Robbie turned the corner and saw a little girl entangled in her miniature pink bicycle. The front wheel still spun. One look at her terrified eyes and he dropped the groceries he’d bought for his mother. Fresh marinara sauce—his mother had lost the capacity to make it herself—burst in the brown-paper bag, soaking the bottom. A loaf of Italian bread listed in slow motion and then pulled the weight of the bag to its side. An onion rolled to the curb.
He pulled the girl from the wreckage. Her knees and palms were skinned with patches of bright blood. He leaned down, hands on his knees, and consoled her. “You’ll be just fine, sweetie.” She wiped her bloody hands along her tanned shins and began to cry.
“Oh, don’t do that,” he told her, righting the bag of groceries and retrieved a water bottle. “I’ll fix it up for you.” He dabbed water on her wounds. Then he pulled out Band Aids and a tube of Bacitracin from his pocket. His hands were heavily scarred, knuckles covered with deep purple scabs of varying vintages. He rubbed the ointment into her scrapes and bandaged them.
She stared at him through loose strawberry-blond curls. She recognized him from the neighborhood. His brown eyes were unassuming. His bushy, down-turned eyebrows reminded her of a big, friendly dog. He was shorter than most adults she’d known, and that put her at ease. He could’ve been the mailman, or maybe a teacher.
“Where do you live, sweetie? Over there, on that block?” he asked, pointing down the car-lined street.
She pouted, nodding her head in the same direction.
“Can you stand for me? What’s your name? I bet it’s something cute.”
Her face crinkled and she bit her lip, exaggerating her plight as kids sometimes do. She stood and bent over and saw scuffs on her white shoes. The tears flowed again.
“That’s fine, sweetie,” the man said. “A little soap and water and they’ll be as good as new. Trust me.”
“They are new! Mama’s gonna kill me!” she said.
“Mamas have a way of understanding. Believe me, she’s not gonna kill you.”
He salvaged most of his groceries, including the marinara. He clutched the wet bag in one hand and, belying his small stature, hoisted the bicycle in the air and rested it on his shoulder.
“Can I walk you home? What’s your name, honey?”
“Suzie! Daddy calls me Suzie Cakes!”
“Ok, Miss Suzie, let’s find your house.”
His mother was asleep on the couch when he got home; he could hear her belabored breathing echoing through their one-bedroom apartment. He started the water for the pasta, dropping in salt and olive oil. Then he poured what remained of the marinara into a 12-inch frying pan over sautéing minced garlic and white wine. It’ll be a sacrilegious meal as far as his mother was concerned because it wasn’t made from scratch. The pasta was out of the bag and the sauce from a plastic container, though that it had been prepared fresh by a trusted deli cook ought to count for something. She’d always said she’d rather be dead than eat pasta out of a bag. But she’d quickly apologize because that, too, was blasphemous.
The smell of garlic filled the cramped apartment. It was enough to rouse his mother. Her gray hair was matted down. She’d aged a dozen years since earlier in the day, he thought. Her deterioration was part anxiety over scraping together nickels and dimes to pay for food and costly medication not covered by Medicaid while somehow holding onto their apartment. The graver side of her descent was lung cancer. Her oncologist said it had reached category three—a death sentence.
He slowly served her mouthfuls of steaming pasta. The sauce prepared as closely to her liking as he could manage.
“You’re such a good boy, Robbie. My little angel,” she whispered between bites. “Can you put some more black pepper on this? Ay, what I wouldn’t do for a little parmesano!” she said, with a trace of a long-buried Italian accent. She squeezed her thumb and two fingers in the air.
He obliged with the pepper, one of life’s simpler, cheaper pleasures. He put his arm around her frail body and hugged her. Her appetite remained hearty for someone so sick.
“Did he call again?” he asked.
“Twice. I let the machine pick it up,” she said. “I heard his messages, though. He said he’d put us out tomorrow. Robbie, he’s serious.”
