Bad Boy Boogie

by Thomas Pluck

“Your money?” Matt laughed. “That’s hilarious. You’ve been riding my coattails since college.”

  Greg tightened his jaw. “And you’ve been stubborn just as long,” he said. “Pay him, get rid of him. He’s affecting your judgment. And that affects your money and mine.”

  “How about a cool million, Matty boy?” Jay said.

  “You’re not getting a dime,” Matt said. “Greg credits you with freeing him from that piece of human excrement, but I see it differently. You stabbed my father in the back after he dragged your white trash family from the swamp to civilization. We took you in, gave you work. And when it came time to pay the piper, you showed no loyalty.”

  “Maybe your definition of disloyalty is different than mine,” Jay said. “I told your old man I’d keep my mouth shut in return for a lawyer. I held up my end.”

  “What did you expect, my father to throw me to the wolves? Besides, your bitch mother soured that deal.”

  “I ain’t no rat, but you’re abusing the privilege. There’s no statute of limitations on this shit.”

  “Go ahead, Jay. I triple fucking dog dare you,” Matthew said. “It won’t change a thing, and what hurts me, hurts Ramona. You know, my wife.” He bared perfect white teeth. “I know she still pines for her little damaged piece of white trash.”

  Jay cracked his knuckles. His hands curled to fists. Red tickled the corners of his eyes.

  “Is this necessary?” Greg said.

  “Y’all bring me here to piss me off, show me how much power you got? Got your lawyer threatening to lock me up again. If I go inside again, there’ll be a damn good reason. And don’t think your muscle can stop me before I get it done.”

  Two guards moved to flank him.

  “What, like Frank Dellamorte?” Matt said. “That was more than I expected from you and your little piss-ant street thugs. But it was a good move, a good move, Jay. I was wrong to have Frank pressure you.”

  Jay betrayed nothing.

  Matt waved his hand. “No, I should’ve gone straight to targeting the few things you care about. Tony doesn’t have much, but he did well with the scraps we left him. He’ll be pushing grocery carts like Nicky Paladino, if you’re not careful. Bobby Algieri thought joining the Nutley cops would protect him, but he hasn’t had a single promotion. He’s almost got his twenty years in, the poor bastard.”

  Matthew smiled. “Mouth-Breathing Bobby doesn’t know what’s about to hit him come retirement. He’s made a lot of enemies, and when they testify to what he’s been up to, the town will be clamoring to nullify that pension of his.”

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy, could it?” Jay said. “I’d admire you, if I didn’t know what a backstabbing piece of shit you are.”

  “It’s all about perspective. You know the story about the frog and the scorpion? The frog—”

  “The frog had it coming,” Jay said. “And so do you and your old man.”

  “Your cunt of a mother already did enough damage.”

  Two guards each gripped Jay by a shoulder in anticipation.

  “I’m fine,” Jay said through gritted teeth. “Nothing this shitbird says is gonna get to me.”

  Matt smiled. “You haven’t changed. I remember how you’d froth at the mouth, like a rabid animal.”

  “Are we done?” Jay said. “You can go back to sticking it to your old man, and acting like you hit a triple when you were born on third base.”

  Matt smiled. “If I was born on third, I’ve hit a few grand slams since then. I ought to thank you, though. When your redneck mother tore my family apart, my father tried to buy back my love. Contingent on getting my degree, of course. And I cinched summa cum laude. But the school instituted one higher honor, egregia cum laude.”

  “We called it egregious come louder,” Greg said.

  “And all my father could say was ‘wouldn’t it have been great if you’d been the first to get that honor?’ Belittling prick,” Matt spat. “Now he’s a sharecropper. He pays some Piney to grow Christmas trees on the back forty and drives a white-trash Harley. A pathetic old fuck trying to live like Easy Rider.”

  “You sure showed him,” Jay said. “We done with your therapy session?”

  “One question,” Matthew said. “Will you accept Greg’s little offer?”

  “Nope.”

  Greg sighed.

  “Good,” Matt said. “I’m not done with you yet.”

  “And I ain’t even started on you,” Jay said.

  Matthew laughed. “You’re gonna have to do better than boning my wife.”

  The guards leaned hard on Jay’s shoulders.

