Dark City Lights

by Lawrence Block

  “Will ya listen? They told me I should not drive back afterward. That . . . that I need a friend should drive me.”

  “Norma, are you sick?” He stood up.

  “No, damn it . . . I’m up the flue.”

  “The what? You got the flu?” Despite herself, she had to laugh.

  “No, silly. Flue is what you Yanks like to call a pussy. And there is something up there I got to take out sooner rather than later.”

  “Oh, no, Norma!” He sat back down hard enough to shake the bottles.

  “Well, it was not intended, I assure you. I am on the pill. But maybe I messed up. And besides, they tell me it is not one hundred percent. And His Lordship would eat a Rubber Johnny before wearing one. Anyway, I need a ride.”

  “Does he know?”

  “No, and he is not going to know. I am trying to end it with this caffer. That means idiot back home, not pussy. He is the type who does not take no for an answer.”

  “Did he?”

  “What?”

  “Use, you know, force.”

  “What possible difference would that make, Jimmy? Don’t be an ejit on me. I need you right now to be strong for both of us. I’ve been shagging him for months. Of course, I’m up ’a duff. Also pussy to your tongue. Oh, I made a funny. But no. This was supposed to be the last of it. Looks like we went out with a real authentic bang the way God intended.”

  “You know who Tony Manucci is, right?”

  “Yeah, his da is supposed to be some sort of big shot in a wop crime family.”

  “All the more reason not to tell him, but seriously, Norma, you got to get away from this guy. He is bad news, period.”

  She put her hand to her forehead and sighed.

  “Jimmy, if you can’t give me the ride, just say so. I’ll just have to find the money for cabs, despite the fact I have about a hundred or so to my name right now.”

  “Don’t be silly! Of course I’ll drive you. No problem. Just tell me the time and I will be there with bells on.”

  “You can leave the fancy pants home. But, Jim?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t tell Frankie or any of the other girls. I am just humiliated by what I did, how stupid I am, just a glorified hoor.”

  “You’re not stupid or a whore. You’re just human like the rest of us. Mistakes happen. Shit, I went to Vietnam. That was a lot worse than being up the block with the Irish flu. And as far as the people here are concerned, my lips are sealed. I don’t talk to anybody anyway.”

  “You talk to me.”

  “You’re different. You’re special. You and Frankie both, although you are a lot more beautiful than he is on his best day.”

  She laughed.

  “You made me smile despite my troubles. You are my savior, James. You might have once been a soldier. But now, you are my angel from God.”

  “Well, I might not go that far. Let’s just say I am here and happy to help, if I can.”

  “And Saint James?”

  “Yes, but you can call me Jimmy?”

  “Afterward, on the way home, can we stop for ice cream?”

  “Hey, I will buy you two ice creams.”

  Her eyes lit up. “And another thing that is exciting, Frankie says he is taking us for an all-expense weekend in Atlantic City next month. Isn’t that grand?”

  “I used to go there with my parents when I was a little kid and it was okay back then. Last time I was there was after I got home and it is a real shithole now, believe me. The glamor left about 1925 and has never returned. So I might not get my hopes up if I were you.”

  “But the boardwalk is still there, right?”

  “That it is.”

  “And the ocean and beach?”

  “Be hard to get rid of them.”

  “And saltwater taffy?”

  “Yeah still there, although your fillings might get pulled out while eating it.”

  “And you are coming, right? I am getting a brand new French-cut bikini. I never had one before. You don’t have much use for beach clothes and sun bathing in Ireland. Please tell me you are coming.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Now, get out of here. I got to paint my teats like a dumb cow in heat, make them glitter.”

  MUCH TO JIMMY THE SOLDIER’S relief, Atlantic City went fine and Norma seemed to be okay after the abortion, never mentioning Tony Manucci Jr. again. And Soldier did not ask. It was not his nature or any of his business.

  But he was not exactly shocked when a guy who had to be Tony Jr. showed up during the final number of Norma’s set one Saturday night a few weeks after Atlantic City.

