questions before, about anything. Maybe she was turning over a new leaf.
I was hungry but I’d run out of food, so instead of eating, Stella and I went to bed.
I had some questions for her, but they’d keep.
I put my hands on her hips. She was wearing cutoffs even though it was chilly out. She looked up at me but there was nothing to read in her eyes. She wore a small smile but even that wasn’t saying much. I moved my left hand from her hip and up under her t-shirt, tracing her nipple with my fingertip. I lifted the shirt up and bit a line from between her breasts down to her shorts. She wiggled a little, responding, coiling, ready. I peeled her shorts down over her ass. She wasn’t wearing panties. She turned around then, showing me her pale and pretty ass. I bent her over the bed and entered her. There was some violence in it.
* * *
Stella and I had gone at it twice already and had both passed out on the floor, exhausted. I’m not sure how long I’d been sleeping when she woke me by putting her mouth on me.
Then we were making love again. After a few minutes, I pulled back from her and cupped her dark head in my hands.
“Where’ve you been, Stella?” I asked softly.
“I was mad,” she said.
“At what?”
“At you, Triple.”
“You wanna tell me why so I don’t do it again?”
“Not really,” she said with a small shrug. Her shoulders were narrow. They looked cute shrugging.
Okay. I picked her up and carried her into the kitchen. Propped her ass up against the sink and fucked her there. I’d never fucked anyone against a sink before. It got Stella pretty worked up. Her black eyes showed fire. Something close to passion. And, at the same time, she was nicer than usual. Almost tender.
In the morning, she didn’t leave. Was still lying in my bed as I got dressed. I felt a little conflicted about it. Half of me wanted her to stay as long as she pleased, but the other half didn’t want to go through the changes when she left me for good.
“I gotta go to work soon,” I told her.
“Okay,” she said.
“Don’t you?”
“What?”
“Have to go to work?”
“I got fired,” she said casually.
She’d been working at a convenience store over in Howard Beach. I couldn’t really imagine how anyone could get fired from that kind of job.
“What happened?” I asked her.
“I got mad,” she said, leaving it at that.
“And now you’re moving in with me?” I asked.
“If that’s all right,” she answered, looking at me, not showing anything.
“I guess it is,” I said.
I’d had a few women move in with me before. For various reasons having little to do with love or affection. One to get away from a rough husband. Another to be closer to work. I hadn’t had one move in out of poverty though. Always room for a first.
I told my new roommate I was heading out to the barn.
“Okay,” she said.
I put my clothes and boots on and went out. Fed the horses and mucked their stalls. The sun rose up from its hiding place and another bright day came on like a curse.
I walked back to the house to get some money out of my drawer before heading in to work. I did this in plain view of Stella. If she wanted to hit my little stash then so be it. As I stuffed a twenty in my pocket, Stella actually got up off the bed and kissed me goodbye like an old wife.
I walked to the bus stop.
I sat lording over the pool, reading my horse books. Once in a while Stella would come into my mind, but I didn’t let her stay there. Thinking about her too hard might make her vanish.
At the end of my shift, I got the bus back to The Hole. I wanted to spend a good hour working with Culprit. I went into the house first to see if Stella was still there. She was lying on the floor, wearing a pair of baggy gym shorts, reading a tractor manual that for some reason I’d held onto from my days working on a horse farm in Maryland.
She glanced up and smiled. She looked so sweet and good. I got a hard-on and had to do something about it.
We were rolling around against the filthy carpet when I heard the car and saw the flash of cherry lights against the window.
“What’s that?” Stella asked.
“Police,” I said. I’d been expecting it so long it was almost a relief.
“What do they want?” Stella asked, standing up.
“No idea,” I said.
A few heartbeats later they were knocking on the door. I put my pants on, gave Stella a minute to go in the other room, then opened the door.
One cop was white, the other black. They were both wide but built low to the ground. They looked like shrubbery.
“Yes?” I said.
“Triple Harrison?” the black one said.
“Yes?”
“’86 Chevy Caprice Classic? Blue?” the white one asked.
“Yeah, it was stolen,” I said. My insides felt funny.
“Right, we got the report,” the white one again. What report? I wondered.
“Vehicle was abandoned in the Rockaways. It’s at the tow facility near JFK. You’ll have to deal with it,” the black cop said.
“Oh,” I replied, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It didn’t.
The black cop had me sign some papers and wished me a nice day. I stood in my doorway, watching them get back in the patrol car. Mrs. Nagle from next door had her head sticking out of her house.
“They found my car!” I shouted over to Mrs. Nagle. She cocked her head but said nothing. She was mostly senile.
“Your car turned up?” Stella asked as I closed the door. She hadn’t found a reason to put her clothes back on. “Yeah, my car,” I said, frowning.
“I reported it stolen,” she said proudly. “I went and filled out the forms while you were at work. They found it fast.” She smiled, showing teeth.
“Oh,” I said, deciding not to tell her this might lead to my being locked up for life.
“Let’s go get it,” Stella suggested, her face lighting up like we were planning a trip to Disneyworld.
“In a minute,” I said. “I got some business with you first.” I pressed my body against hers, ran my hands down her sides, then tucked them under the slopes of her ass cheeks.
A half hour later I told her I was going to get the bus over to the tow place. She wanted to come but I told her no, without offering an explanation. She pouted a little. She’d never done that before.
