Skin Games (9 page)

But that isn’t what happened.  No one came.  No one called out.  No one said a word.

No one saw nuthin’.  No one said shit.  They just left me there.  Went about their day as if it were any other.  Through the tips of my fingers, which I had cupped over my face, I caught glimpses of men.  Some were lifting weights under an awning.  Others were shooting a basketball at a netless hoop.  Still others stood in a semicircle, talking amongst themselves about who knows what: their crimes that got them here, what their women were doing at home, the white kid getting the shit beat out of him by two veteran convicts.  Who could say?  All I can tell you is they were completely unfazed by my body getting bashed all over the pavement.

“Yeah, bitch,” Ski Cap Guy said.  “You havin’ fun yet?”

Broad Shoulder Guy added, “I own you.  I own you, O’Donnell.  You mine.  You mine, bitch.  Hear me?”

I didn’t say a word.  Just like back at the stationhouse with Owens and Gambini.  I stayed quiet.  This was similar.  This was another form of interrogation.

“Do you hear me, O’Donnell?  I own you, bitch!”

The clubbing continued.  I couldn’t feel a thing in my shoulders, they’d been smacked so many times.  My head was pretty well covered by my arms, but my elbows were busted up good.  They could interrogate me all they wanted to.  They’d have no more luck than Owens and Gambini.

“You feel that, bitch?” Broad Shoulder Guy asked after giving me a good one to the ribcage.  “Do you?  Huh?”

I felt it, all right.  But I wasn’t going to tell him.  I wasn’t going to give up hand.  It was all I had.

“Come on, bitch.  Tell me it hurts.  Cry bitch.  Cry.”

I would never cry.  Broad Shoulder Guy and Ski Cap Guy would never break me.  They could hurt me.  They could beat me.  They could break my bones and bruise my flesh.  But they could never break me.  That was my strength.  That has always been my strength.

To put it simply, I am one stubborn sonofabitch.  I really am.  I guess to some that may seem a detriment, a serious flaw in my character, but for me it’s always been an asset.  My strongest asset, I dare say.  It’s aided me all through life.  And it got me through that day and the awful beating.  When all was said and done, and the guards finally dragged my ass to the infirmary, and the doctors finally checked me out and treated me, I had three broken ribs, a fractured left elbow, a good, solid concussion (thankfully no fracture in the skull), lost a tooth and two fingernails, and my backside was so bruised I had to squat over the bowl for weeks to take a shit because sitting directly on my ass was just too painful.  But I never broke.  Never gave up hand to those two cocksuckers.

“Cry bitch,” Broad Shoulder Guy said while Ski Cap Guy made mock crying noises.

What these two didn’t understand was that my old man was Irish.  He came over to the U.S. when he was eighteen or so.  He’d spent the early years of his life living in the sticks of County Mayo working a farm to feed his eight younger siblings: three brothers and five sisters.  My father’s favorite animal was the donkey.  You might laugh at that.  I guess it sounds silly but only if you’ve never actually worked with a donkey.  My father, he’d worked the fields with donkeys many times.  And a donkey was a stout hard worker.  On a good day, when a donkey was motivated, you could work it for eight, nine, ten hours straight without a single break.  The farmer would tire out long before the animal would, even though the donkey was doing all the grunt work and heavy lifting.  They were just that hardy; a donkey had work ethic. 

When he wanted to.

You see, when a donkey didn’t feel like working, if it was of a sour disposition that particular day, it didn’t matter what you did.  You could smack its backside, yank it by the bridle, yell at it, push it, pull it or pray to the lord almighty.  It didn’t make one whit of difference.  If the donkey wanted a day off, it was taking the day off.

Donkeys were stubborn.  And so was my father.  And so was I.  If I inherited one good thing from my useless, drunken bum of an old man, it was stubbornness.  I guess you could call me a jackass.  But there was no way in hell that Broad Shoulder Guy and Ski Cap Guy were going to break this donkey.

And they didn’t.  Eventually, they gave up.  The farmers tired out before the animal.

“You got that, bitch?” Broad Shoulder Guy asked as he finally turned and started walking away.

Ski Cap Guy chuckled and said, “He got it.  O’Donnell knows what’s what.  Don’t ya?”

And they walked away, over to the semicircle of guys who only now acknowledged their existence.  High fives were exchanged and the club somehow disappeared.  It was the first time I took a beating like that.  A beating so bad I just had to lie there and wait for the guards to finally take notice because there was no way in hell I was getting up on my own. 

