The Last Gig

by Norman Green

  “Ant,” she said when he answered, groggy. Then she spoke the single phrase she hated more than anything in life.

  “I need help.”

  Sixteen

  It was an ordinary house in a neighborhood of ordinary houses, an unremarkable structure of bricks and plaster built back in the thirties, a dark basement, two stories, an unused attic, a detached one-car garage, small square of grass out front and in back. It was and had always been, as far back as Alessandra could remember, Anthony’s refuge. No motorcycles, except for the one Tio Bobby rode back and forth to work, no loud parties, no raucous music, nothing to annoy the neighbors. It was a comfortable place, hardwood floors, painted and papered walls, furniture you might find in your mother’s house, a kitchen from Leave It to Beaver, big steam radiators that hissed in the night. It smelled the way she remembered it, baskets of potpourri and scented candles burning here and there. The sound of Tio Bobby’s voice echoed in her mind, grumbling that Anthony was going to burn the place down. She relived the sensation of unearthly silence that she’d felt when Tio Bobby first brought her into his home. It was an illusion, really, the subdued racket of suburban America was quiet only in contrast to the streets and back alleys of Brooklyn.

  The room she woke up in seemed smaller than she remembered. It had been her bedroom. Anthony hadn’t changed it much since she’d moved out, just enough to make it feel like a guest bedroom, a space that was no longer hers. It had seemed enormous once, an entire room devoid of relatives, empty of her mother’s sister’s strident progeny and their urgent, sharp-elbowed needs. She hadn’t needed to compete, here, to fight for her share of the meager resources of an economically marginal house hold, always too little to be divided among too many. And yet, the worst privation had been the poverty of spirit: we have nothing to give you, nothing more than shelter and food, and we expect nothing from you. Half of a bed and a plate of rice and beans had proved insufficient. Even the street had been more hospitable than that.

  Someone on the next block fired up a leaf-blower; she lay listening to its muted burr. She lay in the bed in a narcotic haze, under heavy bedclothes. She half-remembered being given something to help her sleep, but she was coming out of it now. She stirred, felt the sudden ache in her rib cage, her legs, and her head, and something returned, something snapped into place, and she struggled to a sitting position.

  “Anthony!” God, it even hurt to talk. Was that pathetic squeak really her voice? “Hey, Ant, are you here?”

  She heard stirring from the floor below, and a few seconds later he was climbing the creaking stairs and poking his head into the room. “Good morning, Alessandra,” he said. “Or rather, good afternoon. How are you feeling?”

  “I feel terrible, Ant. Listen, I have a problem.”

  “You have a few problems, dear, not the least of which is you’re not supposed to be moving. Or even awake yet. I told Rachel you have the metabolism of a linebacker, but she didn’t believe me.”

  “Who’s Rachel?”

  “She’s the doctor. She came here late last night to have a look at you. You were pretty out of it. She said you’ve got some fractured ribs, some contusions, and some pretty serious bruising. Said you’ve had a concussion. According to her, I am an idiot for listening to you, I should have taken you straight to a hospital.”

  “Thanks, Anthony.”

  “She says you should stay in this bed for at least a week, to give your body time to heal itself. Of course, she doesn’t know you like I do.”

  “Ant, listen to me. The guys who did this got interrupted last night. I can’t be sure, but I think the man who kept this from being a hell of a lot worse was a guy named TJ Conrad. Theodore James. I don’t have his phone number, Ant, I don’t even know where he lives. I think he said something about Greenpoint, but I have to find out if he’s all right.”

  “What else do you know about him?”

  “Not a hell of a lot. He plays the guitar for BandX, if that helps at all.”

  “Not to worry,” he told her. “I didn’t work for the public library for twenty-five years for nothing. If he has a credit card or a driver’s license, I can find him.”

  She lay back, somewhat relieved. “Thanks, Ant.”

  He stared at her, an odd look on his face. “My pleasure,” he said. He turned to go, hesitated. “You know,” he said, “I think this is the first time you’ve ever allowed me to help you with something.”

  “No,” she said. “Maybe I didn’t come out and ask, but . . .”

  “First time I remember,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “You must think I’m a pretty cold fish.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t grow up where you did.”

  “I suppose not,” she said. “How long can I use that excuse?”

  “Al, your childhood isn’t a bruise or cramp that you can walk off. You might spend your life trying to comprehend where and what you are.” He took a step toward the door. “You hungry?”

  “Ravenous,” she said.

  “I thought so. I’ll be back up in a few minutes with your breakfast.”

  “I’ll meet you at the kitchen table,” she said, and she hitched herself up higher, ignoring the sharp pain in her side and the thundering in her head.

  “Don’t you dare get out of that bed,” he said, hands on hips, “or I’ll kick your behind myself.”

  “I have to get moving, Ant.”

  “Not yet, you don’t. You stay right there.”

  She listened to him walking back down the stairs. The memories of the night before flooded in on her, unsummoned, unwelcome. Anthony had reacted like a maiden aunt when he first saw her. My God, Alessandra, what happened? Who did this to you? We have to get you to a hospital, my God, why didn’t you call an ambulance? We should call the police before we move you, shouldn’t we? But we can’t wait for them, we have to . . . She remained still, on the ground, her back to the wall, waiting him out.