“He won’t do it, mama.” He pulled out $578, what remained of his winnings from the previous night after the groceries.
“That might shut him up for a few days, but we’re still four months behind. And the way you’re getting the money, the fighting, I don’t approve. I just don’t approve, Robbie. Plenty of boys your age have respectable jobs.”
“Do you see any marks on my face?” he asked, flashing his Romanesque profile.
“If it’s not on your face, it’s on theirs. And, well, you shouldn’t be hurting people like that. Not for money. It’s not Catholic.”
“Even if it keeps us at home with food on the table and heat in the winters? Besides, pop always said that if you had a skill, a talent, make some money with it. So I’m making some money with it while I still can.”
“I got news for you, your father wasn’t so wise, God rest his soul.” She coughed, and reached for her pack of Marlboro Reds.
“Let’s agree to disagree until I figure something else out. Now finish eating before it gets cold. And don’t forget to take your medicine. It’s almost five o’clock.”
He kissed his mother good night and left.
The King’s Lair was standing room only that night for the all-star baseball game. King’s didn’t recognize the prevailing rules for public establishments: banned smoking, underage entrance, and drug use. Cigarette butts, peanut shells, and pools of spilled beer carpeted the grimy, wooden-planked floors. Eighties rock music, several octaves beyond what he considered reasonable, pinged from a hidden jukebox. The disproportionately drunken-male crowd mingled and flowed, no one satisfied with a static position. It was a place where a sudden bump not followed by a sincere “excuse me!” especially in earshot of a woman, triggered instant reprisals—shoving, thrown drinks, chest thumping, and the occasional right cross to the jaw or a bottle to the head. It was the Wild West right in New York City.
Robbie sat alone, invisible to the far younger guys who leaned on his back calling for the bartender. He nursed a light beer. He ignored the indignity of being a 39-year old in the company of volatile youth.
A girl across the bar, a scorching little thing, maybe 22-years old and accompanied by an unexceptional friend, grabbed his attention. Her black bra straps peeked out of a low-cut pink tank top. She had dimples, a sort of fetish of his—it reminded him of the girls he’d met while on leave from Parris Island. The wholesomeness of those two well-placed pockmarks on a girl’s face drove him wild. She was too young for him, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t take a look. Her friend had a neck tattoo and was missing a front tooth.
A bear of a man stood behind them, an arm around each. His face and thick arms were tanned. A gold chain draped along his hairless chest over a basketball jersey. Black hair protruded from a turned-around baseball hat. His broad shoulders tapered to a small waist, noticeable features even in a loosely fitted shirt. He shouted his drink order to the bartender, a bit too obnoxiously for Robbie to stomach. Yet the bartender gave him all his attention and returned with three shots of Jaeger.
Robbie had seen all he’d have to see. He predicted that he’d be the guy, his action for the night. He ordered another beer he wouldn’t drink.
About 20 minutes later, they’d arrived. The crowd parted as the two old men, wearing tinted prescription glasses and dressed in gray suits matching their thick hair, made their way to the back of King’s. Their drinks appeared immediately. They surveyed the crowd. Every few minutes they’d whisper into the other’s ear.
They got Robbie’s attention. Then one of them subtly lifted his chin and identified his intended foe standing at the bar—the bear with the two girls, as he’d predicted.
Robbie didn’t need to steel himself. He was confident in his quiet manner. He’d had dozens of barroom brawls and he seldom, if ever, came close to losing. It was a talent he nurtured, which subverted a normal career and stable life. He stood and dropped a dollar tip on the bar. He squeezed his way past the bear and nestled in between the two girls, as if he were trying to get a drink.
He sensed the bear staring at him from behind. He turned to the dimpled girl and got a quick look at her cleavage. The bartender came over, assuming that Robbie was with the bear.
“Whaddya have?” he asked, throwing a white towel over his shoulder.
“Nothing. I’m good.”
