And then, it seems, Johnny got greedy-maybe he needed some new guitar amps or fancier pens-and he started keeping a portion of the proceeds locked away in the storage center along with the bikes. And then the Jersey guys, these “bicycle distributors,” wanted to know where their money had gone. They didn’t want to hear about how Tony couldn’t get to it or how Johnny had taken the secret to his grave. They just wanted to get paid, and fast.
“They been here twice already,” Tony says.
“What does your ma say about this?”
His thick, caterpillar-looking eyebrows fly up in surprise. “She don’t say nothing. She just grinds up beans for coffee and gives them cake.”
I don’t believe him, but I don’t say that either. I bet Granny’s grown used to the perks the money brought in; the status she earned for the extra church tithes; maybe she even bought a few wigs made out of real hair or new plastic covers for the furniture.
“How about if I make you a deal? You let me out of here and we forget about this whole thing. I’ll talk to Lou about you being allowed back in the bar. You know, we’ll start with Tuesday-night karaoke. You can sing Johnny Cash or Britney or whoever the hell you want. But you gotta let me out of here first.”
“They’ll be coming back soon,” Tony says. He actually wrings his hands, like an old lady. “And now I got you to deal with and no key and no money either.”
“I’m telling you, I’ll put in a good word with Lou. No problem. I bet he’d even help you out with the money if I ask him nice. And talk to these Jersey thugs. He’s a popular guy. People love him.”
Tony gives a big, long sigh. “Give me a second.” He paces some more and then says, “You need anything? Like a glass of water?” I nod and he disappears into the kitchen.
The dog looks up at me as though we are old friends, then jumps on my lap, landing on my full bladder. Her collar jingles. It’s an ornate thing with a name tag and other assorted doggie bling. She starts licking my face. “Get off!” I try to shake her from my legs.
From the other room Tony yells, “Get down, Princess!”
A church bell rings from some distant street, signaling the approach of dawn. I recall something else about Johnny.
Like every other hipster kid, his skinny, undernourished body was plastered with tattoos. Nothing too strange, no Tweety Bird or names of ex-girlfriends drawn in Gothic lettering. He did have an awful tattoo on his ankle though. I spotted it the first night because of his rolled-up pant leg. A dog. A pug, to be exact.
“What’s that?” I’d asked.
“That’s Princess,” he said. “She holds the key to my heart.”
I told him to stop talking like a Danielle Steele novel and take off his tightie-whities already. Which he did.
Tony comes back into the room, holding a glass of water etched with daisies. It looks as though he’s reconsidered the situation. “Aw, shit. Aw, Christ. Look, I really just wanted to talk to you, but you bartenders are intimidating.”
I make my face as blank as possible. He sets the water glass down very carefully on one of the doilies.
“Listen, you can think about it, but I have to pee,” I tell him. “I have to pee right now and if you won’t let me use the bathroom, I will piss all over this velveteen cushion. You know how hard it will be to clean? I bet these are antique chairs. I bet this fringe is from the old country. Irreplaceable. How would you explain that to your ma?”
He shrugs, trying to shake off his look of concern. “The dog coulda done it.”
“That little thing?” The dog scratches itself, fancy pink collar jingling, and then begins grooming its private parts in earnest. “There is no way the amount I have to piss could come out of that runt. Trust me. I don’t know what time it is exactly, but I would guess I haven’t used the powder room in a good four hours.”
He looks torn, but finally he begins to untie me. I wish the knots were in the front, so I could kick him in his fat face.
When I’m free, I say, “We’ll work this out.” I try to walk casually and not bolt for the door.
I close and lock the bathroom door. I figure I have about one shot at knocking him out. I search the room. A toilet plunger isn’t going to do the trick and neither is a plastic lady torso whose skirts cover the extra toilet paper rolls. I could Aqua Net him to death or stab him in the eye with a bobby pin.
I catch sight of my face in the vanity mirror. I’ve got a nice purple shiner and a crust of blood on my upper lip. If I make it out of here, I’m going to treat myself to a real haircut, not one of those ten-dollar Chop Shop hatchet jobs.
Then I catch sight of it in the reflection of the mirror. A heavy-duty Virgin Mary statue with her hands outstretched as if she’s saying, Don’t look at me. It’s not my fault. She’s propped up in the bathroom window, surrounded by cotton balls and Max Factor makeup. Hail Mary, full of Grace. I tuck her under my arm.
Tony hovers outside the door. “Okay, listen, you’ll talk to Ray then?” He sees what I’m carrying. “Hey, what’re you doing? Put that back! Ma will kill you!” I walk into the living room. He follows. “No kidding, don’t be smart.”
I put a little distance between us and then, with the VM held out in front of me like a bat, I spin around and smack him as hard as I can across the head. The statue stays in one piece. His head does not. He gives a little “Oh” of surprise and touches his temple in disbelief. He staggers and bleeds all over the plastic on the furniture. He looks more horrified about the mess he’s making than he does about losing his life.
When he sees the blood spill onto his Eagles shirt, his legs accordion and down he goes. I’ve never seen anyone bleed quite like that. We’ve had two guys drop dead at Ray’s, but neither were bleeders. The cut isn’t going to kill him, but it will buy me enough time to get out and make it to the storage space. I’m sure the money is there along with one or two of Johnny’s stupid bikes. The Jersey jerks will get to Tony soon enough. Or his own mother when she sees what he’s done to her living room.
Hey, I’m not a murderer, just an opportunist.
The Virgin Mary statue lies on her back on the pink shag carpet, staring up at the ceiling, still looking as if she’s just an innocent bystander. Except she’s not. In fact, she may have just changed my life. Now, I’m not going to start genuflecting and hanging out at the doors of St. John’s. I don’t believe much in that Catholic shit, but you never know. Maybe I’ll even buy a Virgin Mary night light from the Italian Market after I get the money and move out of my shitty apartment on Morris and into a slightly less shitty one further west.
I take hold of Princess’s collar-rabies vaccine, heart-shaped name tag, and a key. I remove it and slip it in my pocket.
I consider leaving the animal. It’s not like she’d be much of a watch dog for me. She doesn’t seem at all concerned that I cracked Tony in the head and he’s now bleeding on the carpet.
I look at the dog and she looks back at me with her poppedout googly eyes. She wags her stubby tail half-heartedly as though unsure about the deal too. “You’re not much of an accomplice,” I tell her. I could dump her on the streets. Some sappy grandma would take her in. Or she’d get hit by a bus just like Johnny. “All right, Princess, let’s go.” I pick her up. “You can stay with me,” I say. “For now.”
SCARRED. BY SOLOMON JONES
Strawberry Mansion
Thunder clapped, and the street went black as if God had blown out the candles. A single flash of lighting streaked across the sky. After that, the only sound was the rain.