by Richard Vine
“Damn it, Jack,” Angela said. She stopped pounding and fell against me, limp, without tears. “Sometimes I want to die myself. It would all be better and cleaner, don’t you think?”
“Not for Melissa.”
“No.” Angela paused to gather herself, closing her eyes and saying the words evenly, one by one. “No, not for Melissa. Thank you, Jack.”
We stood apart once more. I walked Angela to the couch and sat her down, asking if she wanted some wine.
“There’s a white open,” I said. “I had a glass earlier.”
Angela seemed not to hear. “This is the worst,” she said in a flat tone. “When I’m at home and Philip is not, and there’s no one else.”
“I’m here.”
“Yes, you are, Jack. In your way.” She spoke without looking at me. “And there are the men, of course. They help, when they’re around. But no one stays.”
She looked toward the far, dark end of the loft, where Melissa lay sleeping now.
“At times like these,” Angela said, “all the reasons that couples find to split up seem to me perfectly inane. Especially the cheating nonsense. What else could we expect from each other really? Just put up with it, for God’s sake. Nothing matters very much except not being alone.”
“You’re talking like a wife again.”
“Yes, Jack, I want a real marriage, a real mate. No matter how wretched it makes me. I need it.”
“And you want it to be Philip still? Philip again?”
“It’s terribly sophomoric of me, I know. But it’s what I’ve been thinking lately, a lot, looking at him in his hospital bed. I don’t seem to be able to stop.”
I told her there were worse things to think.
“Oh, I know,” she said. “I’ve pretty well thought them all.”
40
When I went back upstairs, I had to face the task of viewing Paul’s compilation tape. The package he had sent over sat on my dining table like an exquisitely wrapped letter bomb. Disguised, discreet and perverse—exactly the way I was supposed to like things.
I sliced my way through the brown paper and cellophane. Exposed, the black plastic box bore an O-Tech logo and the title Microcircuit Sequence Systems: The Basics. Only a small red X in the upper right corner, and its tiny subscript reading “PM Videos,” signaled a variation from the usual corporate training fare.
When I took out the video cassette, however, identification got a bit more explicit. The label read Virgin Sacrifice, Live, Vol. 3. I could imagine the cardboard slipcase that would be added by enthusiastic graphic designers in the fly-by-night dubbing mills of Shanghai. With the Asian—particularly Japanese—market in mind, they would lift stills of the very youngest girls, adding a block of provocative text in demotic Chinese and bizarrely translated English.
Once the tape started, I saw immediately that Paul had gone for an outlaw effect. Everything was done by available light, and the moving figures had a ghostliness I associate with early video art. The decor was familiar—a U-shaped group of couches set around a low table bearing liquor bottles and dope. Nearby was an open space for dancing, and beyond that a doorway.
A mobile shot eventually took the viewer through the entrance and down a short hallway to a smaller room. In the center was an inflatable children’s swimming pool filled with a glutinous muck that looked like a mix of tapioca and mud. It was here, when things got serious, that the girls—mostly naïve party-lovers or early-teen runaways—would sometimes tumble and roll with each other, or be shoved down and mounted from behind by the Donkey.
El Burro, as his stitched monogram read, was a short Hispanic guy, about forty, who usually performed the climactic “sacrifice.” At first, when I saw him standing around in a kind of boxing robe, I didn’t really get the nickname. Then, with the first girl drugged and caressed, lightly kissed, ready, almost entranced as she was petted by three or four men, El Burro opened the robe like a theater curtain, and I understood.
The excerpts already sped up the seduction process, edited into a series of predictable acts: initial flirtation with soft words and light touches, followed by drinking and doping, group dancing, petting, some erotic roughhousing, more intoxicants. Then, in the back room, to cheers—full-on sex. Sometimes one wrangler took a girl through the entire process, alternating outrageous sweetness with an iron insistence and subliminal threats; at other times, the young mark passed from one guy to the next until she was delivered up to El Burro.