The bear leaned in and shouted into his ear. “If you’re not getting a drink, then get the fuck out of here. You see there ain’t no room for you.” Robbie was sandwiched in between the soft flesh of the two girls. Their tangy chewing gum overpowered their perfume.
“Do you mind? I’m trying to get a better look. I gotta know what these girl look like up close before I buy them some drinks with my hard-earned money.”
“This girl here?” the bear asked, pointing at Dimples. “That’s my fucking girlfriend!”
“Then you could buy us all a drink, no? Much obliged. I’ll take an Amstel Light.”
“Not for nothing, but for a toothpick of an old man, you sure got a big fucking mouth, I’ll tell you that much,” the bear said, his tanned face turning crimson.
Dimples turned to the bear. Robbie was just five-feet four and her left breast brushed against his shoulder. “He’s not worth it, look at him. He’s just drunk.” Then she told Robbie, “Look, really, you should just go home.”
Neck Tatt disagreed. “You should pick him up and toss him like a freakin’ midget, Mikey. HAHAH!”
“So does this mean you girls don’t want a drink?” Robbie asked. “He’s paying for it,” and pointed a thumb toward the bear.
Others noticed the scene unfolding. Robbie knew a situation like this got bad fast with one of two outcomes: either the opponent finds a clever path that both saves face and avoids a brawl, or he gives it all he’s got. It was the latter this time, and Robbie expected as much. In fact, the moment he’d stepped between the two girls, he’d braced for a shot to the jaw, minimum. Throwing the first punch was forbidden, however. It would put him in the wrong, and get him locked up. A first punch also meant him forfeiting his potential winnings.
Then the bear’s giant fist came at him. Robbie knew they stood too closely together for any real damage. He was right. It grazed the side of his head, to scant effect. But it was a legitimate first punch, providing a self-defense plea. A few guys stepped back, likely looking for some free shots of their own. Robbie, a shadow against the bear’s six-foot-three frame, wound up his short, yet powerful arms and landed two easy blows to the bear’s jaw. The barflies probably saw only two ferocious swings. What they couldn’t see were the years of wisdom, finesse, and knowledge behind those punches that began in a schoolyard 30 years earlier, and advanced into a ring in the U.S. Marine Corps and then the Golden Gloves finals.
Neck Tatt latched onto him and tried to take a swipe. But, and his response would be nothing personal, he threw her down. Then he clenched his fist and delivered a knock-out blow to the bear’s jaw. Everyone heard the distinctive crack. But no one knew where it came from. It couldn’t have been the little guy pinned up against the bar. No way in hell. The rough girl got up and went at him, full force, like a man. Against his better judgment, he threw her down again, where she stayed.
Some of the drunks, feeling atypically chivalrous, didn’t take too kindly to knocking a woman on her ass. They came at Robbie. He swatted them off, sometimes two at a time. Even after all these years, he remained astonished by how poorly most men fought, drunk or otherwise.
The bouncer finally got off his stool by the front door—Robbie’s cue to exit. He pushed through everyone, an easy feat given his small size. Besides, those not directly engaged in the fight didn’t suspect his involvement. The bouncer thought likewise.
He crossed the street to a diner. He sat down, snapped up a menu, and behaved as though he’d been waiting 10 minutes for service.
“Just a regular coffee for me. Black, black as night,” he told the waitress.
He remained calm. When the coffee arrived, he dumped in some sugar and sipped. But his adrenaline pumped when a few cop cars and an ambulance showed up. Minutes later, the bear was wheeled out on a gurney, very much conscious. But also very much lamenting having gotten his ass so severely kicked. Two cops tried to contain the screaming and crying girls. But you could see they that they were beyond the point of containment. Robbie slid down in the booth.
The two old guys strolled in as smoothly as if they’d just gotten hand jobs at a massage parlor. They sat across from him. One took off his glasses. He rubbed his eyes. “You cost me ten large, Rob.”
