Onion Street mp-8

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  “Can I see her?”

  “The doctors are in with her now, and they said it will be a while,” her mom answered. “Go, do what you have to do. Go to school. We’ll call you if she — ”

  “When she wakes up,” her dad shouted. “When!”

  “Okay, Herbie. Okay, when. Moe, we’ll call you when she wakes up or if there’s any change.”

  I hugged them both and drifted back down the hall, down the stairs, and out onto Kings Highway. I just stood there, lost, staring at nothing in particular. Then I heard someone, a woman, say, “Look, Jim, there’s Daddy. No, there, up on the second floor. See, he’s in the window, waving.”

  I looked up and there in a second floor window was a man, the silhouette of a man, really, in a robe. He was waving down. His wave was weak and unenthusiastic. I turned to look at Jim. He was a boy of six or seven, overdressed against the cold. His face was full of many things: fear, longing, anger, maybe even love. Mostly, he seemed confused.

  Jim, I thought, that makes two of us.

  I walked to school from the hospital through the slush and compacted piles of filthy snow. Doesn’t take long for hearts and snow to blacken in Brooklyn. Snow in my world only looks white when it’s falling, but it’s already tainted before touching down. Nothing stays uncorrupted. Nothing. I think I knew that before I could walk. That kid at the hospital, he knew it too. Sometimes I think that was the worst part of having to stay home and go to Brooklyn College. There was no fooling myself that the world could be any different. I thought about the few friends I had who’d been lucky enough to escape to magical places like Ann Arbor or Palo Alto, or even Buffalo. Maybe it’s true that you can’t run away from your troubles, but fuck me if I didn’t want to find out for myself.

  The world goes on. That’s the first thing I thought when I turned right off Bedford Avenue and stepped onto the quad. Between periods, the quad is a beehive. It looks like chaos from the outside, but not to the bees themselves. Somehow I couldn’t reconcile that Mindy had been beaten into a coma and people were laughing, smoking cigarettes. Mindy was in a coma, and people went to their classes. Mindy was in a coma, and people did what they did. The world went on, but how could it? Suddenly, I wanted no part of this place. BC had always been a good place for me to hide. School provided great camouflage for my lack of ambition, but Aaron was right: our kid sister had more of a plan for her life than I did. It was one thing to let myself be carried along with the tide, to be going no place in particular except where the tide took me. This was different. I’d always believed I would bide my time in college, that I would stumble into something or that something would stumble into me. Instead, I’d been steamrolled. I hadn’t seen this coming, this thing that happened to Mindy. Now, for the first time in my life, I had a purpose. I needed to find out what had happened to my girlfriend, and I knew where to start looking.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I found Lids where I knew I’d find him, selling loose joints and whatever else outside the gates on the other side of campus. Cops walked their beats. Lids walked his. I also knew Lids by his real name, Larry Lester. He was two years younger than me, but had been a year ahead of me at school. He had been Lincoln High School’s fair-haired boy, destined for a vastly different trajectory than the arc he was now traveling. Larry was supposed to be at MIT or Princeton or Cornell, doing book-length equations on the relationships between quarks and quasars and how they proved or disproved the existence of God. Larry Lester — Ocean Parkway’s answer to Descartes and Einstein — had lasted exactly one and a half terms at MIT before he went flip city. He never got around to smashing atoms. Instead, they smashed him. At least he cracked and wound up in a rubber room before they found him hanging in his closet by his belt. And now here he was, selling joints and getting by in the shadows of Flatbush and Nostrand Avenues.

  “Feed your head,” was his whispered refrain to familiar passersby.

  “Yo, Larry, got a minute?” I said, looping my arm through his. It wasn’t a question and he knew it.

  “It’s Lids. It’s Lids out here, man,” he repeated, as I swept him along. “I’ve got a rep to keep.”

  “Okay, Lids, you look hungry. Eggs? My treat.”

  “Sure, Moe. Eggs are good.”

  “Eggs it is.”

