Reed Coleman - Onion Street

Funny thing is, Jimmy looked nearly in worse shape than Bobby. His left forearm was in a cast and his face was a roadmap of long, thin scabs. There was a two-by-two-inch gauze bandage taped to his forehead and another one taped to the side of his neck, but it wasn’t Ding Dong’s face that interested me. Bobby’s face was still pretty battered, although all the swelling had gone down and you could see his eyes again. It was the fear I saw in those eyes that caught my attention. That famous smile of his was nowhere to be found.

Before I could make any sense of it, I got tackled from behind. I reacted without thinking, and threw an elbow behind me that connected with something that felt like bone. Whoever it was holding me, let go with a groan. I spun around, up and ready for a fight.

“You little motherfucker.” It was the cop from the hallway, nightstick at the ready. He was rubbing his jaw with his other hand. “I’m gonna kick your ass and then I’m gonna — ”

“You ain’t gonna do shit,” Tony P said to the cop. “This kid’s with me. You understand what I’m sayin’?” The cop nodded. “Good. Jimmy, take a walk with the officer and give him something green to make his ugly puss feel better.”

Jimmy looked at me, his lip twitching up into a reptilian smile. I wanted to believe it was a sign of respect, but there was something else in it — a croc sizing up a future meal perhaps. When the door closed behind Jimmy and the cop, Tony P turned to me.

“Tough old-fashioned Jew, huh?” he said. “I think even with that nightstick in his hand, you woulda kicked the shit outta the cop. I always thought you was just schoolboy material, Moe. Maybe I had you wrong. Maybe I shoulda done business with you. But, hey, you can only play with the cards you get.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but I could tell by the look on Bobby’s face he got the message perfectly.

“Listen, Moe, could you do me a favor? I know you went through a lot to see Bobby here, but I sorta bought the time. Maybe you could come back tomorrow, huh?”

Translation: Get the fuck out of here. Now! I paid the cop off and I got things to discuss with Bobby .

“Sure, Tony P.” I turned toward Bobby. “Take care. I’ll be by soon.”

Out in the hallway there was no sign of either Jimmy Ding Dong or the cop. I’d had more exposure to cops in the last two weeks than in my previous two decades, and I thought they were an odd breed. There were guys like Nance and this asshole guarding Bobby’s door who were either sadistic, corrupt, or inept. Then there were guys like Casey and Malone, and the highway patrol cop who found me sleeping on the side of the road. They seemed to care about people and their job. I guess you get all kinds in every job.

When I got back outside I realized I was hungry, that I’d left the toast I had for breakfast at the Fountain Avenue dump and hadn’t eaten anything since. To tell you the truth, after I’d been to the dump, I didn’t think I’d ever want to eat again. One thing the cold air and the chemical smell of the hospital had done for me was to get the putrid stench of the dump out of my head. And with it gone, I was rediscovering my appetite. My appetite was even bigger after walking all the way to Brighton Beach.

Late in the afternoon, just as the sun was beginning to fade, was the perfect time to get to DeFelice’s Pizzeria. At that time of day, the lines were small and the tables empty. And there was one more perk: Tony P and Jimmy Ding Dong were otherwise engaged. I’d be able to eat in peace. No one was going to pull a quarter out from behind my ear, and no one was going to chop me up and throw the pieces into Sheepshead Bay. Geno was behind the counter, covered in flour, slapping dough out into a circle so he could toss it fully into shape.

“Hey, Moe, how ya doin’?” he asked, barely looking away from the whirling dough.

“Okay, Geno. Yourself?”

“Eh, you know. Same old t’ing.”

“Two slices and a large Coke.”

“I got fresh for you.” He twirled the dough and brought it to a soft landing on the white marble counter next to the oven. He slid over to where a bubbling hot pie sat on a round aluminum tray. With the skill of a surgeon, he carved out two perfectly symmetrical slices, put them on two overlapping paper plates lined with wax paper, and placed them atop the stainless steel counter. He poured my Coke and put it up next to the slices.

I decided to eat at the counter like I’d done when I was a little kid and only the grownups sat at the tables in the back. Besides that, I liked watching Geno make the pies. He was so expert at it, and it seemed so effortless for him. I think one of the things in life I enjoyed most was watching people who were good with their hands. When Geno tossed and twirled the flattened dough in the air, he wasn’t showy about it like some pizza makers. He just made it look so easy, the way some outfielders can track down fly balls without seeming to try. I was halfway through my second slice when he finished making the pie and slid it into the oven. Then, just to make conversation, I asked, “What happened to Jimmy, man? He looks like he had a fight with a box of razor blades and lost.”

Geno smiled and nodded in agreement. “Yeah, he’s no lookin’ so good. He smacked his car up real bad. Had a crash wid a big truck.”

“Where, on the Gowanus?”

“Nah, someplace in Pennsylvania somewheres.”

For the second time that day I got lightheaded, but this time it wasn’t from watching a bug crawl out of dead man’s nose. “You know where in Pennsylvania?”

“I don’t know, somewheres in the mountains someplace. You know, it’s a funny t’ing, Moe.”

“What?”

“The last time you was in here, that night a few days ago, Tony got a phone call. Remember?”

“Yeah, what about it, Geno?”

“It was some cop in Pennsylvania callin’ to tell Tony about Jimmy’s accident. He had to go get Jimmy from the hospital. Hey, Moe, whatsamatta? You don’t like my pizza no more?”

At first, I didn’t say anything at all. But Geno was right: the pizza had turned to sawdust in my mouth. When I realized that it was Jimmy Ding Dong who’d tried to run me off the road that night I was coming home from visiting Samantha’s grave, I lost my appetite. Truth was, I was suddenly nauseous and very close to panic. It was one thing to have escaped from Susan Kasten and her band of radical idiots. It was something else to have just missed getting my bell rung by Jimmy Ding Dong. What I was trying to figure out was why Tony P — Jimmy never acted without Tony’s say-so — should want me dead? More importantly, I wondered if I was still on his hit list.

“Moe!” Geno shouted.

“No, the pizza’s great. It’s me. I don’t feel so good. I gotta go.”

“Hey, Moe,” Geno called after me.

“What is it?”

“Not for nothin’, but the pizza’s not free.”

“Right,” I said with all the conviction of a zombie and threw a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Listen, Geno, do me a favor, okay? Don’t tell Tony or Jimmy we talked about what happened in Pennsylvania.”

Geno had been around long enough to understand. “Sure, Moe. Far as I know, you wasn’t even here today.”

I walked out of the shop without collecting my change. What did the walking dead need with money, anyway?

My brother was at the desk doing his weekly sales reports when I walked into our bedroom. I didn’t even try to sneak the shearling jacket past him. I think I would have preferred him killing me and just getting it over with, but he must’ve seen the look on my face.

“What’s wrong with you, little brother? You’re white as a ghost.”