The Deuce

by F. P. Lione

  “Okay.” He nodded. “Put them in the back and keep them separated. I’ll let the lou know what’s going on.”

  It turned out the guy was married and lived in Brooklyn. The place on West 30th Street was his love nest where he took prostitutes. Apparently he was some kind of community leader in Brooklyn, and if word got out he was arrested for patronizing a prostitute, he’d be ruined. Personally I doubted if anyone would believe he could patronize a prostitute, but hey, what do I know?

  The lieutenant came back out with him and told us to put him back in the cell. He was quiet now, no longer calling us dogs.

  “Tony, this is what I want you to do,” the lou said. “I explained to him the reason we locked him up. He won’t be doing this anymore. He’s mortified, and he doesn’t want any of this to get out. We’ll void his arrest, and he’ll drop the charges against her. We’ll hold on to the affidavit from her and the one he signed in my office. I explained to him that if he ever calls again on something like this, we’ll lock him up for this affidavit and the next one. I told him we have enough going on here, and we don’t need him calling us because he doesn’t feel like paying a pros.”

  “No problem, I’ll void it out,” I said.

  We drove the old man back to his apartment. The old man didn’t say anything on the ride back, not even thank you. I said, “Good night, Pops” as he got out of the car and barked as he walked up the steps to his apartment.

  I turned to Fiore. “What does he mean by calling us dogs?”

  “What difference does it make?” he answered. “He’s just lost.”

  I tried to press him about that, but he told me to forget it.

  12

  We slept through our meal. We stopped to eat when we went back out at 5:30, bacon and egg on a roll. The rest of the night went without incident. I shook Joe’s hand before I left the precinct, saying I would see him the following morn-ing. I went right to sleep when I got home. I had a lot to do that night.

  I woke up at 4:00 p.m. on Saturday. I had decided to shop for a new suit, so I put off eating until I got to the mall. Macy’s at the mall was having a suit sale, so I bought one there, a gray single-breasted, two-button job in an athletic build. The pants were a little long, but other than that it fit good. I picked out a conservative maroon tie, a new short-sleeve Charter Club dress shirt, and a pair of gray dress socks to match the suit.

  I walked through the mall to the center food court and or-dered a Philly cheesesteak and a Coke. The mall was crowded with families and teenagers, and I had a hard time finding a table.

  I found a sporting goods store next to the Gap and bought a speed bag and a pair of unpadded gloves to go with it. After leaving the mall, I drove to my grandmother’s apartment so I could drop off my pants to be hemmed.

  “Who is it?” the intercom asked suspiciously.

  “Grandma, it’s me, Tony,” I said.

  She buzzed me in and was out in the hall as I turned the corner.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked. I guess I never visited her on a Saturday night before, unless it was for dinner.

  “It’s fine,” I said as she got me in a hug.

  It was only 8:00, and she was already in her pajamas. She had the Yankee game on. She’s madly in love with Derek Jeter and had the TV on so loud I could hear it in the lobby. She had me try on the suit pants so she could pin them, and she hemmed them while we watched the game. Then she pressed them, using a wet paper bag to make a sharp crease in the new hem. I wound up staying at her house for the whole game. She fell asleep in the seventh inning, snoring loud enough to make me laugh. I lowered the sound and watched the rest of the game, then shut off the TV and locked the door when I left.

  Life got exciting again the day of Fiore’s baby’s party. Let’s face it, if the highlight of my weekend was watching the Yankee game with my grandmother, there isn’t much to tell. I thought I’d talk to Fiore about getting me some tickets to a Yankee game. Someone in his family had season tickets, and there’s always some afternoon game that they won’t travel up to the Bronx for. If I gave Grandma some notice, she could get the day off from work. I shook my head—now I was making dates to take my grandmother to Yankee Stadium. I had to get a life.

  The morning of Fiore’s party I was up by 7:00. I showered and shaved, putting on cologne and my Movado watch that I’d bought for two hundred bucks in St. Maarten a couple of years ago. I didn’t want to sweat on my new suit so I blasted the air conditioner in my truck. I stopped on Bay Street for a cup of coffee and a buttered bagel which I ate in my truck before hitting the road.

