The 25th Hour (12 page)

Volandes laughs. ‘They know he has class because he’s wearing the skin of a virgin’s thigh?’

‘Watch. American boxers, they learn to fight in ghetto. They are street fighters. Some are very good street fighters, but there is no science, no art. This is American boxer.’ Kostya throws a left-right-left combination, his head held high. ‘Good punches, yes, but look.’ He repeats the combination, his hairy belly slowly swaying. ‘No defense. You see? Face is—;’

‘Unprotected.’

‘Yes, face is unprotected. And body! American boxers, they never attack body. Everybody wants knockout. They want one big punch. No discipline, these fighters. Where I am from, Ukraine, we train from very small and we learn technique. American fighters, very good athletes. But technique, no.’

‘So how come there’s no champions from the Ukraine?’ asks Volandes.

‘Amateur champions we have. But our boxers fight in other countries only last five, six years. Soon we have champion.’

‘Not you, though, buddy. Not with that gut.’

Kostya shrugs. ‘Women like men with meat. You see this?’ He fingers a long ridged scar running down from his navel under the waistband of his wool trousers. ‘When I was twelve I catch soldier raping my mother. I scream, I punch him, try to kick his balls. He takes knife and opens me up. My mother, she is trying to push me back in. My – how do you say, the coils—;’ Kostya twirls his finger to indicate coils.

‘Intestines?’

‘My intestines come falling out. So she is pushing them back in. Very bad. But see—;’ Kostya beats his chest with his fist. ‘I survive. Big man, now. Later, I find out he was not raping my mother. So, okay, he wasn’t such a bad man. He drove me to hospital.’

‘After he cut you up?’

‘Yes, but he felt very bad. I scared him. He comes back from Afghanistan. Things very bad there for Soviet soldiers. So yes, he cuts me up, but then he drives me to hospital and we become friends.’

Volandes whistles. ‘I thought the Bronx was fucked.’

‘This man, this soldier, now he is my father-in-law.’

‘Your father-in-law?’

‘No, no, how do you say, he marries my mother—;’

‘Stepfather?’

‘Stepfather! Yes. He is my stepfather. Still in Ukraine, with my mother. Good man. I send them money; they live well. No money in Ukraine.’

‘Speaking of money,’ says Volandes, ‘tell me about tonight.’

‘Women love scars,’ says Kostya, rubbing the puckered skin.

‘You know all about women, don’t you? You know so much about women, how come you always go home with some cow at five in the morning?’

‘Women love scars,’ repeats Kostya. ‘They know a man has been somewhere, he has scars.’

‘So what you’re telling me – I want to see if I got this right. What you’re telling me is women love fat scarred guys in silk? Acne scars, do they count?’ Volandes runs his hands over his pockmarked jaw. ‘The fat I got. Okay, tell me the plan for tonight.’

‘We need VIP room. Give me two staff in there. Who’s on door, Khari?’

‘It’s a Thursday night. You want me to close off the VIP room for the whole night?’

‘Uncle Blue wants VIP room.’

Volandes sighs. ‘All right. That’s what he wants; it’s his place. We’re getting a crowd tonight. This deejay I got playing, some kid from Queens, he’s like Jesus Christ these days. Everywhere he goes there’s a crowd following him. Every high school kid in the five boroughs is going to be at the door tonight.’

Kostya picks up his orange shirt and slides his arm through the sleeve. ‘Underage? Very dangerous. You want police in here?’

‘No,’ says Volandes. ‘I said at the door. I didn’t say they were getting in.’

‘Khari’s working the VIP room tonight?’

‘No, Khari’s working the front. I need him out there, with the mess we’re going to have. If you had told me about this earlier, I would have said do it another night. Everything’s crazy when this deejay plays.’

‘Another night?’ asks Kostya, buttoning his shirt and tucking it inside his pants. ‘Montgomery goes to prison tomorrow. You want we should give him party tomorrow night?’

‘How about last night? Last night was empty.’

Kostya frowns. ‘My friend goes to prison tomorrow for seven years. You talk about crowded? About your deejay?’

‘All right,’ says Volandes, raising his hands. ‘I’m sorry. I like Monty; he’s a good kid. Okay, two VIP staff. I’ll put Oscar on VIP door. Girls?’

‘Two girls. Maybe three. He likes – he likes everything, but mostly short, dark. Puerto Ricans. He likes Puerto Ricans.’

‘That’s easy.’ Volandes picks up the phone and pushes a button. ‘Get Roz and Maggie in here . . . Huh? Where is she? . . . Oh, Christ. Well track her down, would you? Tell Roz to come in here.’ He replaces the phone in its cradle.

