Fake I.D. hcc-56

by Jason Starr

  “I’m sorry, Tommy, I have to go—”

  “Please, Martin. I didn’t mean...the guy was baiting me. He wanted me to blow up.”

  “I have to go. Goodbye, Tommy.”

  “Wait, don’t—”

  He hung up. I slammed the phone down. I sat calmly for a few seconds, then I yanked the cord out of the wall and tossed the phone across the room. Screaming, I kicked a chair out of my way, then I tore down the poster from Raging Bull and ripped it to shreds. I ripped up my head shot and picked up the phone and threw it across the room again. Finally, I sat down on the couch with my head in my hands.

  For a while, I was mad at Martin. The fucking guy couldn’t make it as an actor himself, so now he was taking it out on every other wannabe actor in the city. He was just like the directors and the producers—saying whatever he felt like saying because he knew he had the power to get away with it. But then, as I started to calm down, I decided it wasn’t really Martin’s fault. He’d been good to me over the years, probably sticking with me a lot longer than any other manager would have. Besides, he wasn’t the one going to those auditions, getting turned down for role after role. I had nobody to blame for that but myself.

  Martin was right—it was probably time for me to stop taking acting so seriously. It had nothing to do with talent because if you put me in auditions with other actors and all things were equal I knew I’d get the roles every time. But that was just it—all things weren’t equal. To make it as an actor you had to be part of the clique. You had to go to one of the big-time acting schools—graduate from Yale or N.Y.U., or you had to have some famous teacher or acting coach—Meisner, Stani-fucking-slavsky. Those people were “in the business.” But if you were like me, and you didn’t have the fancy connections, you didn’t have a shot in hell of making it.

  I took my wallet from my jeans’ pocket and slid out Pete Logan’s business card which had Alan Schwartz’s phone number on the back of it. I plugged the phone back into the wall—amazingly, it still worked—and dialed. On the second ring a snobby-sounding woman answered, “Alan Schwartz’s office.”

  “Yeah, can I speak to Alan Schwartz?” I said.

  “May I ask who’s calling please?” she said, treating me like dirt.

  “Tommy Russo.”

  “Is he expecting your call, Mr. Russo?”

  “Yeah...I mean no...I mean kind of. Tell him Pete Logan said I should call him.”

  The line was dead, like she might have hung up, then she said, “Hold please,” like it was busting her balls to transfer a call to her boss. Music came on—Stevie Wonder singing “Part-Time Lover.” Then the secretary came back on and said, “Mr. Schwartz is in a meeting now—he’ll have to call you back.”

  “Shit,” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “When’s the meeting gonna be over?”

  “He has meetings all afternoon. Would you like to leave a message or shall I connect you to his voice mail?”

  “You think it’ll be over soon?”

  I heard her take a deep breath. “I’ll connect you to his voice mail.”

  Before I could say anything else, I heard a click, then Alan Schwartz’s voice came on.

  This is the message I left:

  “Hey, Alan, my name’s Tommy—Tommy Russo. You don’t know me, but a guy I think you know, said he was a good friend of yours, named Pete Logan, said I should throw you a call if I wanted to go in on that horse deal with you. Well, I want in, so can you give me a call when you have a chance? My home number’s 646-879-4355. All right? Thanks a lot, Mr. Schwartz, I mean Alan. Take it easy.”

  As soon as I hung up I realized how stupid I was. First of all, I wasn’t going to be home tonight. What if he called me back and I missed the call? Or what if he left a message and my answering machine was on the blink?

  I called Pete at the Kings Highway branch of his shoe store. I didn’t think he’d be there but I figured I could at least leave another message. A girl picked up and I asked for Pete. “Hold on,” she said, then a guy came on the line and said, “This is Pete.”

  His voice didn’t sound like it did at jai-alai. On the phone, he had a heavy Brooklyn accent.

  “This Pete Logan?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “This is Tommy Russo. You know, from jai-alai.”

  He didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds, then he said, “Hey, how’s it going? I didn’t think I was gonna be hearing from you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know, it’s just a surprise, that’s all. So what’s going on?”