Robbie took a deep breath. The other man’s smile was frozen from the time he walked in. “You won me ten large, little man. Just for that, I’ll put that coffee on my tab. Sweetie, when you got a chance,” he said to the waitress, interrupting her with another customer.
The first man wasn’t smiling. He had no reason to, really. “Before we go any further, I think we need to get those hands of yours X-rayed,” he said half-joking. “Whaddya got in there, titanium? You some kind of freakish government experiment or somethin’?”
The second man laughed heartily. “Hey, hey, now don’t be a sore loser, you,” he said, patting his friend on the shoulder.
“Not being sore, Jimmy. But, you know, that guy was a fuckin’ giant. You don’t beat guys like that with two, tree punches. You just don’t,” he said. “And wha, you weigh a buck-thirty? A buck-thirty five? C’mon!”
Robbie laughed a little whenever he was around these guys. It wasn’t lost on him that they were throwbacks to the ‘70s, if not earlier. Real deal mob captains.
“Hey, sweetheart, you’re workin’ on losing what coulda been a very nice tip,” the other guy called out. “I’ll tell ya, Robbie here could’ve gone all the way, right to the top. Broke that kneecap, though. Pop! Boxers with metal kneecaps turn into boxers fighting in bars, ain’t that right, Rob?”
Robbie looked away.
“OK, OK, forget that, we got business here,” the loser said. “Here’s your end, your tree hundred,” he said, sliding three crisp, folded bills across the table.
“You forgot the other thing, ‘member?” the other guy asked.
“Yeah, yeah, here’s another sawbuck for the girl. Oofah, you handled her!” he said, cough-laughing.
The waitress appeared and pressed a pen to her order pad. Robbie noticed her dimples. He flashed his hangdog eyes at her. She didn’t bite. They never did.
“There you are, dahling, I was gonna send out a search party,” the winner said, scanning the menu. “Uh, yeah, we don’t want anything tonight. False alarm, sweetie,” he declared, and stuffed a twenty in her apron. He patted her on the ass. She scurried away.
“So Robbie, you wanna go again tonight? You got another round left in ya?”
“Yeah, Robbie, the night’s young. You win for me again, and, uh, I’ll get you a steak. Big juicy sonofabitch,” he said, demonstrating its potential size with both hands.
Robbie had sat quietly until then, allowing the adrenaline to dissipate. “I could go again. I really need the scratch.”
“Yeah, yeah, that reminds me. How’s your mother? She’s made of good stuff, that one. Bet she lives to be a buck-and-a-quarter, no bullshit,” the winner said.
“I don’t even recognize her anymore, you know?” Robbie said. “OK, let’s do it. Fuck it. Where’s it at?”
“It’s out on Staten Island, not too far from you,” the loser said. “I’m sure we could find a coupla guys that’ll put your titanium to the test.”
Robbie blanched. He didn’t want his business coming too close to his mother. When it was in Brooklyn or Manhattan, he could live with that. But in his backyard was another story. “You don’t have anything in Queens? The Bronx, maybe?”
The loser responded, “Nah, not this time, Rob. Figure it’ll make it interesting for you. Maybe you’ll even know the guy,” he said, laughing to the winner. “How funny would that be? Hey, long time no see. Bing, bang, boom!”
“Screw it, let’s go,” Robbie said, sliding out of the booth. He placed two dollars on the table. The winner placed a twenty over his dollars.
They parked the black Lincoln Town Car two blocks from the bar-restaurant. It wasn’t far from Robbie’s apartment. But he’d never been to this bar before. The two men climbed out. Robbie was to wait 15 minutes before entering. That gave them time to say their hellos and choose an opponent.
It couldn’t have been more different from earlier in the evening. It was a family environment with a dining room in the back that opened up to a rectangular bar. Classic rock played in the background, never rising louder than conversations. Robbie felt shabby and underdressed in his shoddy jeans and threadbare white shirt. Everyone wore suits or pressed Polo shirts and khakis. He had $400 in his pocket—four C-notes that before the night was over, would almost double. His mother would love that, despite her concerns over how it was earned. Still, it wasn’t enough to cover the back rent.
