She’d go, “The fook did I do?”
Nothing, was the answer, but he’d laugh, go, “Just in case you were thinking of fooking me over, and there’s more where that came from – call that a taster.”
Then he’d take out a knife and start cleaning his nails with it, staring at her with that deadeye look.
But she couldn’t break up with him now. She had to wait until this mess was over with and then decide what to do.
It started to rain as Angela continued along Fifth Avenue. She didn’t feel like taking a bus or paying for a cab so she just kept walking, hardly realizing that she was getting soaked.
When she got home Dillon was sitting in his underwear on the bed watching music videos saying, “You brung me fookin dinner, I hope.”
“I figured we’d just order in or something,” Angela said.
“You said you were gonna pick it up, yah bleedin bitch.”
“So I forgot. What’s your problem?”
“I’ve been trapped here all day and guess what, I’m starving – that’s what my problem is, so get in the kitchen, get me some stew – you’re Irish, stew is yer birthright. Put lots of cabbage and bacon in there, and don’t forget the spuds, you got that, bitch?”
“I’m not your bitch,” Angela said.
Now, his voice getting all gentle again, he asked, “What’s that, mo croi?”
“Shut up.”
He laughed. “That’s funny,” he said. “I really like that, mo croi.”
Angela sat at the kitchen table and started taking off her wet shoes.
“Food, now!” he roared.
“You could’ve ordered in something yourself,” she said.
“And have a delivery boy come up here and ID me? It’s all on the news and shite. They’re talking about how that cop you brought up here is missing and they got a cartoon of me in the paper, tis the spit of me too. That Chinese hoor informed on me arse, the one I dumped that jewelry on in Chinatown. What if the cop I did told other cops he was following you last night? I’ve been sitting here all day, waiting for the cops to show up – Jaysus, it’s worse than the Falls Road, waiting for the Brit patrols.”
“I told you you shouldn’t sell that jewelry.”
“Well, I did and get this right in yer dumb head, you don’t tell me dick. You have two jobs, and both begin with f. One is food.”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah, and that’s the other one.”
“If we wind up in jail now it’s because you sold that jewelry.”
He got up suddenly, a bad sign, and said, “I don’t do jail, get that?”
There was something in his voice. “That’s it,” Angela said. “I’ve had it.”
She marched past Dillon and went into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. He banged on the door, demanding that she come out, going, “Where the hell’s me dinner?” Angela covered her ears with her hands and sat down on the toilet seat, squeezing her eyes shut.
He was pounding on the door, now saying, “I’m too hungry for this shite. I’m going to ring for some takeout but you have to go to the door to pay for it. I’m not kiddin’ yah.”
Angela turned on the shower to drown him out, but it didn’t work till she got in. As long as she kept her head under the water, his ranting was just part of the white noise.
When she came out, wrapped in a towel, Dillon was still in his underwear, now watching a basketball game.
Noticing the layers of Band-Aids over the bottom of Dillon’s right foot, Angela said, “Did you put peroxide on that like I told you to?”
“You addressing me?” Dillon asked.
“Yeah, I’m talking to you,” Angela said. “Why wouldn’t I talk to you?”
Dillon went back to watching TV. He muttered along with the play-by-play, “Move yer ass mothfookers,” trying to sound like a New Yorker.
“So?” Angela said, putting on a bra. “Did you or didn’t you put peroxide on that?”
“Couldn’t be bothered,” he said.
Angela leaned forward, taking a closer look at the foot.
“You probably need a shot for that, you know, or you’ll catch tetanus.”
“I’ll catch anorexia if I don’t get me grub,” he said.
Angela finished getting dressed – putting on jeans and a black T-shirt with “My Boyfriend’s Out of Town” in red across the front. She sat down on the bed next to Dillon and rested a hand on his lap. For a while there was silence except for the sports commentator babbling, then Dillon said, “I was watching South Park before and Kenny is dead again, you see that one?”
“I think so,” Angela said.
The food arrived and Angela and Dillon sat on the bed together eating the shrimp lo mein and barbecued spare ribs directly from the cartons. Finally, Angela decided it was a good time to break the bad news.
“Something happened today,” she said, “but before I tell you you have to promise not to get mad at me.”
“What?”
“You have to promise.”
“What is it?”
“You’re gonna get angry,” Angela said. “I can tell it already.”
“Just tell me what the fook it is, you’re spoiling me dinner.” Christ, she thought, she never saw a man eat so much and still stay skinny as a wet rodent.
Dillon’s nostrils flared. He looked the same way he did before he stabbed that cop.
“All right,” Angela said. “Remember how I told you I was with my boss last night at that hotel?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Well something happened that we didn’t know about. Something that could be bad.”
“Stop whining and tell me what it is.”
“Well, there was this guy,” Angela said, “and he took some pictures of us.”
“You mean like a Guard?”
“No, not a cop – definitely not a cop. He was in a wheelchair and – anyway, he came to the office today and he showed the pictures to Max.”
“What were the pictures of?” Dillon asked.
“Just of us, you know… in bed together.”
“So? What’s he going to do with them, beside play with his own self?”
“If the police see them it’ll show that me and Max were together, that we could’ve planned the murder.”
“But the police haven’t got the pictures, the gimp in the wheelchair does.”
“That’s where the bad part comes in. He wants money for them. A lot of money.”
“You mean he’s trying to blackmail you?”
“He’s trying to blackmail Max.”
“And you’re sure this fooker isn’t a Guard?”
“I don’t know what he is,” Angela said, remembering again how Bobby Rosa had looked at her. “But Max thinks it’s a big problem. He wanted me to get you to get rid of him.”
Dillon sat calmly for a few seconds and Angela thought, Hey, that wasn’t too bad. Then he suddenly threw his carton of food against the wall on the other side of the room. Angela covered her ears as Dillon stood up and kicked the top of the TV set with his right foot, then roared as the pain hit his already inflamed sole. He said, “You’re going to get the hiding of yer life, you hoor’s ghost!”
Dillon began hitting her in the face, slapping her with his open hands. Angela didn’t know how she got out of the apartment. She ran down the stairs, nearly tripping several times. She walked toward Second Avenue, not realizing for several minutes that she was barefoot.
She went into the Rodeo Bar, on Second Avenue and Twenty-eighth Street. She sat at the dingy half-empty bar and then realized she had no money. She told the bartender she was “waiting for a friend” and stared at the hockey game on TV.