Skin Games Page 5

  “Me?” I asked.

  “Both of you. Come on.”

  We looked at each other, then Scrubby led and I followed him through the door to the cell. The cop walked a few steps ahead of us down a long corridor and then he opened the outer door.

  “Let’s go,” he said while nodding us forward.

  We walked through the door, and he closed it behind us, staying on the other side. My mother was in an open room standing with her hands on her hips. There was a heavyset man in a drab-gray windbreaker skulking just behind her. She sort of half smiled and walked towards me.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  I smiled. “Fine. I’m fine.”

  “Hey, Scrubby, aren’t you gonna introduce me properly to this pretty lady here,” the guy said.

  Scrubby’s lips puckered as his usual sour-puss face returned. “Sure thing, Bondo. That’s Mrs. O’Donnell. She’s sort of with Vinny Macho. Right?”

  My mother didn’t look at them. She just said, “Yeah. Right.” She grabbed me by the arm like I was a two-year old and marched me out of the station.

  Chapter Six

  * * *

  I spent the next few days laying low, trying not to draw attention to myself. Part of me was afraid and wanted to stay out of trouble. But mostly it was the disappointed look in my mother’s eye that kept me indoors.

  The doorbell rang late one evening, and I went to answer it. Vinny Macho was standing at the door alone. I wanted to run upstairs and hide, but instead I unlocked the door.

  Vinny smiled as he walked in. “Hey, kid,” he said in a friendly tone.

  Still, I was wary. “My mom’s upstairs. I’ll go get her.”

  “No, kid. I’m here to see you.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Now I felt sweat under my arms. My fingers and toes were tingling. My stomach started to growl and moan.

  “You did good the other day, Sean.”

  He called me Sean. It was downright odd.

  “I know what happened. Those pigs tried to get to you. Owens and Gambini. They tried to get you to talk.”

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  “And you told them nothing, right?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t say shit, Vinny.”

  “I know.” He nodded and smiled, but this time I was sure the smile was sincere. “I know, kid. You did a good job. That Gambini is the biggest fuckin’ scumbag there is. He thinks he’s better than us. A freakin’ Italian. He’s a disgrace.”

  “Don’t worry, Vinny. I didn’t tell him nuthin’.”

  “I know.” Vinny reached in his pocket and pulled out a fat wad of bills. He peeled off a few bills and handed them to me. “Here’s the other two-fifty for the car. You earned it.”

  I took the money.

  “You did good. And when someone does good for me, I get them more work. Understand?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. You do want more work, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. I want more work.”

  “Good. Come down to the shop tomorrow, in the evening. I’ve got something for you.”

  “Okay.”

  “After dinner, you come by.”

  “Okay.”

  And that was how it happened. Do one job right and more come. Simple. I took to it like a natural. I was a minor, so the case against me disappeared fast. The Pelham Manor cops with their new, shiny suits couldn’t do shit. I worked for Vinny, and the next couple of years were pretty smooth. I helped out my mother, pitched in with the household bills. She didn’t like it; she knew how I was earning and who was paying me. Still, she didn’t turn down the money. She really didn’t like it when I dropped out of high school midway through the eleventh grade, but we both knew I was never gonna be a rocket scientist.

  So, the next years were spent changing oil and brakes during the day and ripping off Corollas at night. When I was, oh, I guess nineteen, things changed.

  Me and Jose were drinking at a bar on Hunts Point Avenue called The Whistler. It was a tiny dump of a place, but it was just around the corner from Vinny’s shop, and we liked to go there after work to have a few drinks before going home and washing up for the evening.

  Scrubby walked in. “Look at you two grease monkeys”

  “Hey, at least we have a job,” Jose said.

  “What are you talking about? I have a job.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Jose gulped down his beer and made off towards the door. “G’night. See you later.”

  “Later, man,” I said.

  Scrubby ordered a shot of Jack and turned to me. “You want a shot, kid?”

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  “Just seltzer for you. I know.”

