A Friend Is a Gift You Give Yourself

by William Boyle

  “It’s time to take off. You want me to call a car service? That’s how you got over here, car service?”

  “Not yet, come on. Let’s shoot the shit a little. Let’s play rummy.”

  “You sick in the head?”

  He comes over and tries to dance with her, sloshing some of his vodka onto the floor, singing: “Oh, the shark has such pretty teeth, babe. And he shows them pearly whites.” Fading to a whisper, forgetting the words. His voice becomes something of a sludgy hum. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks for your time,” he says.

  “You’re gonna give me a hundred bucks from the money I just gave you?”

  “Sure, yeah. I’m so lonely.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The shove catches her off guard, and she topples back against the wall. Bobby, flustered, steps back and runs his hands through his hair, exhaling. He’s managed not to drop or spill any more of his vodka. He downs the rest of it. Wolfstein’s seen a lot, but she’s never seen someone chug vodka like beer. She leans back on her hands and gets up slowly, remains poised.

  “I’m just so goddamn lonely,” Bobby says again.

  Rena comes back as Wolfstein is dusting herself off. “What happened?” she asks.

  Bobby looks at the floor. “I shouldn’t’ve pushed her.”

  “You pushed her?”

  “I just wanted to dance a little. Have some fun.” He goes over to the counter and pours three belts of vodka into his glass, no ice or lime even this time. He drinks it in two big gulps.

  “I don’t want you puking in here,” Wolfstein says.

  He shakes his shoulders, lit up from the inside, his face a mask of fluctuations: regretful, boozy, proud. “Listen. You shouldn’t ever push no broad. I was frustrated. I’m sorry, Lacey.” He pours another half-glass of vodka and drinks it. “You could’ve just cut the rug with me, you know?” He motions to the bare wood floor. “So to speak.”

  “My pal Rena over here already took out a bum like you for this sort of behavior,” Wolfstein says. “Be careful.”

  “I’ll give you five hundred bucks for your trouble. No shit.” He sits on the stool and takes out the stack of money Wolfstein just gave him. “Money’s no problem.” He peels off a few hundreds and fans them out on the counter over the scattered condensation rings left by his vodka glass. He puts his head down on the money and, almost immediately, starts snoring.

  “He just passed out?” Rena says.

  “Looks like it,” Wolfstein says. “Some piece of work, this fuck.”

  Bobby stays passed out. Wolfstein pulls the money out from under him, sticky wet from the condensation, and puts the bills back into the hair-tie-banded stack. She stuffs the fifteen grand back in his pocket. Rena is sitting on the sofa, every once in a while crossing to the window to check Adrienne’s house.

  “What are we gonna do with him?” Rena asks on a pass back to the sofa.

  “Let him sleep it off,” Wolfstein says. “He’ll wake up and skedaddle, I bet.”

  Rena sits, nodding.

  A knock on the back door.

  Wolfstein jumps to attention. “Now who the hell is this?” she says.

  Opening up, she’s somehow not surprised to see Lucia standing there, wearing a tattered Yankees cap with a curved bill, twisting her sneakered foot into the spongy welcome mat, holding a small blue suitcase covered in silver hologram stickers against her chest. “Can I come in?” Lucia asks.

  “Kid?” Wolfstein says. “Of course. Come in.”

  Rena notices her then and rushes over. “Oh, Lucia, what are you doing here?”

  “Running away,” Lucia says.

  “Your mom doesn’t know you’re here?”

  Lucia shakes her head. “I hate her.” She pauses. “I know we don’t know each other that well, but I think I want to stay with you from now on.”

  Wolfstein’s got Rena pegged as a commonsense kind of dame, the kind who’ll put her hand on her granddaughter’s shoulder right now and explain all the reasons why that’s a bad idea, the main one being they’re right across the street, and chances are good that Adrienne will come sniffing over here soon. Another one being that she’s on the lam from what she did in Brooklyn and it’s probably not a good idea to drag Lucia into that.

  It doesn’t happen that way.

  “We’ll get to know each other better,” Rena says, hugging Lucia. “You shouldn’t talk like that about your mother, but it’s easy to see it’s a bad situation over there. I’d love if you stayed with me.”