‘Champagne,’ says Kostya. ‘He loves champagne.’

‘What do you think, six bottles?’

‘Two cases. Cristal.’

Volandes smiles. ‘He’s got expensive tastes, that Monty. You want Cristal, I need to hear it from Uncle. That stuff is too—;’

Kostya rests his heavy hands on Volandes’s desk and studies the little man’s face. ‘My friend goes to Otisville tomorrow for seven years. You sit here—;’

‘All right,’ says Volandes.

‘Two cases.’

‘All right. What else?’ Volandes taps the side of his nose.

‘No,’ says Kostya. ‘None of that.’

A slender woman with copper skin and bleached-blond hair enters the room.

‘Oh, Christ, Roz,’ says Volandes. ‘What did you do to your head?’

‘I dye my hair yesterday.’

‘You dye your hair yesterday. That’s great. Who told you to do that? All right, forget it. You’re in luck tonight – you’re going to meet a friend of ours. Our friend, he looks like a movie star. What are you, Puerto Rican?’

‘Yemeni,’ she says.

‘Yemeni?’ Volandes raises his eyebrows. ‘All right whatever, tell him you’re Puerto Rican. Our friend loves Latinas.’

‘I’m not Puerto Rican.’

‘I know you’re not Puerto Rican. Let’s make it easy for you. Just keep your mouth shut when you’re with him, okay? No, hey, shut up. Start practicing now. No talkie, all right?’

‘Yemen,’ says Kostya. ‘Yemen borders Saudi Arabia and Oman. Yes?’

Roz smiles. ‘You are not American.’

‘I am from Ukraine.’

‘Americans,’ says Roz, ‘they know where nothing is.’

‘Yeah,’ says Volandes. ‘Yemen and Ukraine are so wonderful, how come you both came here?’

‘Education in America,’ says Kostya, ‘is very bad. You do not know your own history. Do you know even when was your civil war?’

‘It wasn’t my civil war,’ says Volandes. ‘My parents came here in 1959.’

‘This shirt,’ says Roz, rubbing the fabric of Kostya’s shirt between her thumb and forefinger, ‘very nice.’

‘You like? Silk.’

‘Very nice.’

‘This shirt I buy in Hong Kong. Hong Kong, they make best shirts anywhere.’

‘They make pretty good shirts in Miami too,’ says Volandes.

‘Your friend,’ says Roz. ‘Is he a famous actor?’

Kostya nods. ‘Very famous. Many movies. You like movies?’

‘I like good movies.’

‘I think,’ says Kostya, ‘maybe you and me have fun tonight.’

‘You and me and friend?’ Roz looks at Volandes and shakes her head. ‘No, too much.’

‘No,’ says Kostya, ‘just you and me.’ He draws a stuffed money clip from his rear pocket and drops it on Volandes’s desk. ‘We have fun tonight. Let me show you this,’ he says, unbuttoning his shirt.

‘What are you doing?’ asks Volandes. ‘You want to drink all the champagne now, too?’

‘She’s not Puerto Rican. Montgomery hates Yemenis.’

Volandes shakes his head and picks up the phone again. ‘Hey, you found her yet? . . . Oh, Christ. Every week I got to deal with this. Would you find me a couple Puerto Rican girls, please? . . . What? What? We’re in fucking New York City, how hard can it be? Two Puerto Rican girls. And, hey, call Eddie, make sure we have six bottles of Cristal reserved for the VIP room.’ Volandes looks up and sees that Kostya is talking with Roz, pinching her waist. ‘Nonvintage.’

Kostya removes his shirt again, sucking his belly flat. ‘I was boxer,’ he tells Roz. ‘Here, touch my nose.’

Roz rubs Kostya’s flattened nose. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘The greatest boxer of all is Yemeni. Prince Naseem.’

‘You see this?’ he asks her, pointing to his long scar.

‘Yes, what do you say this? Cut?’

‘Scar,’ says Kostya. He leans down and whispers into her ear. ‘Scar.’

Roz smiles. She runs her fingertips along the length of the scar, from the navel to where it disappears below his belt-line. Kostya smiles at Volandes. ‘Big scar.’

‘Big man,’ says Roz, patting Kostya’s thick arm. ‘Very big man.’

‘Yes,’ says Kostya, making a muscle. ‘Big man.’