  “That’s right.”

  “The only Irish kid I know who doesn’t drink.”

  “Half Irish.” Truth was I preferred seltzer.

  “I got something. Something good and I need some help on it.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  He inched close to me and whispered: “It’s a jewelry store. The place is packed with goodies. We’ll make out.”

  “Yeah? You sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Vinny know about this?”

  “You let me worry about that. All you need to know is that I got the combination for the alarm system. We walk in, shut it off, get the goods and get the fuck out of there. Easy.”

  “I see.”

  “So, you in?”

  “Okay.”

  Later that night, Scrubby came and picked me up in his latest ride. It was a Monte Carlo, but older, uglier and more rusted than the one he used to have. The exhaust was twice as loud and three times as smoky.

  I was sure he would wake the neighbors.

  When he slowed in front of my house, I quickly walked up to the car. The door handle felt loose as I jerked it open, then stepped inside.

  “Are you sure about this car?” I asked.

  “What? What’s your problem?”

  “It’s pretty fuckin’ loud. The cops’ll hear us miles away.”

  He rubbed his nose and nodded. “Yeah. You’re right. We’ll park it a few blocks from the spot to be safe.”

  I nodded.

  “Good thinking, Shamrock. I knew there was a reason I brought you along.”

  “Hey, I try.”

  The brakes let out a tiny squeal as Scrubby brought the Monte Carlo to a stop to parallel park along the side of a quiet side street just off the main drag of Tremont Avenue. He reached into his backseat and came out with a dark gym bag. He looked in, then zipped it up.

  “You ready?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  Instead of heading toward Tremont Avenue, Scrubby went the other way, taking the long way around, through a residential block. He looked both ways and then darted into the front yard of one of the small homes.

  “Come on,” he said in a loud whisper.

  I followed him as he stepped quickly, but we weren’t exactly running. We stepped over the small bit of grass, then down a concrete path that ran along the side of the red-brick house. We got to the backyard, which had one lone tree with a tire swing hanging from it. There was a picket fence that ran about seven or eight feet high.

  Scrubby tossed the gym bag over the fence, then said, “Let’s hop the fence. Give me a hand.”

  I cupped my hands and Scrubby stepped into it. I boosted him upwards and he grabbed the top of the fence and shimmied up and over.

  “Come on, Shamrock. Hurry.”

  I looked at the tree, then stepped up on the tire swing. Standing straight up, my arms wrapped around the rope of the swing, I pumped to get up a little momentum.

  “Come on, man,” Scrubby barked.

  When the swing reached its high point, I jumped up and slammed into the wooden fence. Somehow, I managed to grab it at the top. My arms were scraping against splinters of wood. I swung my leg up and over the wall, then hoisted the rest of my body along with it, dropping softly, feet first on the o
ther side.

  I wiped my arms, then my shirt and legs.

  “Nice job, man,” Scrubby said.

  I looked back and the fence looked bent from where I’d leaned on it.

  We were standing in the alleyway of a storefront row. There were dumpsters and trashcans from the Chinese restaurant that bordered the jewelry store. Scrubby walked up to the back door of the store.

  He reached in his pocket and pulled out a key. He slid it into the lock.

  “How’d you get a key?” I asked.

  He turned back and smiled, then clicked the lock and slowly opened the door. “Let’s just say I have a friend on the inside.”

  The door came open, and the alarm began to beep. Scrubby pressed the buttons on a keypad that was just on the inside wall. The beeping stopped.

  “Sweet,” he said. “Piece of cake. Now let’s do this.”

  I followed Scrubby inside and he opened his gym bag. He handed me a small burlap sack. Then he took out two hammers and handed me one.

  “Okay. You know what to do. Start over there.” He pointed to a row of display cases.

  I walked over to the display and looked in. There were shiny rings and earrings. Some green, some blue, some red. I pulled up the hammer and smashed it down. I reached in and grabbed a smooth, covered plate that propped up the jewelry. I turned the plate upside down over my sack and the stuff fell right in.

