Authors: Eddie Joyce
“I’m hungry,” says Kieran, partly to deflect Franky, but mostly because it’s true.
“Me too, Double K. Thirsty as well.”
He spies another jersey, a throwback number 33 with E
WING
stenciled on the back. He takes it from the rack.
“This is the winner. Old school.”
“Will he know who Patrick Ewing is?”
“Doesn’t matter. His pop’s favorite player.”
“I don’t know, Franky. Is he even a Knicks fan?”
“’Course he is. He’s from New York.”
“Yeah, but the Knicks have sucked for basically his whole life.”
“Doesn’t matter, Kielty. You root for your teams, no matter what. You don’t jump on and off the bandwagon when it’s convenient.”
“I know, but he’s a kid.”
“So?”
“So maybe he likes a different team.”
“Like who?”
“Like the Heat.”
Kielty holds up a Miami Heat jersey, the name W
ADE
in black letters on the back. Wade. He’d nearly forgotten about Tina’s new friend. What the fuck kind of name was Wade anyway? A douche bag’s name. His throat is dry and he can feel his leg twitching.
“I’m not getting him a fucking Heat jersey like some goddamn front-runner,” he yells, startling Kielty, who quickly puts the offending jersey back.
“Okay, Jesus, Franky. It was just a suggestion.”
“Here’s a suggestion: shut the fuck up.”
Franky stomps to the register, clutching the Ewing jersey. He drops it on the counter and gives the girl manning the register a smile. She has a bit of a horse face, and her black hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail, making her face seem even longer. Skin is almost orange. Franky can’t decide whether she’s attractive or hideous. Maybe a little of both. He really needs to get laid.
She lifts the tag with long, pink fingernails and swipes the gun over the bar code.
“Fifty-two, twenty-seven,” she says between snaps of her gum.
“For my nephew,” Franky says as he reaches for his wallet. She smiles, bored. He pulls out a credit card and hands it to her.
“Excuse me,” says an accented voice from behind him, “is this on sale?”
Franky turns and the Arab in the ratty Giants jacket is standing there, holding a baseball glove. The young boy stands obediently at his side.
“You’re gonna have to ask a salesperson,” says the girl.
Franky stares daggers at the guy, hoping the man will say something to him. He’d love a fight. God, would he love a fight. To grab this filthy fucking Arab’s head and slam it into something. Nothing would make him feel better. When he slammed that cabbie’s head onto the hood of his own car, he’d felt a rush stronger than anything the bump had ever given him. Every violent impulse he’d ever had succumbed to in one cleansing moment. So he’d done it again and again and once more, for good measure. None of the bullshit afterward mattered: not his mother or Peter, not the handcuffs or the courtroom. It was a worthwhile trade. Standing over that terrorist sack of shit as he bled into his own hands and prayed for mercy from his worthless god. He would do it again. He would do it today.
And how did that start? With words. He was walking away, skipping the fare, but walking away, and then the dumb shit opened his mouth.
You are disgrace to your mother.
Am I now?
Words could lead there. That’s what he wants now. He wants this guy to say something. Anything. He needs this, more than a drink or a snort or a fuck.
Please, Lord, he thinks, let this guy say something to me.
He takes a half step closer to the man.
“Please, they told me to ask you,” says the man, his eyes darting between the girl and Franky.
“She said to ask a salesperson, you filthy camel fucker,” Franky says, leaning into the guy. The man moves his son to the other side of his body, putting himself between Franky and the kid. Franky can hear Kielty behind him, breathing heavy and nervous. He can see fear in the man’s eyes, can sense it even coming from the girl behind the counter. Everyone’s nervous but him. His body has adjusted to the adrenaline surge. He’s humming, keyed up, ready to go. He smiles at the man, a nasty, derisive lip curl.
“Let’s get out of here, Franky,” says Kielty. “C’mon, they’re gonna call security.”
“Say something,” he says to the man, whose son is hiding behind him now. “Say something.”
The man doesn’t respond. He keeps one hand on his son and raises the other like he is trying to soothe a wild dog.
“Say something,” Franky says. He can feel tears starting to slide from the corners of his eyes. He knows the man won’t say anything. The blood in his body starts to throb less insistently.
“Franky, please,” says Kielty.