  “Not much,” I said. “So you still need a fifth guy for that syndicate?”

  “Far as I know.”

  “Then stop looking ’cause you found your man.”

  “You’re kidding me?” he said. “That’s terrific. So you...the money isn’t a problem?”

  “No problem at all.”

  “Great. You call Alan yet?”

  “That’s why I’m calling you. I left a message for him but I didn’t want him to go out and find somebody else.”

  “You don’t gotta worry about that. Alan would have to approve any new guy with the rest of us, so as soon as I hear from him I’ll tell him we can stop our search. And we can stop it, right? I mean you’re a hundred percent about this, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I mean I want to meet with the other guys first and see what it’s all about. But if it all checks out...”

  “I got you, I got you,” Pete said. “This is great—exactly what I was hoping for when we started this thing—to get some real racing fans involved. There’re a lot of guys who could put up the money, but what fun would that be? We want guys who love the sport, who always dreamed of owning a horse but never thought they’d be able to.”

  “That’s me,” I said, wondering how the hell I was going to come up with the ten grand.

  Five

  When I arrived at O’Reilley’s at five-thirty, Gil, the regular day bartender, was behind the bar, reading a paperback. I asked him if Frank was around and he shook his head.

  “But he’s coming in today, right?”

  “Yeah, he called before. He’ll be in soon.”

  Gil went back to reading his book—Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy. Gil was about twenty-five and he had black curly hair and wore wire-rimmed glasses. Whenever he wasn’t serving customers, he always seemed to be reading a book or writing in a pad. He said he wrote short stories and poems, but nobody in the bar had ever read anything he wrote. I used to think that the guy was doing the right thing—working at a bar to support his dream—but now I realized what a loser he was.

  At six o’clock, Gil’s shift was over and Gary wasn’t in yet so I took over at the bar. Usually, Thursdays were good nights for happy hour, but maybe the cold was keeping people away because it was seven o’clock and there were only five people in the whole place—a couple of girls at the bar drinking screwdrivers, and a few guys in suits drinking beer, standing behind the girls, trying to get up the balls to go over and talk to them.

  I put a CD—“The All-Time Best Party Songs”—into the stereo, then I leaned against the bar, flipping pages of the Daily News as Meat Loaf sang “Paradise By The Dashboard Light.”

  This was basically the way things were when Debbie O’Reilley came into the bar.

  As usual, she was smashed. She could barely stand on her high heels and she had a big drunk smile. Her makeup was caked on and she was wearing long white shiny boots, a red miniskirt, and a short fur coat. Her fake D- or E-cup boobs were sticking straight out, pressing against her tight blouse. She looked like one of those cheap hookers on the West Side Highway, a hooker ten years past her prime.

  I never really understood why Frank had married Debbie, but I figured it was because she was young and sexy—well, young as far as Frank was concerned—and I guess she was kind of sexy. She was an ex-table dancer, in one of those clubs the Mayor closed down on Seventh Avenue, and for a woman who must have be
en pushing fifty, she definitely had a nice shape. But a good body wasn’t a reason to marry a woman and there wasn’t much else to like about her. She was always nasty to Frank, especially when she was drunk, talking to his face about the other guys she was fucking, and Frank was rich as hell. He owned a bar and a big three-bedroom apartment on East Seventy-second Street. A lot of good-looking women would probably be clawing to meet a rich, successful guy like him, but instead he’d married a sleazy alcoholic who obviously didn’t love him and who always treated him like dirt. The only explanation I could come up with was that Frank was lonely. Frank’s first wife had died a long time ago and maybe he just wanted somebody to come home to at night. Or, maybe he just liked the excitement of having a crazy alcoholic like Debbie in his life.

  Debbie stopped in the middle of the room and looked around, staring at people the way drunks do. Her skin was dark brown and leathery. Finally, still wobbling, she said, “Where the hell is my husband?”

  Normally, I tried not to talk too much to Debbie, especially when she was loaded. I knew she was just looking to start trouble and that if I just ignored her she’d go bother somebody else. But nobody else in the bar answered her so I said, “He’s not here.”