  “She told me all about it,” Matt smiled. “And afterward, we fucked like rabbits.” He thumbed at his phone, and held it so Jay could see. The video was from a high angle, but excellent quality. Ramona sprawled on the chaise lounge gripping fistfuls of Jay’s hair.

  Jay felt the ground waver like when he’d stepped onto the twenty-foot diving board at the pool.

  “You’ve done wonders for our marriage,” Matt said, leaning closer. “I want to thank you for never letting her suck your cock. She makes up for it every chance she gets. I’ve had the best the world has to offer, but your Blackbird is a savant.”

  Jay furrowed his brow. The guards gripped his biceps.

  “Know who taught her?” Matthew said, “My father.”

  He laughed with a broad smile. “Introduced her to his architects, then taught her the art of the blow job in this baby”—Matt patted the hood of the Porsche—“on the rides home. Hope you enjoyed our sloppy seconds.”

  Jay felt his nostrils flare with quick breaths. “What the hell is wrong with y’all?”

  The world moved slow, as if Jay were underwater, only hearing his own heart. They led him to the truck, and dumped him in the strip club parking lot. He lay there among the dried-out rubbers and broken glass, rubbing his wrists and staring at the dead night sky.

  Chapter 25

  Matthew Strick had skipped two grades, making him both the smartest and the smallest boy in Nutley Middle School. The bell rang and students filed in. Behind Jay, Matthew and Tony talked computers, arguing over Apples and Ataris and Commodores.

  “Hey, runt,” Joey Bello said. He hawked a gob of spit on the back of Matt’s head. “That’s for ruining the curve.” The rest of his crew laughed.

  Matt flinched and scowled. He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his corduroys and wiped his hair.

  “Sniff any dirty drawers lately, shitbird?” Jay said.

  “Piss-Face gave me his mother’s,” Bello said.

  Tony flushed red.

  “Yours next, Strick,” Bello said, and flicked Matt’s ear. “Bring them tomorrow. Fresh from the hamper.”

  “You’re revolting, Joseph.”

  “And you’re a little queer,” Joey said. “Ask Tony what happens if you don’t bring ’em.” He shoved Matthew and strutted away.

  That night in the workshop, Jay eyed the tools on his side of the pegboard. Andre had given him his own set of chisels, rasps, and planes as he taught him woodwork. Even a carpenter’s hatchet, which resembled the Vietnam tomahawk. It wasn’t well-balanced for throwing, but would stick if you lobbed it right. Behind the garage, Jay and his father would take turns throwing their axes at a stump.

  Jay hefted it, thought of what it could do to Joey Bello. The wide blade, heavy hammer head, and claw on top for removing nails made it resemble a strange medieval weapon.

  After Angeline and Andre saved him, the Witch’s squirming white eye sockets had filled Jay’s retinas with every blink. Sunday morning when the church bells rang, Mama Angeline found him bawling.

  “Why you crying, son?”

  “Am I gonna go to Hell?”

  “You already been there, honey. And we got you out.”

  “I mean when I die.”

  Mama Angeline laughed, kissed his forehead. “You think Hansel and Gretel went to Hell? No, they got a hero’s welcome. Got a cloud all their own.�
� She crushed him to the plush of her chest. “What you did wasn’t no sin.”

  Jay wasn’t sure if he cared anymore, but he knew he was supposed to. While the Witch slept, he had prayed for help every day, but none came. He slipped the hatchet into his book bag. If God was there, he wasn’t answering. He helped those who helped themselves.

  In study hall, Bello flicked Matthew’s ear, leaving a red welt. “Pay up, Strick.”

  Matt ignored him.

  “Tony Baloney, tell the runt what happened at the dump.”

  Jay felt the red mist coming on. He gripped the hatchet’s leather-wrapped handle.

  “Tell him, or I will.” He flicked Tony’s ear next.

  “Ow! Asswipe.”

  “Now I’m telling, you fat piece of shit.”

  Jay eased the axe handle out of his bag. Bello’s hand rested on the back of the chair. Jay thought of smashing those warty fingers flat.

  The talk cut to whispers as Jay kneaded the leather-stacked handle. He felt the world draw in, like it had the morning he’d done the Witch.

  Assistant Principal Chapman strode down the aisle, the fluorescent lights gleaming off his pate. “Joseph Bello. Come with me.”

