Skin Games (2 page)

 The room immediately fills with dark black smoke and all three of them choke on the filthy air.  She lays the shawl across the broken window pane and reaches through.  She feels them.  One is grabbing at her leg as the other pulls at her shirt.  Maria kicks and struggles.  She shimmies and shakes.  The shirt comes free first, and she plunges forward.  Her head now out in the open air, she sucks in heavily.  Sweet, clean air fills her lungs and gives her strength; the strength she needs to kick the strong arm off her leg and lunge forward.

 Maria falls and puts out her hands.  She hits the concrete and immediately rolls over.  Her right shoulder takes the worst of the fall.  Her hip also hurts, as do her raw palms from absorbing the impact.  She looks up.  The pretty one sticks his head out, but his large frame has no chance at making it through the small opening in the window pane.

 “You’re dead, bitch!” he shouts.  His head disappears into the smoky restaurant.

 Maria struggles to her feet, her heart thumping and heavy with grief.  She takes one last look back at the restaurant; the stand-alone structure just slightly set back from the busy avenue is now completely engulfed in flames.  Maria runs off into the night.

The chilly smell of autumn whisks through her nostrils as she walks quickly down the alleyway, trying hard not to look back.  Nervous curiosity gets the best of her, and she glances over her shoulder, hoping her hair isn’t creeping out of her hooded sweatshirt. 

Several men stand under a bright yellow sign, loitering out front of Smiley’s Bar.  They look her way, some laughing, others whistling, one shouts, “Looking good, baby.”

But no one follows.

She’s all alone.  The alley is lit until she reaches the end and turns a corner.  Behind the tall building of crumbling brick is a stairwell that leads down.  There is a lamp at the top of it, but its bulb is cracked and needs replacing.  She looks up at the fire escape.  Most of the lights are off in the surrounding apartments.  A quick look at her watch tells her it’s a few minutes after midnight, meaning she’s a few minutes late.

Will he mind?  She doesn’t think so but can’t be sure.

She takes a deep breath, looks back one more time, then descends into the darkness.

At the bottom of the steps is a door.  She feels for the handle as she can’t quite make it out.  Once she gets a hold of it, it feels cold, and its texture is rough.  It takes a bit of effort to turn the rusted handle, but it gives way, and she walks inside, then pushes the door closed.

The corridor is dim but lit.  There is scrawled graffiti on the walls, but she doesn’t slow to read it.  It smells of mold and perhaps worse.  She reaches the end of the hallway and turns right; it’s the only choice as there is nothing but a cement wall to her left.  Just a few steps more, and she sees a door.  A hint of light peeks out from underneath the doorjamb.

She knocks three times, waits a second or two and knocks twice, just the way Griffin told her to.  She waits, quietly.  She hears nothing.

She looks behind her.  She sees nothing.

Again, she knocks three times, waits a second or two, and knocks twice.  She hears shuffling from behind the door.

“Hello,” she calls out.

There’s more movement coming from the other side of the door.  She turns the knob slowly, then pushes the door open.

“Hello.”

A light quickly shuts off.  The room is dark.  She turns and is about to run, when she hears, “Sit.”  She turns back, hoping the man can’t hear her heart as it explodes from her chest.  But she begins to settle down as a soft, soothing voice says, “It’s okay.  Sit.”

He clicks on a lamp, a small desk lamp that is pointed downward so she can see only his silhouette.  His shoulders are broad but his body is wiry and slim.  He’s sitting upright behind a wooden desk and just a hint of his arm is exposed to show some kind of yucky tattoo that she can’t quite make out.  She takes a step sideways and kicks a chair.  She grabs it and slides it towards her; the noise is a bit irritating as the chair scrapes the rough floor.  She looks at him, then at the chair.

Finally, she unzips her sweatshirt, removes her hood and sits down.

“Are you him?” she asks.  The question is silly.  Of course it’s him.

The dark silhouette nods and says softly, “Yes.  You can call me Skin.”

“Okay, Skin.  I’m Maria.”

“Hello, Maria.  Your hair is very beautiful.”

She laughs and fiddles with her long, brown hair as she says, “Thank you, Skin.”

“Am I being too forward?   I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.  It’s just that you remind me of someone.  Someone I used to know.”

