Skin Games (20 page)

The concrete walls were whitewashed and faded plastic signs marked the room numbers.  We walked up to room 537.  The door was open, but I was hesitant to walk in. 

Nicole stopped next to me and smiled.  She rubbed my shoulder and said softly, “It’s okay, Sean.”  She kissed my cheek, and despite the surroundings, I couldn’t help but smile.

I walked into the room.  The first thing I saw was Mrs. Griffin sitting in a chair at the foot of a bed, one of three beds in the room.  I could see only the foot of the beds, as there were dark brown curtains drawn around each one.

She saw me and stood up.  “Hello, Sean.”  She put a finger to her lips for us to be quiet.

“How is she?”  I walked to the edge of the bed and saw my mother.  There was an IV tube in her arm, and she was sleeping.

“She’s doing okay.  Much better than yesterday.  They have her resting comfortably.”

“It doesn’t look very comfortable.”

“She’s okay, Sean.  Don’t be nervous.  They’ve sedated her.  It’s best for now.”

“Have the doctors told you anything?”

“Not much.  Not yet.  They’ve run some tests.  And there will be some others.  But for now they’ve told her to simply get some rest.”

“Okay.  How much does the room cost?”

“A lot.  But don’t worry.  They can’t kick a sick person out of the hospital no matter what.”

I reached into my pocket and opened the roll of bills Vinny gave me.  The piece of paper slipped out and dropped to the floor.  I picked it up and put that in my pocket and handed Mrs. Griffin the money.  “Here.”

She took the money and thumbed through it.  She rubbed my hair, as if I was just a child, then she said, “You’re a good boy.”

“It’s enough, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.  These places cost a lot.  But it’s a start.”

“I’ll get more.  Whatever is necessary.  I just need you to help me deal with the doctors so she gets the best care.”

“Sit.  Sit down.”  Mrs. Griffin gestured to the seat next to the bed where she’d been sitting.

“No, no.  You sit.”

“Please.  I’ve been sitting all day.  You should spend a little time with her.”

I looked over to Nicole.  She mustered up a smile.  I moved the chair closer to my mother’s head and sat down.  Nicole walked behind me.

“You don’t have to wait,” I told her.

“I want to.”

“But there’s only one seat.”

“I can stand.”

“You should sit.”

“I can stand.”

“Maybe you should go.”

“Sean,” she said firmly, but not in the bratty tone she’d been using earlier; suddenly she sounded more like my mother, but in a good way.  “I am going to stand here with you for a while.  And that’s that.”

“Okay.”

The slip of paper Vinny gave me didn’t say much.  It was concise.  To the point.  That was the intention, I’m sure.  All it said was:

Black Lincoln.  Toasty’s parking lot.  BMJ 473.

It wasn’t like I needed anything more.  My work was cut out for me.  Go to Toasty’s, a neighborhood dive bar.  Case the parking lot.  Find the Black Lincoln.  Confirm the plate number.  Get inside.  Start her up.  Get the fuck out of there, and get the car to Vinny’s shop.

Simple.  Right?

I’d done it many times before.  The only difference was this was a repo not a theft.  Someone was late on his payments, and the car was being repossessed.  Vinny was the car guy.  He fixed them.  He painted them.  And sometimes, he sold them to guys who didn’t want to register a car through proper channels.  Vinny didn’t always sell the car in a lump sum; sometimes he worked out a payment plan, with hefty juice added, no doubt.  Whatever the deal was, someone was shy and Vinny wanted his car back.  That was all I needed to know.

It was a really cold night.  I wore a heavy wool coat along with a black hat and gloves.  It had to be around one maybe two in the morning when I walked up to the bar.  Toasty’s was just off the main drag and had its own stand-alone parking lot that ran along the side and back of the building.

When I walked up, there were three guys standing behind the back entrance to the bar smoking cigarettes.  They didn’t take notice of me as I strolled by.  I could hear bits of their conversation.  Didn’t sound very interesting.  One guy was doing most of the talking about some hot chick in the bar and how hard he was gonna bang her.  The other two laughed along and encouraged him.

Not wanting to stand out, I just kept walking, past the bar and onto the quiet street that ran behind it.  I looked back over my shoulder, then quickly walked onto the lawn of the house that bordered the bar’s parking lot.  I stopped behind some tall bushes and watched.