Like I said, it was the first time I took a beating like that.  It wouldn’t be the last.

My mother was able to post my bail.  At the time, I had no idea how she came up with the money, but I’d learn later what she endured.  All I knew was that I was returning home.  I didn’t leave the house for several weeks.  It hurt to move.  It hurt to eat.  It hurt to sleep.  It hurt to breathe.  To put it simply, everything hurt.

Considering all the damage I absorbed, I healed quickly.  All and all, I was pretty lucky.  I could’ve been dead.  I could’ve been permanently wounded.  I could have come away from Riker’s Island a completely different person, for the worse.  But as it turned out, as bad as those thugs beat me, there were no lasting injuries.  My ribs healed.  Full range of motion returned to my elbow.  My bruises faded.  The headaches subsided.  The stitches were removed.

I was okay.

Lying in my bed one morning, I heard noises downstairs: voices.  It was Vinny Macho talking to my mother.

“How is he?” Vinny asked.

“He’s doing much better.  Thanks for asking.”

“He’s a tough kid, and he has one hard head, doesn’t he?”

“Like his father,” my mother said with a sigh.

“Yep.  Just like his old man.  But he ain’t stupid like his father.  He got his brains from you.”

“I wish.”

“Can I go up and talk to him?  See how he’s doing?”

“Okay.”

Vinny walked up the steps and tapped on my door.  Then he walked in and shut the door quietly behind him.

I sat up in bed doing my best to act normal, but I couldn’t help letting out a groan and I grabbed my sore gut.

“You okay, kid?”

I nodded.  “Yeah.  I’m getting there.”

“Listen, whenever you’re ready to come back to work, you just tell me.”

“Okay.  Soon.  I’m sure Mom can use the cash after the bail and everything.”

“Yeah.  We’re gonna need to get you a good lawyer, too.  That won’t be cheap.”

“Okay.”

Vinny walked over and sat down at the foot of my bed.  As I looked at him, it started to seem really weird.  I mean, Vinny Macho sitting at the foot of my bed, patting me gingerly on my feet and talking in a hushed tone.

So, I just had to ask him.  “What’s up, Vinny?  What is it?”

Vinny took a deep breath.  “Okay, kid.  Listen.  We need to talk.  Me and you.  Like men.  Okay.”  He twisted his neck and his chains jangled.  “What we talk about is between me and you.  Not a word of it to your mother.  Not a word of it to anyone.  Got it?”

“Okay.”

“The jewelry store you hit.  Whose idea was it?”

I shrugged.  I knew Vinny already knew the answer, but I couldn’t be a rat.

“All right, look.  Here’s the thing.  Scrubby Mike is Don Mario’s nephew.  You know that, right?”

“Sure.”

“The store you guys hit was owned by a good friend of Mario’s.”

“Really?”

“Okay, not exactly.  But the guy owes Mario money.  A lot of money.  You don’t hit a guy like that without Mario’s permission.  Scrubby knows better than that.  But Mike, the dipshit that he is, pays off the daytime security guard and hits the joint without telling a soul.  Other than you, of course.  You with me so far, kid?”

“Yep.”

“You know where the security guard is now?”

“Nope.”

“Well, let’s just say that the pain you’re in pales in comparison to the way that guy is feeling today.  You get it?”

“I get it.”

“Mario is pissed as hell.  Really fuckin’ pissed.  Someone is gonna have to answer for this.  And let’s face it, Scrubby Mike may be an absolute idiot.  I know it.  You know it.  Mario knows it.  All of Tremont Avenue knows it.  But guess what?  He’s family.  You understand?”

“Yes.  He’s family, and I’m not.”

Vinny patted my legs lightly again as he nodded.

“Exactly.  You know I like you kid.  And I think the world of your mom.  I’m gonna talk to Mario for you.  See if we can work this out.  But here’s the thing, I gotta have something to show for it.  Understand?  Scrubby Mike says he ditched his end of the take.  The cops found it.  I gotta come up with something to offer Mario, one way or another.  Shit, if you have to hit another jewelry store, for Christ’s sake, it’d be worth it to save your ass, kid.”

“I got a sack of jewels.  I just gotta make sure it’s where I left it.  I’ve been laid up.”

Vinny’s face lit up.  “You got away with some?”

“Yes.”

“Can you get it?”

“I think so.”