Twelve

Montgomery loves his city best when the snow is falling, when the sidewalks are tracked with overlapping footprints and the tops of tall buildings are swallowed by clouds. The cars on Houston spin their wheels when the light changes, swerving and sliding and sounding their horns. Monty forgot to wear proper boots for the weather; he can feel the wet seeping through the fine leather of his shoes. But his camel’s-hair overcoat keeps his body dry, and his knit watch cap keeps his head warm. Monty stares into the faces of every man and woman he passes. He wonders where they are going, what they have planned for the night. An Indian couple strolls by, arm in arm, the man holding a black umbrella over their heads with his free hand. Monty hears only the accent, English, and one word,
irredeemable
. The woman said it, emphasis on
deem
, a tone of accusation but not against her companion, against someone or something else, and Monty wants to know what stands accused, movie or boss or girlfriend.

Wherever you sleep tonight, woman, wherever you lay your head, that is where I want to be. Inside the walls is a tangle of faulty wiring, set to spark and flare when the time is right, and you will sleep through the stink of melted copper and burning plaster, you will sleep through the small grabbing hands of the first flames, until the curtains ignite and smoke begins rolling across the ceiling and you finally open your eyes. I will come for you then, when the wallpaper is bubbling on the walls. I will walk through the burning doorway, one step ahead of the collapsing ceiling. I will lift you from your bed and carry you to the window, hoist you over my shoulder, climb down the fire escape, and leave you with the medics. Because it’s true: I would have been a wonderful fireman.

Monty stops before the window of a bakery. He has passed this shop before, has seen Naturelle look sadly at the pastries and stomp away. He stares at the confections stacked on silver trays, a lush display of sweets beckoning to passersby: the puff pastries and peekaboo tarts, the chocolate e´clairs and pecan pies, the meringue cookies and madeleines, the strawberry tartlets and honey-spice cakes. Monty has never been less hungry, but he admires the artfulness, the order. He wonders who created this arrangement, who sat inside the window and positioned each dessert in its proper place, with an eye for the colors and forms. And he wonders where she is now, for Monty is sure it’s a woman. He imagines her standing in a high apartment, looking down at the city, still dressed in her baker’s white uniform, her fingertips dark with dried chocolate.
Bake me a cake, lady
.

He turns from the window and heads east. A young athlete in his varsity jacket sprints past, thick-necked and crew-cut, a bouquet of red roses in plastic wrap held close to his chest. I could take her from you, thinks Monty. I could follow you right now to wherever you’re meeting, to the red Naugahyde booth where she sits waiting, slide next to her, and steal her away. Monty knows she would come; he knows the words. Or maybe not, a girl dating Mr Crew-cut-and-red-roses is not exactly Montgomery-style; still, there’s always a chance. Their eyes would meet for one lingering moment and he would know the odds.

Monty cannot remember a time when women did not fuss over him. He has always been pretty. Growing up in Bensonhurst, Monty had to prove his toughness wherever he was unknown. His eyes were too green, his lashes too long, his nose too delicate. Boys did not trust him, not at first. When he was younger, Monty went out of his way to obscure his looks. He would wear baseball caps to hide his thick, dark hair. He never smiled because his teeth were perfect, absolutely straight without need for braces. But the disguises never worked; he still stood out, and kids went after him. So Monty fought, and he fought well. There is little art to an adolescent fist-fight. Monty swung first, he swung hard, and he never let up. He shrugged off whatever blows he took in return. A black eye was a mark of courage; it let the other boys know he would not be pushed around.

Later, Monty realized his face could be useful. Girls he passed on the street would nudge each other and giggle. Older women, teachers and friends’ mothers, would fawn over him, listening to his every word, especially when they heard that his own mother was gone. Many of his classmates in high school resented his status as resident lady-killer, but they were quiet in their resentment. In Bensonhurst, Monty was considered a stand-up kid, willing to fight for respect but by no means an intimidator. At Campbell-Sawyer, where months went by without a punch being thrown, Monty became legendary for his ferocity.

In his sophomore year he was named starting point guard for the varsity basketball team. During one important league game an opposing forward hacked Monty constantly. Every time Monty drove to the basket, the forward clobbered him, using his elbows and his hips. The referees called a few fouls but missed several others, and Monty grew increasingly angry, until one play when he jumped for a rebound and felt his legs swept out from under him. He hit the floor hard, back first. He stood up swinging. The forward had been waiting for this all night and was ready. He outweighed Monty by forty pounds and stood several inches taller. By the time the coaches and referees pulled the combatants apart, it was clear that Monty was losing the fight. Both players were thrown out of the game, but first the coaches insisted that they shake hands. The forward offered his and Monty punched him hard in the mouth, knocking the larger boy to the floor.