  “That’s a good idea?” Wolfstein asks.

  “We’ll get out of your hair right now—”

  “I’m not saying that.”

  “Adrienne’s leaving anyway,” Lucia says. “Running away with Richie. He’s stealing a bunch of money and then they’re taking off.” She pauses, considers Bobby. “Who’s that guy?”

  “He’s no one,” Wolfstein says. “Say again about your old lady and this Richie?”

  “They want me to go, but no way I’m going with them,” Lucia says.

  “Richie’s stealing money from who?” Rena asks.

  “The people he works for,” Lucia says.

  “You know about this how?”

  “I heard them. And Adrienne told me to get packed. He’s probably on his way back soon. She’s going nuts over there now, tearing the house apart.”

  “You’re not using your head here, Rena,” Wolfstein says. “You’re already on the run from one thing. You want to add this?”

  “We’ll get in the car now,” Rena says. “Don’t worry. This is an opportunity. An opportunity to give the two of us the relationship we deserve. We deserve a life together. My daughter’s clearly not fit to care for Lucia. And she’s putting her in more danger than I’ll be putting her in.”

  “That could be true, but I don’t see how it’s the right move.”

  “Let’s go, Lucia,” Rena says. “Let’s hurry. Thank you for everything, Wolfstein.”

  “Hold on a sec,” Wolfstein says. “Just hold on.”

  ENZIO

  This day and age, you get anybody’s address off the internet. Where else this zoccola gonna run to but her daughter in the Bronx? Enzio used to know the kid, Adrienne, from around the neighborhood. Hot-to-trot little number.

  He still can’t get over the fact Rena bashed him in the head and stole his Impala. Better not be a scratch on the goddamn thing. Or a stray pussy hair on the front seat. Him just being nice, trying to get a little fun started. Broad in her sixties like Rena, however the fuck old she is, nobody’s lining up. Him thinking she’ll take what she can get at this point. He could’ve paid for it with some Russian bird, easy, no stress, but he thought he’d go for the romance angle. Vic’s wife deserved a little respect. Not anymore.

  To take the Impala was the lowest of the low.

  Truth is, he would’ve let the attack go, bloody gash and all.

  But the fucking car.

  So he’s on the subway, the D into the city first, where he switched for the Pelham Bay Park–bound 6, the train he’s on now, his head wrapped in bandages, wearing fresh chinos and a red-and-black bowling shirt, having had to throw out the clothes that’d been bloodied up by the incident with Rena. Crawling to the phone, eyes closed, feeling the blubbering buzz of his head wounds, unwieldy boner from the Viagra he’d popped, that’d all been a big pain. They gave him stitches at Maimonides. Twenty. He told them it was a fall. They said it’s lucky you didn’t kill yourself, your age. He laughed and said he’s always been a lucky son of a bitch.

  Guy across from him is reading a pocket Bible. Sure, Enzio likes the Bible. He listens at church. He used to take collections, wear his best purple jacket, go around with the basket at St. Mary’s, wave it in people’s faces, but you read the Bible on the subway like it’s the new James Patterson? What bullshit. He wants to nudge the guy in the gut, tell him take a break. Only possible point could be letting everybody know you’re a goddamn Biblethumper.

  The g
uy notices him noticing the Bible. Smooth chin on this guy. Captain America shirt. Olive skin. That cologne he’s wearing—what is that? Flowery smell. Maybe he’s a poof, using the Bible to cover it up.

  “You okay?” the guy says, closing his Bible, a frilly ribbon marking his page. “Your head?”

  “Fine,” Enzio says, shuffling closer to the window.

  “You have an accident?”

  “Little fall, that’s it.”

  “I’m John.”

  “What’re we, pals here?” Enzio says.

  “I’m just trying to start a conversation,” John says. “We go through our lives afraid to talk to people, especially in a city like this. What are we afraid of?”

  “Whatever you’re selling, bud, shove it up your twat.”

  “I love New York,” John says. “Who talks like that? So, so great. I’m from Texas originally.”

  “Why don’t you go back to Texas and leave me alone?”

  “You read the Bible, sir?”

  “Here we go.”

  “It’s got everything,” John says. “Blood, sex, death, redemption, you name it.”

