A Friend Is a Gift You Give Yourself

by William Boyle

“The lady doesn’t know what she’s saying.” Enzio is still unable to grasp the key. “She’s trying to pin this on me. All I was after was a good time. No disrespect was meant. What she did, now, that’s another story. Wallops me with an ashtray, steals my Impala.”

  “This is Vic Ruggiero’s wife!”

  “I don’t need to be defended by a bum who started sleeping with my daughter when she was fourteen,” Rena says.

  Lucia looks shell-shocked, pulling her cap even lower over her eyes.

  “Now, Rena. She was fifteen when we slept together the first time. I got a code.” Richie pauses. “How do you even know that?”

  “You’ve got a code?” Rena asks.

  Richie turns to Adrienne: “She knows all of everything about when we started?”

  Bobby lifts his head from the counter and tries to shake out of his drunkenness. “What’s going on here? Now we got a party?”

  “Bobby,” Wolfstein says, “please go back to sleep.”

  “‘Go back to sleep,’ you’re gonna say to me?” Bobby straightens out in his chair. His hair is wild. He smacks his lips. “Listen. All these people, whoever they are, I don’t care about them. Let me ask you something again real quick, Lacey.” He gets off the stool, smoothing down his shirt, running his fingers through his hair, a facial expression like he’s chewing something tough turning into a sudden smile. “Lacey, Lacey, bear with me here. Interesting day, I know. Let me just say, I really think we got something here.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Let me just say, we’re a good pair, we are. I see big things for us. Now, I don’t have a ring or anything, but why don’t you marry me?”

  “Bobby, you got a cigarette? I’m dying for a cigarette.”

  Bobby fishes around and comes out with what’s left of his pack. He hands one to Wolfstein, lighting it for her.

  “Thanks,” she says. “You’re funny, Bobby, I’ll give you that. A funny guy.” Liotta to Pesci in Goodfellas coming out in her voice a little. Impossible to say those words and not say them that way.

  “Now, Lacey, this isn’t very nice. I’m no clown. Come on, honey. I want to marry you. You gonna marry me or what? I’ll take you to Vegas.”

  “Goddamnit,” Enzio says, frustrated, his face close to the floor, trying to use a penny he’s fished out of his pocket to flip the key so he can grab it.

  Lucia laughs a little. Amped up. Thrown off by the spectacle around her. “He’s really having a hard time with that key.”

  “Shut that little turd up!”

  “Don’t you dare talk to my granddaughter like that,” Rena says.

  Enzio finally gets a grip on the key and lets out a sigh of relief. As he’s rising back to a standing position, he fumbles it, and it clatters to the floor.

  Richie busts out laughing.

  Adrienne, showing her claws, says, “Lucia, let’s go right now.”

  Enzio pinches the key up between his fingers, gazes at it as if he’s holding some long-sought glowing treasure, and then drops it again.

  “Too goddamn good,” Richie says, shaking his head.

  Enzio succeeds in picking up the key on his next try, standing now, grasping the key in his closed fist like it’s a do-or-die pill he can’t lose.

  “I had time, I’d break your neck,” Richie says to Enzio. “Putting the moves on Vic Ruggiero’s old lady like that.”

  “Richie, Lucia, now,” Adrienne says.

  Richie looks over at Wolfstein and seems to really focus in on her for the first time. “Where I know you from?”

  Wolfstein shrugs.

  Richie’s eyes dart around the room, taking in the pictures on the wall. “Holy shit. Luscious Lacey? You’ve gotta be kidding me. Suzy’s Last Night on the Planet was my jam. What was that, 1982? Such a sick year.” He raises his right hand and extends his stubby little thumb, nail chewed to the quick. “Corn-fed Cheerleaders.” Next is his pointer. “Swallowed Hole.” Then his other three fingers shoot up all at once. All raw, all low-bitten. “Swedish Catastrophe, Sex Barge, Trashy Dreams. Classics, the whole bunch. What am I missing?”

  “You’re missing a lot,” Wolfstein says, dropping the butt of her smoke into an empty Bud Light bottle.

  Adrienne exhales. “You were in what, porno movies?” she asks Wolfstein. And then back to Richie: “And you used to what, whack off to them? I’m so skeeved out.”

  “Charity Box,” Richie says, throwing up his left hand and starting anew with that thumb.

  “Not a lot of people saw that one,” Wolfstein says.

  Left pointer. “Nuns Not Guns.”

