New York City Noir

by Tim McLoughlin

  Mikey closed his eyes, tried to assess what hurt the most. His ankle was screaming; the bone below his eye felt like it had been pushed back into his mouth.

  He heard Renny climb down from the platform, heard the scamper of his boots on the concrete, and heard his uncle name's being yelled in a panicked Mexican accent.

  * * *

  His uncle drove home, annoyance slowly losing out to compassion. Mikey wasn't really hurt. No permanent damage. He had a sprained ankle, a skinned knee, and an ugly black eye; his ribs and back were tender and sore, but he was otherwise fine. An ice pack dangled over his bare ankle. He held another up to his eye.

  "Renny thought you were dead."

  "I did too."

  Tommy chuckled. "I'm glad you're not. Your mother would've killed me." He glanced over, gave Mikey a tight smile.

  He does this every day, Mikey thought. Then he goes home to three kids.

  They drove the rest of the way without talking. The incessant heat had sapped the whole city of energy. Even the callers on sports radio could only register mild complaints; their quibbles were swatted away by an aggravated host.

  Hot air rushed in through the open windows of the van. Mikey peered out on the highway and watched the blurry lines of heat rise. Every bump renewed the pain in his joints; still, his eyes fell shut.

  A gentle flick on the ear woke him.

  "Keep icing your ankle, Mikey, though I don't think we'll be working the rest of the week."

  Mikey was still groggy, didn't understand. He followed his uncle's gaze until he saw a fat drop of rain land on the front windshield of the van. The sky had darkened during his snooze. The temperature had dropped a few degrees. Mikey hobbled out into a sudden downpour, feeling better than he had all summer.

  The house was empty. Mikey checked the weather report. Rain for the rest of week and through the weekend, bringing much-needed water to the drought-plagued tri-state area. He felt renewed, alive for the first time in many weeks, despite the pain all over his body. His thoughts turned to Jenny. He wanted to be with her right now, wanted her to fawn over his wounded, tired body.

  She answered on the second ring. She sounded like she'd been sleeping.

  "Hey, it's me."

  "Hey."

  "Looks like I won't have to work tomorrow or Friday. Maybe we can go to Denino's tonight, stop at Ralph's afterward. We can hang out all day tomorrow."

  "I'm sick, Mikey. I've been nauseous all day. I didn't even go into work today." She sounded awful.

  "All right. Well, I'll come over then and we can just hang out in your room, watch a movie or something."

  "Right. Or something. I don't feel good, Mikey. Maybe I'll feel better tomorrow."

  This was bullshit. She'd whined all summer that he wasn't spending any time with her and now she was too sick to hang out? A nasty thought popped in his head.

  "Okay, Jenny, maybe tomorrow." He softened his voice, tried to sound spontaneous. "Hey, do you know if Amy's around?"

  He could just imagine the look on her face. He waited.

  "What do you mean?"

  "No, I just figured if you're not feeling great, maybe Amy would be up for some pizza."

  "What do you mean?"

  He'd hit his target. He could hear it in her voice.

  "Well, I've been so busy all summer, I haven't seen anyone. I just thought maybe I'd—"

  "Why would you say that?"

  "Forget it, Jenny. I was only asking."

  "Why would you say that?"

  "Jenny, just forget it."

  He heard her start to cry. A dose of guilt shot through him. Then he felt something fierce and explosive, an anger that shook his hands. He screamed into the receiver.

  "You're not the only one who had a shitty day, Jenny!" His face was burning. "My whole summer sucked. And all you did was make it worse!"

  Jenny was sobbing. Mikey wasn't even sure whether she'd heard him. He repeated himself.

  "All you did was make it worse!"

  Then he hung up.

  * * *

  He wasn't serious about calling Amy. Sure, after he had a shower, he took out his address book and turned it to the page that held her number. He looked at it for a long time, imagined how the conversation would go, and thought about what would happen if she said yes. But he wasn't really serious. He just wanted to try it out in his head. He ended up calling Benny, who he hadn't seen in weeks.

