Men on Men 2

by George Stambolian (ed)

  THAT NIGHT THE TOWER WINDOWS glowed with the moon. Coco lay on his bunk, his elbow in his pillow, a magazine before him. The black man held a position of repose, but his catlike muscles rippled and his eyes jiggled at high speeds, catching movement before it started. In that light his eyes were the color of a dark sea. They nailed Remy’s, and the man smiled. A cold terror went through Remy. The smile was too sudden, purposeful, and Remy turned away, refusing to trust it.

  Even past lights out, Remy hadn’t moved. He remained leaning against the bars with his back to the walkway, letting the strange blue light wash down his face. He planned to fall asleep standing up. He wouldn’t never go near that bunk and Coco. Only when Coco threw aside his magazine and fell back yawning, Remy closed his eyes. Minutes passed, of silence, except for their breathing. Remy liked the breathing sounds, their cadences. Then Remy’s nostrils caught the strong odors of almond and black cherry. Coco, still in his bunk, was screwing the cover off a white jar that glowed like a communion host.

  “You want a hit?” Coco asked.

  “Hit of what?”

  “Cold cream.” The black man laughed appealingly, rubbing some into his temples. “It’s laced with Ecstasy.” The black man spoke in a throaty whisper.

  “No thanks.”

  “It works, man.”

  “I get off on quiet.”

  “That helps you sleep, but Ecstasy takes you to paradise.”

  “That where you’d like to put me?”

  “You think I want you dead?”

  “Not before you rip my ass open.”

  “Hey, man, I don’t hold no grudges against you.”

  Remy kept his eyes on the windows. Coco touched a black finger to the glowing white cream. “It’s got DMSO,” he whispered.

  “What’s DMSO?”

  “Makes the skin absorb. Ecstasy through the skin man. It’s fuckin’ cool.”

  Remy faked a yawn.

  Coco rose and slowly came toward Remy, standing before him. He reached down for Remy’s hand, very carefully taking it. When Remy tried to pull away, Coco viced him strong.

  “Easy, man.” With one black finger, he rubbed the cream into the center of Remy’s palm, stroking hard to the underside of his wrist. Remy pressed the back of his head into the bars as Coco’s bony fingers rose touching Remy’s temples. “You never used a drug this way.” Coco’s eyes in the blue light were Satanic.

  “Where’s Diaz?” Remy hoped for the guard’s shadow.

  “Off duty.”

  “Who’s on?”

  “Lambert.”

  “Aren’t you taking chances with that shit?”

  “They’re all on my payroll.” The black man smiled wide. “We gonna be friends?”

  “Don’t make me laugh.”

  “You ain’t even had the decency to tell me your name.”

  “You know my name,” Remy said with hurt. “You had me put in here. You wanna crucify my ass.”

  Coco smiled, looked down and in a shy voice said: “No such thing, man. I jus’ wanted to get near the dick that makes love to the woman with the black feathers and the perfume. What’s that chick’s name?”

  “My wife,” Remy answered, startled that Coco had seen her. Valetta’s only visit had infuriated him. She’d dressed in a retro black suit and coat, carrying an oversized black fur muff and wearing a fifties hat covered with blue-black feathers that curled under her chin. It was a gag for Remy’s benefit, but he hated it. Valetta wrote an apology, promising she’d dress plainer if he let her return, but he forbade her.

  “That woman made me forget I was in jail, man. She made me breathe easy that woman did.”

  “She’s pregnant,” Remy said spitefully.

  “She happy about it? That’s all that counts, is a woman happy.”

  “What’s she got to do with Diaz sticking me in here?”

  “I can still smell that woman in these stones.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “But I don’t smell her on you. You stink too much of yourself.”

  The black man turned, walked back to his bunk and started to undress. “I’ll tell Diaz to put another guy in here, but when they hear about it downstairs your pretty ass is Yankee Stadium again.”

  Naked, Coco slipped under a blanket, curling his knees up to the wall, but his long, bony spine stayed uncovered and the sight of it repulsed Remy, who was still standing, his thighs hard as marble, not softening until sounds of sleep came out of Coco.