  “Really?” She smiled, like I’d meant it as a joke. “Well where is he then?”

  “Gil said he’d be in soon,” I said.

  “I guess my brilliant stepson isn’t here either.”

  “Nah,” I said.

  “What was that?”

  “He’s not here,” I said louder. I was still looking down at the newspaper.

  “I’m sure he’s out job-hunting,” she said. She waited a second then said, “That was a joke—you can laugh, you know. Give me some hint that you’re alive.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You’re in a peachy mood tonight, aren’t you?” she said. I was hoping she’d leave or go bother somebody else. Instead, she came up to the bar and sat down across from me. It smelled like she’d put on a whole bottle of perfume. She put her hand on top of mine and said, “Gimme something stiff.”

  Debbie was always coming on to me, just like she came on to practically any other guy with a pulse when she was drunk.

  But, for some reason, I didn’t move my hand away.

  I said, “You really think you should be drinking any more?”

  “What are you talking about?” she said. “I haven’t had a drink all day.”

  “Yeah right. If you weren’t wearing all that perfume I bet I’d be able to smell the booze on your breath.”

  “You know,” she said in a quieter, sexier voice, “if you want to get a closer whiff you can.”

  Now I moved my hand.

  “If you want something make it yourself,” I said. I took my newspaper and walked to the other end of the bar.

  “That’s no way to treat your boss’s wife,” she said. “You realize your job could be on the line for this kind of behavior.”

  I asked the two girls if they were okay with their screwdrivers. One of them asked for a refill. I made the drink, got her change, thanked her for the buck tip, then went back to reading the newspaper. Debbie stood there for a while, staring at me, then she sat down on the stool next to the blonde. The Meat Loaf song ended and now The Romantics were singing, “What I Like About You.”

  “I’m still waiting for my drink,” Debbie said.

  “The bar’s all yours,” I said. “Want a drink, make one.”

  “All right,” Debbie said. “I think I will.”

  She came behind the bar and made herself a drink. I wasn’t watching, but I knew she was making her usual Scotch and soda. I started talking to the two girls. Then Debbie came and brushed up against me. She interlocked her arm around mine and said to the two girls, “Sorry, he’s coming home with me tonight.”

  “Don’t pay any attention to her,” I said.

  “What?” Debbie said. “You forgot about our date tonight? Shame on you.”

  Usually, I didn’t care what Debbie said to me, figuring she was just a drunk who didn’t know any better, but with the girls there I felt like I had to say something.

  “Why don’t you just get the hell out of here?”

  “I will,” she said, “if you come with me.” She pinched my ass.

  “I’m serious,” I said, wanting to hit her. “Just get the hell out of here.”

  “I love angry men.”

  She tried to pinch me again. This time I grabbed her wrist before she could squeeze.

  “Let go of me.”

  “I told you to leave me alone.”

  “Let go!”

  “You gonna leave me alone?”

  “Just let go!”

  Her face was turning red. I let go.

  Rubbing her arm, she said, “If I tell Frank about this you know what’ll happen, don’t you? You’ll get fired. You’ll be out on the street.”

  I tried not to look at her. The whole thing was so stupid—she was out-of-her-mind drunk and even if she did tell Frank on me I knew he wouldn’t care. He’d probably done the same thing to her hundreds of times, or at least he’d thought about doing it.

  Debbie stood facing me for a few seconds, shifting her eyes with the dark blue eye shadow all around them, back and forth, then she stormed away, taking her drink with her, of course. She sat down in her original seat at the other end of the bar. I apologized to the two girls for the “disturbance,” but they seemed freaked out about the whole thing.

  The girls stood up and put on their coats. As they were leaving, Frank walked in. Wearing a long beige trench coat and carrying two shopping bags, he looked like a tired old man. He was old, I guess, but not very old. He’d celebrated his sixty-fifth birthday last year, but he looked more like seventy. He was short, stocky, and he combed long gray hairs from the back and sides of his head to cover a big bald spot in the middle.