  Mikey'd heard about the place. It was a few miles over the Outerbridge in Jersey. Benny had gone a few weeks earlier with his older brother. He described it to Mikey on the drive over. They had split a six-pack in the basement of Benny's house and were feeling pretty good

  "What if they don't let us in?"

  "Relax, Mikey. They don't care. They just want your money."

  "Shit, I hope we get in."

  "We will. Wait till you see these chicks, bro. Wait."

  The big neon sign out front read, Molly's. The lot only had a few cars in it. Benny parked near the entrance. The rain had thinned to a drizzle.

  The doorman, a hulking figure in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, didn't even want to see ID. He just took their twenties and waved them in.

  Inside, a few customers sat at a rectangular bar that surrounded a stage. Soft light filtered through the room, dying in the corners. At either end of the stage, a scantily clad stripper was wrapped around a pole. The woman nearest Mikey was topless. She titled back, hands around the pole, bare legs stretched up to the ceiling. Her breasts hung back toward her face. Blond curls of hair dangled down to the stage floor. She flashed Mikey an upside-down smile.

  The bartender—an older woman, all business—interrupted their reverie. "Boys, what are you having?"

  Benny stepped forward, put a crinkled ten on the bar. "Two Buds."

  The bartender put two bottles on the bar, flicked them open. "Try not to fall in love."

  * * *

  Mikey had never been inside a strip club. He was overwhelmed; his eyes flitted around the room, trying to take it all in. There was flesh, a cavalcade of it: curved rears, hardened nipples, bruised thighs, lithe necks. It was all on display and you were supposed to look. The dancers wanted you to ogle them, to desire them. They cavorted and gyrated and contorted. They took the stage and stripped down until only a sliver of fabric remained between their legs. They pulled and tugged at that fabric until what was behind swelled into relief.

  After they danced, the strippers walked straight up to you, unabashed, and pulled their tits apart so you could place a dollar bill between them. Most of them weren't beautiful, most weren't even cute, but it didn't matter; their appeal was primordial.

  After a few hours, it was time to leave. They'd had their fun, slipped a single between the tits of every dancer in the place three times over.

  Mikey was drunk; all the beer had dulled the pain in his ankle and the soreness everywhere else. He took a difficult piss in the bathroom and when he came back to the bar, the blond dancer was seated on his stool and Benny was whispering in her ear. Mikey saw Benny slide a twenty into her hand. She was wearing a see-through white teddy and she extended her hand. Mikey shook it.

  "I'm Mandy. Looks like you had a rough day."

  She brought a soft finger to the cheek below his left eye. She was younger than the other dancers. Less worn out. She had a pretty face that was somewhat familiar; she looked like a friend's older sister, someone you once pined for. She scooted from the stool and took his hand.

  "Well, you are certainly tall and long. Bet you're long in all the right places."

  No one had ever talked to him like this. This was the talk of porno movies. This wasn't real. Benny was leaning onto the bar, a sleepy grin on his face.

  "Your friend wants to give you a little going-away present."

  She led him over to a little side lounge, darker than the bar area and separated by a sheer black curtain. He was unsteady on his feet, a mixture of the beer and his swollen ankle. She pushed him down on
the couch and removed her teddy. She started dancing, brushing her bare tits across his face. She smelled like perfume and sweat. She placed Mikey's hands on her hips. She turned, grinding her bare ass into his groin.

  This was a real woman with full tits and an ass you could mount. Jenny might be like this some day but she wasn't yet. Mikey was excited and embarrassed and trying to hold himself back. After a few minutes with her ass rubbing against him, he was ready to go. He tried even harder to hold back. But when Mandy turned again and slid her legs over his hips and lowered herself onto him, the whole throbbing bit of him, he came right in his boxers.

  Mandy relaxed in his lap as she felt him retreating. The euphoric feeling faded and left Mikey feeling hollow. Mandy smiled and kissed his forehead. He thought he might vomit.

