The corner she liked best was at Sheridan Avenue and East 169th, because it was a valley with hills on three sides, with bodegas and other crumbling little stores, a barbershop without a barber, apartment houses with broken courtyards and rotting steel gates. The Bronx was a casbah, like Emma Mae had said, and Pru could explore the hills that rose up around her, that seemed to give her some sort of protective shield. She could forget about Satan and silver guns.
She returned to Marcy Place. It was long after nine, and Omar Kaplan hadn’t come home. She decided to set the table, prepare a meal of strawberries, Swiss cheese, and Belgian beer. She lit a candle, waiting for Omar. She grew restless, decided to read a book. She swiped Sister Carrie off the shelves—a folded slip of paper fell out, some kind of impromptu bookmark. But this bookmark had her face on it, and a list of her crimes. It had a black banner on top. WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE. Like the title of a macabre song. There were words scribbled near the bottom. Dangerous and demented. Then scribbles in another hand. A real prize package. McDonald’s ought to give us a thousand free Egg McMuffins for this fucking lady. Then a signature that could have been a camel’s hump. The letters on that hump spelled O-M-A-R.
She shouldn’t have stayed another minute. But she had to tease out the logic of it all. Emma Mae had given her a Judas kiss, sold her to some supercop. Why hadn’t Satan arrested her the second she’d opened the door? He was toying with her like an animal trainer who would point her toward McDonald’s, where other supercops were waiting with closed-circuit television cameras. They meant to film her at the scene of the crime, so she could act out some unholy procession that would reappear on the six o’clock news.
A key turned in the lock. Pru clutched her silver Colt. Omar appeared in dark glasses that hid his eyes. He wasn’t dressed like a lowlife preacher man. He wore a silk tie and a herringbone suit. He wasn’t even startled to see a gun in his face. He smiled and wouldn’t beg her not to shoot. It should have been easy. He couldn’t put a spell on her without his pale green eyes.
“White trash,” she said. “Is Emma Mae your sister?”
“I have a lot of sisters,” he said, still smiling.
“And you’re a supercop and a smarty-pants.”
“Me? I’m the lowest of the low. A freelancer tied to ten different agencies, an undercover kid banished to the Bronx. Why didn’t you run? I gave you a chance. I left notes for you in half my books, a hundred fucking clues.”
“Yeah, I’m Miss Egg McMuffin. I do McDonald’s. And I have no place to run to. Preacher man, play your tambourine and sing your last song.”
She caught a glimpse of the snubnosed gun that rose out of a holster she hadn’t seen. She didn’t even hear the shot. She felt a thump in her chest and she flew against the wall with blood in her eyes. And that’s when she had a vision of the night managers behind all the blood. Six men and a woman wearing McDonald’s bibs, though she hadn’t remembered them wearing those. They had eye sockets without the liquid complication of eyes themselves. Pru was still implacable toward the managers. She would have shot them all over again. But she did sigh once before the night managers disappeared and she fell into Omar Kaplan’s arms like a sleepy child.
ALICE FANTASTIC
BY MAGGIE ESTEP
Aqueduct Racetrack, Queens
(Originally published in Queens Noir)
I’d been trying to get rid of the big oaf for seventeen weeks but he just kept coming around. He’d ring the bell and I’d look out the window and see him standing on the stoop looking like a kicked puppy. What I needed with another kicked puppy I couldn’t tell you, since I’d taken in a little white mutt with tan spots that my cousin Jeremy had found knocked up and wandering a trailer park in Kentucky. Cousin Jeremy couldn’t keep the dog so he called me up and somehow got me to take the animal in. After making the vet give her an abortion and a rabies shot, Jeremy found the dog a ride up from Kentucky with some freak friend of his who routinely drives between Kentucky and Queens transporting cheap cigarettes. The freak friend pulled his van up outside my house one night just before midnight and the dog came out of the van reeking of cigarettes and blinking up at me, completely confused and kicked-looking. Not that I think the freak friend of Cousin Jeremy’s actually kicked her. But the point is, I already had a kicked puppy. What did I need with a guy looking like one?