The repeated arcs of the little drama threatened to grow monotonous, but the variety of the girls—their physical types, their innocence or fake cynicism, their responses to booze or hash or the sight of a bare male organ, their reluctance or alacrity in the carnal act—created an insistent forward-surging-and-retreating structure, recalling episodes in some harsh, long-practiced initiation rite.
A remote control, like the one in my hand, made it possible for connoisseurs to pause, freeze frame, go back and repeat a favored passage in slow motion. Volume could be easily adjusted for those who preferred purely visual stimulation or those who got off on the confused, pathetic, occasionally overly eager vocalizations of the virgins. Only a few of them actually cried.
When the show was done, I lay back for a long while on the bed, looking at the blank blue of the screen and listening to the whir and click of the VCR as it rewound the tape. With the machine chattering relentlessly, I viewed the images again in my mind—backwards this time, in quick succession—as though each forlorn girl were being instantaneously restored, at a comic pace, to her original inviolate state, ready to fall again.
I picked up the phone and called Paul.
“Wasn’t it great?” he said.
“It had its moments.”
“Did you see that one red-haired chick who…”
“I saw it all.”
Calmly, but with a hint of urgency, I told Paul I had a business prospect for his producers. Something much more than distribution to the Balthus Club members, much more than their attendance at the tapings for three grand per head. I could double PM Video’s international reach and therefore its profits.
“It’s not up to me,” he said. “I don’t get involved in the marketing plan.”
“Who runs the show then?”
“I told you, Sammy, my backer. And a Chinese guy he knows.”
“Then hook me up with them. You’re good at that, right? I’d like to discuss this opportunity, one businessman to another.”
“If you ask to meet these guys, they’ll check you out first. Everything, you know. I already told them about Hogan.”
“What did they say?”
“They said they knew how to handle guys like him. One way or another.”
“All right then, let’s make some money together.”
Once we hung up, I went into the bathroom and waited forever until the water turned hot enough to wash my face and hands. I stood with my head lowered, while the tape distribution proposal formed itself solidly in my mind, tight and graceful as a poem. Opening the medicine cabinet to take out the sleeping pills, I glanced up and saw my face flash by, unreadable in the swinging mirror. I looked away.
41
Paul said there would be no appointment. He would call a few minutes ahead of time on the day Sammy was ready to meet. Fortunately, he caught me on a slow day when Laura was handling second-tier clients in person and I was doing a lot of phoning and paperwork in the back office.
“Hey, you know Cielo Azzurro on Spring Street?” Paul asked without preliminaries.
“Sure. I don’t eat there, but I know it.”
“It’s kind of cool in a retro way.”
“Maybe. They don’t know they’re retro.”
Paul didn’t seem inclined to discuss the nuances of modern trattoria design.
“Sammy likes it,” he said. “He wants to meet there at one.”
“Well, we certainly want Sammy to be happy.”
“I do. You should too. The place makes him mellow.�
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“By the way, does Sammy have a last name?”
“None that I’ve ever heard. I think that’s good.”
“Why’s that?”
“You know, the less you know the better.”
Cielo Azzurro, a checkered-tablecloth place, was over on Spring Street between Thompson and Sullivan, an easy walk from the gallery. Sunlight flooded the streets, immersing the shoppers in an autumnal glow finer than anything in the luxury-brand store windows. The air was cool, but no one seemed to notice. People came to SoHo for the galleries and boutiques, not the climate.
I saw Paul from a hundred feet away, his spiked blond hair flashing as he jiggled back and forth in front of the restaurant door.
“Sammy’s inside,” he said, sounding like a schoolboy about to introduce me to a cool older kid. “He doesn’t like to wait.”
Beyond the threshold was a single room, dim and garlic-scented, pervaded by the sounds of Tony Bennett’s “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” seeping from a jukebox next to the old wooden bar.
