by Jason Starr
At work, five or six customers were on line, waiting to order from Harry and Charlie.
“Hey, Mickey,” Charlie said, stopping what he was doing. “I heard about your father. Man, I’m really sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Mickey said.
“If there’s anything I can do, you just lemme know and I’ll be there for you, all right?”
“Yeah,” Mickey said.
Mickey went to the back of the store and immediately bent over the sink and splashed his face with cold water. Then he put on his apron and returned to the front of the store. Around one, the lunch crowd thinned out and Harry left for the afternoon.
“Thank God,” Charlie said to Mickey when the door closed behind Harry. “Being trapped here with that asshole all morning was like being in hell. You shoulda seen him— runnin’ me around, givin’ me orders. I’m busy cutting a piece of salmon for this one lady when he tells me to take this guy’s order. I say to him, ‘I only got two hands,’ and he goes, ‘Talk back to me again like that and you’re fired.’ Said it right there, right in front of everybody. Swear to God, I almost quit on his ass right then. Shoulda done it too— worth it not to see his fat, wrinkly-ass face no more.”
“You get AM stations on that?” Mickey said, motioning with his chin toward Charlie’s boom box in the corner.
“Yeah,” Charlie said. “What you lookin’ for, sports scores?”
“Yeah,” Mickey lied. “You mind?”
“Go ahead.”
Mickey turned on the boom box and started searching for a news station.
“So Harry told me some about what happened,” Charlie said. “Your father had Alzheimer’s, huh?”
“How’d you know?” Mickey asked. He had never talked to Charlie about his father.
“Harry told me,” Charlie said.
“Oh,” Mickey said, finding the station he’d been looking for.
“Yeah, my old man died when I was ten,” Charlie said. “Heart attack.”
“Sorry,” Mickey said, distracted by a story on the news, but it was about a murder in the Bronx, not Brooklyn.
“So you gotta let me know when the funeral is, and I’ll be there,” Charlie said.
“There won’t be a funeral, just a wake,” Mickey said.
“Whatever,” Charlie said. “I’ll be there for you.”
The bell above the door rang then Mickey, still kneeling by the boom box, heard Rhonda say, “Is Mickey in today?”
Mickey stood up, suddenly smiling widely, and saw Rhonda standing on the other side of the counter. She was wearing jeans and a dungaree jacket, a knapsack slung over one shoulder.
“Mickey,” Rhonda said, looking surprised. “You’re here.”
Mickey took off his apron, tossed it behind him on the counter, and went around the fish stands to greet her. He tried to kiss her but she pulled away.
“I have a class in a half hour,” she said. “I just came by to drop off a card. I didn’t think you’d even be here today.”
Rhonda took out an envelope from her jacket pocket and handed it to Mickey.
“Thanks,” Mickey said, suddenly happier than he’d been in days. “So how’re you doing? You look great.”
“Thanks,” Rhonda said quickly. “Anyway, I just wanted to give you the card and tell you how sorry I am.”
“It’s all right,” Mickey said. “He was old and I guess it was just his time.”
“I thought you said he was hit by a car.”
“He was. Hey, you wanna go get some lunch with me? I haven’t had anything to eat all day.”
“I’d like to,” Rhonda said, “but I really have to get to my class.”
“You said it doesn’t start for a half hour. We could just go to the pizza place across the street and—”
“No, I really can’t. Sorry. I mean I have to walk to school and—”
“Can I walk you?”
“That’s okay,” Rhonda said. “I mean I have to stop home first and get some books and—”
“You don’t have your books in your bag?”
Rhonda hesitated then said, “These were for my morning classes.” She looked at her watch. “Actually, I should probably leave right now.”
“Hey, you want to go to a movie Friday night?” Mickey asked.
“I can’t,” Rhonda said.
“Then how about Saturday?”
“I don’t know,” Rhonda said, taking a step toward the door.
“Will you come to my father’s wake?” Mickey asked.
“When is it?”
“Wednesday at ten.”
“I have a class Wednesday at eleven.”
