Skin Games Read online

  So she took on other work. She cleaned houses. Worked at the dry cleaners, and the local market. You name it. Any shitty menial job in the neighborhood, my mother’d give it a shot, and believe me, she did.

  The problem was Mr. Bertelli’s work was seasonal. Spring Brides. June Proms. Summer Formals. Bertelli did great in the spring and summer, but oftentimes come fall, he just didn’t have work for Mom. And as nice a guy as he was, Mr. Bertelli wasn’t going to pay my mother to sit around and do nothing. So she’d go months at a time without steady work.

  It was during one of these awful lulls that she became desperate. She was a proud woman. But she was also fiercely independent, and despite her Italian-Catholic upbringing, she was a practical lady.

  She understood that sometimes you just had to do what you had to do in order to survive.

  I was shooting hoops with some of the neighborhood kids and came home well after dark. I walked inside and all was quiet. Most of the lights were off. Just the kitchen light and one hall light lit up in an otherwise dark house. I didn’t think much of it. Didn’t announce myself or call out. I just walked up to my room.

  Several minutes passed, and I became curious. Was she home? She had to be in her room. I walked down the short hallway that separated our rooms.

  To this day, I have no idea why I didn’t knock. I was old enough to know better, to have at least some respect for her privacy. And yet, living so close, just the two of us, it didn’t seem like a big deal.

  I really wish I’d knocked.

  Instead, I walked right into her room. It was dark. At first, I thought she was sleeping. But as the hallway light shone in, and my eyes adjusted, I saw the back of my mother’s head. Her long, curly brown hair hung low, and she was down on her knees.

  Then, I saw teeth. A smile, wide and cocky, exposing perfectly capped teeth, no doubt the handy work of Dr. Berman, also known as Berman the Jew, or simply the Jewish Dentist. Dr. Berman was a degenerate gambler and often paid up his debts to the local guys with services.

  Apparently, my mom was doing the same. Vinny Macho smiled at me and didn’t say a word. A bright glean of sweat glimmered off his fuzzy chest as he stood staring at me, his arms gripped around my mother’s head like a basketball.

  Mom jumped back and turned. “Sean. Close the door.”

  And I did as I was told. But some things, once seen, can never be unseen.

  Chapter Five

  * * *

  For some crazy reason, Vinny Macho sort of took me under his wing after that. Maybe he felt bad for me or something. Maybe my mother just gave good head. Whatever it was, I started seeing a lot of Vinny around my house. All my first jobs came through him: running errands, pickups, drop-offs, and occasionally I’d tag along when he’d “do work” as he called it. I learned a lot, and I learned it fast.

  Vinny owned an auto shop on Hunts Point Avenue: full service shop, mechanics and body work. It was a cavernous, grungy-looking place filled with remnants of cars: old hub caps, various tires, grills, old mufflers and junk. Certainly not a high-end place. He had a couple guys who worked inside doing repairs and painting.

  I guess I was about sixteen when I learned how the shop made money. I was helping Jose change the oil on Don Mario’s Black Coupe de Ville when I heard hollering.

  “Hurry up. Hurry up!” It was Vinny yelling.

  The garage door rattled open, and a little brown car screeched into the bay. Scrubby Mike was driving. The car was barely inside when Vinny Macho hit the button for the garage door to come down, as he simultaneously opened a garage door on the other side of the shop. Scrubby jumped out of the car while Jose ran over, and the two of them started moving aside piles of junk that blocked the back end garage door.

  Scrubby jumped back in the car, gunned the engine and the car went through the open door into the lot behind the shop. Jose began putting the junk back in front of the garage door, which was already on its way back down.

  “Help me out, Shamrock.” Jose said to me.

  I ran over and the two of us blocked up the door. We turned and through the bay windows on the garage, saw a cop car slowing up. There were two heads inside. One was looking in. Vinny Macho stood in front of the garage. He nodded to the cops, and one waved, then the car accelerated and buzzed off.

