Dirty Words Read online

"No…"

  "There you go."

  "For the love of…"

  "And you got a weird sense of humor calling Johnnie Scumbag innocent." Josh's face went hard when he said it.

  I met his eyes evenly. "He didn't rob Tino, Josh. If he was with you at the poker game, he didn't kill Nina either. Or the baby."

  "Yeah. I know all about that. It's a tragedy. But Johnnie ain't no saint, either."

  "I know that."

  Josh nodded, solemnly. "You know about Geraldine?"

  The name sounded familiar, but a face wouldn't appear in my mind. "I think so. What about her?"

  "You mighta called her Sharkie."

  "Oh yeah, Sharkie." Sharkie was a local hustler who fleeced the uptown boys whenever they played pool on the L.E.S. She wasn't a supremely skilled player, but was extremely gifted, nonetheless. Gifted by the way of 38-24-36, two inches of tits more than the Commodores granted. She played in a wifebeater t-shirt and a pair of bike shorts. Looking like she did, the best pool players in the world had trouble lining up a shot while staring at her womanly goodness. To top it all off, she possessed both a smile and nature so sweet, her marks would lose all of their money and then break out credit cards to buy her drinks when she was done. "What's this got to do with Sharkie?" I asked. "She hasn't been around in a while."

  Josh made a face like he'd drank some of his own coffee. "You can thank Johnnie Scumbag."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "About a year and a half ago, she was in here and had a bit too much." Josh made the drinky-drinky motion. "She left with Scumbag."

  "Sharkie left with Scumbag?" I couldn't keep the horror out of my voice.

  "Yeah, I know. Some people are inclined to believe that she was slipped something a little harder than alcohol, if you know what I'm saying."

  I didn't say anything.

  "Anyway," Josh continued, "Six months pass and Sharkie's heavy with kid. Tells Scumbag he's the poppa. I mean, Sharkie was a standup broad. She didn't cry foul or nothin', just said to Scumbag that the baby was his. Scumbag pulls his innocent act and disappears on her. How much money do you think the kid's seen from him so far?"

  I didn't say anything again. The answer was obvious. I knew Sharkie and I knew Scumbag. There was no defense. I felt like an armless boxer fighting for the heavyweight title.

  "Exactly. So don't come preaching to me about poor, innocent Johnnie Scumbag." Josh clicked his tongue in disgust. "And if that don't beat all, the fucking kid's gotta look just like Scumbag. Couldn't look like Sharkie, could it? What a fucking world."

  I was down to bare knuckles. Last resorting for a man I didn't even like. I already felt covered in the film of slime that Johnnie Scumbag seemed to leave wherever he went. But I did it anyway. I went to talk to Tino.

  We met at a bar on the corner of Sullivan and Houston. I remembered the place as a biker bar twenty years ago. Now the place was a lounge. Progress, I suppose. Tino looked off into the south Manhattan skyline when I brought our drinks over. He swallowed hard twice before he seemed capable of drinking his beer. Tino was a small man made downright miniscule by pain. His grief was a palpable thing that he wore around his neck like an anchor in a world rapidly filling with water.

  I broke the quiet moment. "Johnnie didn't do it, Tino."

  Tino nodded. "Then I will find out who did." The last remaining touches of his Spanish accent flicked across his words like a feather.

  "You can tell the cops that you found out. That he didn't do it."

  He nodded again, more to himself than to me. "Don't care."

  "Tino…" I didn't know how to finish the sentence, so I didn't.

  "I wasn't home. I took an extra night at work to cover the money that cocksucker Johnnie took from us. I would have been home if not for him. I could have protected my wife. My baby."

  "You don't know what would have happened, Tino."

  "Or I could have died with them. Even that would have been better." Tino cleared his throat hard.

  We sat in the leaded quiet for a time. Tino's watery eyes never left the darkening skyline. "Did you know it was a boy?"

  Two days passed before I met up with Johnnie Scumbag again.

  "You know what an all-region DVD player is?"

  Johnnie gave me a look through the plexiglass like I'd lost my mind. "I know what a DVD player is."

