New York City Noir

by Tim McLoughlin

Ben walks over to the group. He's beaming. "I have a confession to make. I've known the owner of this place for a few years."

  "So?"

  "He's given us an invitation into the back room. They got a craps table back there."

  "Are you out of your mind?" one the group says.

  "It's my bachelor party. Come on. It'll be fun. Just a few tosses of the dice. That's all I'm asking."

  The group argues this for another minute before Ben wins out. After all, it's his night.

  You all dutifully follow through the security checkpoints. They check IDs and pat down each of you for weapons. You've made it this far without getting separated. No sense in starting now.

  The back room is small. A craps table is in the center, surrounded by a pair of poker and roulette tables. Security is everywhere and the pit boss warily keeps an eye on both the players and the observers. How this place hasn't been busted is a complete mystery. You guess the room can be broken down and the machines removed in minutes if the owners feel the Heat coming down.

  The table bet is so steep it's criminal. Mark pulls two hundred from his wallet and the croupier slides over a feeble stack of chips. There's some serious money at play. A woman has on a diamond necklace worth more than an average person's house. She's got three stacks of chips so tall they'd knock someone out if they fell over. A man standing across from you is wearing a suit worth two week's pay. He tosses a small stack of Benjamins toward the croupier as an afterthought.

  You look around in amazement, not believing that places like this actually exist. You are in a different world. The people in here are out of your league. Way out of your league.

  Someone hands Ben the dice. He takes a generous sip of scotch for good luck and gives the two six-siders a whirl. They come up with a five and a six. Money all around. A few claps come from the crowd. He gives the dice a second roll. Similar results. Folks at the table emit a small whoop of joy. The man standing to Ben's left is wearing the largest Stetson you've ever seen. He pats Ben on the shoulder. With a flick of the wrist the stickman slides the dice across the green felt table. Ben grabs the pair, blows some warm air into his fist, and lets them fly. They bounce off the bumpers and start heading back to him. They stop after a few turns. For a moment the crowd is speechless. "Yo-leven," replies one of the croupiers. Ben takes a short bow and the crowd erupts. Passersby stop, snared by the commotion. The house begins distributing winnings across the table.

  Three more tosses of the dice and you're amazed at how quickly fortunes have turned. The table is packed now. Others want in on the action. You take a step back so they can join in. It's a half-step, really. But it's enough to knock into the person passing behind. It feels like your shoulder has struck a concrete brick. Manners have always been your strong suit and you quickly turn to apologize.

  The man isn't big. He's immense. At least six foot six and probably twice your weight. He's got an entourage and you're suddenly staring up at what looks like the defensive unit of a football team.

  There's a large red stain on the man's white suit jacket. A stain you suspect you're responsible for. The man looks down at his chest. His upper lip begins to curl, like a dog whose tail you just stepped on. Veins pop out on his brow and across the sides of his shaved head. He looks like someone just shot his mother.

  "I'm really sorry about that," you stammer. "My fault completely."

  The man flicks his hand at his chest as if expecting to whisk away the spot. "You're damn straight it's your fault. This jacket set me back eight hundred dollars." Baldy is quickly flanked by two of his crew, making him look like the runt of the litter. One of them peers over his shoulder. His eyes narrow. Disgust is in his voice. "Man. That suit is fucked up. You might as well go throw it away."

  You look into the guy's eyes. You've seen this before. A sinking feeling settles into the pit of your stomach. Things are rapidly deteriorating. "You can send me the cleaning bill. I'd be more than happy to pay it."

  "What the hell good is that going to do me now? Me and my boys were going to hit some more clubs and score some ass. Can't do that if I'm smelling like shit."

  Harold walks up alongside of you, as does the rest of your group. Mark has handed off the dice and grabbed his winnings. For a moment the two groups stare one another down. Sweat forms on your brow.

  Baldy mutters something under his breath and turns to go. You sigh with relief. He's leaving.

  "Pussy."

  The comment comes from Harold. He's the biggest guy in your group—as tall as Baldy, but at least fifty pounds lighter.