  The garage door came open. Vinny walked in and trotted quickly towards the back.

  “He looks pissed,” Jose said. “Come on. Let’s finish this car.”

  Me and Jose finished up the oil change on Mario’s Cadillac while Vinny chewed out Scrubby behind the shop.

  “What the fuck is the matter with you? You could have brought the heat on us, you dumbass.”

  “Sorry, Vinny. I’m sorry. He didn’t see me come in here”

  I heard a loud smack, and Jose cringed. Then Vinny said, “Don’t talk back to me.”

  There was silence. Then the door opened, and Vinny walked in.

  “You finished with Mario’s car yet, Jose?”

  “Almost.”

  “Shamrock can finish. Go ‘round back and help Scrubby with the car.”

  “Okay.”

  Jose walked to the back, and I twisted the new oil filter in place.

  “Hey, kid,” Vinny said. “You know, you can make some money. Real money, not this five-bucks-an-hour shit I’m paying you for doing oil changes.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Toyotas are hot right now. And easy as shit to hotwire.”

  “Really?”

  “Let me show you.”

  Vinny grabbed a long screwdriver from a toolbox then took me into the back lot. I’d never been back there before. It was a graveyard for old vehicles. They were stripped of anything identifying or of any value. Just skeletons for the most part: no windows, no windshields, no headlights. Some were burned. Others were part crushed or fully crushed.

  We walked deep into the lot. I heard barking, and two pit bull terriers charged me.

  “No!” Vinny yelled. And the dogs immediately stopped running. They began to sniff me up and down. Vinny laughed, then said, “Don’t worry, Shamrock Sean. Those dogs are very obedient.”

  “I see that.”

  He laughed again. “Made you shit in your pants, though.”

  “I’ll say. I don’t like dogs.”

  “You don’t like dogs? What’s the matter with you?”

  “I don’t know. They scare me.”

  “Forget that. Come here.” Vinny walked up to a small Toyota Corolla. It was old and rusted almost to the core. But it wasn’t stripped like most of the other cars. It still had windows and headlights along with four working tires.

  He stepped in the passenger side and motioned for me to get in on the driver’s side. Vinny took the screwdriver and wedged it into the dashboard.

  “Watch and learn.”

  He yanked the screwdriver, and the dashboard came loose.

  “See how easy that is?”

  I nodded.

  Vinny put the screwdriver into the keyhole and knocked it out. “Still watching?” he asked.

  I nodded again.

  “It’s easy work. And the pay is good. A car like this gets you five hundred.”

  Five hundred dollars was more than I’d ever seen at one time in my life.

  Vinny pulled at the wires inside the keyhole. “If the body’s in better shape, I can give you more. Say six or even seven hundred.” He put the wires together, and pricked them against each other. “A Caddy like Don Mario’s is at least a grand. Easy. But I recommend you start with Corollas. They’re easier to start up. You work your way up to Caddies when you’re ready.” The ignition turned over, and the engine hummed. “You see. Easy.”

  I nodded and said, “I see.”

  “Corollas. They’re everywhere, and they’re easy to steal, and I can unload the parts easy. Get it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good. Bring me Corollas, kid.”

  * *

  It was twenty past midnight. Scrubby was twenty minute
s late. I sat on the wood bench on my front porch on the chilly October night, quietly waiting. My mother was in her room, sound asleep no doubt. The lights to the Griffin’s apartment were dark as well. It was a work night; a Tuesday if I recall correctly. The entire row of houses was dark and quiet.

  I stared at the ground, kicking my sneakers together. When I got antsy, I got up and paced back and forth a bit. I looked down the street for Scrubby, straining my neck to see as far down as I possibly could.

  It must have been well past twelve-thirty when I finally heard him coming. The roar of his muffler could be heard at least a block before his headlights came into view. But soon after I heard the racket, the bluish beam of his tinted headlights came shining down the road. Then I could smell the foul exhaust.

