The Hard Way

by TJ Vargo

  Not waiting for a reply, he walked toward Mona. Her black hair ran over her bronze shoulders and down the middle of her back in soft waves. The black dress she wore was a second skin, hugging her upper thighs. A black, strappy stiletto dangled on the end of her foot, her calf muscle flexing as she kept time with a bass heavy beat playing just under the murmur of voices and clinking silverware. The song was from a CD his dad gave him. ‘Great make out music’ was what his dad called it. He slid into the stool next to Mona. Roxy Music. That was the name of the band.

  The barmaid, a petite, red-head in black pants and a white blouse, nodded as he pointed at the taps and said, “I’ll have a draft.” He put his hand on Mona’s shoulder. Her skin radiated heat. All that sun worshipping made her a human furnace. He loved her heat and how she smelled. Salty and musky. He leaned in.

  “Hey, we ever make out to this music?” he whispered.

  She pushed him. “Don’t start. I was about ready to leave. You know how late you are?”

  The barmaid put a frosted pilsner of beer on a coaster in front of Curtis. Flecks of ice shined in the foam running down the side of the glass. He took a long drink. The cold beer sent a frozen shot of pain deep into his sinus. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “Run a tab,” he said, tossing a credit card on the bar toward the barmaid. He grabbed Mona’s hand and pressed her palm on his eye, waiting for his sinus to thaw.

  “What are you doing?” she said, trying to pull her hand away.

  “Brain freeze,” he explained. Even her hand smelled good. Clean and citrusy.

  “You’re such a baby,” she said.

  His brain freeze thawed. He put his hand in her lap. She grabbed his index finger.

  “Maybe we did make out to this song,” she said, gripping his finger.

  “Yeah, but I can’t remember where,” he said.

  She tightened and loosened her grip on his finger. “Was it at Kosta’s? On the back patio?”

  Curtis nodded. “Everybody was inside doing karaoke. We made out to half this friggin Roxy Music CD before Sonny came looking for us.”

  Mona laughed. “He almost punched you in the face before he figured out who you were. I thought I was gonna pee myself.”

  Curtis smiled and took a sip of his beer. This was the Mona that made him crazy. The hot fun model, not to be confused with the hot, off-her-rocker model. She smiled as she drank her cocktail. If she could hold herself together it would be nice to hang with her, listen to laid back music and get mildly wasted among normal people. Then he’d ask her where he could pick up Big Blue, go home, count his money and check on Julia. Or, if he got wasted enough and Mona didn’t flame out, there was always the possibility of Mona coming over. She looked unbelievable. He brushed a dark strand of hair off her shoulder.

  “Did you eat?” he asked.

  She trailed fingernails over his hand. “Nope. I’m starving. You hungry?”

  “I already ate, but go on,” he said. “I’ll watch you eat.”

  She grabbed his index finger. “This is nice.”

  “Yeah, it is,” he said, looking into her slate black eyes.

  “I missed you,” she said.

  She caressed the top of his hand. Then she pushed his hand between her thighs and flexed her legs, enveloping his hand in a warm vice.

  “You missed me too,” she said. “Admit it.”

  He tried to pull his hand from between her legs. It wasn’t gonna happen. Her thighs gripped him with the strength of a thousand hours of squats, aerobics and jogging.

  “Tell me you missed me,” she said, the smell of almonds on her breath.

  Curtis knew Amaretto was on her lips, waiting for him. She always drank Amaretto. He started to lean in, then hesitated. The thought that he should kiss her, or tell her he missed her, blared in his head, but if he opened that door, he knew the kiss would become a lay. The lay would become more lays. Getting back together with Sonny and Fitz would be talked over until it became a reality. Then a pregnant Mona and regular fights would take center stage. Marriage, five and a half million cigarettes, a swimming pool of beer every year and an oxygen tank as his best friend would be the finish line once he started down this path.

  “Curtis? Hey, you okay?” said Mona.

  “Just thinking,” he said.

  “How hard did Fitz hit you? You’re acting like you’re out of it, just like this afternoon.”

  He lowered his gaze to his hand buried between her thighs.

  “Can I get my hand back?”