  We turned up Campus Road toward the diner next to the off-campus bookstore. We sat at a tiny table in the corner. The place smelled of fried onions and grilling bacon. That was almost enough to lift me out of the darkness. Almost. Athena, the toothy, horse-faced waitress, took our orders and poured us coffee without looking. She never looked. She never spilled a drop. Athena was half the reason I ate here. I loved to watch her move, how, even built stocky and low to the ground as she was, she flowed like water through the crowd, in and out and around the tightly packed chairs and tables, avoiding book bags and busboys. That day I paid her movements no mind. I could not escape the idea of Mindy in a hospital bed, never waking up.

  “What’s the buzz?” Larry wanted to know.

  “That’s what I was hoping you could help me with.”

  His red, sleepy eyes regarded me with deep suspicion. “You want some of my wares? I didn’t think that was your bag, Moe.”

  I shook my head. “No, no, no. I don’t want anything like that.”

  His eyes turned from suspicion to confusion. “Then I’m even more lost than I was a second ago, and I’ve been lost since 1965.”

  “Mindy’s in a coma.”

  “Your old lady?”

  “Yeah. She was mugged and beaten. They found her in the snow on Glenwood Road and East 17th.”

  “Fuck, man. That’s heavy, but what do you want from — ”

  “Two eggs over easy, home fries, bacon, rye toast.” Athena slid the plate down in front of Lids. “A toasted corn muffin, butter.” She was nearly as suspicious of me as Larry. “You always order eggs,” she said in her Greek-inflected English, “scrambled, french fries, whole wheat toast. What’s with you today, darling, no appetite?”

  “Not much of one, no,” I confessed.

  She winked at me. “Girl troubles?”

  “In a way.”

  “Don’t worry, honey.” She tapped her nose with her index finger. “Everything will work out. Athena knows these things.”

  I hoped so.

  Showing me a mouth full of yellow egg yolk and potatoes, Lids asked, “Like I was saying, what do you want from me?” I slid a hundred-dollar bill across the table to him. There was that confusion in his eyes again. “I thought you — ”

  “It’s not for dope. It’s for information. I want you to spread it around, and don’t tell me you don’t know what that means.”

  The bill stayed on the table, untouched. “What do you need to know?”

  “Two nights ago, Mindy was someplace between six and eight o’clock. I need to know where. Also, the cops say the guy who did this to her was a light-skinned black dude, young, with pink blotches on his skin. Anything you — ”

  “Vitiligo,” Larry said.

  “What?”

  “Those pink blotches, it’s vitiligo, a skin pigmentation disease.”

  “Whatever you say, Larry. But anything you can find out about where she was the other night or the guy that did this to her … you know, whatever.”

  “What you gonna do, Moe?”

  “I don’t know, but I gotta do something or I’ll go fucking crazy. Her parents are wrecks. They’re scared. I’m scared. I gotta do something.”

  Now Lids leaned across the table and whispered, “Listen, Moe, you were always nice to me. In school, you always watched out for guys like me and Spider Thomas. You never asked for anything in return, but I know I owe you. So keep your money.” He slid the bill back across the table to me. “If I need to spread bread around, I’ll use my own gelt. But I probably won’t have to. People get stoned and they get stupid. People who want to get stoned can also get pretty desperate. Either way, they’ll talk to me.”

  “I trust you.”
I took the C-note back. But if I thought Lids was going to leave it at that, I was wrong.

  He leaned forward and said, “And whatever you feel you gotta do, don’t do it yourself, man. I’m pretty close to people who, you know …”

  “What kind of people, Larry? Who we talking about, here?”

  “I owe you, Moe, but not that much. I know who I know. Leave it at that. You want something done, come to me and it will get done, but you won’t know who did it.”

  “Okay, Larry. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful and I’m sorry for being so nosy. I’m just so mad about what happened to Mindy, I feel like I’m gonna explode.” I stood up, threw a five on the table, and patted him on the shoulder.

  He grabbed my wrist. “I don’t know what I’ll hear or if it will help, but whatever I find out … you still at the same number?”

  “Yeah. If you can’t get me there, you can get me at Burgundy House.” I wrote that number down for him.

  He grabbed my wrist again. “Something’s bugging me, Moe.” He started doing that twitchy face thing he did when he got overly excited. “Something’s bugging me.”

  “What is?”

