Peril

Once the ambulance pulled away, Abe walked back up the stairs and into the apartment. The super was there, looking around, as if already calculating the trouble this would cause him.

“She have any relatives?” he asked.

Abe shook his head.

“So, what you want I should do? With her stuff, I mean.”

“I’ll have it picked up.”

The super looked relieved that clearing the apartment would fall to others’ hands. “No rush. I mean, she’s paid up through the end of the month.”

The super left, but Abe lingered a few more minutes in her room. He was not sure why, save that some part of him simply hated letting things go. He’d hated to admit that Mavis had actually gone. Hell, he realized, he’d even felt the same about that fucking cat she’d left him with, Pookie, who’d died on him three weeks later.

He headed down the stairs and out onto the street, where he stood absently, his eyes cast upward into the misty sky, and tried to make himself believe that there might really be someplace toward which Lucille’s unburdened soul was now ascending, its slender wings beating softly to the ballad she’d always used to close her set, “Bird Alone.”

TONY

“She was acting strange the last few days,” Tony said.

His father shrugged. “She was always a fruitcake.”

Tony took the wedge of orange from the rim of the glass, squeezed it, then dropped it into his glass.

“What the fuck you drinking?” his father asked.

“Scotch sour.”

“That’s a pussy drink, Tony,” the Old Man said. “Scotch sour. Jesus Christ. You go in a real bar and order something like that, they take you out back and stomp the shit out of you.”

Tony shrugged. “Anyway, she just left, that’s all. Out of the blue.”

Labriola scowled. “Out of the blue means another guy, right?”

“I don’t think so,” Tony answered weakly.

“You don’t think so?” the Old Man barked. “What are you, Tony? Stupid? That fucking bitch run out on you.”

“I don’t know, Dad, Sara’s not the—”

“Not the what?”

“I just don’t think she would have—”

“Would have what?”

“Would have . . . you know . . .”

“Fucked around on you?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, Tony, so where’s her car? You said it was sitting in the driveway, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So, your theory is, she leaves but she don’t take the car? So what do you think, she’s on foot? Walking to where? California? Jesus, Tony, think!” The Old Man slapped him lightly on the side of the head. “Think about it! This bitch ain’t on foot or thumbing a ride. Or maybe you figure she’s in some big fucking balloon. Floating in the air.” His laugh was clanking brass. “Face it, Tony. She run off with some guy.”

“I don’t know what to think, Dad.”

“How about money? She take any money?”

“I don’t know,” Tony answered weakly.

“You don’t know? You ain’t checked the accounts?”

“No.”

“Jesus,” the Old Man muttered. “Your wife takes a hike and you don’t check the fucking accounts.”

“I didn’t think of it, Dad. I been . . . you know . . . upset.”

“She played you for a chump from the beginning, Tony. Just a little hayseed singing in some fucking club, and in you walk, a meal ticket if ever there was one.”

“She didn’t know anything about me. I could have been—”

“Oh yeah, take me back, Tony. To that night, I mean, when you first met this fucking broad. Was you alone?”

“No. I was with Frankie and Angelo and—”

“And you paid for the drinks, right, because those two assholes never sprung for a drink their whole fucking lives.”

“Yeah, I paid for the drinks.”

“And you think a broad don’t notice that, Tony, don’t notice who’s paying?”

“She was way up front, Dad, she couldn’t have—”

“Yeah, yeah, up front. But she could see you, right? She ain’t fucking blind. She could see you standing there with those two jerkoffs, and that it was you paying.”

“Yeah, I guess she could see me.”

“And how was you dressed, Tony? You have a hard hat on? Huh? You carrying a tub of fish out clubbing? You wearing some greasy, fucking work shirt, or was you dressed nice?”

“Nice.”

“So she didn’t have to be no fucking brain surgeon to figure it out, right? That you was a guy with cash.”

“I guess not,” Tony admitted.

“So there it is,” the Old Man said, satisfied that he’d made his point. “That’s the whole story with this bitch. Now some other asshole comes along, and she plays you for a chump.” His eyes squeezed together. “I never liked her, Tony. From the South. Shit. What do you know about girls from the South? You could have married your own kind. Kitty Scalli, for example, you could have married her. But, no, you see this fucking hillbilly in some goddamn cheesy bar. End of story.” He shook his head at the idiocy of it all. “You’d married Kitty Scalli, we wouldn’t be having this fucking conversation.”

Tony took a quick sip of his drink. “Well, the thing is—”

“The thing is, you ain’t gonna let her get away with it, Tony,” the Old Man said darkly. He took a noisy pull on his beer and set the glass down hard. “ ’Cause if she does, you’ll never live it down.”

“Yeah, I know, but—”