“Good.  Good kid.  You get it.  And as soon as you do, you come straight to me.  And we’ll go see Mario together and get this straightened out.  Understand?  You come straight to me.”

“Okay, Vinny.”

* *

“Honey, what are you doing out of bed?” my mother asked.

“Is dinner ready?”

“In a few minutes.  You go on back to your room and relax.  I’ll bring it up to you when it’s ready.”

“I’m feeling better, Mom.  It’s okay.”

“Sean, honey.  Please, go back upstairs.”

“Really, I’m fine.  I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Upstairs to the Griffin’s.”

“Oh.”

I walked outside to the front porch.  The Griffin’s had their own separate entrance along the side of the house.  I rang their bell.

Mrs. Griffin came to the door wearing an old gray dress with a white apron over it.  She was a hearty woman, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call her fat.

“Hi, Sean,” she said.  “What are you doing out of bed?  Your mother told me you were hurt.”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Griffin.  Is Patrick home?”

“Well, sure.  Just a minute.”

She walked back inside, leaving the door open.  I walked in and followed her up the long and steep staircase, staring at the red-carpeted steps that led up to their apartment.  At the top of the steps was a family room.  Mr. Griffin was sitting on the couch, a beer in hand, a hockey game turned up loud on the television set in front of him.

“Hey, Sean.”  Mr. Griffin was a big man, well over six feet.  He was stout and probably could kick some serious ass back in his day, but the years and the beers were catching up to him and it was starting to show.  His memory was fading, and so was his eyesight.  Still, he was a sweetheart as far as I was concerned.

“Hi, Mr. Griffin.”

“Sit down.  The Ranger game just started.”  He grabbed the remote and turned the TV up even louder.  His hearing wasn’t too good, either.

“No thanks.  I just want to talk to Patrick for a minute.”

“He’s in his room.  Go on in.”

Griff and his mother emerged from the hallway.  His mother walked by me and into the modest kitchen that was separated from the family room by a waist-high wall.

“Hey, how are you?” Griff asked.

“I’m fine.”  I looked at Mr. Griffin on the couch, then over my shoulder at Mrs. Griffin busy in her kitchen.  “You have a minute to talk?” I asked softly.

“Sure.”

I walked down the hallway and into Griff’s bedroom.  He followed me.

“What’s up?”

“I need your help later.”

“What is it?”

“It’s about the job I pulled.  I stashed a sack of jewelry in a doghouse behind the store we hit.  I have to go back and get it.”

“Are you sure they’re still there?”

“No, but I’m sure I have to check.  I need help.  I can’t do it alone.”

“Especially not in the shape you’re in.”

“So can I count on you?”

“You know you can.”

“Great.  Later on.  When everyone’s asleep.”

“Okay.”

“Come downstairs after dark.  We’ll head over there.”

“You got it.”

* *

My mother wouldn’t stop fawning over me.  I must have told her a thousand times that I was feeling better, but she wasn’t hearing it.  She still wanted to spoon-feed me soup in bed; I insisted on eating dinner at the table.   Still, I wasn’t convincing.  All she had to do was watch me grimace with each chew of the sirloin she’d made to know I was full of shit.  I was still in a good deal of pain.  But I could function.  Functioning through pain was one of my strong suits.  When a donkey was motivated, he could plow a field no matter how sore his hoofs were.  It’s genetics.  Eventually, I faked sleep.

She peeked her head in my room at least four times as if I was an infant or something.  I guess she was worried about me.  Maybe she just had the sixth sense or something.  After a while, the house went quiet.  I think she finally fell asleep herself.

I slid out of bed and slowly dressed.  I pulled my shirt gingerly over my head, then slid, one leg at a time into my jeans.  Bending down to tie my shoes was no picnic; my ribs barked and my eyes got watery.  I stopped to slowly catch my breath, then I finished tying my laces.

“I’m up to this,” I whispered to myself.  I had to be.

The smell of dinner still permeated the house.  I walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge.  There was leftover steak on a plate wrapped in plastic.  I picked it up and put it down on the counter.  I found a plastic bag in a drawer and put the leftover steak into it, then put the dish in the sink.

I put on a jacket and stepped outside.  It was a cold night with a chilly wind blowing as well.  I pulled gloves from the pocket of my jacket and put them on along with a navy blue wool hat with a New York Yankee emblem.

Griffin shuffled down the steps, rubbing his hands together, a cloud of frosty air coming from his mouth.