  He looked like he had been dipped in a vat of disco. Skintight red pants emphasizing his package. A multicolored satin print shirt worn open to the belly, revealing a bunch of no doubt real gold chains that probably cost more than Soldier ever had in his life. An expensive leather jacket over the shirt. His perfect-length hair was expensively barbered and blow-dried back and sprayed into place. Like every other young American male back then, he had a mustache, but it was also perfectly barbered, like William Powell in the old movies. And to bottom it off, he wore high-heeled platform shoes—red shoes with a heel that must have been three inches to boost him up over six feet.

  He walked in like a wise guy in training, head moving right and left, slightly slouched shoulders, throwing hard looks at bar patrons, daring somebody, anybody, to start something. And there were the two huge bookends trailing behind him in black leather jackets, arm muscles like bowling balls straining against the leather.

  The entourage moved to the entrance to the back room. Norma was dancing fast to Bowie’s “Panic in Detroit” and its hard-rocking percussion riff. Mr. Cool turned on his heels and said something to his boys and they immediately retreated to the bar. Probably something about not looking at his girl while she danced mostly naked for a bunch of guys.

  It was getting late and the bar was thinning out. Soldier had been sitting on a wooden chair by the stage, tilting it back with his foot, keeping an eye on everything: Norma, the guys sitting passively around during the show, except when they respectfully leaned over to put a bill on her offered out-thrust hip, and the front door. Nobody dared cop a feel with Soldier there. Word got around fast in Bronx neighborhoods. He saw Tony’s crew as they walked in and quietly stood.

  In front, Frankie was at the far end of the bar watching the TV up by the ceiling with the sound off. The Yankees, who were great again despite the owner fighting with Reggie over his eyesight, were on the West Coast, playing in LA. Frankie had also noticed the men come in and slowly began to walk toward the taps while glancing into the back room until he made eye contact with Soldier.

  It happened fast. The song ended.

  “Norma, let’s go,” Tony shouted in a too loud voice. “The car’s right outside. You can get your stuff later.”

  “No, Tony.”

  “Okay, get your stuff. We can wait.”

  “No.”

  “No what?”

  “No, leave me alone. It’s over. I told you that a million times. No! No! No!”

  He lurched forward and reached out his right arm to grab her when Soldier jumped in front of her, knocked the arm away, and slightly bumped into Tony, throwing him off balance in those high heels. He went backwards, losing his balance and pinwheeling both arms as he fell on his ass.

  His boys raced in from the bar but they were too late. Just as one pulled a gun, Frankie had the shotgun pressed up against his ear. He put the gun back in his pants. The other guy helped his boss off the floor.

  “Look at this,” Tony shouted in the suddenly silent bar, making an elaborate show of brushing off his pants and pushing back his hair, though not a hair had fallen out of place. He glanced back at Frankie, who had put the shotgun down. “You run this place, fat boy? Because I was just assaulted by this tough mick in the army jacket looks like a hippie the size of a tree. And what’s with that popgun? You think you are fighting for th
e IRA and we’re the Brits? As for you,” staring right at Soldier, “nobody puts their hands on me.”

  “Law says nobody can touch the dancers.”

  “I didn’t touch her.”

  “You were about to.”

  “And you knocked me down.”

  “Looked to me like you lost your balance and tripped on those shoes. I am very sorry about that. It was not my intention that you fall, just to protect the dancer. Where did you get the shoes, by the way, Thom McAn’s on Fordham Road?”

  Tony’s face turned beet red. He looked past Soldier, where Norma was huddled against the wall mirror, her hands once again over her breasts. Tony raised his voice.

  “Let’s go, Norma. Let’s get out of this place where they pull rods on you and knock you down.”

  “No.”

  “I am taking you out of here.”

  “No.”

  “Seems like the lady has repeatedly said no,” Soldier said. “Perhaps you should listen to her and leave.”

  “I ain’t talking to you, mick.” Now rage had him bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. He tossed a pointed finger in the direction of Norma. Soldier’s fists were balled at his side and he was motionless.