  “That was fun.”

  Richie’s searching the ceiling. “Help me out.”

  “I don’t think so. We’re not in a very good situation here.”

  “Give me one more. I’m seeing you and, like, a guy in a spacesuit.”

  “Alien Seduction.”

  “That was wild.”

  “Directed by Tony Cardinale. He was a genius in a lot of ways. A sicko, but a genius.”

  Adrienne tugs at Richie’s arm. “Not a good situation, like the lady said. Let’s go.”

  Richie shakes out of it. “Yeah, right. Crea.”

  Enzio starts to take notice of the pictures on the walls now. “Luscious Lacey?” he says. “I know your movies.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you do,” Rena says.

  Bobby’s back on his feet, shaking his head like a shaggy dog. “You were in skin flicks? That’s wonderful. I flat-out admire you, Lacey. All the shit you navigated. Movies like that, conning guys like me. That takes guts and brains. I ain’t kidding. I say you’re a genius.

  “You won’t marry me, huh? Sweetheart, I’d take care of you. That dough you stole—and returned, thank you very much—was just a drop in the bucket. I’ll take you on carriage rides around Central Park. We’ll get a room at the Waldorf, you want. I’ll take you on a cruise. Norwegian Dawn. That big ship passes under the Verrazano. You seen that one? They’ll treat you like a queen. Buffet, manicures, shows. We’ll go to Atlantic City three times a week, you want. I get comped rooms. They give me front-row tickets to any show I want. Who do you like? You wanna go see that Jerry Seinfeld do his stand-up? There’s a funny guy.

  “One thing. In these movies, you didn’t take it up the dirt track, did you?” He’s back over at the counter. No one’s listening to him. Least of all Wolfstein. He picks up the gun, which Rena had all but forgotten about, and starts waving it around. “I’ve got a piece here, people!” he says.

  “Who is this guy?” Richie asks.

  “He’s nobody,” Wolfstein says.

  “I’m nobody, huh?” Bobby’s pissed. “I’m getting awful tired of being called nobody. My name’s Bobby Murray, and I’m in love with Lacey Wolfstein. Even though she ripped me off for fifteen grand and broke my heart. I’m willing to put that behind me.”

  “Well, Bobby Murray.” Richie steps forward. “I’d put that gun down if I was you.”

  “Richie, who cares?” Adrienne says. “Let him shoot himself, my mother, Wolfstein, whatever. Just put my daughter under your arm and let’s go!”

  “Fuck you!” Lucia shouts.

  Bobby’s hand is fish-flop wild. Everyone ducks as he arcs the gun from floor to ceiling and then lasers it from left to right. “I’m telling you, I’m not messing around here. I gotta yank the trigger to get what I want, I’ll do it.”

  “Bobby, calm down,” Wolfstein says.

  Richie puts up his hand, a flat stop sign. “Hold the phone, old-timer. You got a full house. Women, a kid. And, to be honest, you don’t look like you know how to handle that piece. What’s your beef? Who you want to kill?”

  Adrienne: “Don’t get in the middle of this.”

  Bobby: “I don’t know.”

  Richie: “You don’t know, right? So put the piece down and try proposing marriage another way, okay? How’s that sound? Reboot the situation.”

  Bobby turns the gun on Richie, his feeble hand doing a zonky-hard D
T tremble. “Maybe I want to kill you?”

  Richie laughs. “I’d definitely think that over. You know who I am?”

  “I give a shit who you are?”

  “How about we go out to the street? I got my piece in the Caddy. We can have a duel. Ten paces. All that.”

  A pulsing silence fills the room for a moment. Bobby’s keeping the gun on Richie but looking at Wolfstein. Wolfstein’s looking at Rena and Lucia. Richie’s looking at Bobby. Adrienne wears the expression of someone who wants and expects something to be over and is deeply disappointed to find that it’s not. Lucia is excited and confused, like this is Shakespeare happening in front of her. Rena, she’s not sure what to do with her eyes.

  Adrienne prods Richie. “You’re gonna get yourself shot by this nobody when you’re this close to getting free?”

  “You’re right, A,” Richie says. To Bobby, hands up: “Listen, fucko, you just lucked out. I’ve got a bright future ahead of me, and I’m not gonna louse it up on account of some no-count piece-of-shit old man. God bless. Good luck with Luscious Lacey. Luscious Lacey, thanks for the memories. I was gonna say, ‘Thanks for the mammaries,’ but I bet you get that one all the time.” He moves toward Lucia, his car key out in his hand now, motioning at her blue suitcase. “This your bag, kid? Don’t make me carry you like an insane asylum patient, okay?”