  Remy dropped his shoulders and threw back his head in relief letting his eyes loosen, letting them rise upward, like birds softly flying toward the window’s shining whiteness. He closed his lids, imagining the birds breaking through the glass, flying toward the silver moon above a planet of tiny lights: the lights of the Manhattan Bridge, the millions of skyscraper window lights, aircraft: helicopters, seaplanes, all blinking mutely, lights floating, lights dancing, zigzagging, lights streaking, neon ribbons, white, green, red, yellow. His birds flew southwest toward the Chrysler Building, around its needle in a great semicircle to Fifth Avenue, then downtown to Greenwich Village over the great arch of Washington Square Park. Downward they dipped, across the fountain; then zooming up and banking west toward Sheridan Square, over Christopher Street, over the Lion’s Head Bar, across Seventh Avenue, up over the big billboard and Smiler’s Deli, they hovered, and descended silently to the gardens behind Grove Street, narrowing into the airshaft of an old house, to an open window on the first floor, lighting on the sill, several white birds at a time, each entering, pushing others in, until the room was filled with hundreds of birds where Valetta slept, in the ruby aura of votive candles. She opened her eyes for a moment, sensing Remy’s presence. She saw nothing, closed her eyes, then imagined his whisper:

  Valetta! Valetta!

  Remy’s own voice woke him. He felt the coldness of death washing over him. Only a woman’s body could save a man from this coldness. He wanted Valetta’s arms wrapped around his head. He wished his grandmother were alive, even his mother would do. He clung to the thought of women. He pictured Valetta bathing her feet in a stainless steel tub, lifting her full thighs, not hiding anything from him. He knew his seed was alive in Valetta. Maybe a son. If he died, a son would be himself again. If he had known this was going to happen to him, he would have bred with a thousand women. He feared every trace of his existence would be lost in the world.

  His heart was clanging against his chest bones like an iron tongue inside a bell. Oh, yes, there was something in that cold cream. He looked up, mentally paraphrasing one of Van Gogh’s sentences. “Dying young is like flying to the stars. Dying old is making the trip on foot.”

  Remy whispered to the stars. “If I’m going to die in this cell, take me now, take me fast.”

  “How was you framed?” Coco’s voice flew out of the shadow under the bunk. He turned waiting for Remy to answer. The black man’s groggy green eyes seemed sincere. Remy stood there wondering if in some unpredictable way, telling Coco the truth might help him:

  “An old lady was snuffed on the top floor where we live in Greenwich Village, you know? She kept this big bird, this cockatoo …”

  “Yeah?”

  “My wife’d cook extra for the old lady, but we ate out that night, so she sends me up to the woman with this doggie bag. I go in and the woman’s in her big chair like she’s asleep. I didn’t know that her head was bashed in . .

  “Shit.”

  “I hear this flapping down the airshaft in her bathroom as if her bird flew down there. I go in and I knock over a glass. I cut myself…”

  “Poor motherfucker.” Coco yawned.

  “Am I boring you, man? Don’t ask me to talk then yawn.”

  Coco’s yawn froze. He eyed Remy with distrust, turned his back to Remy and pulled a blanket up to his shoulders.

  “You’ll fall dead if you don’t lay down and sleep, man.”

  “I never sleep.”

  “Never huh?”

  “I’ll die sta
nding here.”

  NEXT DAY, AFTER LUNCH, Diaz pulled Remy aside.

  “You don’t give him some ass, dago, you’re a dead-meat dude. I’m warnin’ ya.”

  “Fuck you. We’re getting along …”

  “Naaaa. Naaaa. He wants a replacement. You don’t put out tonight, man, you’re back on the meat rack.”

  At dinner that night Remy was too depressed to eat. After lights out, something flew out of the bunk shadow and hit Remy in the chest. It clattered to the floor. Remy picked it up. It was a little plastic cylinder.

  “What is this?”

  “Lip ice. Strawberry flavor, man. Makes you forget your troubles.”

  Remy uncapped the cylinder, screwing out the sweet-smelling pink tip. An unexpected self-loathing, self-destructive urge, a feeling of both mischief and surrender overtook him. Imagining clowns, he traced a line of strawberry grease over his top lip, then his lower. In a moment his temples were swelling. He replaced the plastic cap and threw it toward the double moons of Coco’s eyes shining in the bunk shadow. Coco caught the cylinder, opened it, and used it himself, watching Remy closely.

  “Why do you want to hurt me?” Remy said suddenly.