He reaches over and grabs the plastic shopping bag that holds his nephew’s birthday gift. He turns and walks out of the store without speaking, the sudden emptiness in his chest in desperate need of liquid attention.
* * *
At a table near the bar, surrounded by faux sports memorabilia and bargain-basement kitsch, Franky watches Kielty devour a plate of buffalo wings, unsure whether he should be disturbed or impressed. The fat fuck simply inserts a blue cheese–slathered piece into his maw and then removes a scrap or two of bone, his teeth somehow having shorn the wing of all meat and flesh and sauce. It doesn’t even matter whether the piece is a drumette or one of those annoying rectangular pieces with two bones; Kielty is a machine. His face is covered with orange buffalo sauce. Some things, at least, never change.
Franky chuckles, drains his mug.
“You’re a piece of work, Kielty.”
“What?” he says as he uses a small army of mini wipes to clean his hands.
“Applebee’s? Where we going next, Olive Garden?”
“I like Olive Garden.”
Franky flags down a waitress, orders another beer.
“You want another?”
“I’m driving. I’ll have a Diet Coke.”
“Some fucking drinking buddy you are.”
The waitress leaves with their orders. She isn’t much to look at, but Franky finds himself checking out her ass as she walks away. Christ, he really, really needs to get laid. He turns back to Kielty.
“The one thing you can get on Staten Island, no questions asked, any time, day or night, is fantastic, out-of-this-world Italian food. And yet, you like Olive Garden.”
Kielty shovels some blue cheese into his mouth with a piece of celery.
“I like their never-ending pasta bowl with the spaghetti Alfredo.”
“That’s exactly what you need.”
The waitress drops off his beer in a fresh mug, thinly encrusted in ice. He hates this place, but the beer is damn cold. He orders another. If he has to drink alone, he’ll set a proper pace. He looks at television over the bar. He bet the second half over in the Florida State game, but it doesn’t look like much has happened. A dopey white kid with a floppy haircut sinks a foul shot. If the over comes in, he’ll lay one more bet, try to get flat.
“When are you opening up your bar?”
“Me and Denny Hogan were talking about that yesterday. Gotta pick the right spot. Would love to be on Forest, but maybe Victory could work. He looked at a place down by the ferry, but I don’t know with the projects and all.”
“Staten Island Yankees games could bring in business.”
“How many games do they play a year? Twenty, thirty tops?”
“It’s something.”
“Yeah, guess so. Maybe. I don’t know.”
He doesn’t tell Kielty that he still needs to come up with most of his end. He’s managed to save a little since he got off the blow, but he’s still almost sixty grand short. He was thinking about asking Peter for a loan, but the thought of the sanctimonious lecture that would accompany the money is too depressing. He can’t handle that bullshit. Plus, Peter might say no. He takes a sip from his mug. No sense ruining the day thinking about this.
The waitress brings another full mug to the table, places it behind Franky’s half-drained one.
“Hold on, doll,” he says before he empties his mug. “Save you a trip.”
“Thirsty boy,” she says as she picks up his discard. She isn’t bad looking after all. Her eyes are a little too big or maybe just too close together, and she has curly hair, which isn’t his cup of tea, but if you were in a poke, she’d do for a poke. Any port in a storm.
“They talk of my drinking, doll, but never my thirst.”
It’s an old line but reliable. She laughs.
“Next one’s on me,” she says over her shoulder as she drifts away.
He feels good. A little flirting never hurt the old confidence. And the rest of his day is wide open. Nothing to do but ease into the sunset. Maybe take a certain waitress home for some proper rogering.
He checks the score of the game. He needs seventeen more points. Five minutes left. Tough but doable. A Florida State player banks in a three as the shot clock is running down. He’ll take it. Fourteen points. Four minutes, thirty odd seconds.
His cell phone vibrates in his pocket. He checks the caller ID: Mom. Fuck that. She was out of line and she knows it. That why she’s calling. Let her stew in her own guilt.
The waitress arrives with their burgers. Franky was starving before, but the beers have dulled his appetite. He picks at a few fries, Kielty dives into his burger. Franky raises his empty mug at the waitress.
The other team, Kent State, is down twelve with three minutes. They need to start fouling and he needs ten more points. All he needs is a few made fouls shots by Florida State and some quick shots by Kent State. A Florida State player bricks the front end of a one and one.
“Goddamn it. Hit your fucking foul shots.”