  “I said she’s not going anywhere right now,” Rena says.

  “Rena, all due respect, you don’t just swoop in and call the shots with your daughter’s kid. You remember Crea, right? You heard Vic tell plenty of stories about Crea. With the hammer and the eyebrows? What I did, no doubt Crea’s hunting my ass. Believe me, you want us out of here before Crea shows.”

  “Put your hands back up!” Bobby says.

  “I’m trying to do right by you, guy,” Richie says. “Don’t fuck with me. That’s sound advice, and it cost you nothing.”

  Bobby, without hesitation, steadying his arm with his other hand, squeezes off a shot.

  The bullet goes wide and hits Adrienne, standing by the doorway, right in the neck.

  A gasp rips from Rena. She can’t believe this is happening. Everything’s slo-mo. She looks away from Adrienne—her daughter, her only daughter—and she wraps Lucia up in her arms, trying to block her eyes. Lucia struggles away, crushing underfoot the rose that Enzio threw.

  “Mommy?” Lucia says.

  Adrienne is holding her neck. She has this tragic look on her face, something like the time she had pneumonia in fifth grade, frail as garlic paper, convinced she was dying. She shrivels to the ground, blood seeming to swarm from her neck like a blur of red moths, her hands in the flow like she’s trying to choke it to a stop. Those long nails of hers, that’s what Rena focuses on. Gurgling noises sputter from Adrienne’s mouth.

  “Call an ambulance!” Rena says, a bolt of pain roaring through her whole body. Her toes thrumming with pain. The backs of her eyes. Her bones burning with it.

  “What did you do, Bobby?” Wolfstein says, making a move for the phone on the wall.

  Enzio slips out the front door, headed for the Impala, shuffling along as fast as he can, holding the seat of his pants as he goes.

  Richie, shocked, drops his car key on the floor in front of Lucia and jumps forward, falling to his knees and taking Adrienne in his arms, “Baby, no,” he says. “Baby, you’ll be okay. Baby, I got my new Nikon. I’m gonna take your picture at the best roadside diner we find. I’m gonna get you a milk shake. Vanilla. We’re gonna see new places. Baby.”

  Adrienne coughs up blood, her eyelashes fluttering. She always had the prettiest eyelashes. When she was a girl, strangers would come up to Rena, women, and say, “I’d kill for your daughter’s eyelashes.” When she was a girl.

  Bobby puts his hands in his hair and lets out a big breath. “Jesus Christ,” he says. “I never even fired this thing. Not ever. I told him put his hands back up. I told him. No one takes me serious.”

  Richie looks up at Bobby. “How I’m gonna kill you,” he says, tears in his eyes, “it’s gonna hurt, and it’s gonna take a long time, you degenerate fuck.” Spit flying from his mouth. Sobbing. He’s trying to get his arms under Adrienne to pick her up. Blood everywhere. “I’m gonna get you to a hospital, A. I’m gonna get the best doctor to fix you up. I’ve got all this dough in the trunk, and I’ll throw it at these docs. They’ll fix you up fast.”

  Rena is stroking Lucia’s hair furiously. Lucia pulls away, disgusted. Rena calls out again: “Get an ambulance here, Wolfstein!”

  Wolfstein is at the phone already, pulling the nine on the rotary dial and waiting for it to come back.

  “Jesus Christ almighty,” Bobby says. “I didn’t mean to shoot the broad. I didn’t mean to shoot her. What’d I do?”

  When the new man enters the house, no one other than Rena seems to notice. Not even Richie. The man is squat, wearing a blue velour tracksuit, his gray hair slicked back with gel, his eyes registering twisted glee, as if he’s overjoyed to stumble onto a scene like this. Dark creases in his forehead. Arched eyebrows. Patches of hair on his ears. He’s carrying a big sledgehammer across his chest. It takes Rena a second to fully recognize him. Crea. So much older-seeming now.

  Rena wipes tears from her cheeks—her daughter, her only daughter bleeding out there right in front of her—and points at Crea, but she can’t find a voice to say anything. She looks back at Wolfstein, who is talking to an operator. But then Crea approaches her and rips the handset from her grip, yanking the curly cord from the jack. He smashes the housing of the phone with his hammer, Wolfstein putting her hands over her face as pieces of the shell shatter.