  She relaxed her legs. He slipped his hand from her thighs and picked up his beer, taking a drink. He wiped his mouth and eyed Mona.

  “I can’t do this,” he said.

  She furrowed her brow.

  “Do what?”

  Someone poked Curtis in the shoulder. He put his hand on Mona’s knee. No need to drag this out, she needed to be told. It was over and he was only here to get his fish back. Someone grabbed Curtis’s shoulder. He turned.

  “Curtis Monroe, how are you?” said Barry, his face ten inches away.

  Curtis looked Barry over. As usual, he was wearing a top-dollar suit and tie. Navy blue on the suit. Crisp white shirt. Red tie. Impeccable. Physically, he was the same as ever. Probably a hundred and sixty soaking wet. Glasses. Kind of hunched over. His hair was razor cut and just long enough to be parted to the side. He looked like a grade-A, white bread, old-school businessman. Nothing to be scared of, which was what made him even scarier when you knew his story.

  Barry tilted his head and smiled at Mona, then turned to Curtis.

  “So, how’s your father?”

  Curtis stayed quiet, waiting for Barry’s smile to die. It didn’t. Barry just kept smiling and staring. He didn’t even seem to be breathing. Curtis reached for his beer. The asshole had balls asking about Dad.

  “You need a beer?” Curtis said, taking a sip. He put his beer down and wiped his mouth. “It’s on me.”

  Barry held eye contact, waiting.

  Curtis readjusted himself on his stool, but never looked away. Too many people bought into Barry’s act, scraping and bowing when he put on his dead man’s stare. Every local blue collar stiff, bar none, wanted to be Barry. He was God to the people that vacuumed, buffed, and shined the American dream for the doctors, lawyers and corporate thieves that lived like modern day kings here and, from what Curtis could tell, everywhere else. For the most part, the respect was deserved, based on the story Curtis’s dad told him about Barry Schiff’s youth. Curtis couldn’t help but run the film loop on that story now as he held Barry’s stare.

  According to Curtis’s dad, Barry’s father had been tougher than most, using the occasional fist or belt when Barry didn’t make him proud at school, sports or whatever else popped into his head. And that, according to Curtis’s dad, was Barry’s edge. He had always been the smartest kid in school. But it was the beatings that eventually turned him brutal, just like his dad. So when high school was done and all the kids with money went away to college, young Barry walked by the local steel union that was hiring and took a job bussing tables at the country club. It took him a few months to figure out who was actually making some money in this town. After that it was simply a matter of planning. There was the rash of home break-ins during the annual Businessman- Of-The-Year banquet. Then it switched to office safes getting peeled during afternoon golf outings. And it moved on from there. Product shipments mysteriously disappeared from warehouses. High-end server rooms were emptied out. An expensive car or two wound up missing. In no time Barry joined the country club, eating oysters on the half shell and sipping merlot with money he’d robbed from the very people he hobnobbed with. It was all a low-class knockabout in Tombs could hope for—one of their own making it big by putting a heel on the throat of the blue-blood, bullshit conservative crowd that lived on their sweat and blood. And Barry, God bless him, didn’t get rich alone. He put money in the pockets of a small but dedicated band of blue-collar brothers, including, Curtis thought, his
dad. It could have been great. It should’ve been great. But then something happened. Some anonymous shitheel caught his dick in a wringer with the cops and saw a way out if he started talking. Barry caught his first stint in prison because of that prick, but even then things weren’t broken. Everyone, dad included, thought Barry would get out and jump right back in, a little wiser and warier for his trouble. But after two more short stints in prison because of unknown punks cutting deals, Barry turned, or evolved, or something. Curtis remembered his dad coming home and telling him how it wasn’t just rich pricks that got Barry’s blood up anymore, it was everybody. And although he remembered his father being a man that could handle himself, he looked scared when he talked about Barry’s change. All of which brought Curtis to the present, staring down Barry at Ricky’s Pub, hoping the brutal old crook that had once been the Robin Hood of Tombs would just leave him alone.

  Although it seemed to be minutes, Curtis thought maybe ten seconds passed before Barry broke off his stare to step back and look over the room. A wave of relief flooded over Curtis. It looked like Barry was going to move on and leave him alone. Then Mona raised her voice.

