K. Constantine: Pittsburgh Noir

Gary said, “No, and no one wants to buy it. They tried to get the Smithsonian to take it, but the damn thing’s too big. Too expensive to trash it too.”

“Is it still radioactive?”

“Supposed to be. If that wasn’t all just scare talk to keep teenagers away.”

Ronnie smiled. “Does it work? It didn’t used to.”

Gary laughed, and Ronnie could see that he was missing a couple of teeth. His mother had died of some kind of cancer when they were kids; now with his wife gone, there seemed to be no one monitoring his oral hygiene.

Gary sipped his can. Cola was written in blue letters on a red background. He said, “Sorry to hear about your troubles. But your mom’s glad you’re back.”

“Thanks.”

Gary nodded at the great inverted teardrop on the horizon. The summer light caught it so that it gleamed like the dull side of a sheet of aluminum foil. “You been back there?”

“What?”

“You know. You take any girls there?” He wasn’t looking at Ronnie, but at the big teardrop.

“It’s been a long time, Gary. I don’t know any girls that are available. And worth it, if you know what I mean.”

“You got your eye out, though, right?” Gary turned to face him, and he was still smiling. His face was sweaty. Ronnie wondered if he’d spiked the cola with something; Gary almost looked a little drunk.

“Sure,” answered Ronnie.

“Sucks about your job. Sales sucks now too. Fuckin’ economy.” He said ecawnomy , and Ronnie tried not to find it annoying while Gary repeated, “Fuckin’ economy.” Then he got up abruptly, crunching the empty soda can with fat fingers, causing the rattan chair to twitch and rustle in unpleasant ways. “I’ll be back,” he said in a weak Austrian accent, and then disappeared through the sliding doors.

Ronnie heard voices from the front of the house, where his mother was greeting whatever neighbor or relative had just arrived. The number of people on the patio below was gently increasing, as was the volume of the voices. No one was looking up; most eyes were turned toward the grill where his father presided over a dozen or so fat sausages. Ronnie caught the smell, and it made him hungry.

His mother appeared from beneath the deck, leading an old woman by the arm. He recognized her: Mrs. Asch from three doors down. Skinny and saggy and gray, oh my, he thought. But then he watched his mother reach a welcoming hand out to someone behind old Mrs. Asch, another woman, but not an old one, and from what he could see of her, she was far from saggy or gray. She was tall and slender with a beautiful ass in tight white shorts, nice tan legs, bare between cuff and sandal, and a yellow tank top that fit snugly across round breasts. Her hair was brown and very curly and full, caught up in an attractively messy ponytail. He thought, she’s got to have the face of a moose, with a body like that.

Gary came through the door again with a clatter as he accidentally nudged the vertical blinds that were pressed together in a skinny wad at the side of the door. He was carrying a compact blue cooler, which he plopped down beside Ronnie as though it was heavy. Gary opened it and the inside glowed gold, like pirate treasure. Gary pulled out two sweating cans of Michelob and handed one to Ronnie. The cool feel of it in his hand was delightful in the day’s heat. Gary sat down again in the whispering chair, and together they popped the tops of the cans, tilted them at each other, and each took a sip. Both cans were empty within a few minutes. Ten minutes later, Ronnie was on his third, and Gary his fourth. Ronnie wondered how many the cooler could hold; every time Gary opened it, it glowed from within.

Ronnie was about to ask Gary to lean forward and identify the woman with the beautiful body when his cousin said, “You remember Josette?”

It took a few moments for Ronnie’s neurons to reorient, and then the information clicked together — a face, a body, a smell, a voice. He said, “Josette Foyle.”

“Yeah. Oh man. She came home for her mom’s funeral last year, and she looked exactly the same, man. Exactly the same. Tits like basketballs.” He waited for Ronnie to answer, but when he didn’t get a response, he went on: “I ’member when you took her up there.” He nodded at the great W that hung above them. “She was so fuckin’ sexy. No pun intended.” He grinned his gappy grin.

Ronnie grinned back, only slightly uncomfortable. The beer helped. “Yeah,” he said. “She was something.”

“How many times did you take her up there?” He said it up air .

“Only twice.” That’s all it took, he thought.

“Right, cause then her dad got that job where they moved away, somewhere overseas.”

“Paris.”

“Goddamn France ,” said Gary. “Couldn’t pay me.”

“If someone paid you, you’d go to fuckin’ Shitsville,” Ronnie said without giving it much thought. Old rhythms, like call and response. He thought, she was so happy it was all she could talk about. Paris, Paris, Paris.

“I already live in Shitsburgh,” Gary said. Another old joke. Gary lived in Forest Hills, two blocks from his parents; the borough had its own mayor and so it technically wasn’t the city. But everyone said they lived in Pittsburgh when it was easier, or when they were talking about sports. “Didn’t she marry someone there and sort of become a Frog herself?”

“Yes,” Ronnie said. “I thought you spoke to her when you saw her last summer.”

“No.” Gary shook his head. “She’d never remember me, bro.”

Ronnie was starting to feel drunk. “She married a Michelin.”

“A tire?”

“No. A person who’s part of a family who owns a tire company .”

“Shit yeah. That’s right.”

Ronnie drank more, sitting up straighter so that he could see over the railing. The girl in the tank top and shorts was talking to his Uncle Lou. She laughed at something Lou said. Ronnie still couldn’t see her face, could only tell by the tilt of her head and a faint sound that seemed to come from her, that seemed to be laughter. And Lou was all smiles himself. Ronnie thought, she must be pretty.

Gary said, “Who else was there? Mary Galetti?”

“Oh. Yes.”

“And Brenda Bergamo. Nia Petrandis.”

Ronnie said, “Stacey Trelski.”

“Yeah. Blond. Cute. Small.”

“Yes,” Ronnie said. “She’s an actress now.”

“Really? I never heard.”

“She changed her name, and she’s mostly been in horror movies. But she’s done pretty well. She changed her name to Stephanie Thomas.”

“That’s her? Jesus, I didn’t know.” I dinno .

Ronnie added, “Nia got into Penn on a full scholarship and then went to vet school there. She’s written a few books. I even saw her on C-SPAN once, talking about one of them. Something to do with mad cow disease.”

“No shit.”

The unknown girl was still talking to Lou, but Mr. Kray from next door had joined them. All Ronnie could see was the back of her head, but he could tell by the grins on the faces of both old men that she had to be pretty. He said, “Brenda Bergamo is a news anchor now in New York. I think it’s an ABC affiliate.” He could feel his control slipping, along with his coordination and his ability to speak clearly. He was revealing more than he would have if sober.

Gary popped a can. “I never asked before, but what did you do? I mean, did you scare ’em shitless with the story of Boneless Bernie?”

“Shit no, Gary. Jesus.”

“I never heard of his ghost being seen around the place, but if I’d been you, I’d’ve used it. You’d think he’d haunt the place... You know what’s weird? I’ve always thought of the guy as a lot older than me. But he was only seventeen when he died, so he never got older. Weird.”