  * * *

  The next morning, Mikey woke to the sound of rain pounding outside his window. The end of the night was a blur, just vague unconnected bits: a hasty exit from Molly's, Benny's car drifting across the narrow Outerbridge, Benny faking sobriety at the toll, Mikey sneaking under the covers as his alarm clock pulsed 2:57.

  His head throbbed. His body ached. At least he didn't have to work. He could sleep for a few more hours. He looked over at the alarm clock. Just after nine. The hostile red digits reminded him of the sign in the strip club's parking lot. He tried to ignore the guilt that was gathering in the back of his head. Better to sleep it off. It was just harmless fun.

  The door to his bedroom creaked open and his mother peered into the grayness, concerned. "Michael?"

  "Yeah, Mom, what's up?" He didn't open his eyes, hoped his nonchalance would throw her off.

  "Tommy called. He wanted to see if you were feeling okay. Why didn't you tell me about the accident?"

  "It was nothing, Mom. Just a sprained ankle and a black eye. It happens."

  He could tell she wanted to come in, to inspect him and confirm that he was fine.

  "Are you sure you don't need a doctor?"

  "Mom, I'm fine. I just need some rest. Can I just get some rest?"

  "Okay, Mikey." But she didn't leave. A thin slice of light from the hallway lingered on the bed. "Jenny's downstairs."

  "I'll be right down."

  He swung out of bed and gingerly placed his swollen ankle on the floor. It was twice its normal size and bluish streaks were visible on the swell. He threw on a T-shirt and the jeans he'd worn the night before and hobbled downstairs.

  Jenny sat at the kitchen table, still wearing her yellow rain slicker. His mother was at the sink, washing dishes but attentive. Jenny stood and he could tell that she had been crying. She looked like a little girl lost in a mall; she couldn't contain the panic on her face.

  He knew right then, knew before they left the house without a word, before she drove a few blocks away and pulled the car over. He knew before she started to cry, before the crying turned into great heaving sobs. When he reached over to comfort her, she blurted it out.

  "I'm pregnant, Mikey. I think I'm pregnant. I missed my period and I feel sick in the mornings. Mikey, what are we going to do?"

  Now it was solid, in the world. It was spoken fact. Desperation flooded through Mikey. LeMoyne was a million miles away, its campus sliding away in the rain. He saw his future harden into something ugly, something clichéd. The summer and its miseries had smothered the memory. A few thrusts on a hard wooden floor. One time. It wasn't possible. He started to cry.

  They drove to a pharmacy and Mikey bought a pregnancy test. They chose a sleepy diner on Hylan as the place for her to take it. Mikey's skin hummed, his stomach churned. This would not happen. He would will it not to happen.

  No, it would. He was powerless to stop it. His life was ruined. He was soaked to the bone, shivering despite the month. Jenny was a zombie, gliding through the streets, all cried out.

  They parked the car across from the diner and Jenny dashed inside. Mikey waited in the car, making promises to God if He would only let Mikey escape this. He could not shake the image of Mandy on top of him the night before, smiling at him; his jeans were still seeped with that betrayal. This was punishment.

  No, this was Jenny's fault. She wanted to trap him.

  Fifteen minutes ticked by, an eternity.

  Mikey left the car and hobbled into the diner. An older man was mopping behind the counter and there was a solitary customer reading the paper at the far end of it. The customer looked at Mikey and then pointed to the bathroom door.

  Mikey heard Jenny sobbing. He opened the door to find her sitting on the floor, wedged between the toilet and the wall. The test was facedown on the mopped linoleum, a few inches away from her splayed feet. Jenny reached for Mikey. He reached for the test.

  A single pink line. Negative. He tucked it into his rear pocket. He helped Jenny to her feet and they floated out of the diner into the rain. He checked the test again as they crossed the street. Negative. He placed her in the passenger seat. He didn't care about the rain. He was floating. He was free.

  When he got into the car, Jenny was still crying. She reached over and hugged him. She said she knew he hated her, she knew she'd lost him. She asked Mikey whether he loved her. Rain pounded onto the car.

  Mikey said that he did love her, that he would always love her. He said it because it didn't matter, because she was already in his past. The whole miserable summer was just concrete that had already hardened and he had somehow escaped it and he would never let it touch him again.