“A wake lasts all day,” Mickey said. “Maybe you can come after your class, in the afternoon—”
“Maybe,” Rhonda said.
“Is something wrong?” Mickey asked.
“No,” Rhonda said. “I’m just in a hurry.”
Mickey wrote down the address of the wake on a Vincent’s Fish Market business card and handed it to Rhonda.
“You sure something isn’t wrong?” Mickey said.
“Positive,” Rhonda said. “I just can’t talk right now.”
“Okay,” Mickey said. “I hope I see you at the wake.”
When Rhonda was gone, Mickey opened the card and read the printed message which began, Words alone cannot relieve the sorrow you must feel right now.
MICKEY LEFT WORK early to make it home in time to watch the six o’clock news, but there was still no mention of the robbery and murder. He fried up some shrimp and scallops that he’d brought home, added Minute Rice, and stirred it all together. He had a few bites, but he wasn’t really hungry. He put away the leftovers in the fridge and opened the card Rhonda had given him for what must have been the twentieth time. The card was signed “Rhonda,” not “Love, Rhonda,” and he hoped this wasn’t a bad sign.
Later, Mickey called Chris’s mother, figuring it would look suspicious if he didn’t keep in touch.
“Mickey, I’ll have to call you back—the police just walked in.”
On the word “police” a jolt went through Mickey’s chest, but he managed to catch his breath quickly. “What happened?”
“I’ll call you back later, okay?” Mrs. Turner said.
After Mickey hung up he looked out his bedroom window and saw the police car parked in front of Mrs. Turner’s house. To keep busy, he started cleaning out his father’s room. He got a few Hefty bags from the kitchen, then he filled the bags with old clothes from the dresser drawers and the closet, coughing from the smell of mothballs. His father had had most of these clothes for as long as Mickey could remember. An ugly plaid jacket reminded him of being at the racetrack with his father years ago, standing in front of the betting windows, while his father read the Racing Form. Mickey put the jacket up to his nose, not surprised that it still smelled faintly of cigarette smoke.
Mickey planned to bring the stuff to the Salvation Army, and if they didn’t want it he’d just dump it on the street. He filled six bags with clothes and was starting to clean out the papers and other junk from the drawers of his father’s dresser when the doorbell rang. Terrified, imagining the police had connected him to Chris’s disappearance, Mickey went across the apartment to his room and looked out the window. He was relieved to see that the police car was gone. The doorbell rang again. As he headed down the stairs to answer it, Mickey called out, “One sec, I’m coming.”
He opened the door and saw Mrs. Turner standing there crying into a bunch of crumpled napkins.
“What’s wrong?” Mickey asked. “What’s going on?”
Mrs. Turner continued to cry for a few seconds, unable to speak, then she said, “He’s dead. I know he’s dead.”
“What do you mean?” Mickey said. “How do you know that? Is that what the police told you?”
“No, but I just know it,” she said. “He’s not coming back. He’s gone, Mickey. Gone forever.”
She hugged Mickey, crying with her chin on his
shoulder.
“It isn’t fair,” she said. “Why did this have to happen to him? He was a good kid. He was trying to get his life together.”
“You don’t know anything happened,” Mickey said.
“I know,” she said. “He wouldn’t just leave for somewhere without calling. The police say there’s still a chance, they’ll look for him, but I know he’s gone. I just know it.”
Mrs. Turner stayed with Mickey for a while longer, crying, and Mickey kept telling her, “Don’t worry, they’ll find him,” and “I’m sure he’s fine,” and anything else he could think of to make her feel better.
Finally, Mrs. Turner said she would let Mickey know if there was any news, and then she walked away. Mickey watched her cross the street with her shoulders slumped and the wet napkins still in her hand.
12
ON THE CHANNEL Five ten o’clock news, the story about the Manhattan Beach robbery finally broke. A reporter live on the scene in front of the house on Hastings Street said that the police were trying to solve a bizarre mystery. The reporter explained how Robert and Barbara Rosselli had returned home from their vacation home in Pocono Pines, Pennsylvania, late last night when they discovered that their house had been robbed. The Rossellis had discovered blood on the floor in their bedroom, as well as a small handgun.