I didn’t need him. But he’d ring the bell and I’d let him in, and, even if I was wearing my dead father’s filthy bathrobe and I hadn’t showered in five days, he’d tell me, You look fantastic, Alice. I knew he actually meant it, that he saw something fantastic in my limp brown hair and puffy face and the zits I’d started getting suddenly at age thirty-six. It was embarrassing. The zits, the fact that I was letting this big oaf come over to nuzzle at my unbathed flesh, the little dog who’d sit at the edge of the bed watching as me and Clayton, the big oaf, went at it.
My life was a shambles. So I vowed to end it with Clayton. I vowed it on a Tuesday at seven a.m. after waking up with an unusual sense of clarity. I opened my eyes to find thin winter sunlight sifting in the windows of the house my dead father left me. Candy, the trailer trash dog, was sitting at the edge of the bed, politely waiting for me to wake up because that’s the thing with strays, they’re so grateful to have been taken in that they defer to your schedule and needs. So, Candy was at the edge of the bed and sun was coming in the windows of my dead father’s place on 47th Road in the borough of Queens in New York City. And I felt clear-headed. Who knows why. I just did. And I felt I needed to get my act together. Shower more frequently. Stop smoking so much. Get back to yoga and kickboxing. Stop burning through my modest profits as a modest gambler. Revitalize myself. And the first order of business was to get rid of the big oaf, Clayton. Who ever heard of a guy named Clayton who isn’t ninety-seven years old, anyway?
I got into the shower and scrubbed myself raw, then shampooed my disgusting oily head. I took clean clothes out of the closet instead of foraging through the huge pile in the hamper the way I’d been doing for weeks. I put on black jeans and a fuzzy green sweater. I glanced at myself in the mirror. My semi-dry hair looked okay and my facial puffiness had gone down. Even my zits weren’t so visible. I looked vaguely alive.
I took my coat off the hook, put Candy’s leash on, and headed out for a walk along the East River, near the condo high-rises that look over into Manhattan. My dead father loved Long Island City. He moved here in the 1980s, when it was almost entirely industrial, to shack up with some drunken harlot, right after my mom kicked him out. Long after the harlot had dumped my father—all women dumped him all the time—he’d stayed on in the neighborhood, eventually buying a tiny two-story wood frame house that he left to me, his lone child, when the cancer got him last year at age fifty-nine. I like the neighborhood fine. It’s quiet and there are places to buy tacos.
“Looking good, mami,” said some Spanish guy as Candy and I walked past the gas station.
I never understand that mami thing. It sounds like they’re saying mommy. I know they mean hot mama and, in their minds, it’s a compliment, but it still strikes me as repulsive.
I ignored the guy.
As Candy sniffed and pissed and tried to eat garbage off the pavement, I smoked a few Marlboros and stared across at midtown Manhattan. It looked graceful from this distance.
The air was so cold it almost seemed clean and I started thinking on how I would rid myself of Clayton. I’d tried so many times. Had gotten him to agree not to call me anymore. But then, not two days would go by and he’d ring the bell. And I’d let him in. He’d look at me with those huge stupid brown eyes and tell me how great I looked. Alice, you’re fantastic, he’d told me so many times I started thinking of myself as Alice Fantastic, only there really wouldn’t be anything fantastic about me until I got rid of Clayton. When he would finally shut up about my fantasticness, I’d start in on the This isn’t going to work for me anymore, Clayton refrain I had been trotting out for seventeen weeks. Then he’d look w
ounded and his arms would hang so long at his sides that I’d have to touch him, and once I touched him, we’d make a beeline for the bed, and the sex was pretty good, the way it can be with someone you are physically attracted to in spite of or because of a lack of anything at all in common. And the sex being good would make me entertain the idea of instating him on some sort of permanent basis, and I guess that was my mistake. He’d see that little idea in my eye and latch onto it and have feelings, and his feelings would make him a prodigious lover, and I’d become so strung out on sex chemicals I would dopily say Sure when he’d ask to spend the night, and then again dopily say Sure the next morning when he’d ask if he could call me later.
But enough is enough. I don’t want Clayton convincing himself we’re going to be an everlasting item growing old together.