  “No cops,” she said, when he finally stopped.

  He calmed down, she could see him reeling himself back in. He sat down on his haunches next to her, reached out for her hand. “All right,” he said, after a minute. “It’s your choice.” He looked over his shoulder, back down the alley toward the street. “Do you think you can walk? How bad is it?”

  She pictured the words in her mind first, then summoned the energy to use them. “Got kicked in the chest,” she said. “Got whacked in the head. Everything hurts, but . . . I think I’ll be all right.”

  “You always think that.” He shook his head, looked down at her bare legs, then over at her jeans.

  She watched him formulate the obvious question. She decided to save him the embarrassment of asking. “They just kicked the shit out of me,” she said. “They got sidetracked before they got around to anything else.”

  He thought about that before he answered her. “I am glad you didn’t get hurt any worse than you did,” he said. “I had my friend Roger drive me over. We should get you dressed before we try to move you.”

  She looked at her jeans, in a heap on the ground beside Anthony. “Not those. Too tight. I’ll die trying to get back into them.”

  He nodded. “All right.” He grabbed the jeans, stood up with them. He went through the pockets quickly, fished out her keys and the money she’d had in a front pocket, wadded up the jeans, and flicked them away like he tossed the butts of the short, skinny cigars he sometimes affected. “Wait right here.” He must have realized how ridiculous that sounded. “I mean, you know, I’ll be right back.”

  “Ant.”

  “Yes?”

  “My bag . . .”

  “I’ll get it.”

  “Paperwork. In the oven.”

  He didn’t bother to look surprised at that. “Okay. Anything else?”

  “No.”

  Of course, Anthony being Anthony, he didn’t stop with her bag and some paperwork. He was back in about ten minutes, carrying a big black garbage bag stuffed with her bel
ongings. “Sorry about the choice of luggage,” he said, plopping the bag down beside her. “I was in a hurry.” He pulled a blanket out of the bag. She recognized it, he’d taken it off her daybed. “Let me wrap you up in this, honey.” She recognized his tone—he had gone back to the way he’d spoken to her when Tio Bobby had first brought her home all those years ago. “Roger’s waiting with the car,” he said, and leaning down, he picked her up with surprising ease. “I’m going to put you in the car, then I’ll come back for your things.”

  Anthony returned to the bedroom with a number written on a little yellow stickie note. “This is your friend’s cell,” he said. He had a cordless phone in his hand. He was wearing a pair of loose, flowered pants, a long-sleeved striped shirt, purple clogs, and a disapproving look on his face. Al looked at him, wondering how she’d failed to notice his getup before. “I got it from his record company. I hope you don’t mind my asking,” he said. “How much do you know about this person?”

  She’d have bridled at that once, taken offense at the presumption. God, you’re touchy, she thought. “I know, Ant. Thank you for worrying.”

  He looked relieved. He was waiting for me to bite his head off, she thought. “As long as you know what you’re getting into,” he said. “I’m probably the last person who should try to give you advice. You never listen, anyhow.”

  “I know.”

  He waited there a second, giving her the opportunity to ask his opinion. When she didn’t, he laid the phone beside her on the bed. “Breakfast in twenty minutes,” he said.

  “Thank you, Ant.”

  She cradled the phone in her hand. She lay that way for a while, waiting for something. Courage, maybe, or inspiration. God, she thought, if he’s hurt, alter the laws of physics for me, just this one time, please, I promise I won’t ask ever again . . . I never wanted to get anyone hurt . . . She dialed the number.

  “Hello?”

  “TJ,” she said, and the air went out of her. He was alive, at least. “Are you okay?”

  “Jesus, Martillo,” he said. “Goddamn, what the fuck happened to you? Are you hurt? When I got back to that alley, you were gone. I didn’t know what to do. The cops thought I was crazy, but then they found the window on your fire escape open. Man, I thought they were gonna toss my ass in the can just for being there. Are you all right? What the hell happened?”

  Oh shit, she thought, he called the police. “Those guys were waiting for me when I got home,” she said. “I saw them on the way in, but . . .”

  “Yeah? But what?”

  She shook her head. “Overconfident,” she said. “Stupid.”

  He was quiet for a minute. “So you’re all right,” he finally said.

  “They worked me over pretty good,” she said. “I’m gonna be laid up a few days.”

  “No kidding.” The tone of his voice had changed. “You got a place to hole up?”

  “Yes.”

  He was quiet again for a few seconds. “This kind of shit happen to you reporter types a lot? What’d you do, write a nasty article about someone’s mother?”

  “TJ, I’m not a reporter.” It had only been a matter of hours since she’d kissed him for the first time, but it felt like years had passed.

  “Yeah, you know something, Al? I think I finally figured that out.”

  “I’m sorry, TJ.”

  “’S okay,” he said. “Usually it’s me, lying to the woman. Guess I had it coming.”

  “At least tell me if you’re all right,” she said. “Did that guy catch you?”