At one of the little tables, overwhelming it with his broad presence, was a heavyset man in an open-necked pullover shirt and slacks. Except for the Saint Jude metal at his throat, he looked like a typical suburban visitor hunting for an “authentic” Italian lunch in the city.
He rose from his chair by the brick wall as we approached.
“Sammy,” Paul said, and I could hear his voice change subtly, taking on a tremor of subservience, “this is Jack—the new prospect I told you about.”
“Hey, real happy to meet you.” Sammy’s grip was firm. “I hope the last-minute call wasn’t a problem.”
“Not at all.”
As we greeted each other, he smiled broadly and slid his left hand quickly down my back and right side. Then he released his grip, put his hand on my shoulder, and, looking me in the eyes, repeated the procedure on the other side.
“A really fine jacket,” he said. “My tailor says you can’t never go wrong with cashmere. Me, I think you can trust a man who chooses good fabrics, high thread counts. A guy like that, he’s more likely to appreciate the finer points of an agreement, even if they aren’t labeled for the whole world to see, you know?”
“Smart tailor you have.” I stood in silence for a moment, listening. “Did you pick the music?”
“No, that’s Carlo’s choice. He owns the joint, but he knows what I like. You can’t beat our guy Tony, right?”
“He’ll never have Sinatra’s chops.”
Sammy, with his hands at his sides, eyed me like a boxer.
“Sinatra’s dead,” he said.
I didn’t argue. My new acquaintance had made death sound like a moral failing—one that I just might share.
Sammy reached out and squeezed my left arm, letting his hand rest on my elbow.
“What happened to you here?”
“I had an accident.”
“Tough break. The rest of you OK? I’d hate to think that anything else got shrunk up like that.”
“No, thanks. The rest of me still works all right.”
“Good, good. Sit down. Have some wine.”
A waiter came over and poured. I had already braced myself for the selection of vintages available.
“Pinot grigio,” I said. “The pesto of Italian wines.”
Sammy turned to Paul. “Is your guy making a joke, college boy?”
“That’s right,” I said before Paul could reply. “A joke among friends.”
Sammy raised his glass to me. “To your health, then. Salute.” He watched me evenly over the rim.
I took a sip. Paul’s boss had clearly seen far too many old gangster movies, treating them as behavioral primers. But I wasn’t going to be the one to rag him about it. Hogan had told me once that the imitation wise guys are the most dangerous. They have the most to prove.
“What should I call you anyway, Mr….?”
“Call me Sammy, Jack.” He glanced over at Paul. “I don’t know why I like first names so much. I just do.”
“It’s friendly,” I said.
He looked back at me quickly. After a second, he smiled. “Hey, right, you got it. I’m a friendly guy.”
We drank silently, no doubt thinking warm thoughts all around.
Paul seemed anxious for things to move along. “Jack has some very good connections, Sammy. He thinks we’re missing a big market in Europe.”
Sammy leaned toward the young man. “Relax, Paulie,” he said. “I can see that Jack here is a good businessman. Look at him. See how calm he is? You should learn from him. Right now we’re having some wine, then we’ll have a little lunch. When we talk, we talk.”
“What do you recommend on the menu?” I asked.
“Don’t worry about the menu. Carlo will take care of us. For you, some pasta, then maybe a nice veal piccata. Nothing too heavy.”
“Good.”
“For Paulie here, maybe some chicken.” He chuckled a little.
I smiled, being a friendly guy.
“Me, he’ll bring the big salad with olives,” Sammy said. “Better for my heart.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Cholesterol, who knows? The doctor says I should take care of my ticker. So Carlo watches out for me.”
I could imagine Sammy’s heart having quite a number of defects, some of them physical.
We drank amiably for a few minutes. The salad came at the same time as the pasta course for Paul and me.
“I hear,” Sammy said, jabbing at his huge bowl of oil-soaked greens, “you’ve got a buddy who’s a P.I.”
“We grew up together,” I shrugged. “I can’t really help it.”