  Fiore had given me directions printed out on his computer. There was a map with typed directions, and they were pretty easy to follow. When I exited off the Long Island Expressway, I saw a silver Toyota Camry pulled over on the right. A woman in a beige sleeveless dress was attempting to change a tire while a little blond-haired boy stood on the side. I pulled over in back of her and put my flashers on.

  “Need a hand?” I asked as I approached.

  She was pushing so hard to turn the lug nut she lost her balance and slammed the lug wrench into her shoulder.

  “Tony!” It was Stevie, the kid from Fiore’s house.

  “Hey, Steve, howz it goin’, buddy?” I asked as he high-fived me. “You guys going to church?”

  “Yup,” Stevie said. “But we got a flat.”

  “Want some help?” I asked his mother.

  “Yes, thanks.” She smiled and looked flustered as she rubbed her shoulder. She stood up to give me access to the tire. Her high heels gave her a couple of inches, so she was almost as tall as I was. Everything about her screamed class. The only jewelry she wore was a string of pearls around her neck. She wore her hair down, shoulder-length with some blonde highlights—I couldn’t tell if they were natural or not. She had no stockings on, and without the hiking boots, she had great legs.

  “I really appreciate this,” she said with a smile. She had intelligent eyes. I hadn’t noticed that before.

  “Mom, please let me stay upstairs with you in church,” Stevie said.

  “Steven, it’s only for an hour. You’re supposed to be downstairs with the other kids for Sunday school,” she answered.

  “Did you ever have a flat tire?” he asked me.

  “Sure, plenty of times.” I messed his hair.

  “You’re gonna get dirty,” he said.

  “I won’t get dirty.” I took off my jacket and went to put it in my truck, but she held out her hand to take it. It was getting hot—the temperature was supposed to reach the high eighties, and it felt close to that already.

  “Do you live around here?” I asked.

  “In Manorville,” Steven answered. “Where do you live?”

  “Staten Island.”

  “You’re far from home,” the woman said. I couldn’t remember her name.

  “Not that far. It took me about an hour and fifteen minutes to get here,” I said.

  I pulled three of the lug nuts off and was wrestling with the fourth when Steven asked, “Are you married, Tony?”

  “Nope,” I said as the nut came loose.

  “Neither is my mom.”

  “Steven!” his mom said.

  I smiled and filed the information away. He was a cute kid, asking me questions as I pulled the tire off.

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “No problem,” I said, going around to the trunk to pull out the donut. “Are you going to Joe’s house for the baby’s party?”

  She nodded. “For a little while.”

  “The spare will hold for a little while, but you’ll have to get the flat fixed,” I said. I placed the flat in the trunk and looked it over for nails. “You should be okay today, just get it fixed tomorrow.” I looked at my watch. It was already 9:45, and church started at 10:00.

  She took her pocketbook out of the car as I slammed the trunk. She tried to give me money for changing the tire.

  “Don’t insult me,” I said.r />
  “Sorry. I really appreciate this.” She held out her hand.

  My hand was covered with dirt, so I held it out and raised my eyebrows. “I don’t want to get your hand dirty.”

  “Wait, let me get you something.” She reached in her car and pulled out a box of those wet wipe things and gave me two. After I cleaned my hand I held it out.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Michele.” She shook my hand.

  “I remember,” I said with a smile.

  “Sure you did.” She smiled back. “Thanks again.”

  “Thanks, Tony,” Steven said, pumping my hand and smiling. “Now we won’t be late.” As they got in their car, I heard him ask again, “Mom, can I stay upstairs with you?”

  I stood there like an idiot watching her drive away. I did forget her name. I like women who wear shoes, not construction boots. Now that I’d seen her dressed like a woman, I was rethinking things. She looked hot today, not like she was hiking in the woods, munching on granola.

