Balling the Jack

“Anybody. Some dish on the street that day. Demi Moore in her latest flick. Anybody who gets me hot.”

I look at him.

“Hey, you wait. Maybe if you got laid more often … Mason, two more here. But it’s more than that, Tommy. Before I screw Linda I need a little while to prepare myself. Down a few beers, get something going in my head. And then I’m okay, more or less. Usually it’s twice a week and I can gauge the nights, you know, get ready for it. But sometimes she springs it on me. I get home and she’s waiting in bed, or she drops the groceries on the table and wants to go at it right there in the kitchen. And Tommy, I’m not kidding, I can’t always get the damn thing up.”

We take a good draw from our pints.

“And the thing of it is, Tommy, it’s not me. Because if I see some knockout on the subway, or my secretary comes in in a mini, man, I’m aching to bust her one right there. It’s just … where’s the thrill, you know? Even if it’s lobster, you can’t eat lobster every night. You need a burger now and then.”

I have Linda slotted closer to a good salmon on my menu, but I don’t press the point.

“I’m only twenty-three, Tommy. I don’t know how long I can keep this up.”

We’re silent.

“Well, say something. What do you think?”

I take another swig and spread my hands on the bar.

“I think you’re fucked, Jimmy. Bad as it is, you have to figure it’ll get worse. She’ll want a kid in the pipeline in the next year, right? No doubt a few more after that. Raising them Catholic means church every Sunday, no more beer and football, and with the little monsters running around, no late nights during the week. Hell, I’ll be surprised if you’re even on the team this time next year.”

Jimmy stares at me, then laughs, his mood broken.

“You bastard. Just you wait, Tommy. You won’t hold out forever.”

We down our pints and walk outside. Only in New York can a guy with no shirt flag down a cab at three in the morning and ride home without explanation. Jimmy ducks into one, but before it starts off he sticks his head out the window.

“Forget all that stuff I said, Tommy. It was the beer talking. We were something else tonight, huh?”

“We were the best.”

I watch his face, still out the window as the cab rolls away. I stand on the empty sidewalk a second, then start the walk home. I love the city this time of night. Quiet, but with a hum to it. As I walk along I think of Jimmy. Can you believe it? You should have seen that pair in college. Couldn’t pry them off each other. Graduation day they almost missed the ceremony slipping in an extra one in the shower. Now look at him. It’s only been a year, and before he can fuck her he’s got to get all liquored up and pretend she’s someone else. Jesus. If that’s what’s waiting at the end of that middle aisle, you can count me out.

I bump into a hydrant and realize for the first time how rocked I am. The next one bites on a head fake and I dance around it. Looking up, in place of the stars I see the few lights still on in the high-rises. Who’s still up at this hour, I wonder? I picture a thin beauty, her twenty-second birthday tomorrow, sitting at the window in a lonely sweater. A cup of cocoa in her hands, humming along to the radio as she looks down at me in the street. Just give the sign and I’ll come up, honey. We can talk all night about music, if you want, or go at it on the carpet without a word. I’m easy. I walk into a mailbox. Damn.

Between the shots and the beers we must have set a record tonight. I’ll pay for it in the morning, but it was worth it. Manhattan champions—what a ring that has. At my building I skip up the stairs and on the third try the key slips into the lock.

“College boy.”

I jump. Below me in the street is Duggan. He wears an Irish cap and a coat tied at the waist. He lights a cigarette and shakes out the match.

“Been celebrating, I see.”

I look around for the rest of them but he’s alone. I should probably feel pretty foolish in just my tie, but not tonight. Let’s not forget who the winner is. I look him over. Alone in the street, in that coat and cap, he doesn’t look so tough. Hell, he looks like just another down-and-outer. This is the guy who gave me the creeps? I slide down the handrail and land in front of him.

“Let me guess, Duggan—you want to join the team. I’d love to, but there aren’t any spots. We could use a chalker, though.”

His yellow eyes start to burn, then look down. “What you fellas did tonight was a fluke. It won’t happen again.”

“I agree with you there. Next time I don’t expect you’ll get a point.”

He tenses, and I think he’s coming at me. I’m ready for him, but he looks away, and when he looks back it’s with a crooked smile.

“You sure can talk, college boy. Anything behind that mouth of yours?” He takes a long drag, drops his cigarette and grinds it under his heel. He lets the smoke out slowly. “What would you say to a real match, college boy? For money.”

I’ll be damned.

“Anytime, Duggan. What did you have in mind—five hundred?”

He snickers, blows the rest of the smoke down his chest.

“I’m not talking Girl Scout stakes, college boy. I’m talking real money.”

Bastard.

“You name it, we’ll play for it.”

“Twenty thousand dollars.”

“Fine.”

“Two weeks from Friday. Our place this time. Same players that played tonight. You don’t show, you owe.”

“Fine.”

“Did you hear me, college boy? I said twenty thousand.”

“I heard you. And I said yes.”

I turn to head up the stairs but he grabs my tie and pulls me to him. “A word of advice, college boy: Don’t run out on this one.”

I knock his hand off. “The next time it touches me it better have money in it.” I start up the stairs, whip back around. “And no checks, Duggan. And no Irish money. Tell your mick backers I want dollars.”

I can feel him burning in the street as I walk up the stairs. At the door I look back and he’s gone. I take a big drink of night air. Well, that was easy. Bastard thinks I don’t have any balls, does he? I’ll show him. Inside, I take the stairs in twos and laugh to myself. The times to be had in this town! Kick Duggan’s ass at the dartboard, tell him off in the street and set up a big payday besides. Not a bad night’s work.

I soft-shoe into the apartment so as not to wake the girls. Mess with their REM sleep and it throws off their systems for a week. I down two quick pints of ice water, fall into bed in my pants, and grin up at the ceiling.

You the man, Tom.

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_19254f6a-38be-5e31-ac0b-b848a82f3a66)

NOTHING complements a killer hangover quite like a packed subway car. One more whiff of the guy next to me and I’m going to lose it. At Fourteenth Street it empties out a bit and I lower myself into a seat. That’s better. My bleary eyes meet the stare of the guy across from me, who looks to be on his way to church. A Sunday suit on, the Bible open in his lap, a crucifix soft against his neck. My headache worsens and I look away.

Church. Christ. The last time I went to Mass I was home on the base for the summer. I had written from school that I wasn’t making service anymore, but moms have a way of forgetting what they don’t like to hear. I spent the night before in the bars, showing my old high school buddies I’d learned something useful in college, so when Mom woke me at seven-thirty, my suit over her arm, I was more dead than alive. I might have come out okay pleading sickness, but I was a freshman in college, so I gave her a speech. Told her the way I felt that morning I didn’t doubt He was up there, and a mean one He was, too. She slapped me across the mouth, I put my suit on without a word, and we walked to church. Sat next to her in the pew, biting my lip till it bled to keep my stomach down. After the service we walked home in silence and I haven’t been back since.

At Delancey Street the train fills up again and I’m thankful for the open window behind me.

Here’s my two cents on religion: I don’t buy it. Sometimes I wish I did. It’s not easy thinking you get one crack at this place. I’ve looked at it up and down, though, and if you ask me the whole thing is a racket.