  When Crea’s done, what’s left of the phone hangs from a frayed wire. All eyes are on him now. “Kaplan was reluctant to give you up at first, Richie,” Crea says. “But then he folded like a cheap chair. They always do when I bring out the hammer. I ever tell you how I got started with the hammer? I was just looking for, like, a trademark. Tried a lot of things. Hammer just seemed right. Anyhow, you’re wondering how I found you in this house, I bet. It’s like you fucks left a trail of bread crumbs over here.” Crea walks back over to Richie and Adrienne. “Fuck happened? Who shot the twist?”

  Richie turns to him, still sobbing, snot webbing down from his nose. “Crea, listen. A’s dying here. Let me get her to a hospital. Please. Me and you, we’ll get straight.”

  Crea smiles. “Get straight, that’s good.” He raises the sledgehammer up over his head. He looks over at Rena. He recognizes her, of course. He knows Adrienne is her daughter. He knows Adrienne is Vic’s daughter.

  “Crea, come on,” Richie says.

  The way Richie’s sitting with Adrienne in his arms, it’s the way you hold dying people in war movies. Rena’s trying to think a step ahead, trying to protect Lucia from what’s about to happen. Whatever Richie did, he’s gonna get his head knocked into next week. And then what? What will Crea do with them? How will they get Adrienne help?

  Crea smiles even bigger. His eyes are smiling. His whole face. “I ever tell you it was me killed Vic, not Little Sal?” he says. “Now how about I put Vic’s bitch daughter out of her misery like an old racehorse?” He waves the hammer over Adrienne and then presses the head down hard against her throat.

  Richie tries to get his arms out from under her, scrambling to reach for the handle of the hammer. Adrienne’s making a low, flat dying noise. The fight she’s got left isn’t enough. What Crea’s doing, he’s doing for kicks. Rena’s world goes dark.

  LUCIA

  Not every day your mother gets shot and choked out with a hammer right in front of you. Truth is, Lucia has daydreamed about this very thing. Or some variation. Wished for it, even, in the name of being free. But now she’s not sure what to feel. She doesn’t feel much of anything, really. She wonders if that makes her a psycho. She’s not crying or puking or anything, just full of a sort of cold hollowness. Her mother’s pain doesn’t echo through her. She doesn’t want to hold her hand or hear
her say all the things she never said.

  Grandma Rena’s passed out on the sofa next to her. She went down like she was struck by a shock wave. Grandma Rena probably believes in God. Lucia doesn’t. No way. Sunday always makes her feel like she believes in God even less, if there’s any lower to go than not at all. And now this is what Sunday will always mean. The day her mother was killed.

  Richie’s wailing, on his knees, pushing Adrienne from his lap. “She’s fucking dead,” he says.

  Lucia notices her mother’s disgusting nails as her body tumbles away from Richie. She’s always hated how long they are. She doesn’t remember what color they were painted today. Now they’re bright with blood.

  Hammer Dude’s laughing. Sick laughter. Did she hear him right? Did he say he was the one who killed Papa Vic? He’s holding the sledgehammer across his chest again. Ready to strike. Ready to punch the hammer through Richie’s chest now. Maybe Lucia wouldn’t mind seeing that, either.

  The old guy, the one who shot Adrienne, he’s leaning over the kitchen counter, moaning. About to hurl, seems like. His gun—where’s his gun? Lucia can’t see it. “All I wanted,” the guy is saying into the counter, blubbering, “all I wanted was to get hitched to Lacey.”

  “Bobby, shut the fuck up right now,” Wolfstein says.

  “I’m gonna kill you, Crea,” Richie says, rising to his feet, his shirt striped with her mother’s blood.

  “With your bare hands?” Hammer Dude says.

  Wolfstein rushes over to Lucia. “Grab your grandmother’s feet. I’ll get under her arms.”

  Lucia doesn’t register what Wolfstein’s saying for a sec. She looks down and sees Richie’s car key on the floor. She plucks it up and stuffs it in the pocket of her cut-offs. She’s thinking about escape. She’s thinking of all the money Richie just said he has in his trunk. She knows Crea’s here for that money, and she knows they’ll need to get away from him first. But money means freedom. Money means a new life. Money means maybe finding her father. She needs to, she can drive. She remembers everything Big Paulie taught her. She thinks she remembers.