  Baldy's antennae catch the signal. He whirls around, teeth clenched, face red. He points a finger at you. "You're a dead man." You open your mouth to say that it's a misunderstanding. That Harold has had at least six gin and tonics too many. But Baldy and his posse are gone.

  You look over at Harold. He's already moved on. You realize he probably doesn't even remember what he just said.

  Ben walks over and slaps you on the back. "You okay?"

  "Sure. No problem."

  "Don't worry about those meatheads. A few more drinks in them and they'll lose whatever brain cells they have left." He thumbs back over to the craps table. "You want to have another whirl with me? I'm hot tonight, baby! Hot!"

  You shake your head. "I'm going to get a drink."

  You leave the gambling room and head over to the bar. A band is playing on a small elevated stage. The lead singer, a woman in her late twenties with short, jet-black hair, isn't half bad. She's belting out an INXS song.

  The bartender serves up a seltzer with a splash of cranberry. You used to drink. Heavily. But that was during the Foolish Days, as you now refer them to. These days you know better. You know much better.

  Three songs in and you're starting to feel a little more relaxed, a little more at ease. The singer has moved on to some Rolling Stones and the replay of the Yankees game is going your way.

  "Sympathy for the Devil" is being belted out when you roll your neck to work out a small cramp. You notice Baldy talking to one of his friends at the far corner of the bar. Things go from bad to worse when you realize that two more of his goon squad are at a table to your right. Their beers are evaporating faster than they are drinking them. They're trying their best to look disinterested in you but are failing miserably.

  You wonder where your friends are right now. The club is mammoth. You consider texting Ben but reconsider. They're all three sheets to the wind by now. That would just make things worse. You don't need a riot on your hands.

  Baldy is staring straight at you. Fury is in his face. There's no mistaking it. You've seen it many times before. He's going to make his move. You glance at your watch. It's really late. Dawn is fast approaching. You can try to wait him out in hopes the alcohol will cause him to lose interest.

  Five minutes pass and your patience begins to wear thin. You look around but your bachelor party is nowhere to be seen. Have they left without you? You glance at your watch. You came in on the ferry. The next one leaves in about thirty minutes.

  You drop some bills on the bar, grab your jacket, and leave.

  * * *

  There's a slight breeze in the night air. It's been a long day and it's refreshing. The ferry terminal is about twenty blocks away. If you pace yourself you can get there in time. A taxi speeds by. You consider hailing it but you need the exercise.

  You get to Whitehall Terminal with a few minutes to spare. Above the entranceway, the ten-foot-tall, blue-block letters spelling out Staten Island Ferry feel like they are inviting you in. The terminal is apocalyptically empty, which makes it feel even larger than usual. The only people around are those passed out on the floor who don't know or care that their way off Manhattan is leaving soon, stranding them for another hour.

  You pass through the waiting area, pass beneath the yellow LED sign telling you to Have a nice day, and make your way onto the ferry.

  The metal and wood bench seats are hard and uncomfortable but they do the job
of keeping you awake. The ferry, like the terminal, is eerily quiet. The overhead lighting is glaringly bright when compared to the outside darkness.

  The engines roar to life and the ferry captain slowly guides the boat away from the pier. The floorboards begin to vibrate. Even the windows rattle. You wonder how the boat hasn't sunk to the bottom of the harbor by now. Shouts of alarm can be heard outside as the ferry pulls away. Someone is being yelled at. The distance between you and the dock quickly widens.

  A few weary souls are peppered throughout the deck. The vessel is emptier than you've ever seen it. But then again, it'll be dawn soon.

  You'll be in Staten Island in twenty-five minutes, but between the walk and long night of numerous seltzer waters, your bladder demands attention. Reluctantly, you decide to hunt out the men's room.

  The stench hits you even before you reach the door. For a moment you contemplate trying to find another one. Maybe it'll be more sanitary. But you really have to go, so you begin breathing through your mouth and hope that it looks better than it smells.