  Scrubby was doing the same on the other side of the store. We moved fast, clearing out the cases in just a minute or two.

  “The real shit is in the office safe,” Scrubby said.

  “What? This isn’t the real shit?”

  “This stuff isn’t bad, emeralds and rubies and shit. But the diamonds are what we really want. Those are locked up every night.”

  “Can you get them?”

  “Of course, Shamrock. I got this.”

  Scrubby walked to the back end of the store. There was a small, three-step staircase that led to an office with a small two-way mirror that overlooked the store. He stepped up and opened the door.

  An alarm began to blare.

  “Shit!” Scrubby shouted.

  “What? What is it?”

  “It’s a separate alarm.”

  “Don’t you have the code?”

  Scrubby ran into the office and started pressing buttons on another keypad. The ringing kept going.

  “I think we better get out of here.”

  “Shit!” Scrubby shouted. “That asshole didn’t tell me there was a separate alarm.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Never mind that. Let’s get out of here.”

  We ran to the back of the store. The alarm continued to ring.

  “Fuck!” Scrubby shouted. He tucked his sack of jewels into his beltline as we ran to the back alley. Scrubby tossed his gym bag into a nearby dumpster then dropped his hammer. I dropped my hammer and tucked my sack into my beltline.

  “Come on, hoist me up,” Scrubby said as we reached the fence. I hoisted him up and over the fence, and he ran off.

  I looked back towards the storefront. Through the window of the jewelry store, I could see straight through to the front window. Two cop cars, the cherries atop their roofs flashing, pulled into the front parking lot of the storefront.

  Instead of jumping the tall, wooden picket fence, I ran down the alleyway. There was a waist-high chain-link fence on the side that separated two storefronts. I hopped it and ran around the corner and onto the side street that separated Tremont Avenue from the residential block that ran parallel behind Tremont. I ran towards the houses.

  Behind me I heard a car. I looked over my shoulder and saw the flashing lights. I darted off the road and leaped up and over another chain-link fence and onto a small lawn that ran along the back of a house. Quickly, I was to the other side of the property and again I jumped up and over a small fence. I passed through three yards quickly while looking towards the road. The cop car was running alongside me. He turned on a spotlight and its light swung around quickly trying to locate me.

  Suddenly, I heard a dog bark and before I had a chance to see where it was, it was on me. I cried out as the big furry animal knocked me to the ground, and then his drool was in my face. I rolled to my belly and felt his teeth bite into my shoulder blade.

  The spotlight’s glare whirled through the yard. I twisted to my side and saw a decent-sized tree between me and the roadway, blocking the light from coming through. I could hear shuffling and then a car door slam. I struggled to kick the dog off me, but he wouldn’t let me loose, his teeth now into my left calf. I managed to shimmy towards his doghouse. It was a well-built, wooden structure that must have kept the furry guy warm on the cold autumn nights. I reached into my waistline and took out the sack with the jewels. I flung it into the doghouse.

  The dog was up at my shoulders and neck, but I was able to turn and get up on one knee, using my arms to fend him off. Lights came on, and a door from the house opened. Two cops ran along the side of the property just as the home owner came out of his house.

  “Bucky!” he shouted. “Down!”

  The man ran over and grabbed Bucky by the collar and yanked him back. The cops, guns drawn, came right up on me.

  “Don’t fucking move!” one of them yelled.

  I put my arms up defensively, now standing on my feet, my jacket and shirt in tatters. “Okay,” I said. “You got me.”

  “Let’s go, kid,” the uniformed cop said as he roughly pulled me towards him and then slapped cuffs behind my back.

  * *

  Back in the stationhouse. Same little room. Same dinky table and three hard metal chairs. And sure enough, I had to piss again.

  Owens was sitting, facing me, his chair turned backwards, his arms wrapped around the chair as if he were hugging it.

  Gambini was pacing the length of the room while muttering. Did he really hate his job so much? I was sure he was gonna go off and kick my ass at any moment.

