Dirty Words - [8]

Bobby turns on the water and rubs his hands under the scalding stream. He slicks his hair back, not looking at himself in the mirror.

When he walks back into the bedroom, he gently uncuffs one of Angela's wrists, rubs the angry dark furrows where the metal dug into her skin and puts the key in her palm.

There's a chill in the night breeze and Bobby wishes he had a jacket. He climbs into his old Chevy and pulls onto the BQE, drives the two short exits to Henry's house.

The lights are on in the old duplex that Henry has lived in all his life. Bobby checks his watch-almost midnight. He presses the doorbell.

Henry opens the door in, what else, his bathrobe. As he looks at Bobby expectantly, Bobby takes a long look back at his old boss. The front of his dirty tee-shirt is covered in orange Cheez Doodle residue. The yellow powder is also clinging to Henry's unshaved lip and his hair is an unkempt mess. Henry DeMarco looks really, really old.

Bobby remembers the man he used to be. The dapper neighborhood wiseguy whose presence alone kept the whole block safe. The guy who always picked up the tab for his crew, be it at Burger King or Peter Luger's. The generous boss. The father figure.

But that guy isn't standing in front of Bobby any more. Not this batshit old psycho covered in Cheez Doodle powder who orders the rape of his ex-wife.

A flicker of a smile plays under Henry DeMarco's watery eyes. "It done?"

"Almost."

Bobby fires the gun into the old man's heart three times. He's dead before gravity catches hold of his lifeless body and drops him towards the floor.

Bobby catches him and lowers him slowly onto the worn hallway rug. Bobby kisses the old man on the forehead. "I'm sorry, Henry."

He gets back into his car and takes the long way back into Park Slope. Through some New York Miracle, he gets the same space he just vacated in front of Angela DeMarco's apartment. Two short honks and Angela comes running out the door, lugging her suitcase. "Pop the trunk."

Bobby shakes his head. "Trunk's full. Just throw it in the back seat." The trunk is filled with Bobby's luggage, ten grand in singles, and a hundred pounds of quarters from the jukeboxes. On top of all that lies the valise given to him from Chaz Stella with a hundred grand in it.

Angela opens the passenger side door and slides in. "Thanks for leaving me gagged and handcuffed, asshole."

Bobby shrugs. "Didn't want to hear you bitch about cuddling after sex again. You pack the handcuffs?"

"Nice. Real nice. Some gentleman you are. Good thing you got a big dick."

Yeah, Bobby thinks. And if Henry knew that I've been sharing it with you for the last six months, it'd be me lying dead in a hallway somewhere.

"Is it done?" she asks.

"Yeah." Bobby puts the car into drive and heads back to the highway. As Bobby drives by the Manhattan skyline, he looks over at the Empire State Building one last time.

Roses At His Feet

Jay-Jay rehearsed the lines in his head like an actor waiting to play his part. He'd close his eyes and imagine himself on a stage, audience applauding, spotlight bright in his face, roses tossed at his feet. In his mind, he was the playwright, director and actor of the two-man show that was about to unfold. Only the second actor didn't know he'd been cast yet.

It was art. He was a performer.

His venue; a tiny triangular park where Olive St. met Metropolitan, Orient Ave jutting it off at an angle. He waited on the dark side of the green, on Orient, around 3:30 each night and watched the bar crowd make their way home with a discerning eye. He'd watch for men with flowers, specifically.

Jay-Jay lit himself another Kool and watched the two young girls clinging dizzily to one another. They passed him without a glance, giggling at their own sloppiness as they zig-zagged down the sidewalk. Jay-Jay squeezed his crotch as they went. A tingle ran from the base of his scrotum and up his spine as he stared at their tight little asses shifting under the fabric of their tight little jeans.

He wasn't no mad dog. He had rules. First off, nobody drunk. Drunks were too unpredictable. Besides, most of them had spent their money on the goddamn booze that had gotten them there.

And drunks got ideas. Stupid ideas about their chances on the man with the knife.

Second rule, no women. Women tended to scream. Jay-Jay didn't need no attention.

It was all an art. It was all an act. Jay-Jay was an artist. He worked his fingers over the top of the chain-link fence, pretending the spaces were the ivory on the grand piano at The Blue Note. He played "Five Spot Blues", humming the notes as he jabbed at the imaginary keys. Shit, he'd been told a ton of times that he played it better than Thelonious Monk himself.

Crack or no crack, times were hard. Jazz clubs were shutting down left and right. Those few that were left had blacklisted Jay-Jay. Said the drugs were getting in the way. Making him fuck up.

Making him fuck up? Shit, somebody needed to tell those rich white motherfuckers who owned the clubs about real jazz.

Charlie Parker.