  “There he is,” Debbie said, “my handsome, hardworking, sexy, irresistible, loser of a husband.”

  Debbie continued to insult Frank and then she asked him for money—a hundred dollars. Frank said, “I’m not giving you any more money to get drunk with,” and then Debbie started yelling at him—cursing and calling him all kinds of names. As usual, Frank just took the abuse like a wimp. With everybody else, Frank was a take-charge guy, but he could never stand up to his wife. It was like Debbie had some weird power over him—he was Superman and she was made out of kryptonite. Whenever she was clawing over some guy or making a drunken fool out of herself he’d just ignore it, like it didn’t mean anything to him. Whenever I tried to talk to him about it—figuring the guy always helped me out, the least I could do was try and help him—he’d always just say “Forget about it” or “Who cares?” I never pushed him, figuring there are some things guys just need to keep to themselves.

  “You’re a fucking asshole!” Debbie yelled. “You’re pathetic! Look at those clothes you’re wearing, like it’s 1972! When was the last time you went shopping? Face it, you’re an antique, a dinosaur, a pathetic time capsule of a man. I’m ashamed to be your wife!”

  A few more customers—a group of guys in hockey jerseys, probably here to watch the Devil game later on—came into the bar. I asked them what they wanted, but when they saw Debbie yelling at Frank like a lunatic they put their coats back on and left.

  Debbie had cost Frank a ton of business over the past few years.

  Finally, Debbie put her own coat on, getting ready to leave.

  “Maybe you’d like to know the name of the guy I’m fucking tonight,” she yelled at Frank’s back as he walked away toward the kitchen. “His name’s Jean-Claude. He’s French or Canadian or French-Canadian—whatever. Anyway, from what I understand he has a very big cock. Much bigger than yours anyway, although a five-year-old boy has a bigger cock than you!”

  A couple of guys standing near Debbie started to laugh. I wanted to laugh too, because it was kind of funny, but out of respect for Frank I held back. Frank just shook his head, continuing t
o the back of the bar.

  Debbie came over to me and said, “I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to grab you like that.”

  “Forget about it,” I said.

  “I was watching you,” she said, slurring her words, “talking to those two girls. You know my offer still stands.”

  I knew what her “offer” was. She was always inviting me to “stop by” at her apartment some afternoon when Frank wasn’t around for “a good time.” She was smiling, running her tongue across her upper lip. I noticed the way some of her lipstick had come off on her shiny capped teeth. I could also see some of her fake cleavage popping out of her black-and-gold blouse. I had to admit, for an old lady there was definitely something sexy about her. If she wasn’t Frank’s wife, I might’ve even thought about taking her up on her offer.

  “You better get going,” I said. “You don’t wanna keep your French boy waiting.”

  At seven-thirty, Gary finally showed up and took over for me at the bar. I ate a burger and some fries in the kitchen, then I knocked on the door to Frank’s office.

  “Come in,” he said.

  He was sitting at his desk, looking up at me over his reading glasses.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said. “I thought it might be my delightful wife.”

  “You got a second?”

  “Sure. Sit down.”

  I sat in a chair across from him. The office was a mess with file folders, newspapers and magazines piled up everywhere. Frank put down the papers he’d been reading and said, “What am I gonna do with her, Tommy?”

  “That’s up to you,” I said. “You already know what I think.”

  “It’s never been as bad as it is now,” he said. “Every night she’s like this. I try to reason with her—get her to go to A. A. or see a shrink—but she just doesn’t think she has a problem.”

  “That’s because she is the problem.”

  “You’re right—I know you’re right—believe me. You know she’s placing ads in newspapers now? I heard her on the phone calling one of the neighborhood papers, I think it was Our Town. She was reading the ad to them over the phone: ‘Lonely married woman looking for a good time and more.’ Then, last week, I come home early from work and she has a guy over at the apartment—our apartment. I can hear them going at it from the living room, so I go bang on the bedroom door, thinking I’m gonna kill whoever she’s in there with. Then the bedroom door opens and this big black guy—seven feet tall, like a basketball player—comes out.”