  The church was about a quarter of a mile down, and when I got there, a cop was directing traffic outside. He waved me in, and a parking attendant asked if I’d been there before. When I said no, he directed me to a spot in front of the church. I laughed when I saw the name, House on the Rock. It was a new building, unlike any church I’d ever been to. It was a two-story white structure, no steeple or anything, with glass doors in the front.

  I walked up four steps and reached for the door when someone opened it from inside. A line of people with name tags shook my hand and said good morning, then directed me inside to a huge room packed with people singing to a live band. One of the ushers looked around and found a seat in the midsection near the back on the aisle and escorted me over. I would have preferred to stand, but he took off to seat the next person before I got a chance to tell him.

  The man and woman next to me shook my hand and went back to their singing. The woman had her hands raised, and the man sang along with the band. There was a screen in the front next to the altar that gave the words to the song. I felt stupid standing there but didn’t know what else to do. I looked around for Fiore and Donna but didn’t see them.

  As the music slowed, an acoustic guitar played some chords while a man came up to pray. He thanked the Lord for the congregation. He prayed for the needs of the church, then said “Praise you, bless you, thank you” and some other things and told everyone to sit down. A woman went up and talked about tithing, asking if anyone needed an envelope. She gave some Scripture about giving ten percent of your money, and I felt some cynicism rise up in my chest. Sure, here they were asking for money. But these people didn’t seem to mind—when the basket came around they were real happy putting their envelopes in. I hadn’t been to church in so long I didn’t know what to give, so I threw in a twenty, hoping that would cover it.

  As the church quieted down I heard a kid call out, “Hey, there’s Tony!”

  Half the congregation turned to look as little Stevie ran down the aisle toward me.

  “Hey, buddy,” I whispered.

  Michele followed behind him, looking mortified. “Steven!” she whispered. “Get back here!”

  “Please, Mom?” he pleaded. “I’ll be quiet. Can I sit with Tony?”

  “No, you can’t sit with Tony!” she whispered, exasperated. “You don’t even know him.”

  “Yes, I do, I met him twice.” His whisper was like a bullhorn.

  The pastor started to preach, and Michele crouched down in the aisle, throwing glances back over her shoulder toward the altar and the pastor. Maybe she was worried he would get mad that she was out of her seat.

  Stevie climbed up on my lap. I don’t know who was more shocked, me or Michele.

  “It’s okay, leave him here,” I said.

  “No! I don’t even know you,” she whispered.

  Just then Fiore came up behind me, crouching next to my seat.

  “Hey, Tony,” he whispered, looking puzzled. “Hey, Michele,” he said, kissing her cheek and giving Stevie a silent high five.

  “Stevie wants to sit with me,” I said, smiling.

  Michele shook her head. “I don’t like him going to people he doesn’t know.” She was almost apologetic. “No offense, Tony.”

  “None taken.”

  “Please, Mom?” Stevie begged again.

  I guess she didn’t want to sit there and argue about it. She gave Stevie a stern look and went back over to her seat, throwing worried glances my way. Fiore shook my hand and went back to his seat.

  Stevie settled down in my lap as the preacher asked if there were any first-time visitors. I didn’t raise my hand but saw Fiore pointing me out to one of the ushers. He’d pay for that.

  They came over and gave me a booklet with a pen and a tape in it. The usher asked me to fill out the card and give it to him before the service was over.

  They dedicated Fiore’s daughter at the beginning of the service. Fiore and Donna were all choked up as they promised to raise her according to the Word. The pastor prayed for the baby and then for Fiore and Donna. It was nice. The baby wore a christening outfit, all white silk. Another woman and man, who I guess were the godparents, held her. It was nice seeing that they don’t assault the baby with water, like during a baptism. The babies always cry.

  In the meantime Stevie started twirling his hair. He farted, vibrating my leg with it.

  “I farted,” he whispered, giggling.

  “I know,” I said dryly.

  It stunk. I thought about pointing to the top of his head and waving my hand in front of my face so no one thought it was me. I didn’t see anyone looking or gasping for breath. As the smell faded, I settled in, holding Stevie as he twirled his hair. I wondered who his father was and why he wasn’t with them. Then the sermon caught my attention, and I stopped wondering.

