Staten Island Noir

This collection is comprised of works of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors' imaginations. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by Akashic Books
©2012 Akashic Books

 

 

Series concept by Tim McLoughlin and Johnny Temple
Staten Island map by Aaron Petrovich

"When All This Was Bay Ridge" ©2004 by Tim McLoughlin was originally published in
Brooklyn Noir 
and is presented here with the authors permission. All Rights Reserved

"If You Can't Stand the Heat" ©2006 by Lawrence Block was originally published in
Manhattan Noir 
and is presented here with the authors permission. All Rights Reserved

"Hothouse" ©2007 by S.J. Rozan was originally published in
Bronx Noir
and is presented here with the authors permission. All Rights Reserved

"First Calvary" ©2008 by Robert Knightly was originally published in
Queens Noir
and is presented here with the authors permission. All Rights Reserved 

eISBN: 978-1-61775-146-2

 

Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-61775-129-5
eISBN: 978-1-61775-146-2
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012939266

 

All rights reserved
First printing

 

Akashic Books
PO Box 1456
New York, NY 10009
[email protected]
www.akashicbooks.com

Table of Contents

 

 

___________________

 

 

Cover page

PART I: FAMILY AFFAIR

SNAKE HILL

BY 
B
ILL
L
OEHFELM

Eltingville

SISTER-IN-LAW

BY
L
OUISA
E
RMELINO

Great Kills

WHEN THEY ARE DONE WITH US

BY
P
ATRICIA
S
MITH

Port Richmond

A USER'S GUIDE TO KEEPING YOUR KILLS FRESH

BY
T
ED
A
NTHONY

Fresh Kills

DARK WAS THE NIGHT, COLD WAS THE GROUND

BY
S
HAY
Y
OUNGBLOOD

South Beach

PART TWO: FIGHT OR FLIGHT

MISTAKES

BY
M
ICHAEL
P
ENNCAVAGE

The Ferry

ABATING A NUISANCE

BY
B
RUCE
D
ESILVA

Tompkinsville

PAYING THE TAB

BY
M
ICHAEL
L
ARGO

Four Corners

ASSISTANT PROFESSOR LODGE

BY
B
INNIE
K
IRSHENBAUM

Grymes Hill

PART III: BOROUGH OF BROKEN DREAMS

. . . SPY VERSE SPY . . .

BY
T
ODD
C
RAIG

Park Hill

BEFORE IT HARDENS

BY
E
DDIE
J
OYCE

Annadale

THE FLY-ASS PUERTO RICAN GIRL FROM THE STAPLETON PROJECTS

BY
L
INDA
N
IEVES
-P
OWELL

Stapleton

TEENAGE WASTELAND

BY
A
SHLEY
D
AWSON

Tottenville

LIGHTHOUSE

BY
S.J. R
OZAN

St. George

About the Contributors

Also in the Akashic Noir Series

Bonus Materials

Brooklyn Noir
Excerpt

Manhattan Noir
Excerpt

Bronx Noir
Excerpt

Queens Noir
Excerpt

About Akashic Books

INTRODUCTION

A
N
E
RRINGLY
P
ERFECT
L
ANDSCAPE

 

 

In the always entertaining send-up known as the Urban Dictionary, "Staten Island" is defined as "a floating dump that sits in New York Harbor. Often mistaken for a populated borough." Alternate definitions include: "Brooklyn with parking," "recepticle [sic] of New York City's garbage—paper, plastic, and human," "where the hair is high and the IQ is low," and "name given to the small pile of gristle, burnt ends, and spit-out left on the edge of your plate at the end of a meal," as in:

 

Have you finished your dinner?
Yep.
What about that last mouthful?
Nah, that's just Staten Island.

 

Incensed? Insulted? Then you're probably not a native of the island. Some of Staten Island's most vocal detractors are those who grimly populate its clutter. They're the ones spewing expletives after a snowy-white Escalade or a tricked-out Camaro smushes them against the railing on the Outerbridge. They're growling because it's August and there's that certain fragrance wafting on the breeze. They're the ones who consider their entertainment options for the upcoming weekend and realize, once again, that the choices are 1) the mall; 2) the mall; or 3) hop the ferry and get the hell away from . . . the mall.

Next time you're on the island, slow your stroll and take a good long look at the oft-falling faces of its citizenry. There is very little veering toward glee. Sure, you can find giggling children romping in a kid-sized anthill at the Children's Museum or picture-book couples strolling hand-in-hand through the Greenbelt. There are raucous side streets that feel like a family reunion, with neighbors conversing from their stoops and a cool clash of salsa and Sinatra blaring from open windows. Indeed, there are sometimes whole gaggles of happy people doing apparently happy things and looking damned pleased to be living in . . . in . . . uh, that
other
borough.