As the reporter spoke, footage of the outside of the house taken earlier in the day was shown. Then Mr. Rosselli came on, looking scared, saying pretty much what the reporter had said. A neighbor of the Rossellis said that he was shocked that something like this had happened in Manhattan Beach because it was such a calm, friendly neighborhood. The reporter returned live outside the house and said that the police were currently analyzing the blood and trying to trace the gun, but that they had no leads in the case.
Mickey watched the report, mesmerized, waiting for a mention of Filippo’s uncle Louie, but the mention never came. When the report ended, Mickey turned to the Channel Eleven news to see if he could find out any more information. He watched for about fifteen minutes, until the sports came on, but there was nothing about the robbery.
Mickey couldn’t believe he had been so stupid. He picked up the phone then realized he didn’t know Filippo’s or Ralph’s phone numbers. He knew Filippo’s last name— Castellano—but instead of calling Information for the number, he decided to go talk to him in person.
Without bothering to put on a jacket, Mickey walked a few blocks to Filippo’s house on East Forty-third Street. Mickey passed by the semi-attached, two-family brick house all the time, but he had never been inside.
After ringing the bell, Mickey heard heavy footsteps and then Filippo’s father opened the door. Mickey had seen Mr. Castellano around the neighborhood for years, but they had never spoken. He was a big fat guy with gray streaks in his black hair, and he had a thick mostly gray mustache. Chris had told Mickey that Mr. Castellano was a garbageman and he used to hit Filippo, but that was about all Mickey knew about him.
“Is Filippo here?” Mickey asked.
“Who are you?”
Mickey was surprised Mr. Castellano didn’t at least recognize him.
“Mickey. I’m on a bowling team with Filippo.”
“He ain’t here.”
“When will he be home?”
“Who the fuck knows?”
As Mickey said, “Thanks,” the door slammed. Mickey was heading home when he had an idea where Filippo could be. The Knights of Columbus had a club on Avenue J, and Filippo sometimes hung out there, drinking and playing pool. When Mickey entered the dank, dimly lit club, he spotted Filippo sitting at the bar, talking to the bartender. Filippo saw Mickey, got off his bar stool, and came over to meet him by the door.
“What the hell’re you doing here?” Filippo said.
“You fuckin’ lied to me,” Mickey said.
Filippo leaned close to Mickey’s ear and whispered, “Outside,” then he left the club ahead of Mickey. When Mickey met Filippo on the sidewalk, Filippo said, “You fuckin’ takin’ stupid pills or something? We’re not supposed to see each other.”
“Your uncle wasn’t in that house,” Mickey said.
“What the fuck’re you talkin’ about?”
“I just watched the news. The cops found the blood and the gun, but they didn’t find a body.”
“Will you shut the fuck . . .?” Filippo looked around. An old guy was walking his dog across the street, but he wasn’t paying attention.
“Did you kill Chris?” Mickey asked.
“What?” Filippo said. “You tryin’ to get your ass kicked?”
“It was either you or Ralph because there wasn’t anybody else in the house.”
“Maybe the cops didn’t find my uncle’s body yet.”
“Tell me what happened or I’m going to the cops right now.”
“You’re not that stupid,” Filippo said. “You robbed that house too. You go to the cops you’re turnin’ yourself in.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Mickey said. “I want to know what happened.”
Filippo looked at the guy walking his dog across the street and said to Mickey, “Come on.” Filippo and Mickey walked farther up the block and stopped near the corner where no one was around.
“All right, I’ll tell you the truth,” Filippo said, “but you gotta swear to me you won’t go to the cops.”
“Just tell me,” Mickey said.
Filippo shook his head and covered his face with his hands. He started crying. He turned away from Mickey and said, “I did it, but it was an accident, I swear to God. My gun just went off.”
Filippo continued crying, wiping his cheeks.
