"How about your old lady? Is Stony like a son to her too?"
Chubby looked pained. "Sometimes."
"Whatta you mean sometimes?"
"I dunno, sometimes yeah, sometimes no, what the hell's the difference?"
"Whatta you gettin' so mad about, Chubby? I just wanna know how come you don't have kids."
"I told you goddamnit, Stony's—"
"But he ain't yours."
"Hey, look, what the fuck you want from me? You want me to say I can't have kids? You want me to say Phyllis can't have kids? Well I won't cause I can! Phyllis can! She gave me a goddamn son, the most beautiful fat baby boy in the whole fucking world..." Chubby stared at his drink, his face burning, his hands clasped in a bloodless knot of fingers. Banion started to say something, but Chubby cut him short. "He's dead and buried so goddamn long it seems like he was never here, like the whole thing was a dream."
Banion stared at Chubby's hands.
"Louis De Coco, Jr." Chubby smiled as he looked up at Banion. "He weighed in at thirteen pounds, four ounces. Thirteen pounds and four ounces, can you imagine that? The goddamn doctor said Louie was the biggest friggin' baby he ever delivered." Chubby laughed. "Everybody came over the house, you know, when Louie and Phyllis came back from the hospital. I used to love to watch their eyes pop when they got their first look-see." Chubby bulged his eyes and shook his head in reverie. "That seems like a million years ago. A goddamn different world. I weighed seventy-five pounds less, and Phyll weighed thirty pounds more."
"What happened. Chubby?" Banion asked softly.
"What happened," Chubby repeated. He rubbed his eyes. "Two weeks after they came home from the hospital I'm working for Delta Electric on this housing project that was going up at that time; I'm puttin' in navigation lights on some buildings, you know, just pullin' cable all fuckin' day. We were livin' over by Yankee Stadium then. I come home that day, I remember it was a really crazy cold day for April. First thing I notice I don't smell no dinner or nothin'. I figure, well, maybe she's busy with Louie so I call out, 'Phyll? Hey, Phyll?' No answer, nothin', an' I figure now that's weird ... I know she don't go out and leave the kid or anything. So I walk into the bedroom." Chubby ran his finger around the rim of his glass. "I walk into the bedroom, and it's almost dark. Phyllis sitting up in bed with Louie in her arms, neither of them is movin'. I can't see so good so I go to turn on the lamp, and Phyllis says, 'Don't!' ...She don't even look at me, she just says, 'Don't!' like really sharp. I felt scared shit when she said that. I don't know why I did it but I reach over and touch Louie's face. His face is cold, really cold ... an' the room is hot. The steam's hissing from the radiator, and the pipes are clanking like crazy. An' his face ... I could almost feel the color blue through my fingers when I touched his face. After that I felt like I was sleepwalking. I never turned the lights on. I fished around the room until I found a newspaper. I took Louie out of Phyll's arms, an' I wrapped him head to toe in that paper. I walked right out of the apartment with him in my arms, down the stairs, into the street, got into my car, laid him next to me on the seat, drove over to Ciccio Funeral Home, walked into the director's office, laid him down on the guy's desk, emptied out my wallet—thirty-two dollars—dumped that on his desk and said, 'Bury him.' Then I got into my car, drove home, got undressed, got in bed with Phyllis and cried my heart out."
Chubby sighed. "I dunno. That night the cops came, doctors came, relatives came, it was like a fucking nightmare. It was unreal, like I was underwater or something, an' poor Phyllis. What had happened was that she was laying in bed with Louie, fell asleep and rolled over on him. He suffocated. When she woke up he was dead. That happens from time to time. I dunno, I don't blame her, she feels punished enough, you know?"
Banion poured him a Scotch.
"Ach, it ain't worth moanin' about." He accepted the drink from Banion with a nod. "That night was the last time I ever cried. I felt like that kid just sucked up all the hurt and heartache I was ever gonna let myself feel. The doctor said we should have another baby right away. I just said no day, no way. No more hurt. The next year Stony was born. I said to myself, 'I'll love my brother's kid, I'll treat him like I would've Louie, I'll play with him, I'll be the best goddamn uncle a nephew could have.' Uncle, not father, nephew, not son. And that's the way I want it. I got no room for nothin' else." Then Chubby added as a postscript, "You know, one thing I remember from that night just like it was yesterday, an' I don't know why this should stick in my head of all the fuckin' shit from that night, but I remember the sports headlines on one of the papers that I wrapped Louie in. 'Mays Grand-Slams Spahn, 4-3,' New York Mirror, April tenth, nineteen fifty-six." Chubby hunched over the bar, cradling his drink in both hands. "You know, I always was a Giants fan, even when they moved to San Francisco, but I never did like that black bastard."