  I was already coming down the walkway when Scrubby stopped the black Monte Carlo and hit the horn. I quickly jumped in, wanting to yell at him to keep it down, but unable to muster up the courage.

  Instead, I said, “I’m ready.”

  Scrubby Mike looked over at me, smiled his doofy smile and said, “Let’s do this.”

  He gunned the engine and his tires squealed. The dice that hung from his mirror jerked up and down; I jerked up and down along with them.

  Some shitty disco song blared out of the radio, and between that and the exhaust, I couldn’t hear a word Scrubby said. But he kept on talking the entire ride up the thruway, then onto the Hutchinson River Parkway into Pelham Manor. He got off the parkway and finally turned down the radio.

  “We don’t want to draw too much attention,” he said.

  “Good idea.”

  We cruised down the main artery and then Scrubby let off the gas pedal and we rolled down a side street. The car coasted as we looked both ways.

  “You see any Caddies?”

  “Vinny told me he wants Corollas,” I said.

  Scrubby smirked and shook his head. “We won’t get shit for a Corolla. Cadillacs are where the money’s at.”

  “I don’t know, Mike. Vinny said…”

  “Shut up, Shamrock,” he said as he sniffled and rubbed his nose. “Trust me. We could be out here all night stealin’ Toyotas and be lucky to take home a few hundred each. We get one nice Caddy or a Benz and our night is done.”

  The houses were big; some could barely be seen from the street. The lawns were big and full of trees and grass. I’d never seen a neighborhood like it before. Scrubby pulled up to the front of a large, Tudor-style home and put the Monte Carlo in park. The driveway was long and slightly on an incline. At the top, I could see two cars parked.

  “Now that is nice. Brand new Fleetwood Braham. That’ll get us a grand each.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  “Go on. I’ll be right here.”

  “This is my first time. I think I should start on a Corolla. Like Vinny said.”

  “You are a pussy, Shamrock. I’ll do it myself then.”

  He yanked at the door handle, but just before he could push it open, we saw headlights flashing down the street.

  “Shit,” he said, then closed the door.

  The car approached, then slowed to a stop right behind us. The bright beam of a spotlight came in through the rear windshield.

  “Fuck. The cops,” Scrubby said. “Just be cool. We haven’t done anything.”

  Both doors opened and two cops walked towards the car, one on each side. The spotlight stayed on.

  One cop rapped twice on Scrubby’s window. Scrubby palmed the big, plastic handle those old cars had and he rolled the window down.

  “License and registration, please.”

  “Sure thing, officer.” Scrubby reached across my lap and began to fumble through his glove box. “I’ve got my paperwork in here somewhere.”

  “What are you boys doing here tonight?” the cop asked. I couldn’t see his face, only his midsection as he stood up straight, towering over the car.

  On my side, I looked out and saw the other cop. He had one hand on his holster and the other cupped to his beer-belly. He took his hand off his belly and motioned for me to roll down my window. I complied.

  “Keep your hands where I can see ‘em, buddy,” he said.

  I raised my hands and lay back in my seat trying not to alarm the cop while staying out of Scrubby’s way.

  Scrubby Mike leaned across my body, his elbow rubbing my gut. He shuffled through a host of papers in the glove compartment of his car.

  The cop on the driver’s side cleared his throat.

  “I know I have the paperwork in here somewhere, officer.” Scrubby said.

  “Why don’t you step out of the car,” the cop said.

  Scrubby continued scrambling, now yanking out piles of papers and tossing them one by one over his shoulder and into the backseat of the Monte Carlo.

  “I know I have my registration in here somewhere. Just give me a minute.”

  “Step out of the car, please.”

  Then the cop on my side reached across my body and grabbed Scrubby’s arm as he said, “You heard the man. Let’s go.”

  “But officer, I’m sure I have it somewhere.”

  “Now!”

  The cop on the driver’s side opened Scrubby’s door. “My patience is running out. Step out of the vehicle immediately.”