  I shook my head. "When they first started making the players, they made them all-region. Which means that if you wanted to watch a movie that was only available in French Polynesia, you could. Then the companies figured out that if they made machines that only played the region in which they were bought, that they could sell more. That way if anyone moved from one county to another, they'd not only have to buy a new player, but all new DVDs as well. Also, depending on what country makes what movie, different release dates, etc, etc… Sometimes a movie will already out on DVD in one country before it's in theaters in another."

  Johnnie continued staring at me, puzzled. "And?"

  "And, Tino had one of those models."

  "I don't know what…"

  "You see, Johnnie, Tino loves kung-fu movies. He's loved them since he was a kid. He collects them. Problem was, a lot of the movies he wanted were only made for the Chinese region. Are you following me?"

  Johnnie nodded, mutely.

  "So Tino goes out and he buys himself one of these all-region DVD players and orders the movies from Chinatown. Thing is, these machines are kinda rare nowadays. Only the hardcore guys own them and pay top dollar. So, a stolen one is easy to track."

  "Uh-huh."

  I pulled a cigarette out, placed it between my lips, feeling more than a little like Columbo. The guard "ahem"-med at me.

  "Not lighting it," I said, a little pissed that my Columbo flow was now fucked up. "Where was I?"

  "DVD player?"

  "Ah, right. So, I hit the pawn shops. Sure enough, right on Sixth Avenue, less than a half mile from Tino's apartment, I find myself a pawn shop. Beginner's luck, I guess. Know what they had?"

  Johnnie blinked at me, thinking it over and taking longer than he should. "Tino's DVD player?"

  "Atta boy! You are following. Now, the pawn shop guy, he would never admit to buying stolen goods, much less give me a name or tell me that he buys the goods from the local junkies." I chewed the filter and smiled as I blew the pretend smoke slowly out my nostrils. "But it's amazing what they will tell you when you break out the cigar cutter and a can of Sterno."

  Johnnie nodded silently as the color dropped out of his face between heartbeats.

  I let him stew for a few seconds. "I found Chauncy, Johnnie."

  "I didn't…"

  "A couple of twenties passed into a junkie's hand and they'll tell you that they like to hump pumpkins, much less point a finger atanother junkie." I stubbed out the cigarette I never lit in the metal ashtray still bolted to the table.

  "I didn't rob Tino, T.C. I didn't kill Nina," Johnnie's voice was starting to squeak with panic.

  "No. No you didn't. You just paid Chauncey to break in and rob the place to get all your stuff back. Nina walked in and he killed her."

  "I never meant…"

  "You cut a path. Johnnie. Everywhere you go. Everything you touch leaves behind the stink of you. And I'm not just talking about that Fulton Fish Market at high noon aroma that comes out your pores, either."

  Johnnie hung his head in…what? I don't know. Who knows if a person like him can feel shame. Or guilt. If I had the money to bet, I'd say that he hung his head in simple defeat at being found out. "What are you going to do?"

  "Oh, there's a lot I could do. I could drop Chauncey off at the police station and let him confess, which at worst gets you an accessory charge."

  Johnnie raised his head, hopeful.

  "But that's not gonna happen since poor Chauncy is being sent to a few different states right now. All of them at the same time, if you catch my drift." I winked at him.

  Johnnie went another shade whiter an
d his lower lip started to tremble. "But I didn't…"

  "Yes you did, Johnnie. Yes you fucking did." I stabbed my finger at him. "Another option is Josh." I pulled a piece of paper out of my pocket. "The poor guy's conscience worked him over and at the risk of his horrible wife's fury, he wrote out a statement saying he was playing poker with you all Saturday night. Look." I held the paper up to the glass. "Even had it notarized." Johnnie's face pressed against the barrier, a sly smile pulling the corner of his mouth as he read Josh's words. The smile winked out when I tore the paper in two.

  "No! NO!" he screamed, fat fingers trying to reach through the holes to get the shreds.

  "Oops."

  Deflated, Johnnie's face went slack, his eyes deadened at the realization that he wasn't going any-goddamn-where.

  I turned to go and stopped, living out one last fine point of my Columbo fantasy. "One last thing," I said and turned back. "You remember Crazy Dennis? Used to run errands for the Westies way back?"

  Johnnie tried to swallow and looked like he might vomit instead. "I think so. He got that teardrop tattoo on the corner of his eye?"