***
"Albert, eat your string beans." Marie glared at him.
Albert hastily jammed two forkfuls in his mouth.
Stony lunged across the table in Marie's direction. Marie gasped, almost tipping her chair backward. Stony grabbed the salt by her plate and fell back into his seat, lightly salting his roast beef.
The blood drained from Marie's face. Stony busied himself with his food.
Tommy frowned. "What the hell's goin' on here?"
"Whatta you mean?" Stony looked at his father, fighting down a slight smile forming at the corners of his mouth.
***
"Hey, Stones?" Tommy popped his head into Stony's bedroom after dinner. Stony was doing James Brown splits in front of the closet door mirror. He jumped when he heard his father's voice.
"Yeah?" He quickly picked up a comb and, blushing, started doing his hair. Tommy sat on Stony's bed, squinting, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.
"I got some good news, babe, I swung it so you can work up in Riverdale with me."
Stony sighed, pocketed his comb and swung the closet door closed.
"Hey, don't go droolin' all over me with gratitude. A simple thanks is enough, you know?" Tommy leaned his elbows on his knees.
Stony balanced against his desk, arms folded across his chest. He stared at his father's shoes. "Hey, Pop? I thought we went through this deal awready. I don' wanna do construction this summer."
"So whattaya gonna do, drive around Harlem in a Good Humor truck again?" Tommy walked over to the window and flicked the butt into a spin fifteen stories to the street.
"It was Carvel," Stony said.
"Oh, excuse me." Tommy returned to the bed, lying back on the pillow.
"Hey look, I jus' don' wanna do construction, O.K.?" Stony twiddled a pencil between his fingers in a seesaw motion.
Father and son glared at each other across the room. Tommy suddenly bolted from the bed and headed for Stony. Scared, Stony sidestepped to the closet. Tommy charged past him to the desk and began pulling out drawers and rifling through the crap until he found a blank piece of loose-leaf paper. With his other hand he picked up a chair and banged it down in front of the desk. "Siddown," he barked at Stony.
Stony hesitated for a second, then cautiously sat, Tommy towering over him. Tommy slapped the sheet of paper. "Gimme that pencil." Tommy grabbed it from Stony's fingers, leaned over the desk and numbered the paper. "Here." He jammed the pencil into Stony's hand and closed Stony's fingers around it. "Now, I want you to write me three things you wanna be."
Stony held the pencil upside down and stared puzzled at Tommy.
"G'head. Write!"
"What?"
"Write down three things you wanna do witcha life."
Stony bent slowly over the paper, frowning like he was doing a surprise quiz.
"You got two minutes." Tommy stood over him, arms folded across his chest like a proctor.
Stony turned and twisted his head, looking up at Tommy. "You wanna get outta my light?"
Tommy walked out of the bedroom. "You got two minutes." Stony heard the bathroom door lock and a second later a glissan
do of piss. He stood up and gave the bedroom door crossed forearms before plopping back down to his task. He stared out the window and chewed his pencil. He held his head in his hands. He drew a big prick and labeled it, "Thomas De Coco, Sr." He bit off half the eraser and spit it out the window. He wrote down, "Work with kids." He picked his nose with his pinky, examined it and wiped his finger on the underside of the desk.
"You got one minute," Tommy warned from the doorway, lighting another cigarette.
Stony jumped up and saluted, "Sieg Heil!"
"Faggot fascist hard hat" was number two. He eliminated the prick and Tommy's name with what was left of the eraser. He stared at the paper, the number three, noticed an old James Brown album, "Mister Dynamite," lying under the TV, chuckled and wrote, "Mister Dynamite."
Tommy grabbed the paper from Stony's hands. "Whadda you, a smart-ass or somethin'?"