  “Curtis, if you want your fish, you better turn around. I didn’t come here to drink alone.”

  Barry’s head swiveled toward Mona. A cold stone hardened in Curtis’s chest.

  “You’re Sonny Bomba’s sister, aren’t you?” said Barry, moving next to Mona and bracing a hand on the bar. “You resemble your Aunt Tina. She looked like a model when she was young too.” He motioned for the barmaid. “Get this pretty girl another drink.”

  The barmaid looked over and nodded.

  Barry moved closer to Mona.

  “Now, what’s this about a fish?”

  Curtis put a hand on Mona’s thigh. She turned her back on him.

  “I don’t know,” said Mona. “Curtis is all worried about some blue or purple or yellow marlin. Acts like it’s the most important thing in the—”

  “It’s nothing,” said Curtis, smiling. “I got this blue marlin stuffed and some guys took it. Probably thought it was funny. I’m just trying to get it back.”

  Barry eyed him, then refocused his attention on Mona as the barmaid handed her a drink.

  Curtis felt sick. He wanted to drag Mona out of here by her hair before she said anything about Sonny and Fitz stealing his fish. Barry would be on his cell in a minute and whatever money those idiots hadn’t spent would be in Barry’s pocket before the end of the night. He started talking fast.

  “Mona knows the guys that stole it, so I asked her to talk to them.” He held his hands up. “I don’t want to make a big deal out of it, but I caught the damn thing and spent money to get it stuffed, so I want it back. If I go over there, it could get ugly.”

  Barry nodded. He picked up Mona’s drink and said, “May I?” Before she could respond, he took a sip. “Wow, that’s sweet,” he said. He drank from a glass of ice water in front of Mona and put the glass down, crunching ice.

  “Well,” he said. “If you tell me who these guys are, I could have somebody talk to them.”

  Curtis gripped Mona’s shoulder, keeping her quiet as he said, “Nah. This isn’t gonna be tough or anything. I got it.”

  Barry finished chewing his ice. He ran his tongue over his teeth, shrugged and turned to walk away. Then he stopped and turned, looking at Curtis.

  “I heard about what happened with you and Sonny and Fitz,” he said. He waited a beat, then added, “Stay away from them for at another week. Let things settle.” Then he stared at Curtis for a long moment before turning to walk toward his table.

  Curtis watched Barry walk away. Mona hissed, “Jesus, let go of my shoulder. You’re squeezing it to death.”

  “Sorry,” said Curtis, releasing his grip.

  Mona rubbed her shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell him Sonny and Fitz took your fish?”

  Curtis drained his beer and wiped his mouth. “It’s none of his business,” He took a deep breath before adding, “Look, I can’t screw around all night. Where’s my fish?”

  Mona stood. “I’m going to the ladies room,” she said. She slid a hand under Curtis’s shirt, lightly scratching his stomach. “I’ll be right back.”

  Curtis watched her hips shift as she walked into the back hall and ducked into the ladies room. The buzz of the room flowed over Curtis. Pain flexed behind his right eye. He bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, listening to the low roar of talking, clattering silverware and laughter. He shifted his gaze to the back hall, imagining Mona slipping into a stall, planting her spiked high heels on the floor and pulling her dress up. He stood and walked the length of the bar, imagining Mona’s tanned legs and curved hips. The pain behind his eye was awake and breathing. He moved silently, a dead spot in the noise that swirled through the dinner crowd. A waiter brushed by him holding a silver platter with a bottle of Maker’s Mark, a pitcher of ice, a pair of ice tongs and a sparkling glass tumbler. Curtis remembered his dad telling him how Barry would work his way through a bottle of whiskey while he ate, thinking through the particulars of his latest job.

  Curtis continued on his way toward the ladies room, feeling his anger rise. Barry was gonna tie one on while he thought about his plan for Fitz and Sonny, figuring how much money they’d put in his pocket before he flushed them down the toilet. He probably already had a prison cell waiting for them at Tombs Correctional. And once there, they’d keep their mouths shut unless they wanted a shank in the neck.