“What do you mean, an accident?” Mickey said. “How could it’ve been an accident?”
“We were in my cousin’s bedroom,” Filippo said. “I thought I heard something near the bathroom. I said, ‘Chris, is that you?’ But he didn’t answer—probably Chris just fucking around, you know? So I just panicked and . . . I don’t even remember what happened, it happened so fast. I didn’t wanna fuckin’ kill him. He was my friend.”
Filippo rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands.
“Why were there two shots?” Mickey said.
“I shot him twice,” Filippo said. “It was just like a reflex— I couldn’t stop my finger. You gotta believe me. Why would I want to hurt Chris? I loved the fuckin’ guy.”
Mickey looked up at the dark sky, not sure how he felt. He hated Filippo, but he also felt sorry for him.
“Why’d you lie?” Mickey asked.
“I don’t know,” Filippo said. “I just wasn’t thinking straight, I guess—it all happened so fast. One second everything was all right, the next second Chris was dead. And I was scared of Ralph. He’s killed people before. Just last year he shot a nigger and a chink on the Island—they never caught him for it. Anyway, that’s the truth, but you can’t go to the cops. You were robbing the house too—you helped us take the body out. You call the cops, we all go to jail.”
Mickey knew Filippo was right; like it or not, he was involved.
“So what the hell’re you gonna tell Ralph?” Mickey said.
“I’ll take care of it,” Filippo said. “Ralph’s my friend. I’ll make him understand.”
Mickey remembered Mrs. Turner, crying into the ball of napkins. He didn’t know how he’d be able to face her again.
“I guess we have no choice now,” Mickey said. “I’ve gotta go home.”
As Mickey started away, Filippo said, “Hey, Mickey.”
Mickey turned around.
“Sorry.”
Mickey realized tonight was the first time Filippo had ever talked to him normally, without acting like an asshole. Mickey walked away without saying anything.
13
WHEN MICKEY ENTERED his apartment, he fell to his knees and broke down crying. He hadn’t cried at all about Chris or his father, and it all hit him at once. For about half an hour, he remained on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Finally, he stood
up, feeling exhausted, and he didn’t know how he’d make it through the next few days.
At work the next day, Mickey felt out of it, as if he had a bad hangover. He kept thinking about Chris, bleeding to death on the bedroom floor, and felt like it was his fault. He knew this was crazy, that he’d had nothing to do with what had happened, but he couldn’t stop feeling responsible.
On his way home, Mickey walked quickly along Albany Avenue, afraid Mrs. Turner would see him and come out to talk to him. As he turned into his driveway, Mickey glanced across the street at Mrs. Turner’s house and saw that the downstairs lights were on. He pictured her sprawled out on the couch, drinking.
Mickey spent the evening making last-minute calls to old friends of his father, telling them about the wake tomorrow. He’d been missing Rhonda all day and he called her, leaving a message on her answering machine, reminding her to stop by tomorrow if she could. At ten o’clock, he didn’t bother watching the news, afraid he’d find out that Chris’s body had been discovered, or that the old man on the street had come forward.
At around nine-thirty on Wednesday morning, Mickey arrived at the Sabatino Funeral Home on Avenue U wearing his best black pants and a brown shirt that he’d had since his first year of high school. The funeral director told him how sorry he was about his loss, and then he led him to a room where Sal Prada’s body was in a casket. The funeral director sat with him for a while on the pew near the casket and then left him alone.
About twenty minutes later, cousin Carmine arrived with an old woman Mickey had never met. Carmine was hunched over and frail and didn’t recognize Mickey. After Carmine and the old woman sat down in the pew in front of Mickey, Mickey leaned forward and said, “Carmine,” a few times until he finally heard him and turned around.
“It’s me—Mickey.”
Carmine continued to squint for a few seconds, then said, “Mickey, shit, I didn’t recognize you.”
Mickey and Carmine shook hands, then Carmine introduced Mickey to the woman, his “girlfriend Ruth,” who must have been about ninety.