City of Margins
Page 29
He recovers from his cough and starts talking again: “I never tried nothing funny with you, that wasn’t my aim. I wanted you to know. I love you like a daughter. A woman lost a baby once and then she died too a few days later, that’s a true story. That baby was mine. Little girl. Stillborn. Nicole Raffaella. The woman was my wife, Danila. We was married three months—this was forever ago. I always wanted a girl to spoil, you understand that? I wish I had more dough to give you on my way out the door.”
“I’m sorry,” Antonina says.
He waves her off. “The past is just the past,” he says.
“Are you shot?”
“A little,” he says, smiling, trying to make light of it.
“A little shot? How’s someone get a little shot?”
He shrugs. “Ambushed by a couple of Ficalora’s dumbest goons. Should’ve seen it coming. Made it this far since Donnie and thought we were in the clear. What’re you gonna do? Pags is worse off.”
“You’re just gonna let him die in the car out there?”
“Time’s up. We’re nobodies. We got nobody. You’re the only person I care about. I just wanted to wish you well.”
Antonina can’t believe this is happening. She’s crying before she knows she’s crying. She doesn’t expect it, so she’s surprised by the feeling of tears on her cheeks.
Ralph struggles out of the booth and stands. The blood is mostly obscured by his jacket, so she’s not shocked he managed to make his way into the diner without creating a scene. He leans over and touches her hand again. “I ain’t gonna try to give you a smooch or nothing, don’t worry. I don’t want you to remember me stinking like this.”
“You’re just gonna leave?”
“Goodbye, kid. Best of luck in everything.” He squeezes her hand, and then he shuffles out the door of the diner.
Antonina watches through the window as he struggles down the steps, holding on to the railing like he’s ancient and frail, and then heads for the Caddy and climbs in.
He backs the car up slowly and proceeds to drive out of the lot, making a left, going toward the Thruway.
Antonina sits there. She sips the coffee that she hadn’t previously touched and uses a napkin to dab at her cheeks. She looks across at the spot that Ralph occupied only moments before, the Naugahyde dented and patched with red duct tape. She looks for traces of him, drops of blood, anything. She considers his coffee cup and lets out a breath. She’s thinking, Imagine if this is heaven.
MIKEY BALDINI
Mikey’s not sure exactly when Seattle became their destination, but that’s where they’ve been for about a month now. Before that, they spent time in Detroit and Chicago and then they went south to Memphis. After that was Oklahoma City and then Albuquerque and Phoenix. Finally, they made it to the West Coast and lingered in several cities in California—San Diego, Los Angeles, Salinas, and San Francisco—before making up their minds to keep going north. They took their time getting through Oregon and then decided Seattle was it. Well, Mikey decided. It was stupid, but he’d seen Singles back when he was still at New Paltz, and he thought Seattle looked cool. He told Donna about the music scene. She went along with it.
Gas and motels and food adds up, but the money’s gone pretty far. They had to dump the Lynx and buy a new car in Phoenix—that was a killer, especially since they had to bypass traditional routes. What they wound up with was an ’87 Pontiac Grand Prix. The other thing that hurt was having to put down security, first month’s rent, and last month’s rent on this apartment in Seattle. But it’s a nice place, in a neighborhood called Ballard. There’s a record store not too far away and a movie theater and a view of some bay or another within walking distance. They don’t have much, just an air mattress on the floor, Donna’s turntable and records, the books of Gabe’s he brought with him, and a tiny fake Christmas tree strung with lights set up on the kitchen counter. He doesn’t smoke, so he’s set up the cigarette case he found in Donnie’s duffel bag as a sort of decoration next to the tree. Donna had seen it early on and hadn’t recognized it as Donnie’s, so there was no problem there.
They have about fifteen thousand dollars left. Mikey’s hidden it in the bottom of a bucket full of paint supplies, brushes and rollers, under a scrunched-up blue drop cloth, believing that no one would ever break in and think to look there. Traveling with the money for so many months, having it in the trunk of the car or in a bag they had to carry around with them, had been stressful as hell.
Mikey’s walking to the post office now. He just shaved for the first time in weeks, his chin tattoo exposed. He doesn’t get looks for it here like he did other places. It’s midafternoon. He hasn’t told Donna where he’s going. She’s back at the apartment, wearing stretchy pants and a new SuperSonics sweatshirt, putting together a bookcase they just bought.
He’s thinking about his mother for the first time in a little while. He hasn’t looked back since killing Donnie. He hasn’t so much as checked a New York newspaper to see if his picture’s on the front page. His life on the road with Donna has been a life of abandon. He never said anything about Donnie, not even that he knew who her ex-husband was, that he was the same guy who’d hit him in the face with a bat back in ’91. Never mind not telling her what he learned from Big Time Tommy, that Donnie had killed his father by dumping him off a bridge, that he had not merely been following orders but had done it to be cruel. Hearing Donnie apologize to his son’s ghost had led Mikey to believe that what Donnie had done to his father had been the result of his own suffering. If he had to know that kind of pain, others must, too. And Mikey had become his target that night. Not because Donnie wanted to fuck Antonina, as he’d first suspected. Just because Mikey was a kid with his whole life in front of him.