  "Yup. That's him. He was supposedly the only guy crazy enough to actually give somebody a Columbian Necktie after he'd kill him. And if you were considered crazy in Hell's Kitchen mob back in those days… Anyway, funny thing. He got pulled over last week in Queens and the cops found an unregistered gun. He's getting two years in here on weapons possession. Strange when you think that's what they catch him for after all of the sick shit that Crazy Dennis pulled. Funny too, when you remember that his wife was Nina's sister." I savored the fear that fluttered in Johnnie's eyes. "Small world, ain't it, Johnnie?"

  If Johnnie went any paler, he'd have gone invisible. He shook like an epileptic. His mouth moved, but no words came out. I turned to go, for real this time. I lifted my hand in farewell. "So long, Johnnie. Won't be seeing you."

  The Biggest Dick In Brooklyn

  "Pull yer pants down."

  Over the course of the last thirty years, Henry DeMarco had given a lot of orders—a lot of strange and tough orders. For thirty years, nobody ever questioned their boss' demands until he walked into his warehouse and said those four bewildering words.

  "What?" Scrawny little Pete Marino stopped his game of solitaire, the cards frozen in his hand.

  Bobby Russo looked up from his Kubrick biography, but didn't move. Gino Bendetti just looked confused. Bobby translated. "Lui vuole che caliamo i nostri pantaloni."

  "Che cosa?"

  "I said, pull yer pants down!" Henry bellowed.

  Bobby just shook his head, never taking his eyes off of his boss. Without another word, he stood and unbuckled his belt. Taking their cues off of Bobby, the other two followed suit.

  He stands behind her at the bottom of her bed. She is face down, naked. Even in the dim light, every outline, every aspect of her body is in sharp contrast. The curves of her hips arch under the contours of her ass, the skin as smooth as dunes of white sand. The handcuffs cinching her wrists rattle on the metal bedposts. Her ankles are also chained to opposite posts at the foot of the large bed. She moans through the gag. She's completely helpless.

  "Underwear too." DeMarco cinched his baby-blue bathrobe tight. In the past couple of months, the old boss hadn't bothered to dress himself properly, walking around the neighborhood in his worn robe and slippers. Questions arose about the quality of the man's sanity. The conversation they were currently having did nothing to assuage the doubts his own crew were having of late.

  The three men stood side by side. Bobby in his boxers, Pete in his decades-old looking tighty whities. Unfortunately for them all, Gino still wore his Italian man-thong, his fashion sense apparently acclimating itself to Americana about as fast as his language skills.

  Gino looked confused, but not as embarrassed as the other two. He looked to Bobby for another translation.

  "Biancheria intima, pure." Bobby's expression was still blank.

  Gino's face blanched. His Italian rattled off his tongue too fast for Bobby to translate. "E' uno sherzo? Per quale motivo? In nome di Dio, che succede qui?"

  DeMarco's face reddened in rage. He couldn't understand Gino even when he wasn't going a mile a minute. What he did understand was his tone. "Bobby, you tell that fucking greenhorn to shut his yap and just do what I say. Lose the banana hammock."

  Bobby nodded. "Calmati, fai. Quello che dice, dopo vediamo."

  "Madre de dio," Gino muttered.

  Pete looked like he wanted to cry. "Henry, please…"

  "Pete, I swear to God..."

  Bobby recognized the edge in his boss' voice. Whatever the fuck was bouncing around inside Henry DeMarco's head at that moment was deadly serious. At least to DeMarco. "Just do it, Pete," Bobby said in a calm voice he normally reserved for big dogs that have stopped wagging their tails. Bobby hooked his fingers into the elastic waistband of his drawers and dropped trou.

  Just like his boss ordered.

  He's watching her writhe in the cuffs. Her long red hair flows between her straining shoulders like a waterfall of blood. She knows what's going to happen next.

  He pulls his t-shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor. Then he slowly unbuttons his pants. He's ready. In a minute, she will be, too.

  He can't believe it's come to this, what he has to do on this night. He can't believe it, but he knows he has to.

  A bead of sweat rolls down the side of her leg.

  Henry chuckled at chicken-legged Pete, his bony ankles shaking in his Fruit of the Looms. "What the fuck is that, Petey? You smuggling pecans?"