He was conscious of every face. Not out of fear of who he’d be battling, but rather who might recognize him and potentially shame his mother. That hurt him far more than any physical beating ever would.
He sat at the mahogany bar and ordered a light beer. The All-Star Game was still going. Guys around him rattled off statistic after meaningless statistic of every player that appeared. No one was drunk or obnoxious. It was just a gathering of guys having a few beers with their friends after work on a summer night before heading home to their families.
The two odds makers sat in the back, chomping on fried calamari. They analyzed each and every patron, and weighed the odds against Robbie. Then a tall man with broad shoulders entered. He held the door for a woman with bright blue eyes and blonde hair pushed back with a white headband. Robbie was about a dozen feet from them.
The man, smiling widely, called out, “So what does my Suzie Cakes want for dinner?”
“Ice cream, daddy! Strawberry ice cream with whipped cream!” Her father patted her head. The family passed Robbie and found a nearby booth.
Robbie clenched his beer but didn’t lift it. He gave his undivided attention to little Suzie. Her smile and big eyes shined like a 1,000-watt light bulb from across the bar. She reminded him of Shirley Temple. Her knees were still bandaged. The sight of it choked him up a little. He imagined what it would be like to have a daughter of his own and to take her and his wife out on a summer’s night after work. Maybe even with his mother. He thought of how precious a little granddaughter would be to her. He looked down at his beer and peeled the label from the sweaty bottle and folded it into a rectangle.
The odds makers continued cataloguing the few patrons coming and going. But Robbie knew how this would end. He’d reached the end of the line with these guys. He was unbeatable and they knew it. They’d even wagered two- or three-against-one matches and Robbie would always walk away barely scratched.
These guys weren’t in the business of losing money, at least not regularly. There was a way to neutralize Robbie and his so-called titanium hands by giving a short tug on his heart strings. Robbie saw them looking over at little Suzie and her father more than once. It broke his heart just thinking about it.
Suzie’s mother admonished her daughter for not eating all of her string beans. One of the odds makers, the loser, of course, gestured to Robbie with his chin toward the family. Robbie turned away and faced the wall. Noticing that Robbie hadn’t touched his beer—except for removing the label—the bartender came over. “Can I getcha some food or something? We do a nice London broil and mash here.” Robbie just nodded no and turned towards some pictures of the owner and his family on the wall.
He imagined how Suzie might react when he approached their table. She’d burst. She’d say, “Here’s my superhero!” What might her reaction be, however, when Robbie bloodied her father’s face? Just thinking about it sickened him. He had no problem smacking around young loudmouths looking for trouble. A family man was another story.
He got to his feet, dropped two dollars on the bar, and walked to Suzie’s table. A bowl of strawberry ice cream bigger than both her little hands sat in front of her. The whipped cream speckled her nose and cheeks as if she’d eaten it without a spoon. She looked up at him, and immediately thundered, “Mommy, mommy, there’s my new boyfriend! Hi boyfriend!”
“So you’re the one,” her mother said. “Not too many guys like you around these days. Want some ice cream?” Her husband slid over to make room. Before sitting down, Robbie looked at the odds makers. They stared intently, rubbing their hands together. For them, they were ringside at Madison Square Garden.
“What’s your name, buddy?” Suzie’s father asked. “You sure did a nice thing for my little girl. Let me get you a beer or something. Whatever you want.”
“No, no, that’s fine. I’m Robbie,” he said, shaking hands. “You’ve got a little cutie there.”
“I recognize you from somewhere, Robbie,” the mother said. “Maybe it’s from school or something. Where’d you go to high school?”
Robbie had butterflies. “I dropped out freshman year, but I think I remember you. Weren’t you a cheerleader?” he began. “Yeah, you were a real slutty little thing, too, if I remember.”