  “They found Mindy on Glenwood and East 17th, right? That’s right near the subway station.”

  “Glenwood and East 17th, that’s what her dad told me, yeah.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. She lives in Canarsie. That’s in the opposite direction. What was she doing over there?”

  “I don’t know. When she comes out of the coma, I’ll ask her. It’s not important right now.”

  “If it’s not important, then why do you want me to find out where she was the other night?”

  “That’s different.”

  He was ticcing like crazy now. “No, it’s the same.”

  “Look, wherever she was when she got mugged, it was the wrong place. Like I said, it’s not important.”

  “But it is important. Where a person is when an event occurs is as important as where particles are when they collide. If they are not in that place, there is no collision. Without that collision, the universe is a different place, subtly different, maybe, but different nonetheless. Don’t you understand? It’s the key to everything: knowing where things are, or were, or where they will be.”

  I left him there, mumbling to himself about particles and uncertainty, his tics calmed, his eyes turned inward. I think maybe for the first time, I got a sense of how he’d come undone. I hoped Athena could rescue him from where he had gone to. I couldn’t. Even if Athena couldn’t do the trick, I had faith Larry would come out of it. He always did, always had. He had to. I needed him.

  As bad as I felt for Larry, my internal pressure had eased a bit. If nothing came of our encounter, at least I’d let off some steam. And who knew? Larry was good at finding out all sorts of stuff. People get stoned and they get stupid, that’s what he’d said. Yet another reason why I shied away from drugs. I didn’t need any help in getting stupid. Just ask my brother Aaron.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  While I was walking back onto campus, Lids’s words went round and round in my head. Not the esoteric stuff that had sent him spinning off into his own universe there at the end. No, I was used to that. Even before he went over the edge, even before the drugs, Larry had been out there on an astral plane somewhere. It was the part where he claimed to know people who would do violence on my behalf that surprised me. I guess I shouldn’t have been. I mean, Lids was a pusher, and I couldn’t help but see him as poor, pathetic Larry. So he sold a little pot, so what? But really, I had no idea what he sold, or how much he sold, or to whom. Of course he knew some “people” — everybody in Brooklyn knew someone connected to the mob.

  The guy I knew, who Larry and everybody from Coney Island and Brighton Beach knew, was named Tony Pistone. They called him Tony Pizza because he was a fat slob who could demolish two whole pies at a sitting, and because he and his crew hung out at DeFelice’s Pizzeria, under the el on Brighton Beach Avenue. Behind his back, though, everyone in the neighborhood called him Tony Pepperoni because he had a red, acne-fucked complexion like a pepperoni pizza. I guess he was okay as far as it went. He was what my dad called a real character. My dad never defined what that meant exactly, but when you looked at Tony you understood. Tony P did magic tricks. You know the kind of thing: pulling quarters out from behind your ear, ripping up five-dollar bills and somehow making them whole again. He was always flirting with the young girls, doing his tricks for them, and joking with us guys when we came into DeFelice’s. He’d throw me a dollar sometimes to go get him the racing form or the afternoon paper. The only reason anyone took Tony P seriously was his muscle, a guy they called Jimmy Ding Dong. Jimmy was a stone-cold bastard and we avoided him at all cost. None of us would even look at him if we could help it.

  The only business I ever did with Tony P was buying fireworks from him. That didn’t make me special. Everybody bought their fireworks from him, even the cops. Of all the kids in the neighborhood, Bobby was closest to Tony Pizza. Two summers ago when I was making quarter tips from the old ladies as a bag boy at the Big Apple supermarket on the corner of Brighton Beach Avenue and Ocean Parkway, Bobby was running errands for Tony. What kind of errands, Bobby wouldn’t say. He told me once that he had sworn the Mafia blood oath to Tony never to share. I knew he was full of shit, but some of the other guys believed him. Idiots. Still, Bobby never was very forthcoming about his summer as a mob errand boy. What I did know about that summer was that Bobby earned enough to buy that sweet Olds 88 he drove, and that I earned enough to ride the Cyclone every now and then and to buy a Nathan’s hot dog. Like I said, Bobby had a nose for money.