Right now Clayton lives in a parking lot. In his van. This I discovered when, that first night, after I picked him up in the taco place and strolled with him near the water, enjoying his simplicity and his long, loping gait, I brought him home and sucked his cock in the entrance hall and asked him to fuck me from behind in the kitchen, and then led him to the bedroom where we lay quiet for a little while until he was hard again, at which point I put on a pair of tights and asked him to rip out the crotch and fuck me through the hole. After all that, just when I was thinking up a polite way of asking him to leave, he propped himself up on his elbow and told me how much he liked me: “I really like you. I mean, I really like you,” looking at me with those eyes big as moons, and even though I just wanted to read a book and go to sleep, I didn’t have the heart to kick him out.
All that night, he babbled at me, telling me his woes, how his mother has Alzheimer’s and his father is in prison for forgery and his wife left him for a plumber and he’s been fired from his job at a cabinet-making shop and is living in his van in a parking lot and showering at the Y.
“I’ve got to get out of Queens soon,” he said.
“And go where?”
“Florida. I don’t like the cold much. Gets in my bones.”
“Yeah. Florida,” I said. I’d been there. To Gulfstream Park, Calder Race Course, and Tampa Bay Downs. I didn’t tell him that though. I just said, Yeah, Florida, like I wasn’t opposed to Florida, though why I would let him think I have any fondness for Florida, this leading him to possibly speculate that I’d want to go live there with him, I don’t know. I guess I wanted to be kind to him.
“Just a trailer is fine. I like trailers,” Clayton said.
“Right,” I said. And then I feigned sleep.
That was seventeen weeks ago. And I still haven’t gotten rid of him.
Candy and I walked for the better part of an hour and then headed home, passing back by the gas station where the moron felt the need to repeat, Looking good, mommy, and I actually stopped walking and stared at him and tried to think of words to explain exactly how repulsive it is to be called mommy and how it makes me picture him fucking his own mother, who is doubtless a matronly Dominican woman with endless folds of ancient flesh, but I couldn’t find the words and the guy was starting to grin, possibly thinking I was actually turned on by him, so I kept walking.
Once back inside my place, I gave Candy the leftovers from my previous night’s dinner and sat down at the kitchen table with my computer, my Daily Racing Form, and my notebooks. I got to work on the next day’s entries at Aqueduct. No matter how much I planned to change my life in the coming weeks, I still had to work. It wasn’t much of a card, even for a Wednesday in February, so I figured I wouldn’t be pushing a lot of money through the windows. But I would watch. I would take notes. I would listen. I would enjoy my work. I always do.
Several hours passed and I felt stirrings of hunger and glanced inside my fridge. Some lifeless lettuce, a few ounces of orange juice, and one egg. I considered boiling the egg, as there are days when there’s nothing I love more than a hard-boiled egg, but I decided this wasn’t one of those days. I would have to go to the taco place for take-out. I attached Candy’s leash to her collar and threw my coat on and was heading to the door when the phone rang. I picked it up.
“Hi, Alice,” came Clayton’s low voice.
I groaned.
“What’s the matter? You in pain?”
“Sort of.”
“What do you mean? What hurts? I’ll be right there.”
“No, no, Clayton, don’t. My pain is that you won’t take No for an answer.”
“No about what?”
“No about our continuing on like this.”
There was dead silence.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“In the parking lot.”
“Clayton,” I said, “I know you think you’re a nice guy, but there’s nothing nice about coming around when I’ve repeatedly asked you not to. It’s borderline stalking.”
More silence.
“I need my peace and quiet.”
After several moments: “You don’t like the way I touch you anymore?”
“There’s more to life than touching.”
“Uh,” said Clayton. “I wouldn’t know since you won’t ever let me do anything with you other than come over and fuck you.”
Clayton had never said fuck before. Clayton had been raised in some sort of religious household. He wasn’t religious himself, but he was reserved about cursing.
“My life is nothing. Clayton. I go to the racetrack. I make my bets and take my notes. I talk to some of the other horseplayers. I go home and cook dinner or I go to the taco place. I walk my dog. That’s it. There’s nothing to my life, Clayton, nothing to see.”
“So let me come with you.”
“Come with me where?”
“To the racetrack.”