  Enzio purses his lips. “You’re saying what about the Bible?” Not that Enzio’s read the thing all the way through. Mostly he’s heard it from the altar. Readings. Bits in homilies from Father Ricciardi, Monsignor Stankus, and Father Reilly all those years ago. But he’s not sure if this John’s saying something he should be offended about. Maybe he’s reading the Bible as a joke. That case, Enzio should give him a hard time.

  “I’m just saying it’s got everything you could want in a book.”

  “Okay, fine,” Enzio says.

  “I’ve got an extra copy here in my bag. Would you like it?”

  “I got plenty of Bibles. I look like a guy wants for Bibles? What’s your scam?”

  “No scam, sir. Just spreading the Good Word.”

  “I will tear you a new asshole, John, if you don’t leave me alone.”

  Enzio puts his elbows on his knees, staring hard at the floor. John gets off at the next stop, Grand Central. Let him go try to push his phony Bibles on some tourists.

  After finding out where Rena’s daughter lived in the Bronx, Enzio called his old pal from the neighborhood, Harry Guttuso, who’d just recently moved over to his sister Nancy’s joint in Bronxville to be closer to Empire City Casino at Yonkers Raceway, which was opening soon and was going to save guys like Harry the trouble of taking a bus down to Atlantic City a few days a week. They stayed in touch, him and Harry, though Enzio wasn’t generally big on keeping in touch once people moved outside of about a ten-block radius. A lot of hours they spent talking and playing cards at Mama Zucco’s on Bath Avenue, and Harry really made the effort to stay in touch. Called every couple of weeks. Invited him over to Bronxville. He was good that way. When Enzio called and said he was coming up to the Bronx, Harry said he and his nephew would drive over from Bronxville and pick him up at the station.

  Enzio gets off at the Westchester Square/East Tremont Avenue stop. Stinky and crowded. Bronx-stinky. No Brooklyn smells.

  Down at street level, he looks around for Harry. Big schnoz, surefire identifying marker. Been six months or so. Could be Harry’s gained a shit ton of weight living with Nancy, her pushing spaghetti and meatballs and chicken cutlets on him seven nights a week.

  He sees him finally, over by a coffee stand, young kid at his side. Kid’s maybe eighteen or nineteen, wearing tight jeans, tight T-shirt, got a sloppy beard needs trimming. Hungover, that’s how the kid looks. Harry looks pretty much the same as he’s always looked. Schnoz like an eggplant. Wiry arms. Shirt with palm trees on it, notepad in the breast pocket. Cargo shorts. Loafers.

  Harry smiles, trudges toward Enzio, the kid staying nearby. “What happened to your head?” Harry asks.

  “Little fall,” Enzio says.

  Harry throws his arms around Enzio, kisses him on the cheek. “Jesus.”

  “I know, I know. A real dolt.”

  “I took a fall in the shower last week. Almost broke my dick off.”

  “Getting old’s no good.”

  “You can say that again. This here’s my nephew Lou.” Harry pulls Lou over, Lou reluctant, embarrassed. “Lou, meet Enzio.”

  “This is what, Nancy’s kid?” Enzio asks.

  Harry, nodding: “Looks like her, right?”

  “A little bit, yeah. Around the eyes.” Enzio puts out his hand. The kid shakes, limp-wristed. “What’re you supposed to be with that beard?”

  “Just too lazy to shave,” Lou says.

  “Too lazy to shave. Get a load of this kid.”

  Walking across the street and past a joint called National Diner, Enzio’s thrown off by the fact that it’s dusk. He’s not out in the world much these days at dark or near dark. If he goes out, he’s usually home by the end of the afternoon at the latest, bowl of Cheez Doodles in his lap, nice little porno on his big-screen TV. He gets tired of watching titties bounce, maybe he puts on Scarface. Pacino, what an actor.

  “You got a broad over here or something?” Harry asks.

  “Something.”

  Lou lags behind them.

  “Kid, you got shit in your drawers?” Enzio says to Lou, laughing. To Harry: “What’s wrong with your nephew, he got shit in his pants?”

  “He’s a slow walker,” Harry says.

  “Slow everything. Beard’s weighing him down. You tell him he looks like a goddamn terrorist? Way things are in this world nowadays, you tell him his goal should be to look American?”