Stony smiled meekly, a fuck you in his eyes.
"You wanna be a nursery school teacher and you're callin' me a faggot?"
"Who wants to be a nursery school teacher?"
Tommy picked up the paper and read out loud: "Work with kids." He dropped the paper. It floated into Stony's lap.
"So?" Stony tossed the paper on the desk.
"So what's that mean? Kindergarten? 'Romper Room'? Milk and cookies? Whatta they gonna call you. Miss De Coco?"
"No! I can get a gig in a hospital workin' with kids. A friend a mine got me a deal if I want at Cresthaven."
"A hospital! Ugh! That's the pits! What'll they pay ya? A hundred?"
"I dunno, what's the difference!" Stony glared.
"The difference is, you come with me you be makin' more bread in two weeks than you'll make candy stripin' for two months."
"I ain't candy stripin'. I'll be a goddamn recreational assistant."
"What makes you think you can handle hospital work? I seen you go green at a nosebleed." Tommy lit another cigarette.
"I ain't doin' brain surgery, I'm just playin' with the kids."
"Ah, grow up, Stony. That's woman's work."
"Oh yeah, right, sorry, you're right. I should be runnin' aroun' in my T-shirt with a screwdriver and a red hat on. Yeah, then I'd be a real man. Right, sure!"
"Hey look!" Tommy pointed a finger an inch from Stony's nose. "I can still kick your ass all over this fuckin' room!"
Stony's face was composed. "I don't suggest you try it." His legs were trembling, but he wouldn't crack.
Tommy stood motionless, red-faced, his finger like a gun in Stony's face. Stony tried not to even blink. Tommy flung his cigarette toward the open window and stalked out of the room. The cigarette hit the window in a splash of embers and lay smoking on the windowsill. Stony flicked the cigarette out the window. "Candy-ass," he muttered, not too loud, and collapsed in his seat. He sat there, not moving, until Tommy came back into the room.
"Hey lissen." He tentatively laid a hand on Stony's shoulder. "I'm sorry. You do what you want this summer. You wanna be a candy striper or whatever, it's on you. It's none a my business." No reaction from Stony. "But if you want my opinion, you're a jerk if you don't go into the union."
Stony sighed, shaking his head sadly.
"O.K., look." Tommy sat on the desk. "I'll make a deal with you. You wanna do hospital work? Fine! Do two weeks hospital, then do two weeks with me, you know, like a test." Stony started to protest, but Tommy cut him short with a raised hand. "You do those two weeks with me, after that you can clean sewers for all I care." Stony walked around the room, his hands in his pockets.
"Stony, God as my witness." Tommy stood, one hand on his heart, one hand raised palm toward Stony like a saint. "God as my witness, Stones, gimme those two weeks and I won't say another word about nothin' until I'm dead. I swear."
"Awright, awright." Stony threw in the towel.
Tommy put an arm around Stony's ribs. "Stony, I'm your father. I don't want nothin' but the best for you." On every other word he squeezed Stony's side like an accordion. Stony felt relieved that Tommy had backed down from kicking his ass. "Do the hospital first so you can compare, but just do yourself a favor and lissen to yer old man."
Stony nodded. Fair enough.
"Oh, an lissen"—Tommy threw over his shoulder on his way out—"forget the Mister Dynamite number. Demolition's good bucks but someday you'll wind up wit' your ass blown halfway to China."
11
CHUBBY TOOK OFF from work at noon the next day. He told the contractor he felt sick, but instead of going home he headed for midtown Manhattan. He had special shopping to do. Chubby stood on the periphery of a gaggle of smartly dressed women surrounding a young man demonstrating a juicerator in the kitchenwares section of Bloomingdale's. The man made juice from celery, carrots, radishes and spinach. For the entire twenty-minute show, Chubby never took his eyes from the demonstrator's face. The man passed out small, clear plastic cups of the exotic juices among his audience. Amid the oohs, ahs, hmms and sounds of disgust, Chubby was silent, tasting none of the samples. And after the man quoted the price of the juicerator, Chubby stood alone in front of the demonstration table. He took out his wallet and laid down five twenties. "Can you gift-wrap that thing?"
"Yes, sir. Ah, you pay the cashier." He wore an immaculate white three-piece suit, a purple shirt and a white tie.