  “Norma, I walk out that door and you are not with me, there is going to be trouble. And you . . .” He pointed the finger at Soldier. “You and me are not finished yet. This is not over.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Maybe we meet again when your boyfriend here does not have his shotgun. Let’s go, guys. If that cunt wants to stay with this Irish filth . . . Irish girls are pigs anyway, not like Italian girls.” He turned and marched out of the bar. Norma ran into the dressing room.

  “Seems to know what he wants in women,” Soldier said after they disappeared. “Might not be the best view to express in this neighborhood.”

  “Think they’ll wait outside for her?” Frankie said, gun now pointing at the floor.

  “Nah, they’re done for the night. But we better keep Norma here until closing and then I’ll drive her home.”

  “I’ll feel better if I drive you both home. I just hope they don’t come back later and throw a firebomb into the joint.”

  “Nah, can’t collect on the insurance. There is no profit in it and it would attract cop attention his father doesn’t need.”

  “He won’t back down.”

  “No.”

  “You have a plan?”

  “Deal with things as they develop.”

  “Well, one thing’s for certain, things are certainly livelier with you around here.”

  “I try. Now put that gun away before your remove your toes and then I won’t have anybody to dance with anymore. How about you take us to the Riverdale Diner later for French fries?”

  THEY BOTH NOTICED IT IMMEDIATELY a few days later when Norma came to work. Soldier was sitting at his usual seat while Frankie polished the glasses nearby. Norma brushed by them with a “hi” and headed to the changing room. Normally, she would stop, sit at the bar, and maybe have a cup of tea. And she never wore heavy makeup; today her face looked like she was auditioning for the circus at Madison Square Garden. Even the paint job could not fully hide the shiner.

  “See that?”

  “Yep. I’ll handle it,” Jimmy said, getting off his stool.

  “About time you did some work around here.”

  He pushed open the dressing room door without knocking. Norma was at the table painting on more makeup, if possible.

  “Leave me alone, Jimmy. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Just one question, Norma, did that animal do that to your face?”

  “Not your problem. You are a great guy and all . . .” She burst into tears.

  “Well, I am making it my problem. Remember, that wop bastard threatened me as well. Said it wasn’t over and obviously it is not.”

  “There is nothing you can do. Nothing anybody can do. I just bollixed my life completely. I thought life over here in Amerikay would be an adventure, a bit of Ri-Ra and a lot of craic. But I got to get out of this place, away from here before something really bad happens, and I cause it.”

  “Wait, let’s just deal with this and make sense of it.”

  “Ah, ya can’t see. You said once I wasn’t a hoor. But you got to admit I am in the same neighborhood, selling peeks of my hairy growler to strange men in a bar for dollar tips. And standing around almost in the nip while pervs leer at me. What sort of life is that? Good God, I can’t even buy normal girl knickers.” She reached her hand in her bag and pulled out a bunch of new G-strings. “And where does it lead when my jabs end up pointing at the floor in a few years? I’ll be doing handjobs in the Port Authority.”

  “No, you won’t. Besides, some people think exotic dancing is an art form.”

  “Yeah, men. I can’t do this anymore I tell you. It is not a normal life.”

  Jimmy took a deep breath and looked away.

  “Okay, one thing at a time. Where do you want to go? Home?”

  “To Ireland, you mean? Are you dense, mate? Didcha forget why our people left that place to begin with?”

  “Then where?”

  “I got a cousin up in Boston, she just finished cosmetology school. Eventually, she wants to own her own place and get a green card, so she is not illegal anymore.”

  “You could do that.”

  “Fat chance. I’d never afford the tuition and he would never let me go.”

  “Nobody owns you, Norma. You can do what you want with your life.”

  “That’s the problem with you, Jimmy.”

  “What is?”

  “Saints can’t see things as they really are in life.”

  “I learned to start really seeing life in a place a lot worse than you are in now.”

  He stood up and moved to the door.

  “Jimmy?”