  “Who’s gonna hurt you?”

  “I don’t wanna go back to the bull pen, man. Please.”

  “I like you, Lombardi. What’re ya talkin’?”

  “Fuckin’ bullshit, man. You want an Italian in here because of the donut thing. I’m your revenge.”

  “No, no. No revenge. But you’re right. I need a piece of meat in here. That’s all. Plain and simple. I paid for you, man.”

  “Fuckin’ insanity.”

  “Don’t get nasty.”

  “I’m a man like you. I ain’t some dude’s pussy.”

  “I ain’t your protection either,” Coco said softly. “You stand there all day and night like a piece of stone. I don’t need a statue in here. I need a warm body.”

  “I can whack off with you,” Remy ventured. “I’ll talk dirty. We jack off.”

  “Like Boy Scouts?” Coco laughed. “Look, ma friend. I need skin, you know? I could have a ton of porno shit sent in here. I don’t need to dirty talk. Skin, man. Shit, I could be havin’ a good time with somebody else. Shit, man.”

  “What did you think I was gonna do for you?”

  “Whatever I asked for, man. I thought you’d wanna save your life.”

  “I’m not afraid to die.”

  “Good. We’ll get Diaz to get me someone else.”

  “Advise me what to do.”

  “Don’t lower yourself, man.”

  Remy pointed at Coco. “This is a trick to get up my ass.”

  “Go to sleep, Lombardi.”

  “All because of a fuckin’ donut.”

  “You’re full of shit, man. I ain’t no activist.”

  “This is a revenge move.”

  “Go to sleep.”

  “I’ll talk dirty and jerk off with you,” Remy pleaded. Coco stared, his eyes blinked tentatively.

  “Okay, tell me ’bout your ole lady.”

  “Her name’s Valetta … she’s an actress …”

  “Her body.”

  “Okay. She’s thin …”

  “Her pussy.”

  “Okay, man. Take it easy …” Remy heard the swooshing of the sheet under Coco’s hand.

  “Let your dick out,” Coco ordered in a whisper.

  “Lemme finish what I’m sayin’.”

  “Don’t push me, dago.” Coco’s voice rang out. “Take the goddamn thing out.” Remy unbuttoned his top button and zipped down his fly. “Go ahead, Lombardi. Jerk it.”

  Remy’s body wasn’t interested. He could only pretend to be masturbating.

  “What you thinkin’ of?” Coco asked shakily.

  “Her.”

  “Who?”

  “My ole lady.”

  “Talk about her pussy.”

  Remy wanted to attack the man—to tear his throat out like a dog. Instead he swallowed hard. “She’s a normal woman.”

  “You got her legs up in the air?”

  “What the hell you talking about?”

  “Go along with me.”

  “Yeah, I got her legs up,” Remy said, feeling ridiculous.

  “Now, stick it up her. Stick it in there, you hear? You got it in?”

  “Yeah . .

  “All the way up?”

  “Hold it a minute.”

  “Push, goddamnit. All the way now.”

  “Yeah.” Remy was sweating, “I’m in.”

  “Now pump, man. You hear? Pump your fuckin’ heart out.” The sheets over Coco’s hand sang like a hurricane. “Pump, dago. Pump your ass off. Now … get out. Get out,” Coco screamed.

  “Outta what?”

  “Outta her and lemme in there quick!”

  “Okay. I’m out.”

  “I’m in. Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah …” Coco moaned, “Oh sweet pussy. Sweet… pussssssyy. Uhhh, huuggg. Ooooff.”

  The odor of semen rose in the cell. Remy could hear snickers far off. No sign of Diaz on the ramp. Remy buttoned up, feeling safer, feeling ashamed. Coco lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of his bunk with both feet on the floor. Slowly, he let his face fall into his hands. When he looked back up at Remy, the black man seemed to have been crying.

  “You get crazy in here. You understand? It just builds up and you’re ashamed,” Coco said.

  “It’s okay.”

  “I never cheated on my wife with another woman, forget about a man. Then I hit prisons. A man needs to fuck somethin’. Shit this ain’t no good, Lombardi. I gotta get rid of you.”

  “Fucking nightmare.”

  “I need somebody else in here.”

  “I don’t know about this shit.”