  It was about someone named Gideon. The name sounded familiar, but other than that I never heard the story. The pastor said that Israel had been hiding from the Midianites. And this guy Gideon was cutting wheat in a winepress, which the pastor said was like playing golf in a closet. Everyone laughed, but it flew over my head. He said Gideon was hiding because these Midianite guys would steal their food. An angel came to him, saying, “The Lord is with you, mighty man of valor.” The funny thing was the guy was a wimp, complaining to the angel about all the bad stuff that happened to Israel (he sounded like me a couple of weeks ago). The preacher said that this guy would go on to save Israel. Then the preacher brought the whole thing around to everyday life. He said that in 2 Peter 1:3, the Bible says God has given us all things pertaining to life and godliness. We can win our battles if we see things through the eyes of faith instead of through our own eyes. To do something that we know we can do doesn’t take any faith.

  I was impressed. I had never heard it put that way before. People were saying amen while the pastor was talking. At the end of the service he asked everyone to bow his or her head. I put my head down, surprised to see that Stevie had fallen asleep. I listened as the pastor gave an invitation to walk to the throne of God to anyone who had never made Jesus Christ the Lord of his life.

  I bowed my head as a guitar started playing softly. The preacher talked about Calvary and how Jesus died to pay the price for our sin. He said that if there was only one person on earth, he still would have done it. Just for you, he said. Just for me. There was expectancy in the air, and a feeling of peace came over me. I put my head down and repeated in my head the words he’d said out loud. That I was a sinner, that I believed that Jesus is the Son of God, that he died for me, and that God raised him from the dead. I asked Jesus to come into my heart and be Lord in my life.

  Then the pastor asked the congregation to say it out loud. I joined my voice with the others, crossing the bridge to salvation.

  I was wiping at the corners of my eyes as church ended. I picked Stevie up as I stood, turning him into my shoulder as his mother came toward me.

  “He’s sleeping,” I said.


  “I can’t believe he went to you like that.” She paused, embarrassed. “It’s nothing personal, but I don’t want him to go to strangers. I know that you’re a friend of Joe’s, but you’re still a stranger.”

  She had a point. I didn’t know what to tell her. It’s not like he went anywhere with me; she was there the whole time.

  “So talk to him. Tell him not to go anywhere with a stranger,” I said. “You were right there,” I pointed out.

  Donna and Fiore came over with the kids just then. Donna was beaming when she saw me and kissed my cheek. “Hey, Tony! I’m so glad you came.”

  “I got a flat on the way, and he stopped to change it for me,” Michele said.

  Donna smiled at me. “You’re such a gentleman.”

  I bowed.

  “What time is the party?” Michele asked Donna.

  For some reason I was happy she and Stevie would be there.

  “Well, it’s at 2:00, but Tony’s coming back with us now. Joe’s family and my sister are already here,” Donna said. “Don’t go back to Manorville, come over now.”

  “Are you sure?” Michele looked doubtful. “The party doesn’t start until 2:00.”

  “You probably shouldn’t drive too much on that donut,” I pointed out.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Michele turned to Donna.

  “Not at all,” Donna said, smiling at me.

  Fiore pulled me over to the side. “You look good with a kid.”

  “He farted on me,” I said.

  “They do that.” He smiled. “Michele’s not married, in case you were interested.”

  “I might be interested,” I said. “Where’s Steven’s father?”

  “He’s not around,” he said. “You’ll have to ask Michele about it; it’s up to her what she wants to tell you. Good kid, though. He plays with Josh. Needs a father.”

  “The father’s not around at all?” I asked.

  “No.”

  I nodded.

  Her name was Michele Dugan. Her father was Irish, her mother Italian. She lived in Manorville in a two-bedroom house that she bought by herself. She grew up on Long Island. She was thirty-three, a year older than me, and she taught fifth grade. I found all this out when she helped me set up the tables and chairs in Fiore’s backyard while Donna and Fiore got the food together.