  Inside, from the way the floor is rattling, you would think the engine room is right below your feet. You pick the cleanest stall and hope you don't come down with a case of shy-bladder syndrome. The boat is swaying more than usual and you clutch the stall railing as if you were riding a bronco.

  Once you've finished, you unlock and open the stall door. Immediately you wish that you hadn't.

  Baldy is leaning against the sink, his arms crossed. He takes the toothpick out of his mouth and flicks it onto the floor. For a moment you think it's an illusion. But then the illusion starts to talk.

  "That was pretty tricky of you, trying to give me the slip. But I found out which direction you were heading." He sneers. "And you were dressed like someone who lives on Staten Island. Jumped onto the boat just as it was sliding away from the dock." He cracks his knuckles. "You have no idea how long it's been since I did some ass-kicking." He ponders that for a moment. "At least five weeks, I think."

  You look to the exit door. His buddies aren't there.

  "Don't worry about us being interrupted. I've got a janitor's cart blocking the doorway. We should have enough alone time before anyone gets curious."

  "I'm sorry for the misunderstanding. I promise to get that shirt dry-cleaned."

  "Jacket. You fucked up my jacket."

  "Hey. No problem. I'll dry-clean them both."

  "Shut up. You sound pathetic."

  "I'm really not looking for any trouble."

  "Well, you certainly found it." He steps a little closer and you can smell the reek of alcohol on his breath. There's not going to be any reasoning with him.

  Baldy cracks his knuckles again, forms two fists, and you think, How did it come to this?

  He takes another step forward. His massive frame blocks out the sink lights behind him. You take a step backward. Take another and you'll find yourself back inside the stall. You consider that for a moment, but it would only provide a barrier for a minute at most, before he rips the door off the hinges. You look to the ceiling. There're security cameras on the ferry, but none in here.

  Baldy brings his pair of sledgehammers into view. His left is above his right. You take him for a southpaw. He swings. You duck and he slams his fist into the stall door, shaking it violently. This serves to enrage him even more.

  He shoots out a left hook. You spin sideways and it passes by your ear. The move has boxed you in somewhat and reflexes kick in. You throw a hard right jab. Nothing fancy, but you put your weight behind it and twist your hips and remember to retract it a little, just like you were trained.

  Or at least that's the plan.

  As your punch is unleashed, Baldy makes an unexpected move. He steps in closer, thinking he can hit you better. It's something an amateur or a drunk would do. During your days in the ring, you would never expect someone to do that. Certainly not at the beginning of a bout when the fighter still has his wits about him.

  There's nothing you can do. It's too late. It all happens in slow motion. Your fist connects against the top of Baldy's nose. A loud crack echoes through the bathroom. Cartilage snaps. But that's not what concerns you. You hear bones break. From the neck. Just below the occipital. Baldy stares at you for a moment before his eyes roll back into his head. He lets out a short gasp and his body spasms, causing him to spin around and collapse face first against the countertop. Even before he strikes the surface you know he's already dead.

  His head hits the edge of the chrome sink at the exact spot that your fist connected. A loud gong is heard as the wash basin is shaken from its mooring and hops up into the air.

  Baldy collapses onto the metal floor and doesn't move. There's blood everywhere. Time grinds to a halt. You don't even hear the boat's engines anymore.

  You stare at yourself in the mirror. Calmly, but quickly, you straighten your clothes and smooth your hair. None of Baldy's blood is on you. You steady your breathing just as if you were in the ring. You compose yourself one final time and open the bathroom door. There's no one in the corridor outside.

  You slip out of the bathroom and quietly slide the janitor's cart back in front of the door. You make your way to the outside of the ship.

  The night air over the water has grown cold, but it feels good. The waves crash against the bow and the smell of salt hangs heavy in the air. You sit down on an orange metal bench and stare out at the far shore. The lights from the St. George Ferry Terminal are faintly visible in the distance.

  The boat lurches as it strikes a swell. Sweat beads on your brow. Nausea begins to overtake you. You try to clear your head, but it's not working. Your hands are shaking just like they did when you first started using the heavy bag. You clench them into fists and jam them into your pockets.