  He also had a nose for me, apparently, because when I was just walking past the library and coming down the steps to the snow-covered quadrangle, he grabbed me by the shoulders. I shrank in pain.

  “Sorry, I forgot about your shoulder. But Jesus, Moe, I been looking everywhere for you,” he said, worry in his voice. And for the second time in the last few days, his smile was nowhere to be seen. “Did you hear about — ”

  “Mindy? Yeah, I heard. I was at the hospital already.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I wasn’t thinking straight. Aaron left me a note: ‘Your girlfriend’s in Kings Highway Hospital. It’s serious.’ I mean, my first thought wasn’t that I should call you.”

  “Sorry, man. What happened to her? I’m not clear on that.”

  I repeated for him what I had just minutes before repeated for Lids.

  “Mugged. Shit.” There was a glint in Bobby’s eyes — a mixture of puzzlement and mischief. “A light-skinned black guy, you said?”

  “Yeah, a young guy, and he had pink blotches on his hands and face. That’s what the cops told Mindy’s dad. He says the prick beat her up pretty good. She was bruised up all over. Why do you ask?”

  He ignored the question. “What was she even doing over there? She lives in the other direction.”

  Seemed to be a popular question, and I didn’t have a better answer for him than I’d had for Lids.

  “Don’t know, but that’s where they found her.”

  “You doing anything right now?” he asked.

  “I was gonna go to class, but I can’t think or keep a thought in my head. I don’t think I ever cared less about school in my life. I mean, shit, what the hell does any of this crap mean now?”

  “Relax, Moe. She’ll be okay. She has to be. Since you’re not going to class, come with me. I’ve got to make an airport run.”

  Airport runs were Bobby’s latest and craziest money-making scheme. He would pick you up at your door, drive you to the airport, and carry your bags into the terminal for free. The thing was, if you took him up on the offer, you had to take out flight insurance and name Bobby as the sole beneficiary. If there were two of you, both of you had to take out policies, if there were three … I’m not kidding here. Sick as it was, he had about two people a week take him up on the offer. Word of mouth really
was the best way to advertise. He’d been doing it for about six months and so far, thank god, he hadn’t cashed in.

  “Matter of time,” he used to say when I’d bust his chops about it. “Matter of time.”

  “You have a better chance of getting killed in a car crash on the way home from the airport, you sick bastard. What do you do, listen to the radio all day to hear if the plane goes down?”

  “Sometimes,” he’d answer with a poker face. “You don’t understand business very well, do you, Moe? It’s a risk vs. reward kinda thing: small risk to me, long odds, big payoff. Besides, you don’t need to worry about me, buddy. I got more than this one oar in the water.”

  He was right. I didn’t know much about business, and didn’t want to. I don’t know whether I was just born this way or if it was that my dad hadn’t set a very good example. He wasn’t skilled at making money or at business in general. His only talent was for bad investments and failure. As it was, money never much mattered to me. I wasn’t stupid. I knew money would be nice to have, but other things just mattered more to me. Love, family, girls, sex, books, sports — they were always more important to me than money. Maybe my outlook would have been different if I’d had any money to begin with. Maybe if I could have experienced what having money was like and then losing it, then I might have invested more of my being into getting more of it or getting it back. I’d tried, I’d really tried to will myself ambitious, to be more like Bobby and Aaron. I’d tried to trick myself into putting money at the top of my pyramid. No luck. And Bobby needn’t have bothered to comfort me that he’d be all right even if the airport runs never paid off. Bobby Friedman was golden, bulletproof. Somehow you just knew he would always land on his feet.

  As crazy and twisted as his airport runs were, I was glad for the distraction, glad to be invited along, glad to have someone making small talk. For the moment, I conveniently ignored Mindy’s dire warning about keeping away from Bobby. My frustration over what had happened to her, my need to do something about it, and my impotence in the face of that need were eating me up. My guts were on fire. We picked up Mrs. Cohen — Stevie Cohen’s grandma; he was one of our Burgundy House brothers — at her apartment building on Ralph Avenue, settled her comfortably in the big back seat of Bobby’s Olds, and headed off to the Eastern Airlines terminal at Kennedy Airport.