The waitress deposits the mug in front of him.
“Good luck,” she says with a smile.
“I need all I can get, doll.”
Kent State misses a three, fouls immediately. Double bonus now. He still needs ten. Two and a half minutes. The same player—an enormous power forward with hands like stone—steps to the line. His first shot doesn’t even hit the rim. Air ball.
“What the fuck? Can’t anyone shoot foul shots anymore?”
Kielty struggles to rotate his head around the flabby mass of his shoulder so he can look at the game. He turns back to Franky, a sudden sincerity creasing his face.
“Franky.”
Stone-hands somehow makes his second free throw and the point guard on Kent State dashes up the court for a quick layup. Two minutes and change. He needs seven.
“Franky.”
“What?”
Kent State fouls right away. Television time-out.
“I think you were out of order before.”
“What?”
“I said you were out of order at the mall with that guy.”
Franky’s eyes shift from the television down to Kielty.
“Excuse me?”
“I think you went over the line. The guy was with his kid.”
Franky glares at him until Kielty looks down at his shoes.
“Jesus Christ, Kielty. You’re worried about the feelings of future terrorists? You are one sorry, misguided soul.”
Kielty takes a doleful bite of his burger. He can’t stay angry at such a pitiful fuck.
“Besides, you were a little out of order yourself.”
Kielty looks up.
“No, I wasn’t.”
“No, no, no, no, no. You insulted him a little bit. You were a little out of order yourself.”
Kielty stares at him, dumbfounded.
“
GoodFellas?
DeNiro? The shine box scene?” Franky says.
“I never saw it,” Kielty says quietly before taking another bite of his burger.
Franky shakes his head in mock solemnity.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Kielty. I mean, really. I don’t even know where to begin.”
He remembers the game, turns back to it, and does some quick math. He needs two more points. Thirty seconds left and Florida State has the ball, but Kent State isn’t fouling. Florida State is going to run the clock out.
“Oh fuck. You have to be fucking kidding me.”
“What?” says Kielty.
The game clock whittles down to single digits.
“Don’t do this to me. Don’t fucking do this.”
He’s gonna lose, be right back where he started the day, plus the vig. With three seconds left, the ball is passed to some benchwarmer, only in the game because the outcome is no longer in doubt. No one even bothers to guard him. He takes two lazy dribbles and nonchalantly flicks up a jumper from fifteen feet. Nothing but net. The second half over comes in.
“
Yesss!
C’mon now, son.”
He stands and throws a halfhearted punch that smacks Kielty’s shoulder.
“Ouch. Jesus, Franky.”
Kielty rubs his shoulder, pouting. Frank leans in, hisses in his ear.
“Yeaaaaah, muthafucker.”
The waitress arrives with a fresh mug of beer. He takes a hearty pull, laughs at his own good fortune.
“Aren’t we a happy camper?”
Franky smiles.
“We are indeed. Sweetheart, you don’t, by any rare chance, have a cigarette I could bum?”
“Your lucky day,” she says, pulling a pack out of her waitress apron.
“It’s starting to feel that way.”
* * *
Outside, it smells like rain. The sun has disappeared behind a drift of smoke-colored clouds and the wind has some bite. Franky wishes he’d thrown on something more than a pair of gray sweatpants and a T-shirt. He takes a drag of the cigarette, looks out over to Fresh Kills, where the dump used to be, where they sifted through the remains from the towers, where the city is planning to put an enormous green space. There was a time when this whole area smelled like garbage, when people walked out of the crisp, air-conditioned mall only to have their nostrils invaded by the scent of rotting cabbage. Or worse.
The dump seemed like a curse at the time, its fetid stench drifting over the whole Island on hot summer days. But that time seems sacred now. Innocent. Before, well, before everything. Having to live with the smell of garbage seems quaint. Beats living in the shadow of things that once were.
Christ, he misses Bobby. More today than in a long while. He misses him every day, but on certain days, the hole is so clearly defined that he can almost feel it being traced on his chest. Bobby would have understood the appeal of letting the afternoon drift away on a sea of beer. He would have laughed and celebrated the absurd backdoor cover at the buzzer. And he sure as shit would have picked up on the
GoodFellas
reference. He would be standing next to Franky now, looking out over the hundreds of shiny cars parked next to a sea of covered shit, and laughing.