Mikey hopes his mother’s okay. He realizes it must be hard for her, him leaving the way he did with no explanation. He doesn’t have any sense of what she knows or doesn’t know. All he has is the clean conscience that came with getting revenge and clearing his father’s debt. Of course, she might still have no idea it was Donnie that killed her husband or her son that killed Donnie in turn. The world lets you know what you need to know to survive. She’d call that the hand of God. He’s not sure what he calls it.
What he’s thinking now is it’s about time he lets his mother in on the fact that he’s still kicking, that she still has a son who loves her. Maybe it’s a bad idea to send this postcard he’s got in his pocket, but he has to. He owes it to her.
When he gets to the post office, he buys a stamp and puts it on the card. The front is a picture of the Space Needle. On the back, under the stamp, he’s scrawled his mother’s name and address. He thinks of their old house, of the life he had there, of the life she continues to have there. It must seem so empty to her. He can’t imagine how sad she’s been. He hopes it’s gotten easier over time.
All he’s written on the card is: Dear Ma, I love & miss you. —M. No return address. He drops the card in the mail slot and leaves the post office, feeling as if some weight has been lifted.
He can’t talk to Donna about his mother. He’s brought her up once or twice, and Donna’s shut it down. Their meeting had been brief but intense. It’d obviously shaken Donna up.
On the walk back to the apartment, he takes out the turquoise snakeskin leather wallet he’d bought at a roadside stand in New Mexico. He keeps the picture of Donna as a teenager that he found in Gabe’s room there. He often looks at it when he’s out because he can’t look at it when he’s with Donna. She doesn’t know he has it and, he hopes, will never know. That would mean lying about where he found it—in one of Gabe’s books, he’d insist—or telling the truth. But he likes having the picture. It makes him happy to see a young version of her laughing like that, just as it must have made Gabe happy. He tucks it away as he turns onto their block.
Back at the apartment, Donna’s got the bookcase put together. It’s wide and deep. She’s lined up Gabe’s books on the top shelf. She said she wants to start readin
g more. He sees that Gabe’s note is there next to the books, wrinkled and creased.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“It’s a good thing you’re so handy,” Mikey says. “I can’t do shit.”
“I like you just the way you are.”
Mikey pulls Donna close for a kiss. They’ve been lucky so far, in every way. He feels like the luck will hold.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you: Nat Sobel, Judith Weber, Siobhan McBride, Sara Henry, Kristen Pini, and Adia Wright. Katie McGuire, Claiborne Hancock, Jessica Case, Sabrina Plomitallo-González, and everyone at Pegasus Books. François and Benjamin Guérif, Simon Baril, Oliver Gallmeister, Marie Moscoso, Clotilde Le Yaouanc, and everyone at Éditions Gallmeister. Ion Mills, Geoffrey Mulligan, and everyone at No Exit Press. Wolfgang Franßen and everyone at Polar Verlag in Germany. Richard and Lisa Howorth, Cody Morrison, Lyn Roberts, Bill Cusumano, Slade Lewis, Katelyn O’Brien, and everyone at Square Books. Megan Abbott, Jack Pendarvis, Theresa Starkey, Ace Atkins, Angela Atkins, Jimmy Cajoleas, Alex Andriesse, George Griffith, David Swider, Tom Franklin, Beth Ann Fennelly, Laurent Chalumeau, Chris Offutt, Melissa Ginsburg, Lee Durkee, Michael Farris Smith, and Tyler Keith. My wife, kindest soul of all, Katie Farrell Boyle (who read an early draft of the first pages of this, saw where it was going, and told me to go somewhere better), and our children, Eamon and Connolly Jean, who bring the light. And for so much, too much to name, my greathearted and resilient mother, Geraldine Giannini.
There are, as always, so many writers and musicians and filmmakers I’m indebted to, whose work guides and inspires me. Four of my favorite films were especially important to me as I worked on this book: Alan Rudolph’s Choose Me and Trouble in Mind, John Sayles’s City of Hope, and Elaine May’s Mikey and Nicky. I also had Garland Jeffreys spinning on repeat, and I’m particularly thankful for his records.
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ALSO BY WILLIAM BOYLE
THE LONELY WITNESS
GRAVESEND
A FRIEND IS A GIFT YOU GIVE YOURSELF
CITY OF MARGINS
Pegasus Crime is an imprint of
Pegasus Books, Ltd.
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Copyright © 2020 by William Boyle
First Pegasus Books hardcover edition March 2020
Interior design by Sabrina Plomitallo-González, Pegasus Books
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available
ISBN: 978-1-64313-318-8
ISBN: 9781643134031 (ebk.)
Distributed by W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.