  Joey gave an indignant sneer. “What did I do?”

  “You know what you did.” Chapman’s thick mustache squirmed in disgust. “Your father’s waiting in my office.”

  Joey Bello hunched as if struck, kneaded his wart-scarred hands. Everyone turned to stare. Joey puffed up for his perp walk. The sneer returned to his bright, freckled face as Mr. Chapman led him away.

  Matt smiled. “I told Principal Chapman about Joey’s sick little collection. The moron keeps them in his locker.”

  When Joey Bello got a three-day suspension, Jay returned his hatchet to the peg. Matt invited Jay, Tony, and the twins to his clubhouse that weekend. It was built as a miniature of their own oversized home, with power, a ladder to a sleepover loft, and steel shelves for Matt’s books and hand-painted miniatures. His mother brought a tray of snacks on crackers, a pitcher of homemade lemonade.

  The boys sat in folding chairs around a power line spool, papers in front of them covered in chicken scratch. Matt wanted to teach them to play Dungeons & Dragons. Tony flipped through the manuals while Brendan pored over the bookshelves.

  Jay daydreamed through Matt’s lecture on the rules. On a nice day, he’d rather be fishing or exploring an old factory. Tires hit the gravel drive hard and an engine whirred to a stop. They all looked up from the game.

  A car door slammed. Boots on gravel. The double doors shuddered open, revealing Mr. Strick in khakis, rolled-up sleeves and work boots. Rimless glasses perched on his thin nose. Tight smile biting back words. “Hello, boys. Having a good time?”

  “Yes, sir,” Matt said, shrinking into his chair.

  “Matthew,” Mr. Strick said, and beckoned with a manicured finger. Matt stiffened and walked outside. His father put his hand on his nape, and walked him around back.

  The twins looked at each other. Tony snatched a handful of snack crackers and chowed nervously. Jay padded to the wall, and heard voices held low in anger.

  “The son of the goddamn building inspector.”

  “It’s not fair!”

  “Yeah, well life’s a bitch. Give him your damn lunch money, or whatever he wants. Take money from the jar.”

  “He doesn’t want—”

  “Matthew,” Strick gave a weary chuckle, “you’re supposed to be smart, so start acting like it. If his father gets called to the school again, you can kiss this little clubhouse goodbye. I’ll use it for storage. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now go play, while Daddy works.”

  Jay slinked back to his chair.

  “What did they say,” Brendan whispered.

  Father and son returned, faces red. Tony stuffed another cracker into his mouth and crunched loudly. Matt slumped into his chair.

  “Have a great time, boys,” Mr. Strick said, sweeping back his thinning hair. His Porsche kicked gravel against the doors as he roared out the driveway.

  Matt pruned his face like a baby about to bawl. He stabbed a pencil into the tabletop until it splintered to pieces.

  They walked convoluted paths to avoid Bello’s haunts, and Matt and Tony brought notes from home that allowed them to use the computer lab instead of gym. The twins had hockey practice, so Tony, Jay, and Matt cut through the greens of the First Presbyterian church to hide their lessened numbers.

  Church Hill was the school’s unofficial fighting grounds, where rivals were called out to put up or shut up. Passing through it risked bumping into Guido toughs gathered to watch a grudge match, but it was the quickest way to bypass the Krauszer’s convenience store where Joey bought cigarettes.

  There was no fight that day. Jay had thought about calling Joey out. He knew some dirty tricks. He could let Joey bust those warty knuckles on his skull, then poke him in the eye and knee his nuts. But Andre told him that he had to stay out of trouble and that this wasn’t his fight.

  A familiar laugh came from over the rise.

  Bello and crew perched like jackals on the brownstone steps to the church’s little cemetery, passing a filtered cigarette around like a joint. The smoke and a link of fresh dog shit in the grass gave the air the scent of a freshly trampled battlefield.

  Matt thrust his chest forward in a defiant march, his mouth a stiff line. Jay loosened up, rolled his shoulders, and wished he hadn’t left the hatchet on the pegboard. Tony planted his feet. “Well if it ain’t the faggots who got me in trouble,” Bello said. He blew a plume of smoke. His flat blue eyes stared through them.