Their smokes took another minute or so; then they all walked back inside.  I was just starting to come out from the brush when two other guys came out from the bar.  I quickly ducked back behind the bushes.

They didn’t appear to notice me, as one walked to a car and the other stopped and said, “You go ahead.  I’ll meet you over there.”

“Okay,” his friend replied.  The first guy returned to the bar as the friend walked to a nearby Dodge, started it up and loudly zoomed off.

The cold was starting to get to my fingers even with the gloves on.  I wasn’t wearing a scarf, and the wind nipping at the exposed back of my neck had me wishing I was.  I pulled my hat down farther and turned up the collar on my coat.  The light over the back entrance to the bar went out.

From the dark corner, hidden by the bushes, I looked over the cars in the lot.  There were several cars in my direct view: a Chevy, a Honda, some other small foreign model I couldn’t quite make out.  No Lincoln.

I came out from the bush and walked quickly around the corner of the bar.  There was another half of the parking lot now in my view with several other cars.  In the far corner, there it was.  You couldn’t miss it.  A black Lincoln.  Even in the dark I could tell it had black limousine tint on its windows, and the wheels had souped-up chrome rims.  The car was probably used as a taxi at one point but now looked more like a pimp-mobile.

My walk changed to a jog, and quickly I was over to the car.  License plate matched.  This was it.  I felt the pockets of my pants looking for the key.  I took off my glove and reached into my front pocket.  The light outside the bar came on, and I heard the door opening.  I looked over my shoulder and saw at least three men coming out.  It might have been four, or even five.  Even with the overhead lamp on it was still dark and I didn’t have the time to look directly.

“Hey!” one of them yelled.

“What the fuck!” shouted another.

The numbness of my fingers coupled with the shock of the men’s voices startled me, and I dropped the key.  The men ran towards me, all yelling to stop and how they were going to kick my ass and who the fuck was I and what was I doing to their car.  The voices blended together in an angry mass of noise.

I reached down and grabbed the key and quickly put it in the door.  The door came open and I jumped in, stuck the key in the ignition and fired up the engine.  I slammed the door closed but didn’t get a chance to lock it, instead putting the car in reverse.

Before I could start backing out, one of the men reached the door and yanked it open.  I hit the pedal and the car shot backward.  The guy sidestepped, keeping with the car as the rear bumper of the Lincoln smacked that tiny foreign car parked behind me.  The other men reached us, and I could hear punches to the hood and side fenders of the now surrounded car.

I put the car into drive.  The man grabbed a hold of my head and tugged at a handful of hair beneath my wool hat.

“Stop, asshole!” a guy yelled.  He was leaning over the front of the vehicle.

I gave the engine a little gas, and the car lurched forward.  The guy in front leaped backwards to get out of the way, but the guy on my side kept running alongside the car.  With his free hand, he punched me on a downward angle, hitting the side of my forehead.  He struck again and again, quickly punching and jogging.

I gunned the engine, and he ran as long as he could before he took my hat right off my head as he fell to the side.  I looked in the rearview and saw him rolling along the driveway as I slammed the door closed.  Then I heard a blast.

The rear windshield shattered.  As I pulled away I heard several more gunshots, but only the first one appeared to hit.  Like a madman I drove out onto the open road and took as many back roads as I could to Hunts Point.

* *

Wind blew in the opening where the back windshield should have been, and it was cold and loud as I flew down Hunts Point Avenue and hooked the illegal left onto Garrison Street.  It was quicker than circling around the block, and I wanted to get the banged-up Lincoln off the road, pronto.

I smacked the horn three times when I was about half a block up from the shop followed by two quick honks.  Then three more horn honks as I approached again followed by two quick ones.  They knew what that meant, and the garage door was on its way up as the Lincoln’s tires screeched around the final turn and up into the shop.  I hit the brakes, and Jose had the garage door on its way back down before I even got out of the car.

“Holy shit.  What the fuck happened?” Vinny said as I slammed the door.

“I almost got fuckin’ killed.  That’s what happened.”

He walked around to the back of the car and looked at the trunk.  “Gimme the key.”