  “Guys who on the outside’d kill some motherfucker for puttin’ a hand on their shoulder, in here, they’re expert cocksuckers. Prison does things to people. Diaz’ll get one of them in here to blow you and show you. This guy Duane. He’s a pro, man. He’ll put you in heaven with his mouth.”

  “Duane? What’s in it for him?” Remy asked.

  “He’s queer. Jus’ loves sucking cock and he ain’t ashamed of it. I respect the guy. When it’s over, Diaz brings the cocksucker back.”

  “What’s your wife’s name?” Remy took the black man by surprise.

  “Whattya changing the subject?”

  “No. Just curious.”

  “Bonita’s her name,” Coco said suspiciously.

  “Bonita? She Italian?” Remy smiled deliberately. Coco looked surprised, then let go a laugh that lasted long enough to bring moans from nearby cells. Diaz’s shadow crept up the ramp and then retreated.

  “Hell, Bonita’s black as they come. Blue-black. She shines like an African princess, like coal. Her hair’s short and her eyes are like some Egyptian. Bonita’s black.” Coco yawned, grabbed the blanket and turned to the wall. “Don’t worry, Lombardi. You’re safe for tonight. Sleep on your bunk, man. Nobody’s gonna mess with you tonight.”

  NEXT MORNING REMY RECEIVED a letter from Valetta, saying that their landlord had come to the door reminding her that they were behind in rent. This worried Remy because in a few weeks the landlord would have legal power to evict her.

  That night, after lights out, Diaz came down the ramp and whispered something to Coco. When he left Coco threw himself angrily on his bunk.

  “No Duane tonight.” Remy waited for Coco to cool, then spoke:

  “Tell me more about Bonita.”

  Coco swallowed two pills, then staring up past the philodendron, he started speaking, taking on the voice of a storyteller. A smile creased his face and he made Remy laugh, explaining how Bonita stashes twenty thousand dollars into one carton of Lucky Strikes:

  “See, she irons the bills flat with a steam iron, then she rolls ’em so tight that she fits two bills inside one roll of paper. She seals the packs with cellophane and a hot curling iron and she puts that red pull-tab, just like real. She’s got cigarett
e cartons stashed in safe deposit boxes in the Chase Manhattan Bank. That’s how Diaz is gonna retire in Arizona, on Lucky Strike payola.”

  “You feed him too much, you lose your inside man.”

  Coco laughed. “Everybody is for hire when it comes to Lucky Strikes.”

  “How’d you wind up in here?” Remy asked.

  “Why you interested?”

  “Maybe I was … hoping you weren’t a criminal, and I’d have a chance here.”

  Coco laughed. “You are full of shit. Of course I’m a criminal,” Coco said with distrust. “Now you spoiled my story …”

  “Sorry.”

  “Well…” Coco talked on, about how he and Bonita started a mail order business out of an old building in Queens. The Aloe-Aloha Skin Saver Corporation. It was set up to launder coke money, but the crazy business made a profit. He said they sold the business for one point five million. He said he was in jail on a trumped-up manslaughter charge and was spending record time waiting for trial. He claimed the Feds were piling up delays as punishment for his drug dealing because the manslaughter evidence didn’t really exist.

  Remy laughed in spite of himself when Coco described how Bonita refused to dump a couple of keys of drugs down a toilet bowl and used her mother’s pestal and mortar to grin them up, then her mother’s blender, mixing the drug with Aloe-Aloha skin products. She mashed Ecstasy and coke into the fruit-flavored lip ice, then reconstituted it into containers and refrigerated them. He told Remy he used one as a suppository, and that Bonita’s mother’s old freezer in St. Albans was stockpiled with loaded cosmetics.

  In turn, Remy told the true story of how a hot diamond was stashed in zeppole dough during the Feast of San Gennaro, and how the pastry was sold for twenty-five cents to a nun who said she broke her tooth and swallowed it, but soon after the convent got a new furnace and a new roof. Remy told of the social clubs in Little Italy, little empty shops where men play cards and sell soda and kids play jukeboxes and dance on the streets, and how before SoHo got ruined, he worked there as a mechanic on mafia limos. He spoke of his grandmother’s grape arbor in her backyard behind the Neopolitan record store and how, when she died, he moved six blocks across Seventh Avenue, into the uppity world of West Greenwich Village where he met Valetta.