Sammy made a noise down in his throat. “I know what you mean. I got old friends like that from the neighborhood—guys who are cops now. Or lawyers, or judges. They’re OK. They understand how hard it is—for me, for them, for everybody—to get by in this high-priced town. Some of them ask for a cut. Nothing too big.”
“Hogan’s a practical guy. He cares about what he’s paid to care about—and ignores what it’s profitable to ignore. Simple math. Throw him a few bucks and he’ll keep his mouth shut.”
“I know cheaper ways to keep people quiet.”
“Hogan will keep his NYPD buddies off our backs too. If the vice squad ever gets curious, he’s a good shield. I’ve used him for years.”
“For this kind of thing?”
“Now and then. Hogan couldn’t care less what you and I do for jollies.”
“A sensible guy.”
“Just give him what you think he’s worth. He’ll earn it.”
“I’ve used P.I.s before,” Sammy said. “I know the type.” His empty fork paused in midair. “The thing I don’t know is your type, Jack. What are you? You’re one of these art guys, aren’t you? Paulie says you own a few apartment buildings down here, too? As far as I’m concerned, doing business with an art dealer, a real estate sharpie, it’s like making a deal with the devil.”
I was at a loss for a moment. It’s not every day that my moral character is impugned by a porn merchant in knit leisurewear.
“The only reason we’re still having this discussion,” Sammy said, “is that Paulie says you’re different from most of them.”
“Them?”
“Those people—the high rollers and fancy-boys who moved in here and screwed up the neighborhood.” Sammy tore a hunk of bread and waved at the surroundings. “You see this place?” His gesture took in the dark wooden bar, the jukebox, the little square tables, the minor-celebrity photos on the brick wall behind him. “This is how the whole neighborhood used to be. Good people, real food. You could come here at night and have a few drinks and not worry about nothing.” He placed the bread in his mouth, chewed twice, and took a long drink from his glass.
“The good life,” I said.
“There you go. My mother, God rest her, used to live on Sullivan Street. Got her bread at Vesuvio on Prince Street, her cheese at Joe’s Dairy. On Saturday after
noon she put out a folding chair on the sidewalk, she’d sit with her friends, talk about their families. Sundays, she went to mass at St. Anthony of Padua. Always lit a candle for me. She used to lean out her window in the evening and talk to Signora Cassano on the left and Signora Frangella on the right. That was all before the art crowd moved in and the young money grubbers followed them. Now what do we have left? The San Gennaro festival for a couple weeks every year.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“The worst part is, it was one of our own who brought it on. That slick little Castelli character, with his art gallery, his overpriced suits, and his European girlfriends. Doing what? Coming to Mezzogiorno every day with his prissy artists—then bringing the clients, so flush it’s not enough for them to buy a damn painting or two, they’ve got to own the whole neighborhood.
“The next thing you know, the restaurants are charging ten bucks for a friggin’ bottle of water and some landlord is trying to squeeze my mother out of her apartment so he can jack up the rent about eight hundred percent. I had to have a little talk with that sleazebag about the value of tenant loyalty. He came around pretty quick. But not everybody has a good negotiator like me in the family. Lots of people got shafted. Now, you come to the neighborhood on a weekend, you can’t even walk down the street it’s so crowded with…what is it you call them, Paulie?”
“YUCs—young urban consumers,” Paul said slowly and distinctly.
“Yeah, you got your yuckies paying insane prices for clothes that make them look like stone junkies, shelling out Park Avenue rents for shithole apartments, and yelling their heads off at each other in the bars every night.”
“Come on, Sammy,” Paul ventured cautiously. “Times change.”
“Times change because punks like you make them change,” Sammy said. “And not for the better.”
42
I was afraid that our meeting might end then and there, in a massive testosterone eruption. But at that moment, a tall man came up to our table and laid a hand on Sammy’s shoulder.
“How’s everything? Good?”
Sammy looked up, relaxing again in his seat. “Yeah sure, beautiful…Carlo, meet my boy Paulie.”