“It’s okay.  I understand.”

“You have some work for me?”

“Yes.  Griffin sent me.  He says I can trust you.”

“You can.  I always keep my word.”

“Always?”

“Always!”

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to question you.  It’s just.”  She pauses.  “I have to be careful.  This is very sensitive work, the job I have for you.”

“I understand.”

“I’m sorry if I offended you.”

“It’s okay.”

“So, I believe you, that you’ll keep your word.  But, I need to know.”  Again, she pauses while tightly twirling an auburn-highlighted streak of hair around the knuckle of her pointer finger.  “I need to know that you are capable.  That you are the right man for this job.  It’s dangerous.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“It’s very dangerous.”

“You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.”

“Please.  Humor me.  I trust Griffin, and he trusts you.  But I’m scared.  If you fail, then I…”

“I understand.  You need convincing.”

“I need reassuring.”

“Fine.”

“I need you to tell me why you’re qualified for the job, and why I can trust you.”

“You want to know who I am.”

“Yes.  If you’ll tell me.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I have all night.”

He looks up at the dark ceiling and takes a loud, heavy breath.  Maria can barely see his face but it’s obvious that he’s uncomfortable with speaking to her.  He’s struggling with a decision.  She thought this was strictly business for him, but suddenly she suspects it’s not.  This is personal, just as personal to him as it is for her.  The longer he sits silently, the more Maria’s nerves kick up.  Has she pushed him too hard, too fast?  It’s really none of her business who he is.

“Okay.  I’ll tell you my story.”

If you want to know my story, then the only place to start is at the very beginning.  I was born with the name Sean.  My father was Irish, and my mother Italian.  Mom said she wanted to name me Anthony.  Her second choice was Michael.  But my father insisted on calling me Sean.  That was his name, you see, and he wanted to give me his name.

It was the only thing he ever gave me.  Okay, not the only thing.  He gave me a bike once.  Even taught me how to ride it.  But I’ll come back to that.

Skin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

When I strain really hard, I can still see his face.  He was weather-beaten, his nose red and round, his skin crusty and marked with liver spots.  His hands were always rough and callused from smacking hammers into nails and fists into faces.  He was a carpenter by trade, but construction wasn’t the only job he had.  He couldn’t have been more than forty years old the last time I saw him, but in my mind, he looks fifty, or sixty or maybe even seventy.  Of course, the mind plays tricks.  I don’t have a single picture to confirm or disprove what I see in my mind’s eye.  Maybe my memories make him out to be a monster because in my mind he always was.

My earliest memories are of me and him.

“Sean Sr. and Sean Jr.,” Maria says.

Nobody calls me that anymore.  Sean O’Donnell is gone.  Senior and Junior.  Both gone forever.

“I’m sorry.”

I told you to call me Skin.

“Okay.  Go on, please, Skin.  I didn’t mean to upset you.”

It’s okay.  The O’Donnell household was normal for a few years.  I guess you’d call it normal.  Seemed normal to us, growing up in the Throggs Neck section of the Bronx in the late seventies and early eighties.  My father worked from sunup to sundown six days a week and drank at Smiley’s Bar when he wasn’t working.  But on Sundays, he would make time for me.

“That must have been nice.”

Those are perhaps the best memories of my life.  The Bronx Zoo.  The Westchester County Fair at Yonkers Raceway.  The Botanical Gardens.  The beach and Rye Playland.  Once, he even borrowed Aunt Annie’s Oldsmobile and drove all the way to New Jersey to take me and my mother to Six Flags.  Me and my dad went on The Lightning Loops and Rolling Thunder.  Mom was too scared.  She just watched and cheered us on as we flew by.

I guess it wasn’t until I was nine or ten that I began to realize what a creep he was.  I’d come home from school and my mother would be crying while sucking down a bottle of gin.  Sometimes she’d have a black eye.  Other times a fat lip.  She never told me what was wrong, but I wasn’t stupid.

“He hurt your mother.”

Yes.  He hurt her every day.  But none of the pain from fat lips and black eyes compared to the pain of being deserted.  Abandoned.  That hurt far, far worse.

“I’m sure.  That must have hurt.”

You’ll have to excuse me if I’m rambling.