  Scrubby didn’t look up. He was tossing papers then he leaned back down and reached into the glove compartment.

  This time, I grabbed Scrubby’s arm and said firmly, “Scrubby!”

  He looked up at me, then looked over at the cop. Then, finally, he slid over in his seat and stepped out of the car on the driver’s side. The cop on my side took one step back and said, “You too, buddy.”

  I opened my door and stepped out. Now that I could see both cops, I saw that one was chubby, the driver. The other was beyond chubby; he was fat. They wore dark black uniforms instead of the blue the city cops wore.

  The cop patted Scrubby from head to toe looking for weapons. He pulled the wallet from Scrubby’s back pocket. He removed Scrubby’s driver’s license and took a good long look at it.

  “You got a license, at least.”

  The other cop nodded and said, “Lucky guy. How ‘bout you? You got ID?”

  I reached for my wallet, and the cop jumped and shouted, “Easy.” He grabbed my arms and roughly straightened them out. He patted me down then said, “Ok, now give me the license.”

  I pulled out my wallet and quickly handed him my high school ID, while flexing my suddenly sore shoulders and elbows.

  He looked at the picture, then at me, then back at the picture.

  “School ID?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where’s your driver’s license.”

  “Don’t got one.”

  “Take a seat,” he said while gesturing to the curb.

  I sat down as he walked towards the police cruiser.

  “You, too,” the other cop said to Scrubby. Scrubby paused, and the cop said louder: “Are you deaf? Sit your ass down on the curb next to your buddy.”

  Scrubby nodded and slowly sat down next to me.

  The chubby cop walked up to the car and sat down inside. The fat one leaned against the police cruiser and breathed heavily.

  Scrubby started fidgeting. He shifted back and forth while sniffling and playing with his nose. He turned to me and said, “Knock it off.”

  “What? What did I do?”

  “Just sit still.”

  I looked down and didn’t say a word.

  “We’re fucked. Goddamn it, we are fucked.”

  I stayed quiet.

  “Did you hear me? We are fucked.”

  The fat cop looked over.

  “Shit. Now he’s gonna come back over here.”

  The chubby cop climbed slowly out of the car and said something softly to the fat cop.

  The fat cop nodded and laughed. Then the two walked towards us.

  “Shit. We are going to jail tonight.”

  “Shh,” I said. “Just
be casual.”

  Scrubby turned towards me and mumbled through clenched teeth, “Don’t tell me what to do, you little shit.”

  The chubby cop walked over and stood in front of us, looking down. It felt like an eternity, him just staring. The fat one stood with pursed lips a few yards behind him, not saying or doing a thing.

  “Get up,” he finally said.

  We stood up.

  He handed Scrubby his driver’s license and said, “You’re lucky. You can go home tonight.”

  “Great.” Scrubby said and started walking towards his car.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To my car.”

  “Nuh uh,” the chubby cop said. “The car is going to the impound yard.”

  “Come on!”

  “You ain’t got papers, you can’t drive the car home. Simple. You can pick it up tomorrow when you pay the fine and show the proper paperwork.”

  Scrubby looked up at the dark sky while shaking his head. I could tell he was about to say something really stupid. I needed to speak up first.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  “Train station is that way,” the fat cop said, pointing to the west.

  “Can I just grab my cigarettes?” Scrubby asked.

  “Fine.”

  Scrubby walked over to the car and bent his scrawny body inward, but he didn’t climb inside. He walked out and slid something into his back pocket while sheepishly looking downward. The cops didn’t seem to notice, or care.

  We started walking west. The station was only about a mile, straight down the main road. We stayed silent the entire way other than Scrubby muttering. Once we got there, the station was dimly lit by streetlamp. There were three cars on the far side of the otherwise empty parking lot.

  “Check that out,” Scrubby said.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Look, over there.” He pointed to the far side of the lot, where the three cars were parked, one next to the other next to the other. Scrubby started walking towards them.