  Curtis stopped in front of the ladies room. Screw it. Barry could do what he wanted to Fitz and Sonny. They crawled in bed with him, now they could sleep with him. He stepped inside the ladies room and locked the deadbolt.

  A piece of toilet paper with a raspberry imprint of lipstick was on the floor. That was Mona’s color. He looked under the stall door. String black panties were stretched between Mona’s ankles. He watched her slide her feet back to the base of the toilet.

  “I’m in here. You’re gonna have to wait,” she said.

  Curtis leaned against the door. “Let me in.”

  Her panties were still around her ankles as the door swung open. He touched her face, then her neck and shoulders. The pain pulled back a touch. She rose on her toes and pressed into him, grabbing his shoulders. He kissed his neck.

  “Wait,” she whispered.

  He watched her reach down and free one high heel from her underwear. Then she pulled his black tee shirt off, looped it around the back of his neck and kissed his ear.

  “I’m glad Sonny took your fish,” she said. “It brought us back together.”

  A shiver ran through him. The pain in his head became a gentle tap.

  “You know where it is, right?” he said.

  “I think so,” she said, touching her tongue to his lips.

  He pulled back.

  She smiled.

  “I like it standing up.”

  “I’m not kidding,” he said. “Where’s my fish?”

  She ran fingernails down his back and moved her hands around his hips, tugging the front of his jeans.

  “You need help getting these off?”

  He grabbed her hands.

  “I’m serious, Mona.”

  Her smile flattened.

  “Say one more thing about that stupid fish and you’re not getting any,” she said, then pulled the front of his jeans. “You want these off?”

  Curtis pushed her away and stepped out of the stall. Pain throbbed behind his eye as he put his shirt on.

  “I should have my head examined,” he said. “Keep doing the same shit over and over, expecting it to be different. You don’t know where my fish is. Tell your stupid brother I’m looking for him.”

  “Where you going?” Mona yelled. “You think you’re too good for me or something?”

  The deadbolt pinched his finger as he jammed it to the side. He hissed, “Dammit,” breathing fast and feeling the pressure build behind his eye. He turned to Mona.

  “It ai
n’t about being too good,” he said. “It’s about being normal. All I want is normal. But what I get is crazy-ass bitch.”

  He stalked out into the dining area, each of her shouts quieting the room a little more.

  “Fuck you, Curtis!”

  “Think you’re better than everyone else!”

  “You’re an asshole! Mister Big Fucking Asshole!”

  He could feel the eyes of the room on him as he paid his tab, pocketed his wallet and left. He scowled as he walked out in the street and got on his bike. Mona was hot, but she was crazy. She had no idea where to find Big Blue—she just wanted to get laid.

  He rumbled down Park Avenue toward the winking lights of the Playhouse Theatre marquee. It was one of the last remaining jewels of Tombs’ crown from back when the steel mills and manufacturing plants were still humming fifty years ago. He rode by its dazzling lights, catching sidelong glances from the old socialites in their suits and dresses clustered around the ticket booth. From the outside, the theatre was a slice of old-time Broadway and Hollywood style. But it was what happened inside that counted. Far as Curtis could tell, the theatre limped along as a rest stop for third-tier actors and rock tribute bands grinding their way through tours of broken Midwestern towns. It was a showcase for the dying echoes of Broadway dreams and dead or dying rock legends. Just like everything else in Tombs, the Playhouse Theatre was spiraling down the drain. Curtis left the theatre in his wake, turning left at a yellow light on Marion Avenue.

  The thought to check all the bars in town for Sonny and Fitz ran through Curtis as he cut through dark neighborhoods. He even slowed as he passed The Red Fox, but thought better of it. Seeing Barry and fighting with Mona had him rattled. The best thing to do was check on Julia and hang loose. Sonny and Fitz had to sleep somewhere. He’d get up early to find them. If he kept his head, he’d find his money.

  After parking his bike, he trotted up the concrete stairs of his apartment building and walked through his empty hall. A door slammed on the floor below, vibrating through the soles of his shoes. He stopped in front of Julia’s door and checked his watch. Nine-thirty-five. If she was sick, she’d probably be asleep. He bowed his head and knocked softly. She’d only hear it if she was awake. He kept at it, going on fifteen thumps before the door flew open.