“Don’t be silly.”

Let me focus.  Okay, the beginning.  Always the best place to start.

“Please do.”

My earliest really distinct memory of me and the old man.  Just the two of us.  I’m not sure where Mom was.  Home alone, I guess.  The two of us were at The Piagentini and Jones Middle School, on the playground.  Only it wasn’t called the Piagentini and Jones School yet.  They renamed it that later after a couple of cops got shot and the mayor needed a photo op.

“Somehow I doubt the name of the school is all that important to the story.”

No.  You’re right.  It’s not.

“So tell me what happened.”

My dad came home early that day.  Around five o’clock.  I remember it was still light out.  He was smiling.

“Junior!  Look what I got you.”  There was enthusiasm in his voice.  Excitement.  I can’t recall hearing that tone in his voice any other time.  And he called me Junior, not kid or sport or buddy or pal.  I guess that meant he was feeling fatherly.

I was up in my room playing by myself when I heard his voice.  I ran down the steps of our house.  It was a two-family on Hollywood Avenue just off Randall.

“Near the thruway.  I know the area.”

Yes.  It’s still a nice area.  Small lawns cut out in perfect rectangular patches between the sidewalks.  Some trees fighting the good fight, trying not to be overrun by the sprawl of the ever-spreading concrete jungle.  You might even find some shrubbery or a vegetable garden if you know where to look.  Not quite suburban but as close as you can get in the Bronx.  The Griffins lived above us.

“Griffin?”

Yes.  The same Griffin.  We’ve been friends for many years.

“I see.”

So, on that day the old man came home and I ran down the steps to see him grinning from ear to ear.  He walked outside and I followed close behind.

“Look at what I got you,” he said.

“What was it?” Maria asks.

A bike.  A small, red bicycle with a long white seat, the kind with grooves across it and a curved handle on the back.  The pedals were shiny chrome with orange reflectors on them.  The handlebars had stringy, white tassels hanging from the handgrips.  And the wheels.  Those were the coolest part.  There were thick black tires with a thin white line running around them; the spokes were a shiny chrome that matched the pedals and affixed to the spokes were more orange reflectors.  You don’t see bikes like that anymore.  These days a kid would probably get his ass kicked just for riding one of those.  But at the time they were very popular—the absolute coolest.

“A two-wheeler?” I remember asking him.

“You bet.  You don’t need training wheels.”

“But Dad.  I don’t know how to ride a two-wheeler.”

“I know.  I’m gonna show you.”

We walked down the street, my dad pushing the bike and me hop-skipping just half a step behind.  The schoolyard was no more than half a block up the road.

We walked through the opening in the fence onto the playground.  It was paved with blacktop and had a bunch of basketball hoops mounted on the fence.  Some kids were playing two-on-two on the far side.  But otherwise, it was wide-open.  Perfect for riding.

I looked at my father.  He smiled back.  I’m pretty sure I was shaking.  Truth is, I was shitting an absolute brick.

“Come on,” he said.  “Get on.”

I hesitated.

“Let’s go, you little shit!  Do you have any idea what I had to go through to get you this bike?”

Of course, I had no idea how he got the bike, yet.  But it was clear I’d better get on and give riding it my best shot.

I stepped over the seat as the old man held the handlebars, keeping the bike steady.  The bike was too short for me; my knees were up awkwardly high.

“Dad,” I said, I’m sure I was whining.  “It’s too small.  This bike is for a first grader.”  I think I was in third grade at the time.

“Hey.  Stop complaining.  You can reach the pedals can’t you?”

“Um, hm,” I mumbled in agreement.

“Then let’s go.”

“Ok.”

“Now, Sean,” he said, his smile widening again, his bulbous nose wrinkling with mischief.  “Start pedaling.”

I put my feet onto the pedals and grabbed the handlebars.

“Don’t let go,” I said.

I must have sounded pitiful, because the old man snapped at me.  “I won’t let go, you little sissy.  Now come on.”

He held both hands on the handlebars and stood at the front of the bike.  I began to push down on the pedals.  They moved, and the bike slowly eased forward.  The old man back-stepped along with me.  It left him awkwardly off balance and also made it feel a little heavy as I pedaled.  I guess I got scared, and I just stopped pedaling.