He even dresses like a faggot Chubby thought. "I'm buyin' this for a friend a mine," Chubby said. "His birthday's today." He watched the man's face for any reaction. "A very good friend of mine named Mikey."
The man flinched, stared at Chubby. "I'll bring it over to the cashier for you." He bent down under the counter for a boxed juicerator.
"Mikey Banion."
Slowly, the man stood up. The color drained from his face. "Who the hell are you?" He was three inches taller than Chubby and leaned forward, his palms flat on the table. Chubby resisted an impulse to grab him by the knot of his tie and yank him over the counter.
"I'm a good friend a yah father's, Paulie."
Paulie stared open-mouthed. "He send you here?"
"Uh-uh, he don't know nothin' about it. Today's his birthday, Paulie. You know what would make a nice present for him? You."
Paulie blew air out of his mouth, his head cocked to the side, a dazed expression in his eyes. "Lissen, Jack, I don't know who the fuck you are, what's the story with you an' my father, or how the hell you found me, but just buy your goddamn juicerator and get the hell outta here, O.K.?" The color came back to his face in mottled splashes. "Jim, you want to take care of this gentleman?" He started to turn away.
Chubby grabbed his tie. "Lissen a me, ya little snot, I don't give a flyin' fuck about you or ya fuckin' job. I'll fuckin' drag you outta here an' throw you at your goddamn father's feet you turn away from me while I'm talkin' to you. You got that?"
Both men were shaking.
"You don't let go of me right now I'll have your ass bounced outta here in two seconds flat," he whispered.
"An' you'll be on disability in three."
They stared at each other, neither blinking for a long moment. Chubby relaxed his grip. Paulie stood up, twisted his neck and straightened his tie. Chubby smoothed down his shirt. "Lissen, kid, I'm sorry. I'm excitable sometimes. I apologize." Chubby raised his hands in submission, then extended one. "My name is Chubby."
Paulie greeted the extended hand with a boxed juicerator. "Please pay the cashier."
"Paulie..." Chubby reached into his back pocket and pulled out a birthday card. "Look, forget comin' home." He placed the card on the demonstration counter. "Just sign this card."
Paulie glanced down.
As you get older, year by year
My love for you grows, father dear
And on this day that your life had begun Accept this gift of love from me, your son.
"Get out of here!" His eyes bulged, his voice a strangled whisper.
Chubby whipped out his wallet and slid two twenties under Paulie's hand. "Just sign it. I swear to Christ you'll never see me again!" C
hubby felt like his guts were being kneaded by brutal hands.
Paulie stepped out of Chubby's reach. The unsigned card and the two twenties lay like a cryptic still life on the counter. "Jim, you want to take care of this gentleman?"
Chubby left slowly, feeling every ounce of his three hundred pounds weighing him down.
"Hey, Chubby," Paulie drawled. Chubby turned. "You see my old man, you tell him he's a grandfather."
***
"Hey! Hey! Whatta you doin'?" Banion shouted, craning his neck over the bar as one of the regulars hung the "closed" sign and locked the door.
"HAPPY BUR-THDAYY TOO YOOO," twenty-five guys started singing. Someone hit the lights and Tommy and Ray Buckley emerged from the back room carrying an enormous birthday cake lit with forty-seven candles. Banion sat speechless in the flickering shadows. They placed the cake on the counter and everybody crowded around the bar.
"Blow 'em out!"
It took Banion four long puffs to get all the candles. Shouts and cheers. Somebody turned the lights back on. Somebody opened the john door and Big Dave Stern came whirring out in a brand-new, fully motorized, thickly upholstered, snakeskin wheelchair. He whirred right up the platform and parked next to Banion, whose eyes were popping out of his head. Dave got out of the wheelchair and with Chubby's help lifted Banion into his birthday present. Banion was in shock. All he could do was sit there stroking the material on the seat and armrests.
"Hey, Banion! Banion! Feel under the seat! Hey, Banion!"
Banion finally looked up. His face was smeared with tears.
"Feel under the seat!"
Banion poked around under the seat and found a snub-nosed .38 with "THE BOUNCER" neatly printed in white on the barrel. Everybody cheered again. Banion let the gun lay on the flat of his palm.
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