I went and gave the horses an early supper. Figured I’d use my one phone call to tell Cornelius, the cowboy who owned the stable, that he’d have to feed and muck in the morning.
I walked up the slope of 78th Street and out to North Conduit Avenue to head to the bus stop.
The sky was still violently blue.
* * *
The people at the tow facility didn’t do anything quickly. There was a lumpy white woman who was mad to be alive. By the time she’d gone through all my paperwork and I’d been taken to my car, night was coming on like a headache. My skin felt cold even though it was hot out.
I got into my car and saw that all the trash was gone. I’d had empty soda cans and candy wrappers in there and they were no more. There was one big muddy boot print near the gas pedal.
I pulled the car out onto the road. Expecting some kind of ambush. Dozens of cops, maybe even the feds. Nothing happened. I drove two miles, then finally, when it seemed certain no one was following me, I pulled off onto a side street not far from Aqueduct. It was a narrow road choked with vinyl houses. American flags stood guard over flatline lives. Some kids were throwing a ball at each other. I drove a ways, till the residential area surrendered to a strip mall. Went around the back of the shops and parked the car. Got out and unlocked the trunk. There was nothing there. Not only was Dwight’s body gone, but so was all my crap. The empty feedbags, the horseshoe, the cooler, and the panties. I closed the trunk, got back in the car, and drove. I decided to head on over to the upscale stables off the Belt Parkway. Whenever I felt rich, I went there to buy nice alfalfa hay for Culprit.
For once, I had plenty of room in the trunk.
FADE TO … BROOKLYN
BY KEN BRUEN
Galway, Ireland
Only the Dead Know Brooklyn.
Man, isn’t that a hell of a title. I love that. Pity it’s been used, it’s a novel by Thomas Boyle. I read it years ago when the idea of moving to Brooklyn began to seriously appeal. Don’t get me wrong, I’m going, got a Gladstone bag packed. Just the essentials, a few nice shoirts. See, I’m learning Brooklynese, and it’s not as easy a language as the movies would lead you to believe. I’ve had this notion for so long now, it’s “an idée fixe.” Like that touch of French? I’m no dumbass, I’ve learned stuff, not all of it kosher. I don’t have a whole lot of the frog lingo, so I’ve got to like, spare it. Trot it out when the special occasion warrants. Say you want to impress a broad, you hit her with a flower and some shit in French, she’s already got her knickers off. Okay, that’s a bit crude but you get the drift.
I’m hiding out in an apartment in Salthill. Yeah, yeah, you’re thinking … but isn’t that, like, in Galway, Ireland? I like a challenge.
Phew-oh, I got me one right here. If only I hadn’t shot that Polack, but he got right in my face, you hear what I’m saying? So he wasn’t Polish, but I want to accustom myself to speaking American and if I don’t practice, I’m going to be in some Italian joint and sounding Mick. How the hell can you ask for linguini, fried calamari, cut spaghetti alla chitarra, ravioli, scallops with a heavy sauce, and my absolute favorite in terms of pronunciation, fresh gnocchi, in any accent other than Brooklyn? It wouldn’t fly. The apartment is real fine, huge window looking out over Galway Bay, a storm is coming in from the east, and the waves are lashing over the prom. I love that ferocity, makes me yearn, makes me feel like I’m a player. I don’t know how long this place is safe, Sean is due to call and put the heart
crossways in me. I have the cell close by. We call them mobiles—doesn’t, if you’ll pardon the pun, have the same ring. And the Sig Sauer, nine mil, holds fifteen rounds. I jacked a fresh one in there first thing this morning and racked the slide, sounds like reassurance. I’m cranked, ready to rock ‘n’ roll. Sean is a header, a real headbanger. He’s from South Armagh, they grow up shooting at helicopters, bandit country, and those fuckers are afraid of nothing. I mean, if you have the British Army kicking in your door at 4 in the morning and calling you a Fenian bastard, you grow up fast and you grow up fierce.
I was doing a stretch in Portlaoise, where they keep the Republican guys. They are seriously chilled. Even the wardens give them space. And, of course, most of the wardens, they have Republican sympathies. I got to hang with them as I had a rep for armed robbery, not a very impressive rep or I wouldn’t have been doing bird. Sean and I got tight and after release, he came to Galway for a break and he’s been here two years. He is one crazy gumba. We had a sweetheart deal, no big design—like they say in twelve-step programs, we kept it simple. Post offices, that’s what we hit. Not the major ones but the small outfits on the outskirts of towns. Forget banks, they’ve got CCTV and worse, the army does guard detail. Who needs that heat?
Like this.
We’d drive to a village, put on the balaclavas, get the shooters out, and go in loud and lethal, shouting, “Get the fuck down, this is a robbery, give us the fucking money!”
I let Sean do the shouting, as his Northern accent sent its own message. We’d be out of there in three minutes, tops. We never hit the payload, just nice, respectable, tidy sums, but you do enough of them, it begins to mount. We didn’t flash the proceeds, kept a low profile. I was saving for Brooklyn, my new life, and Sean, well, he had commitments up north. I’d figured on another five jobs, I was outa there. Had my new ID secured, the money deposited in an English bank, and was working on my American.
Sean didn’t get it, would say, “I don’t get it.”
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