  "C'mon, Henry. It's cold in here," Pete whined.

  "Pull your pants back up, Needledick Bugfucker."

  Pete scrambled to pull his underwear and chinos back over what was left of his dignity. "That ain't right, Henry. Why you gotta make fun?"

  DeMarco moved down to Gino and shook his head in disbelief. "Whaaat the fuck? How old is this guy?"

  Che cosa sta chiedendo? Gino asked.

  Vuole sapere la vostra eta'.

  Gino smiled, finally able to answer a question in English all on his own. "I'm-a tirty-a-two." He grinned ear to ear, proud of himself despite the fact that he was standing with his tackle in the wind.

  "Then why the fuck don't he have no pubes?"

  "Che?"

  "Mai mente." Bobby nearly cracked a smile despite himself. Bobby didn't know if was a European thing or not, but Gino apparently walked with his own code of international grooming as well.

  "Jesus fuck," said DeMarco. "Tell Bald Eagle to beat it."

  "Potete andare," Bobby said.

  "Non dovete dirmelo due volte." With that, Gino quickly hustled his own pants back up to a respectable level and high-tailed out the door right behind Pete.

  Bobby would have to thank them both later for leaving him alone with his nutbag boss and his nutbag out.

  DeMarco stared at Bobby's crotch in silence for a long uncomfortable moment. Well, long and uncomfortable for Bobby, at least.

  "Uhhhhh…Boss?"

  DeMarco then clapped his hands and laughed heartily, like his grandkids had just run into the room on Christmas morning. "Hey, hey, Bob-BEE. Now that's what I'm talkin' about."

  He kneels on the bed behind her and smells her hair—Chanel. Nice. She tenses when he places his hands on her hips. A quick mewl escapes from the gag. His heart thuds in excitement. He takes himself in his hand, positioning…

  Bobby Russo knew he had a big dick from when he was thirteen and compared himself to the dudes on his Pop's porno videos. He didn't know exactly how much bigger until he started playing sports and had to shower with the other boys.

  Then he realized he was fucking huge.

  When John Holmes died, the other guys used to joke that Bobby was in first place now.

  For all he knew, he was.

  On the bus, Bobby always tried to get the seat next to Loretta Delveccio since Loretta had a bad habit of falling asleep on the ride to school. Whe
n she started snoring, Bobby would open his pants and place his dick on her lap while his buddies (who couldn't even get their dicks onto their own laps) nearly herniated themselves trying not to laugh. Yeah, Bobby's dick had served him well over the years, not only sexually, but as a comedy prop.

  But he never realized that it could be used as a weapon.

  "He wants you to do what?" Pete's mouth hung open. Three scotches later and his hands still shook from the ordeal.

  "He told me to fuck Angela."

  "Angela?"

  "Angela." Bobby translated the situation for Gino.

  Gino's mouth also fell open in synch with Pete's. "Angela?"

  "Yes. Ange-fucking-la. Will you two clean out the earwax?"

  Pete slammed his J&B and waved at the bartender for a refill. "But…why?"

  "He wants me to teach her a lesson."

  Angela DeMarco was Henry's third ex-wife. They'd married eight years ago when she was twenty. Their divorce was uglier than Pete's pockmarked ass—a metaphor that Bobby wished he didn't have in his head. Her lawyers couldn't touch Henry's money, since to the legit world, it didn't exist.

  Angela knew it did.

  She'd been making threats.

  "What if she don't wanna be taught a lesson?"

  Bobby threw back his fifth shot of Jack. "I kinda think that's the point, Pete."

  Angela DeMarco's groans are muffled through the red rubber ball-gag as Bobby fucks her. The handcuffs on her feet and hands click on the frame rhythmically with every thrust. Bobby looks out the window and sees the Empire State Building gleaming over the river, like Manhattan's very own monstrous dick.

  It's beautiful.

  Angela screams. At least she tries to.

  "You ain't gonna do it, are ya?" Pete asked as he rolled the handtruck into the back if the van.

  "What choice do I have?" Bobby slid the jukebox off the cart and secured it in the hold, one of those new internet jukeboxes that all the bars in Manhattan had been switching to.

  In with the old, out with the new.