  THE FLY-ASS PUERTO RICAN GIRL FROM THE STAPLETON PROJECTS

  BY LINDA NIEVES-POWELL

  Stapleton

  She was last seen sitting on the front steps of PS14, on the Tompkins Avenue side, across the street from the New York Foundling, the place that finds homes for unwanted or abused children. The day before the Fourth of July. The old church lady with the crooked brown wig and thick glasses, who lived close enough to the Foundling to volunteer from time to time, saw her sitting there. Waiting.

  The Fly-Ass Puerto Rican Girl lived in the Stapleton projects with an elderly grandmother who was always too tired, too ill, too medicated, too unlucky to hit the numbers, too stuck in her novellas to keep track of her granddaughter's whereabouts. So she had no idea that the Fly-Ass Puerto Rican Girl was the most hated girl in the hood. Unlike her daughter, her granddaughter was too perfect to live in the Stapleton projects. She was nothing like the rest of them who lived or hung around in the hood. She was different. She was like the star of that Twilight Zone episode where the lone gorgeous female is considered a freak among monsters.

  They wanted a piece of her. And more. Dudes wanted bragging rights. "Yeah, I fucked that bitch. Hard."

  Common-law wives wanted to kick her ass far out of the projects: "I will slice that bitch's throat if my man even sniffs the air around her pussy."

  Little did they know that you can't break a bitch if she's already been broken. Inside.

  But he and everyone else saw perfection. Outside.

  That made him crazy. That made them all crazy.

  He swept the grounds, unraveled the twisted swings, made sure the community pool was safe and nontoxic, tried to teach the hood kids how to use the chess tables the right way. They tried to convince him that "Boogie Nights" was on the flip side of "Always and Forever," a steal. He collected three hundred a week for eight weeks. Easy summer job. Even if he had to cover for his boss who used the Parks & Recreation uniform to impress prepubescent females who were easily impressed by any man in a uniform, no matter the rank.

  No one messed with him. Everyone, including his father, seemed to know this.

  "You coulda had a job workin' for Esposito, organizing shit. Instead you want to work in the fucking jungle, with the monkeys? I dare you to bring home a monkey. I dare you. I fucking dare you. Monkey-lovin' fuck."

  He had just turned seventeen, like her.

  So many, like his father, had it out for her. Wives, girlfriends, and ex-boyfriends stayed up at night hoping that the Fly-Ass Puerto Rican Girl from
the projects would step on a needle, get hit by a Cadillac Seville, or walk into the wrong neighborhood at the wrong time. For the following reasons:

  Hair too bouncy, too soft, too straight, too manageable. Skin unblemished, olive, more European than Latina. Taller than the average tall girl. The space between a set of perfect thighs, a perfect view. Her heart-shaped ass. Heart-shaped face. Full ruby-colored lips, not too plump, not too thin, like her nose that was always buried in a library book. Curves and narrow hips, more in line with Patti Hansen, the Tottenville supermodel who married a Rolling Stoner, than Iris Chacon, the big broad on Spanish television.

  And she spoke English. Well.

  Who the hell she think she is? She ain't better than nobody. Why she don't talk like the rest of them Puerto Ricans talk? Like Jesenia, the one with the cottage cheese thighs, the pockmarked sister who talks all half Spanish and shit. Calls dudes papito, says coño every two seconds, and eats plantains like she's making money on every one she swallows. Or Mary Poseur or Mariposa, whatever the fuck that girl's name is, who lives in 2B, or not 2B. Why she don't act like Mariposa? Mariposa talks like a real bitch talks, she blows real good, she almost black. That's how a real Stapleton bitch talks. That's how a real Staten Island bitch walks. Hunched. She walk like she got a stick up her ass. Too straight. Too white. Who the fuck she think she is?

  The old woman told the detective that a white car had picked up the Fly-Ass Puerto Rican Girl from the projects. All white. White tire rims. White interior. White paint. White.

  "So you're telling me you saw nothing but white?" the detective asked.