  He turned and saw the river of tears plowing through the makeup.

  “Thanks for being here for me all the time. But promise me something.”

  “Sure.”

  “You won’t do something stupid and get yourself hurt.”

  He walked out and went back to his place at the bar.

  “She alright?” Frankie asked.

  “She’s fine.”

  “And you?

  “Fine.”

  “Well, it sounds like everybody is fine and dandy then.”

  A FEW DAYS LATER, IN the late afternoon, Jimmy the Soldier was in his usual spot. The afternoon Irish bartender, Gary, who opened everyday had just served him his third cup of Barry’s, as he was reading a chapter entitled “The Socialist Challenge” from Zinn’s book. He looked up when Frankie came in, went behind the bar, ambled over, and dropped a fat brown envelope atop the book.

  “What’s that? And you look particularly happy today.”

  “Good news and even better news. The good news is that that is your fee from the AC trip. Put it away.”

  Soldier picked up the envelope, bounced it in his hands a few times, and put it in the breast pocket of his army jacket.

  “And the better news is that I was talking to some people in the know this morning and Tony’s Manucci’s kid had an accident last night.”

  “Fall off his shoes?”

  “Something like that. You know he has an auto body shop down in the burnt-out South Bronx, off 149th in a crappy garage. It’s like the only place in the hood that custom details and repairs sports cars. Meanwhile, nobody white has gone down there in twenty-five years. You knew that, right?”

  “If you say so.”

  “Late last night, Tony Jr. was in there alone and a Porsche fell on his head.”

  “Ouch! Probably left a bad bruise.”

  “Killed him dead from a broken neck is what they tell me.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “That all you can say?”

  “Nice car? What do you want me to tell you? Accidents happen. If you are not careful, a car can slip off a jack in a Bronx second. Got to be careful
with that shit. And you saw the guy, he did a swan dive in here and I barely touched him. Guy did not look all that careful to me. Besides, he was nothing but a bully, able to beat up women and the weak. Stuff always ends up happening to scum like that eventually. No big loss to the world.”

  “Accidents happen especially if they are helped.”

  “What exactly are you saying here, Frankie?”

  “Look, man, nothing. I just hope there was nothing linking whatever happened down there to this bar. Tony Sr. and his friends play rough.”

  “Relax.”

  A female voice chimed in. “Why are we relaxing?”

  “Some good news in the neighborhood,” Frankie said, walking away. “Somebody finally took the garbage out.”

  Norma, looking puzzled, took a seat at the bar, way early as usual. Girl was nothing if not conscientious. Her face was not as bad as it had been. The bruise was fading yellow.

  “Whatever, Frankie. Jimmy, I just want to say I’m sorry for the way I bit your head off. I was feeling sorry for myself and you were just trying to help.”

  Jimmy reached into the army jacket, took out the envelope, and handed it to her.

  “What’s this?”

  “Your down payment on a new life.”

  Again, she fixed him with the big green eyes; this time in surprise, not fear.

  “What?”

  “Do not open it here. Put it right in your bag. You cannot trust the clientele in bars like this. Look at the big guy over there behind the bar. But there is enough in there to get you to Boston, find you a modest place to live and pay your beauty school tuition. With maybe a few bucks left over to buy normal girl knickers.”

  “You’re giving me money?”

  “Call it a loan.”

  “I can’t take this from you. . . . Your money.”

  “You just did, darlin’.”

  “But I could never pay you back.”

  “You will eventually, when you get on your feet.”

  “Jimmy, thank you, but I can’t.”

  “Stop saying that. Sure you can. Look at it as life giving you an opportunity to better yourself. Or if you prefer: Giving me an opportunity at no cost to help another human being. All you need is the guts to seize the moment. And, darlin’, you got guts. I’ve seen them, along with your jabs and occasional glimpses of your growler—whatever the hell that is—four nights a week for a long time now. It took guts to do what you did on that stage. And it took guts to cross a giant ocean to find us in the Bronx. Now it will take guts to start that new, better life in Boston.”