He didn’t recognize her at all. She was probably a decade younger. The $1,000 figure ricocheted around Robbie’s head for what was about to happen. Forget this tree hundred bullshit—he’d need to buy a new soul after this.
“What did you just say?” the father interjected. The mother’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. She swallowed hard. Suzie busied herself with the last of her strawberry ice cream. She clanked her spoon against the ceramic bowl.
“Yeah, that was you. You blew a friend of mine in his car. Ya know, I was always jealous about that. But hey, you could blow me now, if you want.”
“I could do what right now?” the mother said. Robbie pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek and then winked to further clarify his request. Suzie was clueless. The father wasn’t.
The father remained impressively calm. In an even voice, he said: “Suzie, Robbie and I have to go outside to talk about baseball for a minute, honey. OK? You want another soda or something?”
“No, daddy, I don’t want any soda—just more whipped cream!” The father attempted a laugh but it didn’t come out. Suzie clanked her spoon on the bowl. “Whipped cream! Whipped cream!”
The mother managed to speak. “No, honey. He’s not worth it. He’s just sick or something. Call the cops…tell the bartender. Just please don’t go out there with him. Please!” Robbie slid out of the booth. He was half-relieved to handle business outside. But it still wouldn’t change the final outcome. The odds makers were at the edge of their seats. One grabbed at his chin in anticipation.
“Don’t worry, honey,” the guy told his wife. “We’re just going to talk.”
Robbie swung the door open. The sun was down. The air was still very warm and humid.
The odds makers stood by a window, whispering in one another’s ears and laughing. Look at you, you sick bastards, Robbie thought to himself. He wished them both dead. Even that probably wouldn’t satisfy his anger.
In a hushed voice, Robbie told the father: “Please, please, just take a swing at me. I’ll hit you back twice and you just fall to the ground. Can you please just do it? There are people watching us.”
“What in God’s name are you talking about? You talk like that to my wife? In front of my baby!”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry. Please, just hit me once.”
“No, I can’t just hit you once. I don’t know what games you’re playing here, but I don’t want any part of it, understand?” Robbie pleaded with his eyes. “Do you understand me?”
“Yeah, sure, I understand. I’m so sorry.”
The father spit on the pavement. He returned inside. Robbie just shook his head and then leaned against the wall with one hand. The odds makers had their palms up in their window as if to say, “What the hell just happened, Rob?” He knew, though, that they probably still waged a bet, too—on whether or not he’d actually go through with it. He didn’t look back.
Outside the restaurant parking lot, he set off down the service road toward home. There were few streetlights and the woods thickened the farther he got. Cars and busses whizzed by and he thought for a minute how easy it would be to step into traffic—to end it all. But what may have been effortless for him would’ve been horrifying to his mother. He choked hard on the thought of her spending her final days at his funeral. How would she even pay for it? Who would take her there?
He stepped onto the curb and then the grass, safe from traffic. A half hour later, he was at his door, quietly turning the key and entering the blackened room. He creaked through the apartment and into his mother’s bedroom. Sleeping on her side, she wheezed. He kneeled alongside the bed and stroked her hair. Her eyes snapped open.
“Robbie, my little angel,” she said, allowing a soft yawn. “Are you OK? What time is it?”
“I’m fine, ma. I just wanted to check in on you before turning in. Do you need anything? How about I make you some of that chamomile tea?”
“I’d like that, Robbie.”
He gently guided her to the edge of the bed. She kissed her fingertips and then pressed them on his cheek. He got up and filled the kettle and sat at the kitchen table in the dark until it reached a boil.
Ted Gogoll, a native New Yorker and hardcore punk drummer, has written for numerous newspapers and magazines over the past 20 years, traveling and reporting from 60 countries. His debut novel, “Echoes of a Killing,” and short story collection, “CHARGED New York City,” were published in 2013. Visit www.facebook.com/EchoesOfAKilling
–Art by Natalia Drepina
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