  The area is empty. At least you think it is. A drunk college kid stumbles over and slumps down on the bench near you.

  "Goddamn, it's cold out here!" he shouts, and then laughs at himself in amusement. He looks over at you. "You cold there, bro?"

  "I'm fine."

  "You don't look fine. You look sick. You know, I should be the one who's going to be sick." He begins to detail how many shots of Absolut he's had. You're not responding and he scratches his head, peering at you intently. He says you look familiar. Has he seen you before? Maybe on television? Are you some sort of actor? You shake your head. No, you answer, looking out over the water. The sky is now a gun-metal gray but the water remains ink black. Sorry to disappoint, you tell him, but he's mistaken.

  You're no one special.

  * * *

  It takes two days for the incident to hit the local paper. It's on the bottom of page eight next to an article about a dentist in Castleton Corners expanding his practice. The reporter explains how Baldy, a.k.a. Lloyd Peterson, blood alcohol level of 0.15, passed out on the Staten Island Ferry and broke his neck against the bathroom sink. It turns out that Lloyd had done two years in Altona Correctional Facility for aggravated assault. The funeral is on Tuesday.

  You're about to toss the paper into recycling when you spot an article about the boxing match you saw on television at the club. The fighter you thought was going to win did so. It turns out he's undefeated. The reporter is comparing him to another boxer, Louis Cartwright. They wonder if this fight will make Cartwright come out of retirement to defend his title. Apparently he lives in the paradisiacal neighborhood of Emerson Hill.

  You walk outside onto the porch and look up and then down the street. The birds are chirping. A slight breeze blows through your hair.

  It's nice. Real nice.

  But paradisiacal?

  ABATING A NUISANCE

  BY BRUCE DESILVA

  Tompkinsville

  The Suzanne, under the command of Captain Robert Beveridge, sailed from the Cuban port of Mataznas on April 20, 1858, bound for Liverpool with a rich cargo of sugar. Two days out, the captain died of yellow fever. The following night the disease took the cook and the cabin boy. The next day five se
amen, too ill for duty, shivered in their sweat-drenched hammocks.

  The first mate steered the ship toward New York City and dropped anchor in the lower bay. Surviving crew members were loaded into a smaller boat named the Cinderella for a short sail against the tide to the northeastern tip of Staten Island. There they were stripped naked, and their clothes were burned. Then they were wrapped in thin blankets and carted into the New York Marine Hospital, more commonly known as the Quarantine.

  Soon, they would have company.

  By August 16, forty-one barks, brigs, sloops, and schooners lay at anchor in the lower bay, all of them banned from putting in at the Port of New York. Their colors had been struck and replaced with the flag that inspired more terror than the Jolly Roger ever had.

  The Yellow Jack.

  From the library on the second floor of his fine house atop Staten Island's Fort Hill, Dr. Frederick Hollick studied the harbor through his spyglass. He counted thirty-four ships at anchor beyond the four piers that jutted from the grounds of the Quarantine. Each vessel had arrived packed stern to bow with riffraff from Ireland and Germany, all of them exposed to—or already deathly ill with—typhus, cholera, and smallpox. The forty-one yellow fever ships, the ones that frightened the good doctor the most, were too far out for him to see, but he knew they were there. He'd read all about it in the New York City newspapers.

  Dr. Hollick panned his glass across the rolling thirty-acre grounds of the Quarantine: St. Nicholas Hospital, a huge, hotel-like redbrick structure where the disease-carrying first-class passengers were housed. The old, ramshackle Smallpox Hospital. The two-story Female Hospital. The squat brick dormitories for the boatmen who ferried passengers from infected ships. The eight wooden typhus shanties that were home both to diseased steerage passengers and to the stevedores who had the filthy job of unloading contaminated cargo. The wooden offices, stables, barns, coal houses, storerooms, and outhouses. The three fine doctors' residences. The vegetable gardens. And the cemeteries where one out of every six persons who entered the Quarantine would spend eternity.