Pete Hamill - Brooklyn Noir

“Anyway, we’re out at a club for some party and we end up barhopping all over town with friends. It’s really late and she says she wants to go to this one bar by her place, some shithole on Myrtle Avenue, so we end up there and she’s drunk, really drunk. She’s wearing this little foufy lavender dress and the place is pretty crowded, it’s hot, she’s almost cross-eyed she’s so plowed. She wants to dance, and I’m like, forget it, but she drags me downstairs to the basement, it’s like this private VIP room, real dark, no bouncers, couple of guys in suits getting smashed at a table, two or three people smoking, whatever. She starts dancing with whoever, but she keeps looking back at me to see if I’m watching her, like it’s a private show for me, like it’ll turn me on or something.”

Frank’s legs were pressed tightly against each other, as though he needed to push against something, but he could only push against himself.

“She doesn’t get the response she wants from me, like she’s trying to punish me, get me jealous, see how much I really care about her. So she gets on a table to dance and she can barely stand up, and everybody’s looking at her. Her hair’s all over the place, and her makeup’s smeared and she’s glistening like she’s sweating to death or her body is trying to push all that fucking booze out, and I look at her. I just look at her, horrified. This is who she is No matter how much I try to do for her, how much I try to teach her, she’ll never be what I need. She’s not marriage material, she’s a fucking mess and now she’s looking uglier and uglier. I kissed that? I thought I could love that? And I start getting pissed off, she wasted my time, I tried to her and this is how she humiliates me?

“Now, I’m not that buzzed, and when I see this going on, I sober up real quick. She’s dancing with any guy in the room and rubbing up against them, rubbing her ass against their crotch like she’s a fucking stripper and she wants me to watch. She wants me to watch her. She hasn’t had sex with me because she says she needs ‘time,’ and I’m fine with that. For fuck’s sake, I’m patient as hell because I think she’s worth it — and she ends up rubbing her pussy up against some drunk guy in a bar?”

Frank’s eyes were blazing now.

“The place empties out and it’s just us and these four guys in suits, and they’re out celebrating a birthday or big promotion or something, and they are nasty drunk. They all take turns dancing with her — well, it’s more like dragging her at this point, she’s so dizzy. She keeps looking around like this isn’t fun anymore, and she’s trying to find me so I can save her, but I’m just sitting in this one shadowy corner and she doesn’t see me. The other guys don’t know we came in together, and they can’t see me either, so they think it’s just them and her. Like, time for a private show, okay?

“Then she falls over backwards on a cocktail table, knocking all the glasses on the floor, and she’s yelling, ‘Frank! Frank!’ but she’s slurring so bad they think she’s yelling, ‘Fuck! Fuck!’ And one guy says, ‘Whatever the lady wants, right?’ and they all start laughing as they unzip their pants. Now she’s screaming and crying and trying to push them off, and they turn her over so she’s face down on the cocktail table, and the ashtray flips over and a glass breaks on the floor, and one by one they all fuck her. They fuck her till she throws up. She’s covered in come and sweat and vomit and she’s moaning, her eyes are rolling in her head. Her dress is shredded and her panties are twisted around one leg like they just got ripped off the other, and there’s blood on her leg…”

Horrified, Brian and Sean couldn’t take their eyes off Frank as he spoke, but they didn’t see him. All they saw was their own picture of her, helpless and screaming on a table, like a still photo from their own personal film.

“… And all I can think is: You fucking whore. I mean, we never even slept together! When she said she needed ‘time’ to work some things out, I was fine with that, but hey, give it away to some guys you meet in a bar? Go ahead! I’ve gotta tell you, though, when I saw her face all blurry and mashed on that table, slumped over like a rag doll, I thought, ‘Well, guess you worked it out, huh?’

“After they all left, I dragged her out of there to her apartment and she was moaning and crying the whole way. It was around 5 a.m., and I left her in front of her apartment. I was done with her. Done. This was the fourth time I had to teach some woman a lesson and I was sick of it. After everything I do for them and they… Why can’t they just… Yeah, I dumped her. I fucking dumped her on the sidewalk .”

Frank sat back, satisfied. Sean and Brian stared at each other with their mouths slightly open, knowing their rankings had changed.

For a long time, they sat in silence in the windowless van. No one knew what to say. Close enough to talk but not to help each other. Sean wondered why they weren’t gagged too? Why would someone want them talking to each other? What were they supposed to figure out?

As the van slowed and finally stopped, they looked at one another anxiously, listening to the sound of water in the background. Ocean? Lake? River? They couldn’t tell. Then the clang of equipment, metal and heavy.

“I know why we’re here,” Sean gasped, his voice crumbled like soft charcoal. He was always the last to figure everything out.

“It’s our turn to get dumped.”

Bushwick

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this — not here. What was she doing on this filthy block back in Bushwick? This was not how it was supposed to play out.

She shook her head as she thought about her parents’ warnings. She had been taught — over and over — to stay away from ghetto gangsters, those who lived to pull down their own kind who try to get ahead. She had been raised to be a striver and an achiever — a woman who would reach and attain the American Dream, and bring pride to her Puerto Rican ancestors and family name.

Rosa Lima silently cursed herself as she made her way up Knickerbocker Avenue. At the corner of Himrod Street a bone-chilling winter wind ripped through her suede coat. She shivered as she thought of her parents. They had been right. Every last frightful thing they ever told her had come true. The longer she lived the smarter they became. But since she was little, Rosa always had to test limits. She took nothing on face value. Now it was all right in her face.

A few months ago everything was going so well. Maybe too well. And she let her guard down and let him into her life. It felt right. He was smooth and handsome — looked and styled himself after the actor Benjamin Bratt. She liked that he was a Latino on the fast track to a better life. As her mother would say, “He cleaned up well.” And she liked his recent pedigree. He went to NYU, was pulling down good grades and talked a good game.

Now she saw just how blind she had been to who he really was. The warning signs were all there. She just hadn’t seen them. Or didn’t want to. It was like she saw only his shadow. She knew he was rough around the edges and had a temper. When she rode around Brooklyn with him in his leased Acura he was always getting into arguments with other drivers. She’d seen the sawed-off baseball bat under his seat, but he’d never attacked anyone — at least while she was around. She wrote it off to his Latino temper. More telling — and how she ignored this was still a mystery — was that he was always getting called on his cellphone and whispering to whomever was on the other end. Then he had to rush off and end their dates because, “I got some business I gotta go to take care of.”