  “Okay, Sean. I’m here to help you. You know that don’t you?”

  I looked straight ahead and stayed silent.

  Owens continued, “I really am, kid. I want to be your friend. You don’t seem like a bad kid. It’s not too late for you. You have a nice mom who loves you. Nice house. Roof over your head. You still have a chance to make something of yourself. All you have to do is work with me.”

  The guy was kicking the same bullshit. Same lines as last time. Same delivery. Did he read off a cue card or just memorize this routine?

  “Sean.” Owens paused and looked back over his shoulder. Gambini’s muttering grew louder. “There’s only so much I can do for you, kiddo. You have to play ball.”

  Gambini stopped pacing and walked quickly towards me. He got right up into my airspace and spit angry words at me: “Listen, pal, you are in deep shit this time. Grand larceny. That is no fucking joke. You are going to do some serious time. Hard time. You aren’t a minor anymore. Your sweet momma isn’t going to save your ass. So tell us what we already know.”

  I kept inching backwards, shuffling in my chair. Gambini inched forward, keeping his face so close I could smell the coffee and jelly donut he’d recently eaten.

  “We know you work for Vinny Macho,” Gambini said. “We know you work with Scrubby Mike. We know you’re just a small fry. We want the big potato. Understand?”

  I looked straight down, tapping my Nikes to a beat in my head.

  “Do you fuckin’ understand, kid? We already fuckin’ know everything and if you play ball, you get to go home. If not, you are going to the pokey where big gargantuan gorillas will make you their bitch. Do you hear me, pal?”

  I squirmed in my seat and shifted.

  Owens leaned forward in his chair, putting his arm on Gambini’s shoulder. Gambini leaned back, slightly.

  “Come on, Sean,” Owens said softly. “Let us help you.”

  The room went quiet. I could hear Gambini’s teeth grinding, then his breath blowing.

  Owens said, “All y
ou have to do is cooperate, and you go home.”

  I sniffled and shifted again in my chair.

  Gambini took another loud breath, his head inching closer. Our three heads were all at the center of the small table, almost touching one another.

  “Sean, I don’t know how else to convince you, we are your friends. We want to get you out of this mess. Okay?” Owens lightly pushed Gambini back again. Then he said, “So, what’s it gonna be, Sean?”

  Gambini added, “Fess up and save your pretty little Irish ass.”

  “I’m half Irish, sir.”

  Gambini’s face went red, he pushed Owens back with one hand and grabbed my shirt with the other while shouting, “That’s it wiseass!” He yanked my shirt and I heard the collar rip in the back. “I’ve had enough of your bullshit!”

  “Vito,” Owens said to his partner. “Just relax, man.”

  Gambini let go of my shirt, then turned and started pacing and mumbling again.

  “Sean,” Owens said, “You’ll have to excuse my partner. He just doesn’t understand why you wouldn’t want to help yourself.”

  “I really have to take a leak.”

  Owens shook his head, looked at Gambini, then back at me. “Fine. Fine, have it your way.”

  Gambini quickly walked out, his jet-black dress shoes stomping against the grungy black and white tiles. Owens walked more slowly towards the door that Gambini’d left open. He turned around and looked at me, as if giving me one last chance to be a rat, something that would never, ever happen. Then he, too, walked through the door; he closed it shut behind him. I heard the lock click shut.

  I guess I still wasn’t going to get to take a piss.

  Finally, sometime later, a uniformed cop came in and took me from the interrogation room and walked me out to a waiting car. The cop drove to Central Booking, a big ugly building with red bricks faded from sand blasting and heavy steel doors that had multiple coats of non-matching paint. We walked down two flights of steps to the bullpen. The pen held about thirty men, and it was full. The cell stank of stale wine and body odor. In the far corner there was a wide open area with a toilet. I walked quickly towards it.

  As I made my way across the room, a man stepped in my way. He was tall, with broad shoulders and big arms.