  They walked past, showing no fear. Holding onto the thin rope of belief that they had fought back, and now it was over. Let the insults roll off, like they had been told by the adults.

  Matt took a deep breath halfway up the block. Tony grinned.

  Jay heard the slap of sneakers on pavement too late. Tony hit the grass with a whump.

  Bobby Algieri scooped Jay under the armpits and swung him to the ground. Dogpiled him to the church lawn, put a knee between his shoulder blades.

  Matt bolted. His short legs didn’t take him far. Nicky and Joey dragged him back, whimpering.

  “Nobody likes a snitch, runt,” Joey said, puffing his smoke to a bright cherry. He held the ember to Matt’s ear.

  Matt squirmed away. “Scar me and my Dad’ll sue!”

  Joey stomped Matt in the gut. While he groaned, Joey flicked his butt into the grass, and ground it out under his shoe. He limped back with a little smile, keeping one sole off the grass.

  Joey lifted one knee to show Matt the treads of his sneaker stuccoed with dog shit. He lowered it toward Matt’s face.

  Matt shrunk into himself and wrenched his face away. “N-no!”

  “My father says rats eat shit,” Joey said.

  Matthew wretched and coughed as Joey ground the shit-smeared toe of his shoe against his mouth. Nicky laughed in high-pitched little whoops as Joey wiped his sneaker clean on Matt’s powder blue shirt.

  Matt dry heaved and wailed. Greg Kuhn looked away, his face wrenched.

  Tony gagged in sympathy. Jay seethed and clawed at the grass.

  “Runty Matt Strick,” Bello said. “Now you’re my fuckin’ doormat.” He chuckled and kicked Matt hard in the balls.

  Matt rolled to his side and vomited on the church lawn.

  “This is what happens if you snitch on me,” Joey said. “Tell all your faggot friends.” He walked away with Nicky rubbing the back of his neck like a prize fighter.

  The Algieri brothers shoved Tony into the grass and jogged after their leader.

  Greg Kuhn blinked at Matt’s curled form. “I’m sorry,” he said, and ran the other direction, back toward school.

  “Catch up, Jew-bagel,” Bello hollered. “Where you going?”

  Tony looked away while Matt cried and smeared his face clean with his handkerchief. Jay offered his undershirt, b
ut Matt ignored him and stared at Bello and crew, slapping hands and laughing.

  Chapter 26

  Jay stood in a corner of the club, reading the swarm of bodies like he was still in the prison yard. Fear in their body language, the macho posturing of men drunk on overpriced liquor and the power of a handful of dollars. The trapped eyes of dancers working the hustle.

  A black girl with a racetrack’s worth of curves had stage two, working a handful of businessmen. Oksana/Stacey had a single customer, a short man with big arms and thinning hair atop an angular head. Nursing a Bud, giving her a hyena stare at the watering hole. He tucked a bill into her garter and pinched her behind. Jay slow-walked over. The man wore carpenter’s jeans and smelled like he came straight from work. Something about his face made Jay’s teeth grind.

  Dante and Vito entered with two young soldiers in sport coats and skinny jeans. The kids eyeballed the room, on tiptoe like a pair of meerkats.

  Dante cupped Jay’s face like a puppy’s. “This fuckin’ guy.”

  Jay pushed him away slow.

  “Give us a private room with Leticia,” Vito told Raina.

  The soldiers stood guard while Jay and Cheetah joined Dante and Vito in the private dance room. Leticia climbed onto the tiny stage in a green sari and bikini bottom with matching spike heels.

  “Close the curtains,” Dante said, and smiled at Leticia. “Now you can show everything.”

  Leticia parted her lips barely, blushed and smiled. But not in the eyes.

  Dante peeled ten hundreds from his wallet and tossed them on the stage. Leticia bent and worked the stereo.

  “Drink,” Dante said, and hoisted his glass of Jack.

  They drank. A bouncy song came through the speakers, and Leticia wrapped herself around the pole, leaning back so her hair brushed Dante’s lap.

  “Now what we talked about, there’s a hitch or two.”

  Jay made to speak and Vito raised a finger. His jacket bulged under the shoulder.

  Jay wished for Andre’s knife, but Cheetah made him leave it in the car. Said he caused enough trouble unarmed.