But in front of, behind, and on either side of these perky few plods a Greek chorus on Thorazine, shuffling in the shadows and moaning a soundtrack of regional discontent. The tragic chorale seems to be made up mostly of my writing students at the College of Staten Island. When I ask them to write anything about where they live, they sigh and roll their eyes so dramatically they can see who's behind them without turning around.

Each semester I confront a different group of eye-rollers, but when the topic is Staten Island the consensus varies only slightly:

"Nothing
ever
happens."

"
Nothing
ever happens."

"Nothing ever
happens."

As a writer, I firmly believe that 1) there's nowhere where nothing ever happens; 2) something eventually happens everywhere, even nowhere; 3) everything is bound to happen somewhere; and 4) there's no such thing as nothing whenever you're somewhere.

Nothing ever happens on Staten Island?

Nothing happening on the glitzy Uggs-trodden paths of the Staten Island Mall, no steamy intrigue in Frederick's of Hollywood or in the cinnamon-dusted confines of Auntie Anne's? No memorable drama on the relentless to-and-fro of the ferry? Nothing cool about the counter guy at the neighborhood bodega who always has a great story, or that gay club that opened up for a while then disappeared? How about intrigue in the lives of the dude and dudette of Staten Island stereotype—she orange-tinged, deftly manicured, and helplessly attached to her cell; he muscled, sticky-coiffed, and primping behind the wheel of that aforementioned Camaro?

Nothing interesting
at all
? I ask, and, after another round of eye-rolling, they're aching to elaborate.

"This place is too damned small."

"Everybody knows everybody else's business."

"Same people you grew up with, all the time. Never anybody new."

"There's no place to go but the mall."

"Being made fun of all the time gets tired real fast. I don't even tell anybody I'm from here."

And until I finally shut them up, all they do is continue to serve up more reasons why Staten Island is an erringly perfect landscape for noir, the ideal hangout for scoundrels, swindlers, liars, thieves, murderers, adulterous vixens, and assorted hooligans. Let's review:

 

1.

The place was too damned small. On all sides, water ate away at the island. Every day, the brick of the buildings inched closer to him, until Eddie could feel their soft scrape against his skin. Every street seemed to sweat, panting poisons through its many open mouths. There was no street he hadn't seen, no corner that didn't hiss his name. People walked toward him, through him, past him, all smirking on the edge of a smile. Laughing at him. But there it was, the sweet weight of the gun in his pocket. Soon he'd be able to breathe again. Eddie would blow a hole in the way the city touched him, and he'd climb through.

 

2.

"Everybody knows everybody else's business," Eddie spat, "and I don't want nobody knowin' mine." He held the bartender's wiggling little head in a vise grip until it stopped wiggling. He looked down, and the little guy's scalp was glowing red. Eddie got real pissed real fast because here it was, an interruption in his day, now he had to figure out if he felt like killing this guy. One minute, he's looking forward to the zarzuela and a nice chianti at Espana, now here's this loudmouth prick with his eyes popping out.

 

3.

Same people you grew up with, all the time. Never anybody new. Alexis could swear she said the words out loud, but there was Eddie, still asleep, snorting, his mouth open, his mountain of belly radiating heat. Just because their families had lived next to each other in New Dorp. Just because he'd given her that stupid ring in high school. Just because he was the first one to ask, she had to say yes, had to stand up in front of God and family and sign up for this? She sighed, fingered the little blade, studied his sweating pink neck.

 

4.

There's no place to go but the mall. There's no place to go but the mall, and there's no way to walk but in well-lit circles, then ride the escalator with its silver teeth, and the girls. There's no place to go but the mall, and the girls. Sheep boots and sequin skirts, low-cut tops, red-tipped nails, hair color of falling sun, skinny wrists, big perfect mouths, and the girls, swing purses, smack gum, talk the island, girls. Blindfold left pocket this time. Tape on the right. There's no place to go but the mall. There's nothing to do but wait.

 

5.

I don't even tell anybody I'm from here. I can hit Brooklyn or the Boogie B, sling it like I'm a gangsta, point my ride down the middle of the street. I can flash my piece, hold it against a throat, have a man whimpering my name. I can lay a woman down, then leave her, make her unknow my name if that's what I need. Then I get on that great big boat, and I'm gone. In the Bronx, some guy with a gun is searching the back alleys for me. Some big-hipped redhead in Brooklyn is aching to stake a claim. But I get home and the island closes around me, names me all over again. There's something about water. It cleans you.