I handed him the key, and he opened up the trunk.  Then he slammed it shut, and it kicked back up in his face.  He slowly glided the trunk down and tried to press it closed, but it wouldn’t catch.

“It’s fuckin’ busted.  You’re lucky it didn’t come flying up while you were driving.”

“I’m lucky I’m alive.  Look at the back windshield.”

“I see it.”

“I got shot at.”

“Hazards of the job.”

“Whatever.”

Vinny got up in my face and shouted, “Don’t whatever me, pal.”

“Sorry.”

“You should be.  You’re lucky I don’t take the money it’s gonna cost to fix the damages out of your end.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I said you’re lucky I don’t.”

“I’m gonna need more money.  For my mother’s care.”

“Well, you already got fronted the money for this job.”

“I need more work.”

“Then don’t fuckin’ panic at the first sign of a little heat and you’ll get more work.”

“I didn’t panic.  I got ambushed.  I got you your car, didn’t I?”

Vinny turned from me and walked back to the car.  He ran his fingers lightly over the specks of shattered glass hanging from the rear windshield.  Then he rubbed the glass fragments off his fingers.

“Hey, Jose.  We’ve got a screen that will fit this, don’t we?”

“I think so.  I’ll go check.”  Jose disappeared behind the shop into the burial ground for many, many cars.

Vinny looked back at me and smiled.  “You did okay.  You got the car.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t worry, Shamrock.  Don Mario has plenty more work for you.”

“I need it.”

Jose reappeared, carrying a windshield.  He put it down softly near the Lincoln.

“Good,” Vinny said.  “Get to work on this thing first thing in the morning.”

“Okay,” Jose replied.

“Vinny,” I said.  “Can you get me a gun?”

“A gun?  What the fuck do you want a gun for?”

“After tonight, I don’t want to get caught off guard.  I just want it for protection.”

Vinny shook his head, grabbed his car keys and walked out the door.  Just before slamming the door behind him, I heard him say, “You don’t need a gun, Shamrock.”  Then, he fired up a Mustang with bright blue sparkle paint, and Vinny peeled out.

“I can get you a piece,” Jose said.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t worry, man.  I got you covered.”

* *

Early the next morning, I went to the hospital.  My mother was wide awake when I walked in.  It caught me off guard to see her sitting up in bed.  Her face looked white and her hair disheveled.  I tried to put my best face on.

“Hi, Mom.”  The enthusiasm was fake but necessary.

“Hello, Sean.”

I stopped about halfway between the bed and the door.  Her expression turned serious.

“Are you afraid of your own mother?”

“Of course not.”

“Then come closer.”  As I walked the rest of the way to her bedside, she said, “Sit down.”

I sat down in the chair next to the bed.  The thin gray hospital blanket was pulled up to her shoulders, but her hand poked out and she outstretched her arm.  I took her hand and squeezed it.  She squeezed back; I could tell she was trying her best, but I barely felt it.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better.”  She didn’t sound better.

“Better?”

“Yes.  Better.”

“Have the doctors told you anything?”

“Let’s not talk about that just now.”

“Okay, Mom.”  I was afraid she’d notice the knot on my head from getting jumped the other day, but she didn’t say anything about it.  I was glad.  I didn’t want her worrying about me.

We sat there for some time, silently.  A soap opera on the TV of the patient in the next bed was the only noise.  That and the monitors and beeps and weird hospital sounds.  They weren’t pleasant sounds, so we ignored them as best we could.

I looked at my mother, and she looked back at me.  I’m sure it was a while.  I heard the program on the TV change at least once.  We didn’t speak a word.  Eventually, my mother slipped into a nap.

It didn’t last more than a few minutes as a nurse appeared and walked up to her bedside.

“How are you, Mrs. O’Donnell?”

She groaned, rolled over and said, “Good as new.  Can I go home now?”

“No, ma’am.  I’m afraid not.”  The nurse was heavyset and spoke in a soothing, easy tone that you might call jolly—kinda seemed like she wanted to keep everyone’s spirits up.  “I’m gonna have to take your temperature.”  She put a thermometer in my mother’s mouth and patiently waited, then removed it.  “Looks good.  Do you need anything?”

“Just to go home.”

“Very well.  I’ll be in to check on you a little later.”

The nurse walked out.  I waited about thirty seconds, then I got up.