  “No,” he said. “Man, I ran like a little girl. A very quick little girl. Left you lying there. I been feeling lousy about it ever since.”

  “Don’t,” she said. “You did exactly the right thing. If you hadn’t run, those two would have killed you. Did you really get pictures of them on your camera phone?”

  “No,” he said. “It’s just a phone. I always thought those camera things were stupid. Sorry.”

  Don’t worry, she thought. You’ll get them anyway. “Listen,” she said. “You really bailed me out. I don’t know what to say, I don’t know how I could ever repay you.”

  “You think? You think maybe you owe me the truth? About yourself. Who you are, what you do.”

  She felt her stomach heave. “Maybe even that.”

  “Good,” he said. “’Cause my parole officer is gonna want to hear it. I’m supposed to stay out of trouble, no contact with cops at all. When she gets the police report from last night, she’s gonna barbeque my ass. She don’t believe a thing I tell her as it is.”

  “She can come see me if she wants. My face looks pretty convincing. I won’t be able to get out for a couple of days yet.”

  “Sorry to hear it. Yeah, she’s gonna need to see you. And your face. Are you okay, for real?”

  “Bruised up. Nothing that won’t heal, I hope,” she said. “Listen, TJ. You mad at me?”

  He laughed first, then took his time answering. “Martillo,” he finally said. “That is your real name, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “Martillo, you are the strangest female I’ve ever met, and I’ve met some real honeys. No, listen, I wanted to be pissed off, but I was too worried. You’re not gonna tell my parole officer the truth, are you?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll make her happy.”

  “I don’t doubt that. But I’d like to see you again. You know what I’m saying? You, ahh, I don’t know how to say this. I feel like I fell asleep during a movie, and you woke me up. You and I, we clicked back there. Didn’t we? I’d like to find out what I been missing.”

  She exhaled, felt like she’d been holding her breath since she’d dialed his number. She could feel her hands shaking. So hard to tell exhilaration from fear, she thought. Do you really dare to let this guy get up next to you? “TJ, I’d like that, too, but give me a few days, okay?”

  “Whatever you need,” he said.

  “Are you Rachel?” Alessandra asked. “You look too young to be a doctor.”

  “You’re very kind.” Rachel was Jewish, early thirties, five foot six, long brown hair, brown eyes, soft round face, glasses. She dragged a chair over next to the bed and sat down in it, watched Al taking shallow breaths. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  “This guy stepped out of an alley.” Alessandra gave her an abbreviated account of the assault.

  “Are you sure that’s it?” Rachel took one of Al’s hands in both of hers. “You can tell me. Did they rape you? I can understand why you wouldn’t want to talk about it, but it’s nothing you should feel any shame over. You wouldn’t be the first woman it’s happened to.” She leaned in, stared into Al’s face. “You won’t be the last.”

  Al sighed. “They were going to. They got interrupted.” She burned, remembering them yanking her out of her protective fetal curl, ripping her jeans off, kicking her legs apart.

  “Men who do this shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it,” Rachel told her. “They shouldn’t be allowed to assault another woman. And they will, believe me, if something isn’t done to stop them. I realize it will take incredible strength on your part, but I do wish you’d let me take this to the police.”

  Alessandra squeezed Rachel’s hands. “They’re not going to get away with anything, Doc.”

  Rachel winced. Al eased her grip. “Sorry.”

  “It’s all right. But I’m not sure I understand. Do you think you can . . . Surely the police are better equipped . . .”

  Al shook her head. “This isn’t about me,” she said. “I should have expected something like this.” And I didn’t. It was a rookie mistake. “Someone wants me to go away.”

  “And you’re not going to do it.”

  She shook her head. “All they’ve done is make my job easier.”

  “How is that?”

  “I only had theories before. Now I have something real.” She thought about her assailants. “Flesh and bone.” And some names . . .

  “I see.�
� Rachel sighed. “Okay, Alessandra. Let’s get started.” She stood up, pulled the covers down to the foot of the bed. She paused, looking at the dark bruises. “I’m going to cut that shirt off you,” she said. “I don’t want you raising your arms over your shoulders . . .”

  Rachel’s voice and manner changed once she started her exam. She prodded with soft hands, listened to Al’s body as it breathed, pumping air in and out, circulating her blood, doing the body’s business. “Any blood in your urine?” Rachel asked, sounding slightly distracted.

  “Yes.” It felt strange, lying naked and hurting in front of another woman.

  “How much? Like a period, or little spots?”

  “Little spots.”

  “Okay. How long since you last saw your gynecologist?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  Rachel gave her a look. “You have to have one. I can recommend someone for you. You’ll need to see her at least once a year, especially if you’re sexually active. Are you?”

  Alessandra sighed, thought about the guy down at the bar in Hackensack. Was that what you called “sexually active”? “Been a while,” she said. She looked at the gold band Rachel wore on her ring finger. Someone’s wife, Al thought. Maybe even someone’s mother. She looked up, into Rachel’s face, but the doctor had already moved on. Al lay back on her pillows as the process continued: cough, inhale, hold it, exhale, does this hurt, how about this, look straight ahead, not at the light . . .