“I’m asking you to never call me again and get out of my life. Why would I want to take you to the racetrack?”
“Just let me see a little piece of your life. I deserve it. Think of it as alimony.”
I couldn’t see why I should do anything for him. But I agreed anyway. At least it got him off the phone.
I took the dog out to the taco place. Came home and ate my dinner, giving half to the dog.
* * *
I’d told Clayton to meet me the next morning at eleven and we’d take the subway. He offered to drive but I didn’t trust that monstrous van of his not to break down en route. He rang the bell and I came downstairs to find him looking full of hope. Like seeing each other in daylight hours meant marriage and babies were imminent. Not that he’d asked for anything like that but he was that kind of guy, the kind of guy I seem to attract all too often, the want-to-snuggle-up-and-breed kind of guy. There are allegedly millions of women out there looking for these guys so I’m not sure why they all come knocking on my door. I guess they like a challenge. That’s why they’re men.
“Hi, Alice,” he beamed, “you look fantastic.”
“Thanks,” I said. I had pulled myself together, was wearing a tight black knee-length skirt and a soft black sweater that showed some shoulder—if I ever took my coat off, which I wasn’t planning to do as I figured any glimpsing of my flesh might give Clayton ideas.
“I’m just doing this ’cause you asked,” I said as we started walking to the G train, “but you have to realize this is my job and you can’t interfere or ask a lot of questions.” I was staring straight ahead so I didn’t have to see any indications of hurt in his eyes, because this was one of his ruses, the hurt look, the kicked puppy look, and I was damn well sick of it.
“Right,” said Clayton.
We went down into the station and waited forever, as one invariably does for the G train, and all the while Clayton stared at me so hard I was pretty sure he would turn me to stone.
Eventually, the train came and got us to the Hoyt-Schermerhorn stop in Brooklyn where we switched to the far more efficient A train. I felt relief at being on my way to Aqueduct. Not many people truly love Aqueduct, but I do. Belmont is gorgeous and spacious and Saratoga is grand if you can st
and the crowds, but I love Aqueduct. Aqueduct is down-on-their-luck trainers slumping in the benches, degenerates, droolcases, and drunks swapping tips, and a few seasoned pro gamblers quietly going about their business. My kind of place.
Thirty minutes later, the train sighed into the stop at Aqueduct and we got off, us and a bunch of hunched middle-aged white men, a few slightly younger Rasta guys, and one well-dressed suit-type guy who was an owner or wanted to pretend to be one.
“Oh, it’s nice,” Clayton lied as we emerged from the little tunnel under the train tracks.
The structure looks like the set for a 1970s zombie movie, with its faded grim colors and the airplanes headed for JFK flying so low you’re sure they’re going to land on a horse.
“We’ll go up to the restaurant, have some omelettes,” I told him once we were inside the clubhouse. “The coffee sucks but the omelettes are fine.”
“Okay,” said Clayton.
We rode the escalator to the top, and at the big glass doors to the Equestris Restaurant, Manny, the maître d’, greeted me and gave us a table with a great view of the finish line.
Then Clayton started in with the questions. He’d never been a big question guy, wasn’t a very verbal guy period, but suddenly he wanted to know the history of Aqueduct and my history with Aqueduct and what else I’d ever done for a living and what my family thought of my being a professional gambler, etc., etc.
“I told you, I have to work. No twenty questions. Here’s a Racing Form,” I said, handing him the extra copy I’d printed out. “Now study that and let me think.”
The poor guy stared at the Form but obviously had no idea how to read it. Sometimes I forget that people don’t know these things. Seems like I always knew, what with coming here when I was a kid when Cousin Jeremy still lived in Queens and babysat me on days when my father was off on a construction job. I’d been betting since the age of nine and had been reasonably crafty about money-management and risk-taking since day one. I had turned a profit that first time when Jeremy had placed bets for me, and though I’d had plenty of painful losing days since, for the most part I scraped by. I’d briefly had a job as a substitute teacher after graduating from Hunter College, but I hated it. So I gambled and supplemented my modest profits with income from the garden apartment in my house. Not many people last more than a few years gambling for a living but, for whatever reason, I have. Mostly because I can’t stand the thought of doing anything else.
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