  “Ah,” Harry says, waving Enzio off, “I leave the kid alone, let him live his life. I’m parked just up here on Ferris.”

  Enzio shakes his head. “Listen, I need to, can I borrow your car?”

  Harry: “I can do you one better. Lou’s between jobs. He can drive you around, you need it. You don’t know around here.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “Trust me. Especially night. We don’t want you getting in an accident in unfamiliar territory.”

  Enzio tosses it around in his head. His objective being get to Adrienne’s and get the Impala back; he’s not really anticipating any hitches in that plan. But say the car’s not there. Or, worse, say the car is beat up. What then? He goes apeshit, it gonna be okay to have this Lou around? “Okay, if you’re sure it’s no problem.”

  “Lou,” Harry says, calling over his shoulder, “it’s no problem you drive Enzio around a little, right?”

  “Happy to,” Lou says.

  “Might be I need to go somewhere right now,” Enzio says.

  “Whatever you need,” Harry says. “You gonna stay with us in Bronxville the night? Nancy’s got the guest room set up. You don’t need to worry about getting back to Brooklyn.”

  “It all works out, maybe.” Enzio pauses. “I’m here for my car is what it is. I don’t like to drive in the dark.”

  “The Impala?”

  “Long story, but it wound up over here, I think, and I gotta get it back.”

  “Someone stole it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “How’s someone pretty much steal a car?” Harry motions to an electric blue Nissan Maxima wedged between an SUV plastered with Yankees stickers and a graffitied white van of indiscriminate purpose. “This is us right here.”

  Enzio gets in the back. Harry does a slow dip into the passenger seat, pulling his legs in one by one, groaning as he settles roughly against the leather. Lou finally dribbles over, opens the driver’s door, and plops under the wheel.

  “Lou does all the driving,” Harry says.

  “That’s nice,” Enzio says.

  “You were saying how someone pretty much stole your Impala.”

  Lou pulls out of the space, tapping the front bumper of the van, and then they’re moving fast up the block.

  “You remember Vic’s wife?” Enzio asks.

  “Gentle Vic Ruggiero?” Harry says. “Course. Rena. Real straight shooter.”

  “I’ll come clean
with you. I was trying to get her into the sack. Lot of years we live near each other. Vic’s gone a while, I’m thinking maybe she’s backed up, never another guy in her life I know of. Her friend Jeanne tells me I got a shot. What the hell? I’m always looking for a piece. Rena’s nice for her age, too. I should’ve just gone to Coney, gotten me a Russian streetwalker, as per the usual. But, no, I go and get ambitious.”

  They turn onto Westchester Avenue, Lou rolling down the window and letting in the noise from outside. Harry turns around. “Christ, man. You put the make on Rena Ruggiero? Vic’s crew finds out, then what?”

  “Far as I can tell, she’s pretty cut off from them. Always was, really.”

  “Here, get on the Hutch right here,” Harry says to Lou, motioning frantically at the on-ramp, and they speed onto the Hutchinson Parkway, almost sideswiping a minivan.

  Enzio’s not sure where they’re going, but he doesn’t ask. Harry already said Lou would drive him around.

  “So what happens?” Harry asks Enzio.

  “I bring Rena over to my place. I give her some wine. I put on a skin flick.”

  “You put on a dirty movie?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Thinking this’ll get her all hot and bothered?”

  “That’s right, yeah.”

  Harry laughs a raucous-old-man laugh. “Let it never be said that you know what the fairer sex desires. Who does that as an icebreaker?”

  “I’m thinking, you know, it’s been a while. She sees that action, she wants to screw.”

  “Vic’s gonna come back from the dead and hunt you down, my friend. What happens next?”

  “I pop a Viagra, try to get close.”

  Harry spits out a long, rumbling breath. “You put your hands on her?”

  “Not in a rough way. I’m being a gentleman, for the most part. I’m trying to coax this desire out of her, that’s all.”

  “Let me guess. She up and smacks the shit out of you.”

  “She grabs this fucking glass ashtray, used to belong to Maria. It was her old man’s, for his stogies, you know? Thing’s heavy like a couple of bricks. She clocks me with this ashtray. I go down, zonked.”